"L I B RA R.Y OF THL U N I VLRS ITY or ILLINOIS B D548f 1905 V Z ^^ ^ MO Tb STORAGE Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. University of Illinois Library L161— O-1096 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/lifeofcharlesdic02fors_0 THE LIFE OF Phot in America . • ^ THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS By JOHN FORSTER In Two Vols.— Vol. II., 1847-1870 NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1905 V. 2 ILLUSTRATIONS. PACK Autograph of Charles Dickens (1837) FlyUaf. Charles Dickens, set. 56. From the last photograph taken in America in 1868. Engraved by J. C. Armytage . . . . . Frontispiece. Seventeen "fancies" for Mr. Dombey. Designed by H. K. Browne . 29 Twelve more similar fancies. The design of the same artist . . . 30 Charles Dickens to George Cruikshank. Facsimile of a letter written in 1838, concerning the later illustrations to Oliver Twist . . 33-4 Devonshire Terrace. From a drawing by Daniel Maclise, R.A. . . 119 Tavistock House 150 Facsimile of plan prepared for first number of David Copperfield . . 223 Facsimile of plan prepared for first number of Little Dorrit . . . 224 The Porch at Gadshill 257 The Chalet 263 House and Conservatory, from the meadow 266 The Study at Gadshill 270 Charles Dickens, aet. 47. From the portrait painted for the author in 1859 by W. P. Frith, R.A. Engraved by Robert Graves, A. R.A. 281 Facsimile from the last page of Edwin Drood^ written on the 8th of June, 1870 456 Facsimile from a page of Oliver Twisty written in 1837 .... 457 The Grave. From an original water-colour drawing, executed for this Work by S. L. Fildes. Engraved by J. Saddler . to face ^. 513 ' If a Life be delayed till interest and envy are at an end, we may hope for impartiality, but * must expect little intelligence ; for the incidents which give excellence to biography ate of a ' volatile and evanescent kind '—Johnson {Rambler, 66). ' I cannot conceive a more perfect mode of writing any man's life, than not only relating • all the most important events of it in their order, but interweaving what he privately wrote, ' and said.' — Boswell {Li/e of Johnson). III. ' . . . . This Third Volume throws a new light and character to me over the Work at ' large. I incline to consider this Biography as taking rank, in essential respects, parallel to ' Boswell himself, though on widely different grounds. Boswell, by those genial abridgements ' and vivid face to face pictures of J ohnson's thoughts, conversational ways and modes of ' appearance among his fellow-creatures, has given, as you often hear me say, such a delinea- ' tion of a man's existence as was never given by another man. By quite different resources, ' by those sparkling, clear, and sunny utterances of Dickens's own (bits of a»^^ /i'bwj-^ 138 Actors big and little . . . 157 Constructive art. . 139 A Drury-lane performance . 158 Set-offs and successes . . 140 Mr. Carlyle and Lord Campbell . 159 Praise with a grudge . . 141 Peter Cunningham 160 The contact of extremes . 142 Outside a workhouse . . . 161 Originals of Chancery abuses . 143 Truth of Gridley's case . • 144 in. Pages 162-176. A story for his periodical . • 144 Difficulties of weekly parts . 145 Switzerland and Italy. Mr. Ruskin on Hard Times . 146 1853. Horse-riding scenes A strike at Preston . . 147 . 148 Swiss people .... 162 An old friend . . . . Peschiere and its owner 163 164 n. Pages 148-162. On the way to Naples . 165 Home Incidents. A Greek potentate 166 1853-1854-1855. Going out to dinner . . . 167 The old idle Frenchman 168 Grave at Highgate • 149 Changes and friends 169 Last child bom . • 149 The puppets at Rome 170 Tavistock House . . 150 Malaria and desolation . . . 171 Deaths of friends • 151 Again in Venice .... 172 vin Table of Contents:. Tintorettos Liking for the Sardinians Neapolitans in exile . Austrian police arrangements PAGH 173 174 175 176 IV. Pages 176-194. Three Summers at Boulogn 1853, 1854, and 1856 Visits to France . First residence in Boulogne Villa des Moulineaux . Doll's house and landlord Making the most of it Pride in the Property . Pictures at the pig-market . Change of villa (1854) . Visit of Prince Albert Emperor, Prince, and Dickens *' Like boxing " Conjuring by Dickens . A French conjuror Conjuror's compliment and vision Old cottage resumed (1856) Last of the Camp . A household war Death of Gilbert A'Becket Leaving for England . 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 190 191 192 193 194 V. Pages 194-218. Residence in Paris. 1855-1856. How Paris life passed . . 194 Actors and dramas . . . 195 Frederic Lemaitre . . .196 Ary Scheffer and Daniel Manin . 197 Unpopularity of war . . . 198 Acting at the Fran9ais . . . 199 Paradise Lost at the Ambigu . 200 French As You Like Lt . . .201 Story of a French drama . . 202 A delightful "tag" . . . 203 Auber and Queen Victoria . . 204 Scribe and his wife . . . 205 Viardot and Georges Sand . . 206 Banquet at Girardin's . . . 207 All about it ... . 208 Bourse and its victims . . . 209 Entry of troops from Crimea . 210 Streets on New Year's Day . .211 English and French art . .212 Emperor and. Edwin Landseer . 213 Sitting to Ary Scheffer . . 214 Scheffer as to the likeness . .215 A duchess murdered . . .216 Singular scenes described . .217 What became of the actors . .218 BOOK EIGHTH. PUBLIC READER. 1856— 1867. ^T. 44—55- Pages 219 — 325 1. Pages 221-237. Little Dorrit, and a Lazy Tour 1855-1857. Watts's Rochester charity . Tablet to Dickens in Cathedral Nobody's Fault . Number-Plan of Copperfield . Number- Plan of Dorrit . 221 . 221 . 222 . 223 . 224 Circumlocution Office Flora and Mr. F Episodes in novels A scene of boy-trials . Christmas theatricals Theatre-m aking , Douglas Jerrold's death Exertions and result . Lazy Tour projected 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 Table of Contents. IX FAGB Up and down Carrick Fell . 234 At Wigton and Allonby . .235 The Yorkshire landlady . . 236 Doncaster in race week . . . 237 II. Pages 238-255. What Happened at this Time. 1857-1858. ^Disappointments and distastes . 238 What we seem and what we are . 239 Misgivings ... . . 240 A defect not without merit . . 241 Reply to a remonstrance . . 242 One happiness missed . . 243 Confidences . . . . • 244 Rejoinder to a reply . . • 245 What the world cannot give . . 246 An old project revived . . 247 Shakespeare on acting . . . 248 Charities of the very poor . . 249 Appeal for sick children . . 250 Reading for Child's Hospital . 251 Proposal for paid readings . .252 First rough plan . . . . 253 Separation from Mrs. Dickens . 254 What alone concerned the public 255 in. Pages 255-270. Gadshill Place, I 856-1 870. First impression Negotiations for purchase View of Gadshill Place Becomes his home Gadshill a century ago Greeting to visitors Gradual additions Gift from Mr. Fechter , The chalet. Leaves Tavistock House Last improvements . Visits of friends Dickens's dogs . Linda and Mrs. Bouncer Favourite walks The Study and chair • 255 • 256 • 257 . 258 • 259 . 260 . 261 . 262 • 263 . 264 • 265 . 266 . 267 . 268 . 269 . 270 IV. Pages 270-281. First Paid Readings. 1858-1859. PAQB Various managements . .270 One day's work . . . . 271 Impressions of Dublin . .272 Irish girls 273 Railway ride to Belfast . .274 Yorkshire audiences . . .275 Brought near his Fame . . 276 Greeting in Manchester . . 276 At Edinburgh . . . .277 Scotch audiences . . . . 278 When most successful in reading. 279 At public meetings . . . 280 Landseer on Frith's portrait . 281 V. Pages 281-292. All the Year Round and commercial traveller. 1859-1861. Household Words discontinued . Earliest and latest publishers A title for new periodical . Energetic beginnings Successful start . . . . At Knebworth . . . . Commercial Travellers' schools . A Traveller for human interests . Personal references in writing Birds and low company An incident of Doughty-street Offers from America . UN- 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 VI. Pages 292-306. Second Series of Readings. 1861-1863. Daughter's marriage . . . 292 Charles Allston Collins . . 293 Sale of Tavistock House . . 294 Brother Alfred's death . . . 294 Various readings . . 295 New subjects for readings . . 296 Death of Mr. Arthur Smith . 297 Death of Mr. Henry Austin . . 297 Eldest son's mairiage. . . 298 X laote of Lontents. PAQB FAOB At L^antcrbury ank Stone, done at Bonchurch in September, 1849, and remaining in his aunt's possession. ' Stone has painted,' Dickens then wrote to me, ' the Ocean * Spectre, and made a very pretty * little picture of him.' It was a strange chance that led his father to invent this playful name for one whom the ocean did indeed take to itself at last. B 2 4 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI- London : gotten at this sad time. Of the summer months that followed, the 1847. ■ — greater part was passed by him at Brighton or Broadstairs ; and the chief employment of his leisure, in the intervals of Dombey, was the management of an enterprise originating in the success of our private play, of which the design was to benefit a great man of letters. Theatrical The purposc and name had hardly been announced, when, Leigh with the statesmanlike attention to literature and its followers for Hunt. which Lord John Russell has been eccentric among English politicians, a civil-list pension of two hundred a year was granted to Leigh Hunt ; but though this modified our plan so far as to strike out of it performances meant to be given in London, so much was still thought necessary as might clear off past liabilities, and enable a delightful writer better to enjoy the easier future that had at last been opened to him. Reserving therefore anything realized beyond a certain sum for a dramatic author of merit. Proposed Mr. John Poole, to whom help had become also important, it ances. was proposcd to give, on Leigh Hunt's behalf, two representa- tions of Ben Jonson's comedy, one at Manchester and the other at Liverpool, to be varied by different farces in each place ; and with a prologue of Talfourd's which Dickens was to deliver in Manchester, while a similar address by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton was to be spoken by me in Liverpool. Among the artists and Leading writcrs associatcd in the scheme were Mr. Frank Stone, Mr. Au- ^^^"'^ gustus Egg, Mr. John Leech, and Mr. George Gruik shank j Mr. Douglas Jerrold, Mr. Mark Lemon, Mr. Dudley Costello, and Mr. George Henry Lewes ; the general management and supreme control being given to Dickens. Leading men in both cities contributed largely to the design, and my friend Mr. Alexander Ireland of Manchester has lately sent me some letters not more characteristic of the energy of Dickens in regard to it than of the eagerness of everyone ad- dressed to give what help they could. Making personal mention The of his fellow-sharers in the enterprise he describes the troop, in one of those letters, as ' the most easily governable company of * actors on earth ; * and to this he had doubtless brought them, but not very easily. One or two of his managerial troubles at splendid Strolling. 5 rehearsals remain on record in letters to myself, and may give Londoh: 1847. amusement still. Comedy and farces are referred to mdiscrimi — ■ — nately, but the farces were the most recurring plague. * Good * Heaven ! I find that A. hasn't twelve words, and I am in * hourly expectation of rebellion ! ' — * You were right about the * green baize, that it would certainly muffle the voices ; and some * of our actors, by Jove, haven't too much of that commodity at * the best.' — * B. shocked me so much the other night by a rest- * less, stupid movement of his hands in his first scene with you, ^h°ears?. * phenomenon than that no-phenomenon she is intended to ^847- * represent. I question, however, whether anybody else living ' could have done it so well There is a woman in the last plate * but one, garrulous about the murder, with a fchild in her arms, * that is as good as Hogarth. Also, the man who is stooping * down, looking at the body. The philosophy of the thing, as a * great lesson, I think all wrong \ because to be striking, and original too, the drinking should have begun in sorrow, or * poverty, or ignorance — the three things in which, in its awful * aspect, it does begin. The design would then have been a * double-handed sword — but too " radical " for good old George, * I suppose.' The same letter made mention of other matters of interest. Profits of His accounts for the first half-year of Dombey were so much in excess of what had been expected from the new publishing arrangements, that from this date all embarrassments connected with money were brought to a close. His future profits varied of course with his varying sales, but there was always enough, and savings were now to begin. 'The profits of the half-year are * brilliant. Deducting the hundred pounds a month paid six The time * times, I have still to receive two thousand two hundred and savings. * twenty pounds, which I think is tidy. Don't you ? . . . Stone * is still here, and I lamed his foot by walking him seventeen ' miles the day before yesterday ; but otherwise he flourisheth. . . ' Why don't you bring down a carpet-bag-full of books, and take * possession of the drawing-room all the morning ? My opinion * is that Goldsmith would die more easy by the seaside. Charley * and Walley have been taken to school this morning in high * spirits, and at London Bridge will be folded in the arms of * Blimber. The Government is about to issue a Sanitary com- ' mission, and Lord John, I am right well pleased to say, has * appointed Henry Austin secretary.' Mr. Austin, who afterwards Brother-in- law's ap- held the same office under the Sanitary act, had married his poi°'™eau youngest sister Letitia ; and of his two youngest brothers I may add that Alfred, also a civil-engineer, became one of the sanitary inspectors, and that Augustus was now placed in a city employ- i6 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. Broad- ment by Mr. Thomas Chapman, which after a little time he 1847. surrendered, and then found his way to America, where he died. The next Broadstairs letter (5th of September) resumed the subject of Goldsmith, whose life I was then bringing nearly to completion. * Supposing your Goldsmith made a general sen- ' sation, what should you think of doing a cheap edition of his * works ? I have an idea that we might do some things of that * sort with considerable effect. There is really no edition of the * great British novelists in a handy nice form, and would it not A design * be a likely move to do it with some attractive feature that could abandoned. * not be given to it by the Teggs and such people ? Supposing * one wrote an essay on Fielding for instance, and another on * Smollett, and another on Sterne, recalling how one read them as * a child (no one read them younger than I, I think), and how ' one gradually grew up into a different knowledge of them, and * so forth — would it not be interesting to many people ? I should * like to know if you descry anything in this. It is one of the * dim notions fluctuating within me.* . . The profits, brave * indeed, are four hundred pounds more than the utmost I * expected. . . The same yearnings have been mine, in reference * to the Praslin business. It is pretty clear to me, for one thing, * that the Duchess was one of the most uncomfortable women in * the world, and that it would have been hard work for anybody The Praslin ' to havc got on with her. It is strange to see a bloody reflection * of our friends Eugene Sue and Dumas in the whole melodrama. * Don't you think so. . . remembering what we often said of the * canker at the root of all that Paris life ? I dreamed of you, in a * wild manner, all last night. . . A sea fog here, which prevents * one's seeing the low-water mark. A circus on the cliff to the ' right, and of course I have a box to-night ! Deep slowness in ' the inimitable's brain. A shipwreck on the Goodwin sands last * Sunday, which Wally, with a hawk's eye, saw go down : for * Another, which for many reasons ' for six weeks in the spring, and see- we may regret went also into the limbo ' ing whether anything is to be done of unrealized designs, is sketched in * there, in the way of a book ? I fancy the subjoined (7th of January, 1848). * it might turn out well.' The Mac ' Mac and I think of going to Ireland of course is Maclise. tragedy. Another dropped design. § I.] splendid Strolling. 17 * which assertion, subsequently confirmed and proved, he was Broad- Devonshire-terrace meanwhile had been quitted by his tenant \ and coming up joyfully himself to take possession, he brought for completion in his old home an important chapter of Domhey. On the way he lost his portmanteau, but * Thank God ! the MS. ' of the chapter wasn't in it Whenever I travel, and have any- *■ thing of that valuable article, I always carry it in my pocket.'* He had begun at this time to find difficulties in writing at Broad- Seaside stairs, of which he told me on his return. * Vagrant music is music * getting to that height here, and is so impossible to be escaped * from, that I fear Broadstairs and I must part company in time to * come. Unless it pours of rain, I cannot write half-an-hour * without the most excruciating organs, fiddles, bells, or glee- ' singers. There is a violin of the most torturing kind under the ' window now (time, ten in the morning) and an Italian box of * music on the steps — both in full blast' He closed with a mention of improvements in the Margate theatre since his memorable last visit. In the past two years it had been managed by a son of the great comedian, Dowton, with whose name it is pleasant to connect this note. ^ We went to the manager's benefit Manager 01 Margate * on Wednesday' (loth of September) : ^ As You Like It really theatre. * very well done, and a most excellent house. Mr. Dowton * delivered a sensible and modest kind of speech on the occasion, * setting forth his conviction that a means of instruction and * entertainment possessing such a literature as the stage in * England, could not pass away ; and that what inspired great * minds, and delighted great men, two thousand years ago, and * did the same in Shakespeare's day, must have within itself a * principle of life superior to the whim and fashion of the hour. * And with that, and with cheers, he retired. He really seems a • * Here we are ' (23rd of August) * somewhere between London-bridge * in the noble old premises ; and very * and here. It contained on a mode- nice they look, all things considered. * rate calculation £^0 worth of clothes. * . . . Trifles happen to me which * I have no shirt to put on, and am * occur to nobody else. My poitman- ' obliged to send out to a barber to * teau "fell off" a cab last night ' come and shave me. ' VOL. II. <; * horribly maltreated at the time.' STAIRS : 1847. i8 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book vt. Broai>- STAIRS : 1847. First popular edition. Suggested delay of Christmas book. Emenrfa- tion for Hamlet; * most respectable man, and he has cleared out this dust-hole of a ' theatre into something like decency.' He was to be in London at the end of the month : but I had from him meanwhile his preface* for his first completed book in the popular edition {Pickwick being now issued in that form, with an illustration by Leslie) ; and sending me shortly after (12th of Sept.) the first few slips of the story of the Haunted Man proposed for his next Christmas book, he told me he must finish it in less than a month if it was to be done at all, Dombey having now become very importunate. This prepared me for his letter of a week's later date. * Have been at work all day, and am seedy in con- * sequence. Dombey takes so much time, and requires to be so * carefully done, that I really begin to have serious doubts whether * it is wise to go on with the Christmas book. Your kind help is * invoked. What do you think ? Would there be any distinctly * bad effect in holding this idea over for another twelvemonth ? * saying nothing whatever till November ; and then announcing * in the Dombey that its occupation of my entire time prevents the * continuance of the Christmas series until next year, when it is *■ proposed to be renewed. There might not be anything in that * but a possibility of an extra lift for the little book when it did * come — eh ? On the other hand, I am very loath to lose the * money. And still more so to leave any gap at Christmas fire- * sides which I ought to fill. In short I am (forgive the expression) SLOWED if I know what to do. I am a literary Kitely — and you * ought to sympathize and help. If I had no Dombey, I could * write and finish the story with the bloom on but there's the * rub . . . Which unfamiliar quotation reminds me of a Shak- * spearian (put an e before the s; I like it much better) speculation * of mine. What do you say to " take arms against a sea of * " troubles " having been originally written " make arms," which is * the action of swimming. It would get rid of a horrible grievance * * Do you see anything to object to * in it? I have never had so much * difficulty, I think, in setting about ' any slight thing ; for I really didn't * know that I had a word to say, and * nothing seems to live 'twixt what I * have said and silence. The advan- * tage of it is, that the latter part * opens an idea for future prefaces all * through the series, and may serve * perhaps to make a feature of them.* (7th of September, 1847.) splendid Strolling, 19 ' in the figure, and make it plain and apt I think of setting up Broad- * a claim to live in The House at Stratford rent-free, on the 1847- * * strength of this suggestion. You are not to suppose that I am * anything but disconcerted to-day, in the agitation of my soul * concerning Christmas ; but I have been brooding, like Dombey * himself, over Dombey these two days, until I really can't afford * to be depressed.' To his Shakespearian suggestion I replied fui^^gj*,^ that it would hardly give him the claim he thought of setting up, for that swimming through your troubles would not be * opposing ' them. And upon the other point I had no doubt of the wisdom of delay. The result was that the Christmas story was laid aside until the following year. The year's closing incidents were his chairmanship at a meeting Public of the Leeds Mechanics' Society on the ist of December, and his opening of the Glasgow Athenaeum on the 28th ; where, to im- mense assemblages in both, he contrasted the obstinacy and cruelty of the power of ignorance with the docility and gentleness of the power of knowledge ; pointed the use of popular institutes in supplementing what is first learnt in life, by the later education for its employments and the equipment for its domesticities and duties, which the grown person needs from day to day as much as the child its reading and writing ; and he closed at Glasgow with allusion to a bazaar set on foot by the ladies of the city, under patronage of the Queen, for adding books to its Athe- naeum library. * We never tire of the friendships we form with Book- . friends. * books,' he said, * and here they will possess the added charm of * association with their donors. Some neighbouring Glasgow * widow will be mistaken for that remoter one whom Sir Roger de * Coverley could not forget \ Sophia's muff will be seen and loved, * by another than Tom Jones, going down the High Street some * winter day ; and the grateful students of a library thus filled ' will be apt, as to the fair ones who have helped to people it, to * couple them in their thoughts with Principles of the Population * and Additions to the History of Europe, by an author of older * date than Sheriff Alison.' At which no one laughed so loudly as the Sheriff himselt, who had cordially received Dickens as his guest, and stood with him on the platform. c $ 20 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. Edin- burgh : 1847-48- With Sheriff Alison. Friendly reception. Jeffrey and Knowles. Purchase of Shake- speare's bouse. On the last day but one of the old year he wrote to me from Edinburgh. * We came over this afternoon, leaving Glasgow at * one o'clock. Alison lives in style in a handsome country house * out of Glasgow, and is a capital fellow, with an agreeable wife, * nice little daughter, cheerful niece, all things pleasant in his * household. I went over the prison and lunatic asylum with him * yesterday ; at the Lord Provost's had gorgeous state-lunch with * the Town Council ; and was entertained at a great dinner-party * at night. Unbounded hospitality and enthoozymoozy the order * of the day, and I have never been more heartily received any- * where, or enjoyed myself more completely. The great chemist, * Gregory, who spoke at the meeting, returned with us to Edin- * burgh to-day, and gave me many new lights on the road regarding * the extraordinary pains Macaulay seems for years to have taken * to make himself disagreeable and disliked here. No one else, * on that side, would have had the remotest chance of being * unseated at the last election ; and, though Gregory voted for * him, I thought he seemed quite as well pleased as anybody else * that he didn't come in ... I am sorry to report the Scott * Monument a failure. It is like the spire of a Gothic church * taken off and stuck in the ground.' On the first day of 1848, still in Edinburgh, he wrote again: 'Jeffrey, who is obliged to * hold a kind of morning court in his own study during the * holidays, came up yesterday in great consternation, to tell me ' that a person had just been to make and sign a declaration of bankruptcy ; and that on looking at the signature he saw it was * James Sheridan Knowles. He immediately sent after, and spoke * with him ; and of what passed I am eager to talk with you.' The talk will bring back the main subject of this chapter, from which another kind of strolling has led me away; for its results were other amateur performances, of which the object was to benefit Knowles. This was the year when a committee had been formed for the purchase and preservation of Shakespeare's house at Stratford, and the performances in question took the form of contributions to the endowment of a curatorship to be held by the author of Virginius and the Hunchback. The endowment was abandoned splendid Strolling. 21 upon the town and council of Stratford finally (and very properly) London : . 1848. taking charge of the house ; but the sum realised was not with- . Scheme to drawn from the object really desired, and one of the finest of benefit Knowles. dramatists profited yet more largely by it than Leigh Hunt did by the former enterprise. It may be proper to remark also, that, like Leigh Hunt, Knowles received soon after, through Lord John Russell, the same liberal pension ; and that smaller claims to which attention had been similarly drawn were not forgotten, Mr. Poole, after much kind help from the Bounty Fund, being a little later placed on the Civil List for half the amount by the Civii-iist pensions. same minister and friend of letters. Dickens threw himself into the new scheme with all his old energy*; and prefatory mention may be made of our difficulty in selection of a suitable play to alternate with our old Ben Jonson. The Alchemist had been such a favourite with some of us, that, before finally laying it aside, we went through two or three re- hearsals, in which I recollect thinking Dickens's Sir Epicure Mammon as good as anything he had done ; and now the same trouble, with the same result, arising from a vain desire to please P'^ys re- ' . . hearsed. everybody, was taken successively with Beaumont and Fletcher's * It would amuse the reader, but ' be referred to on the stage ; but Instruction! occupy too much space, to add to my * those who are imperfect to take their |^°g^^^g^^jg former illustrations of his managerial ' words from the prompter. Everyone troubles; but from an elaborate paper * to act, as nearly as possible, as on of rules for rehearsals, which I have * the night of performance ; everyone found in his handwriting, I quote the ' to speak out, so as to be audible opening and the close. * Remember- ' through the house. And every mis- * ing the very imperfect condition of ' take of exit, entrance, or situation, to * all our plays at present, tlie general * be corrected //^r^-i? successively.' * expectation in reference to them, the He closes thus. ' All who were con- * kind of audience before which they ' cerned in the first getting up of * will be presented, and the near ap- ♦ Every Man in his Humour^ and re- ' proach of the nights of performance, * member how carefully the stage was * I hope everybody concerned will * always kept then, and who have * abide by the following regulations, * been engaged in the late rehearsals of ' and will aid in strictly carrying them ' tlie Merry Wives, and have experi- ' out.' Elaborate are the regulations ' enced the difficulty of getting on, or set forth, but I take only the three last. 'off: of being heard, or of hearing * Silence, on the stage and in the « anybody else : will, I am sure, ac- * theatre, to be faithtully observed ; * knowledge the indispensable neces- * the lobbies &c. being always avail- * sity of these regulations.' * able for conversation. No book to 22 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book vi. London : Beggar's Busk, and Goldsmith's Good Matured Man, with Jerrold's 1848. characteristic drama of the Rent Day, and Bulwer^s masterly comedy of Money. Choice was at last made of Shakespeare's ^^^^y 'iVives, in which Lemon played Falstaff, I took again the chosen. jealous husband as in Jonson's play, and Dickens was Justice Shallow ; to which was added a farce, Love, Law, and Physick, in which Dickens took the part he had acted long ago, before his days of authorship ; and, besides the professional actresses en- gaged, we had for our Dame Quickly the lady to whom the world owes incomparably the best Concordance to Shakespeare that has ever been published, Mrs. Cowden Clarke. The success was undoubtedly very great At Manchester, Liverpool, and Edin- burgh there were single representations; but Birmingham and Glasgow had each two nights, and two were given at the Hay- market, on one of which the Queen and Prince were present. Perform- The gross Tcccipts from the nine performances, before the uices. necessary large deductions for London and local charges, were two thousand five hundred and fifty-one pounds and eightpence.* The first representation was in London on the 15 th of April, the last in Glasgow on the 20th of July, and everywhere Dickens was the leading figure. In the enjoyment as in the labour he was first. His animal spirits, unresting and supreme, were the at- traction of rehearsal at morning, and of the stage at night. At the quiet early dinner, and the more jovial unrestrained supper, where all engaged were assembled daily, his was the brightest face, the lightest step, the pleasantest word. There seemed to be no need for rest to that wonderful vitality. Of the novel begun in Switzerland, at which he has worked assiduously for twenty months, and which the April number in 1848 brought to its close, some account remains to be given. * I give the sums taken at the seve- loj., and £262 iSj. 6d. ; Edin- ral theatres. Haymarket, £2,19 14^- ; burgh, £2,2^ is. dd. ; Glasgow, ^471 Manchester, ^^"266 \2s. 6d. ; Liver- 7s. Sd., and (at half the prices of the pool, ^^467 6s. 6d. ; Birmingham, first night) £210 los. Dombey and Son. 23 II. DOMBEY AND SON. 1846— 1848. Though his proposed new * book in shilling numbers ' had lausannb: been mentioned to me three months before he quitted England, — ^— — he knew little himself at that time or when he left excepting the fact, then also named, that it was to do with Pride what its pre- Drift of ... the tele. decessor had done with Selfishness. But this limit he soon over- passed ; and the succession of independent groups of character, surprising for the variety of their forms and handling, with which he enlarged and enriched his plan, went far beyond the range of the passion of Mr. Dombey and Mr. Dombey's second wife. Obvious causes have led to grave under-estimates of this novel. Its first five numbers forced up interest and expectation so high that the rest of necessity fell short ; but it is not therefore true of why under- valued. the general conception that thus the wine of it had been drawn, and only the lees left In the treatment of acknowledged master- pieces in literature it not seldom occurs that the genius and the art of the master have not pulled together to the close ; but if a work of imagination is to forfeit its higher meed of praise because its pace at starting has not been uniformly kept, hard measure would have to be dealt to books of undeniable greatness. Among other critical severities it was said here, that Paul died at the beginning not for any need of the story, but only to interest its Mistakes of readers somewhat more ; and that Mr. Dombey relented at the end for just the same reason. What is now to be told will show how little ground existed for either imputation. The so-called ' violent change ' in the hero has more lately been revived in the notices of Mr. Taine, who says that spoils a fine novel ;^ but it will be seen that in the apparent alteration no unnaturalness of change was involved, and certainly the adoption of it was not a sacrifice to * public morality.' While every other portion of the 24. The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. Lausanne : tale had to Submit to such varieties in development as the cha- racters themselves entailed, the design affecting Paul and his Adherence _ desipL father had been planned from the opening, and was carried without real alteration to the close. Of the perfect honesty with which Dickens himself repelled such charges as those to which I have adverted, when he wrote the preface to his col- lected edition, remarkable proof appears in the letter to myself which accompanied the manuscript of his proposed first number. No other line of the tale had at this time been placed on paper. When the first chapter only was done, and again when all was finished but eight slips, he had sent me letters formerly quoted. What follows came with the manuscript of the first four chapters on the 25 th of July. ' I will now go on to give you an outline of * my immediate intentions in reference to Dombey. I design to * show Mr. D. with that one idea of the Son taking firmer and * firmer possession of him, and swelling and bloating his pride to MS.^f < a prodigious extent. As the boy begins to grow up, I shall * show him quite impatient for his getting on, and urging his * masters to set him great tasks, and the like. But the natural * affection of the boy will turn towards the despised sister ; and I * purpose showing her learning all sorts of things, of her own * application and determination, to assist him in his lessons : and * helping him always. When the boy is about ten years old (in Design as to ' the fourth number), he will be taken ill, and will die ; and when Paul and sister. * he is ill, and when he is dying, I mean to make him turn always ' for refuge to the sister still, and keep the stern affection of the * father at a distance. So Mr. Dombey — for all his greatness, * and for all his devotion to the child — will find himself at arms' * length from him even then ; and will see that his love and con- * fidence are all bestowed upon his sister, whom Mr. Dombey has * used — and so has the boy himself too, for that matter — as a mere ' convenience and handle to him. The death of the boy is a * death-blow, of course, to all the father's schemes and cherished * hopes ; and " Dombey and Son," as Miss Tox will say at the As to * end of the number, " is a Daughter after all." . . . From that Dombey . . , . and * time, I purpose changing his feelmg of mdifference and uneasi- daughteri . . ness towards his daughter mto a positive hatred. For he will §11.] Dombey and Son. 25 ' always remember how the boy had his arm round her neck Lausann«; * when he was dying, and whispered to her, and would take * things only from her hand, and never thought of him. ... At * the same time I shall change her feeling towards him for one of * a greater desire to love him, and to be loved by him ; engen- * dered in her compassion for his loss, and her love for the dead * boy whom, in his way, he loved so well too. So I mean to * carry the story on, through all the branches and off-shoots and Proposed , course of * meanderings that come up ; and through the decay and downfall '^e story. * of the house, and the bankruptcy of Dombey, and all the rest of * it ; when his only staff and treasure, and his unknown Good * Genius always, will be this rejected daughter, who will come out ' better than any son at last, and whose love for him, when dis- * covered and understood, will be his bitterest reproach. For the * struggle with himself, which goes on in all such obstinate * natures, will have ended then \ and the sense of his injustice, * which you may be sure has never quitted him, will have at last * a gentler office than that of only making him more harshly ' unjust. ... I rely very much on Susan Nipper grown up, ' and acting partly as Florence's maid, and partly as a kind * of companion to her, for a strong character throughout the * book. I also rely on the Toodles, and on Polly, who, like * everybody else, will be found by Mr. Dombey to have gone * over to his daughter and become attached to her. This is what * cooks call " the stock of the soup." All kinds of things will ,'Stoc^k t be added to it, of course.' Admirable is the illustration thus ' s°"p-' afforded of his way of working, and interesting the evidence it gives of the feeling for his art with which this book was begun. The close of the letter put an important question affecting gravely a leading person in the tale. ... * About the boy, who ' appears in the last chapter of the first number, I think it would * be a good thing to disappoint all the expectations that chapter ' seems to raise of his happy connection with the story and the ^^^^^ * heroine, and to show him gradually and naturally trailing away, * from that love of adventure and boyish light-heartedness, into negligence, idleness, dissipation, dishonesty, and ruin. To 26 The Life of Charles Dickem. [Book vi. Lausanne 1846. Question of Walter's fate. Decided in his favour. Six pages too much. Omissiorut proposed. * show, in short, that common, every-day, miserable declension oi * which we know so much in our ordinary life ; to exhibit some- * thing of the philosophy of it, in great temptations and an easy ' nature ; and to show how the good turns into bad, by degrees. * If I kept some little notion of Florence always at the bottom of * it, I think it might be made very powerful and very useful. * What do you think ? Do you think it may be done, without * making people angry ? I could bring out Solomon Gills and * Captain Cuttle well, through such a history; and I descry, * an)rway, an opportunity for good scenes between Captain Cuttle ' and Miss Tox. This question of the boy is very important. * . . . . Let me hear all you think about it. Hear ! I wish I ' could.' . . . For reasons that need not be dwelt upon here, but in which Dickens ultimately acquiesced, Walter was reserved for a happier future ; and the idea thrown out took modified shape, amid cir- cumstances better suited to its excellent capabilities, in the striking character of Richard Carstone in the tale oi Bleak House, But another point had risen meanwhile for settlement not ad- mitting of delay. In the first enjoyment of writing after his long rest, to which a former letter has referred, he had over-written his number by nearly a fifth ; and upon his proposal to transfer the fourth chapter to his second number, replacing it by another of fewer pages, I had to object that this might damage his interest at starting. Thus he wrote on the 7 th of August have * received your letter to-day with the greatest delight, and am * overjoyed to find that you think so well of the number. I *■ thought well of it myself, and that it was a great plunge into a * story ; but I did not know how far I might be stimulated by my *■ paternal affection. . . . What should you say, for a notion of the * illustrations, to " Miss Tox introduces the Party ? " and " Mr. * " Dombey and Family ? " meaning Polly Toodle, the baby, ' Mr. Dombey, and little Florence : whom I think it would be well to have. Walter, his uncle, and Captain Cuttle, might * stand over. It is a great question with me, now, whether I had * not better take this last chapter bodily out, and make it the last * chapter of the second number ; writing some other new one to § I I.J Dombey and Son, 2J * close the first number. I think it would be impossible to take Lausannh 1846. * out six pages without great pangs. Do you thmk such a pro- * ceeding as I suggest would weaken number one very much ? I * wish you would tell me, as soon as you can after receiving this, * what your opinion is on the point. If you thought it would * weaken the first number, beyond the counterbalancing advan- * tage of strengthening the second, I would cut down somehow * or other, and let it go. I shall be anxious to hear your * opinion. In the meanwhile T will go on with the second, which * I have just begun. I have not been quite myself since we * returned from Chamounix, owing to the great heat.' Two days later : * I have begun a little chapter to end the first number, and * certainly think it will be well to keep the ten pages of Wally * and Co. entire for number two. But this is still subject to your New chap •' •' ter wnttea * opinion, which I am very anxious to know. I have not been * in writing cue all the week ; but really the weather has ren- * dered it next to impossible to work.' Four days later : * I * shall send you with this (on the chance of your being favour- * able to that view of the subject) a small chapter to close the * first number, in lieu of the Solomon Gills one. I have been * hideously idle all the week, and have done nothing but this * trifling interloper ; but hope to begin again on Monday— ding * dong. . . . The inkstand is to be cleaned out to-night, and re- * filled, preparatory to execution. I trust I may shed a good deal * of ink in the next fortnight.' Then, the day following, on arrival of my letter, he submitted to a hard necessity. * I received yours * to-day. A decided facer to me ! I had been counting, alas ! Rejecteu. * with a miser's greed, upon the gained ten pages. . . . No matter. * I have no doubt you are right, and strength is everything. The * addition of two lines to each page, or something less, — coupled * with the enclosed cuts, will bring it all to bear smoothly. In * case more cutting is wanted, I must ask you to try your hand. * I shall agree to whatever you propose.' These cuttings, abso- ^^j"*^*^®* lutely necessary as they were, were not without much disadvantage ; and in the course of them he had to sacrifice a passage fore- shadowing his final intention as to Dombey. It would have shown, thus early, something of the struggle with itself that such 28 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book VI. Lausannb 1846. Anxiety as to face of his hero. Dickens and his illus- trators. : pride must always go through ; and I think it worth preserving in a note.* Several letters now expressed his anxiety about the illustrations. A nervous dread of caricature in the face of his merchant-hero, had led him to indicate by a living person the type of city- gentleman he would have had the artist select ; and this is all he meant by his reiterated urgent request, ' I do wish he could * get a glimpse of A, for he is the very Dombey.' But as the ghmpse of A was not to be had, it was resolved to send for selection by himself glimpses of other letters of the alphabet, actual heads as well as fanciful ones ; and the sheetful I sent out, which he returned when the choice was made, I here reproduce in facsimile. In itself amusing, it has now the important use of showing, once for all, in regard to Dickens's intercourse with his artists, that they certainly had not an easy time with him \ that, even beyond what is ordinary between author and illustrator, his requirements were exacting; that he was apt, as he has said himself, to build up temples in his mind not always makeable with hands ; that in the results he had rarely anything but disap- pointment ; and that of all notions to connect with him the most preposterous would be that which directly reversed these relations, Passage Mnitted. * * He had already laid his hand ' upon the bell-rope to convey his ' usual summons to Richards, when ' his eye fell upon a writing-desk, be- ' longing to his deceased wife, which ' had been taken, among other things, ' from a cabinet in her chamber. It * was not the first time that his eye had * lighted on it. He carried the key in ' his pocket ; and he brought it to his * table and opened it now — having * previously locked the room door — * with a well accustomed hand. • From beneath a heap of torn and * cancelled scraps of paper, he took * one letter that remained entire. In- * voluntarily holding his breath as he ' opened this document, and 'bating in * the stealthy action something of his arrogant demeanour, he sat down, resting his head upon one hand, and * read it through. * He read it slowly and attentively, ' and with a nice particularity to every * syllable. Otherwise than as his great * deliberation seemed unnatural, and * perhaps the result of an effort equally * great, he allowed no sign of emotion * to escape him. When he had read * it through, he folded and refolded it * slowly several times, and tore it care- ' fully into fragments. Checking his * hand in the act of throwing these * away, he put them in his pocket, as * if unwilling to trust them even to the * chances of being reunited and deci- * phered ; and instead of ringing, as * usual, for Uttle Paul, he sat solitary * all the evening in his cheerless room.' From the original MS. of Dombey and Son. §11.] Dombey and Son, 31 and depicted him as receiving from any artist the inspiration he Lausannb: 1846. was always vainly striving to give. An assertion of this kind was • contradicted in my first volume ; * but it has since been repeated so explicitly, that to prevent any possible misconstruction from a silence I would fain have persisted in, the distasteful subject is again reluctantly introduced. It originated with a hterary friend of the excellent artist by sniy story , repeated. whom Oliver Twist was illustrated from month to month, during the earlier part of its monthly issue. This gentleman stated, in a paper written and published in America, that Mr. Cruikshank, by executing the plates before opportunity was afforded him of seeing the letter press, had suggested to the writer the finest effects in his story ; and to this, opposing my clear recollection of all the time the tale was in progress, it became my duty to say that within my own personal knowledge the alleged fact was not true. * Dickens,' the artist is reported as saying to his admirer, * ferreted out that bundle of drawings, and when he came to the * one which represents Fagin in the cell, he silently studied it for * half an hour, and told me he was tempted to change the whole * plot of his story. ... I consented to let him write up to my * designs ; and that was the way in which Fagin, Sikes, and * Nancy were created.' Happily 1 was able to add the complete refutation of this folly by producing a letter of Dickens written at Refutation the time, which proved incontestably that the closing illustrations, °^ including the two specially named in support of the preposterous charge, Sikes and his Dog, and Fagin in his Cell, had not even been seen by Dickens until his finished book was on the eve of appearance. As however the distinguished artist, notwithstanding the refreshment of his memory by this letter, has permitted himself again to endorse the statement of his friend, I can only again why the ... • , charge is print, on the same page which contains the strange language used again ... 00 noticed. by him, the words with which Dickens himself repels its impu- tation on his memory. To some it may be more satisfactory if I print the letter in fac-simile ; and so leave for ever a charge in * Ante,\. It is hardly neces- volumes, with an interval between pub- sary to remind the reader that this lication of each, the first in 187 1, the work appeared originally in three second in 1872, and the third in 1873. 32 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. LAfSANWH 1846. Hints for artist. A master- piece of his writing. Picture of him at work. itself so incredible that nothing would have justified farther allusion to it but the knowledge of my friend's old and true regard for Mr. Cruikshank, of which evidence will shortly appear, and my own respect for an original genius well able to subsist of itself without taking what belongs to others. Resuming the Dombey letters I find him on the 30th of August in better heart about his illustrator. * I shall gladly acquiesce in * whatever more changes or omissions you propose. Browne * seems to be getting on well. . . . He will have a good subject * in Paul's christening. Mr. Chick is like D, if you'll mention * that when you think of it The little chapter of Miss Tox and * the Major, which you alas ! (but quite wisely) rejected from the '■ first number, I have altered for the last of the second. I have * not quite finished the middle chapter yet — having, I should say, * three good days' work to do at it ; but I hope it will be all a ' worthy successor to number one. I will send it as soon as ' finished.' Then, a little later : * Browne is certainly interesting ' himself, and taking pains. I think the cover very good : perhaps * with a Httle too much in it, but that is an ungrateful objection.' The second week of September brought me the finished MS. of number two ; and his letter of the 3rd of October, noticing objections taken to it, gives additional touches to this picture of him while ai work. The matter on which he is engaged is one of his masterpieces. There is nothing in all his writings more perfect, for what it shows of his best qualities, than the life and death of Paul Dombey. The comedy is admirable ; nothing strained, everything hearty and wholesome in the laughter and fun ; all who contribute to the mirth, Doctor Blimber and his pupils, Mr. Toots, the Chicks and the Toodles, Miss Tox and the Major, Paul and Mrs. Pipchin, up to his highest mark j and the serious scenes never falling short of it, from the death of Paul's mother in the first number, to that of Paul himself in the fifth, which, as the author of the Two Old Men's Tales with hardly exaggeration said, threw a whole nation into mourning. But see how eagerly this fine writer takes every suggestion, how little of self-esteem and self-sufficiency there is, with what a conscious- ness ot the tendency of his humour to exuberance he surrenders § II.] Dombey mid Son. 33 Dickens's words at the time : 1838. '^<^ 'JuJert (c^Tf^ MJoV^A ffi^ ^ Ihnr^ <>&j ^ liook. « names — not satisfied yet, though.' When he next wrote from the sea-side, in the beginning of July, he had found the name ; had started his book ; and was ' rushing to Broadstairs ' to write the fourth number of David Copperfield. At Broad- In this Came the childish experiences which had left so deep STAIRS : ^ an impression upon him, and over which he had some difficulty in throwing the needful disguises. * Fourteen miles to-day in the * country,' he had written to me on the 21st of June, * revolving * number four ! ' Still he did not quite see his way. Three days later he wrote : * On leaving you last night, I found myself sum- ' moned on a special jury in the Queen's Bench to-day. I have ' taken no notice of the document, and hourly expect to be ' dragged forth to a dungeon for contempt of court. I think I ' should rather like it. It might help me with a new notion or ' two in my difficulties. Meanwhile I shall take a stroll to night ' in the green fields from seven to ten, if you feel inclined to join.' End of His troubles ended when he got to Broadstairs, from which he trouble with No. wrote on the tenth of July to tell me that agreeably to the plan four. we had discussed he had introduced a great part of his M.S. mto the number. ' I really think I have done it ingeniously, and with * a very complicated interweaving of truth and fiction. Vous ' verrez. I am getting on like a house afire in point of health, * and ditto ditto in point of number.* In the middle of July the number was nearly done, and he was still doubtful where to pass his longer summer holiday. Leech wished to join him in it, and both desired a change from Broad- stairs. At first he thought of Folkstone,* but disappointment • Even in the modest retirement of a note I fear tl^at I shall offend the S III.] Seaside Holidays. 6i there led to a sudden change. * I propose ' (15th of July) ' re- broad- STAIRS * * turning to town to-morrow by the boat from Ramsgate, and 1849. ' dignity of history and biography by printing the lines in which this inten- tion was announced to me. They were written * in character ; ' and the character was that of the ' waterman ' at the Charing-cross cabstand, first discovered by George Cattermole, whose imitations of him were a dehght to Dickens at this time, and adapted themselves in the exuberance of his admiration toevery conceivable variety of subject. The painter of the Derby Day will have a fullness of satisfaction in remembering this. * Sloppy,' the hero in question, had a friend * Jack ' in whom he was supposed to typify his own early and hard experiences before he became a convert to temper- ance ; and Dickens used to point to * Jack ' as the justification of himself and Mrs. Gamp for their portentous invention of Mrs. Harris. It is amazing nonsense to repeat ; but to hear Cat- termole, in the gruff hoarse accents of what seemed to be the remains of a deep bass voice enveloped in wet straw, repeat the wild proceedings of Jack, was not to be forgotten. * Yes * sir. Jack went mad sir, just afore he * 'stablished hisself by Sir Robert * Peel's-s-s, sir. He was allis a callin' ' for a pint o' beer sir, and they brings * him water sir. Yes sir. And so * sir, I sees him dodgin' about one day * sir, yes sir, and at last he gits a * hopportunity sir and claps a pitch- ' plaster on the mouth o' th' pump sir, ' and says he's done for his wust * henemy sir. Yes sir. And then they * finds him a-sittin' on the top o' the * com- chest sir, yes sir, a crammin' a * old pistol with wisps o' hay and ' horse-beans sir, and swearin' he's a * goin' to blow hisself to hattoms, yes * sir, but he doesn't, no sir. For I * sees him arterwards a lyin' on the * straw a manifactrin' Bengal cheroots * out o' corn-chaff sir and swearin' ' he'd make 'em smoke sir, but they * hulloxed him off round by the corner * of Drummins's-s-s-s-s-s sir, just afore * I come here sir, yes sir. And so you * never see'd us together sir, no sir.' This was the remarkable dialect in which Dickens wrote from Broadstairs on the 13th of July. * About Satur- Letter in * day sir, ?— Why sir, I'm a-going to character. * Folkestone a Saturday sir ! — not on * accounts of the manifacktring of * Bengal cheroots as there is there but * for the survayin' o' the coast sir. * 'Cos you see sir, bein' here sir, and * not a finishin' my work sir till to- * morrow sir, I couldn't go afore ! * And if I wos to come home, and not ' go, and come back agin sir, wy it * would be nat'rally a hulloxing of my- ' self sir. Yes sir. Wy sir, I b'lieve a male * that the gent as is a goin' to 'stablish Mrs. Gam? * hisself sir, in the autumn, along with Harris!* * me round the corner sir (by Drum- ' mins's-s-s-s-s-s bank) is a comin' ' down to Folkestone Saturday arter- * noon —Leech by name sir — yes sir — * another Jack sir — and if you wos to * come down along with him sir by the * train as gits to Folkestone twenty * minutes arter five, you'd find me a * smoking a Bengal cheroot (made of * clover-chaff and horse-beans sir) on * the platform. You couldn't spend * your arternoon better sir. Dover, * Sandgate, Heme Bay — they're all to * be wisited sir, most probable, till * sich times as a 'ouse is found sir. ' Yes sir. Then decide to come sir, ' and say you will, and do it. I shall ' be here till arter post time Saturday * morniu' sir. Come on then I • Sloppy * His X mark.' 62 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. Bon- church ; 1849. Jam Whi Mirth and melan- choly. Land- marks 0/ History ; and Eighteen Christian Centuries. Mrs. James White. * going off to Weymouth or the Isle of Wight, or both, early the * next morning.' A few days after, his choice was made. He had taken a house at Bonchurch, attracted there by the friend who had made it a place of interest for him during the last few years, the Reverend James White, with whose name and its associations my mind connects inseparably many of Dickens's happiest hours. To pay him fitting tribute would not be easy, if here it were called for. In the kindly shrewd Scotch face, a keen sensitiveness to pleasure and pain was the first thing that struck any common observer. Cheerfulness and gloom coursed over it so rapidly that no one could question the tale they told. But the relish of his life had outlived its more than usual share of sorrows ; and quaint sly humour, love of jest and merriment, capital know- ledge of books, and sagacious quips at men, made his companion- ship delightful. Like his life, his genius was made up of alternations of mirth and melancholy. He would be immersed, at one time, in those darkest Scottish annals from which he drew his tragedies ; and overflowing, at another, into Sir Frizzle Pumpkin's exuberant farce. The tragic histories may probably perish with the actor's perishable art ; but three little abstracts of history written at a later time in prose, with a sunny clearness of narration and a glow of picturesque interest to my knowledge unequalled in books of such small pretension, will find, I hope, a lasting place in litera- ture. They are filled with felicities of phrase, with breadth of understanding and judgment, with manful honesty, quiet sagacity, and a constant cheerful piety, valuable for all and priceless for the young. Another word I permit myself to add. With Dickens, White was popular supremely for his eager good fellowship ; and few men brought him more of what he always liked to receive. But he brought nothing so good as his wife. * He is excellent, * but she is better,' is the pithy remark of his first Bonchurch letter ; and the true affection and respect that followed is happily still borne her by his daughters. Of course there is something strange to be recorded of the Bonchurch hoHday, but it does not come till nearer the ending ; and, with more attention to Mrs. Malaprop's advice to begin with a little aversion, might probably not have come at all. He began § III.] Seaside Holidays. 63 with an excess of liking. Of the Undercliff he was full of admira- bon- ^ ^ _ CHURCH : tion. * From the top of the highest downs/ he wrote in his second ^849- letter (28th of July)' * there are views which are only to be First im- ^ J pressions of * equalled on the Genoese shore of the Mediterranean ; the * variety of walks is extraordinary ; things are cheap, and every- * body is civil. The waterfall acts wonderfully, and the sea * bathing is delicious. Best of all, the place is certainly cold * rather than hot, in the summer time. The evenings have been * even chilly. White very jovial, and emulous of the inimitable in ' respect of gin-punch. He had made some for our arrival. Ha ! * ha ! not bad for a beginner ... I have been, and am, trying to ' work this morning ; but I can't make anything of it, and am * going out to think. I am invited by a distinguished friend to * dine with you on the first of August, but I have pleaded distance * and the being resident in a cave on the sea shore j my food, ' beans ; my drink, the water from the rock ... I must pluck up * heart of grace to write to Jeffrey, of whom I had but poor * accounts from Gordon just before leaving. Talfourd delightful, ' and amuses me mightily. I am really quite enraptured at his * success, and think of his happiness with uncommon pleasure.' Our friend was now on the bench : which he adorned with Talfourd made a qualities that are justly the pride of that profession, and with j"dge. accomplishments which have become more rare in its highest places than they were in former times. His elevation only made those virtues better known. Talfourd assumed nothing with the ermine but the privilege of more frequent intercourse with the tastes and friends he loved, and he continued to be the most joyous and least affected of companions. Such small oddities or foibles as he had made him secretly only dearer to Dickens, v/ho had no friend he was more attached to ; and the many Dickens's affection happy nights made happier by the voice so affluent in generous f""- him- words, and the face so bright with ardent sensibility, come back to me sorrowfully now. * Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the ' tuneful tongue.' The poet's line has a double application and sadness. He wrote again on the first of August. * I have just begun to * get into work. We are expecting the Queen to come by very 64 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. Bon- church ; 1849. Touching letter from Jeffrey. Church- school ex- amination. Dinners And pic- uics. ' soon, in grand array, and are going to let off ever so many guns. * I had a letter from Jeffrey yesterday morning, just as I was going ' to write to him. He has evidently been very ill, and I begin to * have fears for his recovery. It is a very pathetic letter, as to his * state of mind ; but only in a tranquil contemplation of death, * which I think very noble.' His next letter, four days later, de- scribed himself as continuing still at work ; but also taking part in dinners at Blackgang, and picnics of ' tremendous success ' on Shanklin Down. *Two charity sermons for the school are * preached to-day, and I go to the afternoon one. The examination ' of said school t'other day was very funny. All the boys made * Buckstone's bow in the Rough Diamond^ and some in a very * wonderful manner recited pieces of poetry, about a clock, and * may we be like the clock, which is always a going and a doing ' of its duty, and always tells the truth (supposing it to be a slap- * up chronometer I presume, for the American clock in the school * was lying frightfully at that moment) ; and after being bothered * to death by the multiplication table, they were refreshed with a * public tea in Lady Jane Swinburne's garden.' (There was a re- ference in one of ?iis letters, but I have lost it, to a golden-haired lad of the Swinburnes whom his own boys used to play with, since become more widely known.) * The rain came in with the first * tea-pot, and has been active ever since. On Friday we had a * grand, and what is better, a very good dinner at " parson " * Fielden's, with some choice port On Tuesday we are going on ' another picnic ; with the materials for a fire, at my express * stipulation ; and a great iron pot to boil potatoes in. These * things, and the eatables, go to the ground in a cart. Last night * we had some very good merriment at White's, where pleasant ' Julian Young and his wife (who are staying about five miles off) * showed some droll new games ' — and roused the ambition in my friend to give a * mighty conjuring performance for all the children ' in Bonchurch/ for which I sent him the materials and which went off in a tumult of wild delight. To the familiar names in this letter I will add one more, grieving freshly even now to con- nect it with suffering. * A letter from Poole has reached me since * I began this letter, with tidings in it that you will be very sorry § III.] Seaside Holidays. 65 * to hear. Poor Regnier has lost his only child ; the pretty Bon- CHURCH \ * daughter who dined with us that nice day at your house, when 1849. ' we all pleased the poor mother by admiring her so much. She * died of a sudden attack of malignant typhus. Poole was at the ^^egnier. * funeral, and writes that he never saw, or could have imagined, ' such intensity of grief as Regnier's at the grave. How one * loves him for it. But is it not always true, in comedy and in * tragedy, that the more real the man the more genuine the * actor ? ' After a few more days I heard of progress with his writing in spite of all festivities. * I have made it a rule that the inimitable ' is invisible, until two every day. I shall have half the number ' done, please God, to-morrow. I have not worked quickly here Progress in ' ^ ^ writing. * yet, but I don't know what I may do. Divers cogitations have * occupied my mind at intervals, respecting the dim design.' The design was the weekly periodical so often in his thoughts, of which more will appear in my next chapter. His letter closed with intimations of discomfort in his health ; of an obstinate cough ; and of a determination he had formed to mount daily to the top of the downs. 'It makes a great difference in the ' climate to get a blow there and come down again.' Then I heard of the doctor ' stethoscoping ' him, of his hope that all was right in that quarter, and of rubbings ' k la St. John Long ' being ordered for his chest But the mirth still went on. * There has * been a Doctor Lankester at Sandown, a very good merry fellow, * who has made one at the picnics, and whom I went over and ' dined with, along with Danby (I remember your liking for * Danby, and don't wonder at it), Leech, and White.' A letter towards the close of August resumed yet more of his ordinary . tone. ' We had games and forfeits last night at White's. Davy Personal * Roberts's pretty little daughter is there for a week, witli her ' husband, Bicknell's son. There was a dinner first to say good- ' bye to Danby, who goes to other clergyman's-duty, and we were * very merry. Mrs. White unchanging ; White comically various ' in his moods. Talfourd comes down next Tuesday, and we * think of going over to Ryde on Monday, visiting the play, < sleeping there (I don't mean at the play) and bringing the Judge yoL. II. F 66 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book vi. Bon- * back. Browne is coming down when he has done his month's 1849. * work. Should you like to go to Alum Bay while you are here ? * It would involve a night out, but I think would be very pleasant ; * and if you think so too, I will arrange it sub rosa, so that we ' may not be, like Bobadil, " oppressed by numbers. I mean to ' take a fly over from Shanklin to meet you at Ryde ; so that we ' can walk back from Shanklin over the landslip, where the Arrivals * sccncry is wonderfully beautiful. Stone and Egg are coming and de- partures. < next month, and we hope to see Jerrold before we go.' Such notices from his letters may be thought hardly worth preserving : but a wonderful vitality in every circumstance, as long as life under any conditions remained to the writer, is the picture they contribute to; nor would it be complete without the addition, that fond as he was, in the intervals of his work, of this abund- ance and variety of enjoyments, to no man were so essential also those quieter hours of thought, and talk, not obtainable when ' oppressed by numbers.' A stalling My visit was duc at the opening of September, but a few days earlier came the full revelation of which only a passing shadow had reached in two or three previous letters. * Before I think of * beginning my next number, I perhaps cannot do better than * give you an imperfect description of the results of the climate of * Bonchurch after a few weeks' residence. The first salubrious ' effect of which the Patient becomes conscious is an almost * continual feeling of sickness, accompanied with great prostration ' of strength, so that his legs tremble under him, and his arms ' quiver when he wants to take hold of any object An extra- Effect of ' ordinary disposition to sleep (except at night, when his rest, in Bonchurch . . climate. <■ the cvent of his having any, is broken by incessant dreams) is ' always present at the same time ; and, if he have anything to do * requiring thought and attention, this overpowers him to such a ' degree that he can only do it in snatches : lying down . on beds ' in the fitful intervals. Extreme depression of mind, and a dis- * position to shed tears from morning to night, developes itself at * the same period. If the Patient happen to have been a good * walker, he finds ten miles an insupportable distance ; in the * achievement of which his legs are so unsteady, that he goes from § III.] Seaside Holidays. 67 * side to side of the road, like a drunken man. If he happen to bon- church: * have ever possessed any energy of any kind, he finds it quenched ^849- < in a dull, stupid languor. He has no purpose, power, or object * in existence whatever. When he brushes his hair in the morning, Prostration. * he is so weak that he is obliged to sit upon a chair to do it. He * is incapable of reading, at all times. And his bilious system is ' so utterly overthrown, that a ball of boiling fat appears to be * always behind the top of the bridge of his nose, simmering * between his haggard eyes. If he should have caught a cold, he * will find it impossible to get rid of it, as his system is wholly * incapable of making any effort. His cough will be deep, * monotonous, and constant. The faithful watch-dog's honest * *' bark " will be nothing to it. He will abandon all present idea * of overcoming it, and will content himself with keeping an eye * upon his blood-vessels to preserve them whole and sound. * Patienfs name. Inimitable B. . . . It's a mortal mistake ! — That's * the plain fact Of all the places I ever have been in, I have * never been in one so difficult to exist in, pleasantly. Naples is ^^•^gn/e'^"' ' hot and dirty. New York feverish, Washington bilious, Genoa '■ exciting, Paris rainy — but Bonchurch, smashing. I am quite * convinced that I should die here, in a year. It's not hot, it's * not close, I don't know what it is, but the prostration of it is * awful. Nobody here has the least idea what I think of it j but * I find from all sorts of hints from Kate, Georgina, and the * Leeches, that they are all affected more or less in the same way, * and find it very difficult to make head against. I make no sign, * and pretend not to know what is going on. But they are right * I believe the Leeches will go soon, and small blame to 'em ! — * For me, when I leave here at the end of this September, I must ' go down to some cold place ; as Ramsgate for example, for a * week or two ; or I seriously believe I shall feel the effects of it * for a long time. . . . What do you think of that 1 . , . The * longer I live, the more I doubt the doctors. I am perfectly * convinced, that, for people suffering under a wasting disease, * this Underclifif is madness altogether. The doctors, with the * old miserable folly of looking at one bit of a subject, take the Distrust of * patient's lungs and the Undercliff's air, and settle solemnly that 68 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. Bon- ^ they are fit for each other. But the whole influence of the CHURCH : . ... 1849. * place, never taken into consideration, is to reduce and over- * power vitality. I am quite confident that I should go down * under it, as if it were so much lead, slowly crushing me. An * American resident in Paris many years, who brought me a letter * from Olliffe, said, the day before yesterday, that he had always * had a passion for the sea never to be gratified enough, but that * after living here a month, he could not bear to look at it ; he ' couldn't endure the sound of it ; he didn't know how it was, but * it seemed associated with the decay of his whole powers.' These were grave imputations against one of the prettiest places in England; but of the generally depressing influence of that Undercliff" on particular temperaments, I had already enough experience to abate something of the surprise with which I read Other side the letter. What it too bluntly puts aside are the sufferings other of picture. than his own, protected and sheltered by what only aggravated his ; but my visit gave me proof that he had really very little overstated the eff"ect upon himself Making allowance, which sometimes he failed to do, for special peculiarities, and for the excitability never absent when he had in hand an undertaking such as Copperfield, there was a nervous tendency to misgivings and apprehensions to the last degree unusual with him, which seemed to make the commonest things difficult ; and though he stayed out his time, and brought away nothing that his happier associations with the place and its residents did not long survive, he never returned to Bonchurch. In the month that remained he completed his fifth number, and with the proof there came the reply to some questions of which I hardly remember more than that they referred to doubts having reference, among other things, to the propriety of the kind of JJ.^J^ck's delusion he had first given to poor Mr. Dick,* which appeared to delusion. * It Stood originally thus : ' " Do ' prised by the inquiry ; but remem- ' "you recollect the date." said Mr. ' bering a song about such an occur- * Dick, looking earnestly at me, and ' rence that was once popular at * taking up his pen to note it down, ' Salem House, and thinking he might * " when that bull got into the china ' want to quote it, replied that I be- * " warehouse and did so much mis- ' lieved it was on St. Patrick's Day. ♦''chief?" I was very much sur- * "Yes, I know," said Mr. Dick-:- § III.] Seaside Holidays. 69 be a little too farcical for that really touching delineation of Bon- _ ° CHURCH : character. *Your suggestion is perfectly wise and sound/ he ^^49- wrote back (22nd of August). *I have acted on it. I have also, * instead of the bull and china-shop delusion, given Dick the idea, * that, when the head of king Charles the First was cut off, some * of the trouble was taken out of it, and put into his (Dick's)/ When he next wrote, there was news very welcome to me for the pleasure to himself it involved. * Browne has sketched an un- Browne's sketch for * commonly characteristic and capital Mr. Micawber for the next Micawber * number. I hope the present number is a good one. I hear * nothing but pleasant accounts of the general satisfaction.' The same letter told me of an intention to go to Broadstairs, put aside by doubtful reports of its sanitary condition ; but it will be seen presently that there was another graver interruption. With his work well off his hands, however, he had been getting on better where he was; and they had all been very merry. 'Yes,' he said, writing after a couple of days (23rd of September), * we have * been sufficiently rollicking since I finished the number ; and ' have had great games at rounders every afternoon, with all Bon- * church looking on ; but I begin to long for a little peace and * solitude. And now for my less pleasing piece of news. The * sea has been running very high, and Leech, while bathing, was * knocked over by a bad blow from a great wave on the forehead. * He is in bed, and had twenty of his namesakes on his temples Accident to * this morning. When I heard of him just now, he was asleep — * which he had not been all night.' He closed his letter hope- fully, but next day (24th September) I had less favourable report. * Leech has been very ill with congestion of the brain ever since * I wrote, and being still in excessive pain has had ice to his * head continuously, and been bled in the arm besides. Beard * and I sat up there, all night.' On the 26th he wrote. * My * plans are all unsettled by Leech's illness ; as of course 1 do not Its conse- * like to leave this place while I can be of any service to him and ' his good little wife. But all visitors are gone to-day, and * ** in the morning; but what year?" I could give no information on this • point.' Original MS. of Coppcrfield. 70 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. Bon- * Winterboiirne once more left to the engaging family of the 1849 ' mimitable B. Ever since I wrote to you Leech has been ' seriously worse, and again very heavily bled. The night before ' last he was in such an alarming state of restlessness, which nothing ' could relieve, that I proposed to Mrs. Leech to try magnetism. ' Accordingly, in the middle of the night I fell to \ and, after a ' very fatiguing bout of it, put him to sleep for an hour and thirty- jg"" * five minutes. A change came on in the sleep, and he is ' decidedly better. I talked to the astounded little Mrs. Leech * across him, when he was asleep, as if he had been a truss of hay. * . . . What do you think of my setting up in the magnetic line ' with a large brass plate ? " Terms, twenty-five guineas per * "nap." ' When he wrote on the 30th, he had completed his sixth number ; and his friend was so clearly on the way to recovery that he was himself next day to leave for Broadstairs with his wife, her sister, and the two little girls. ' I will merely add that I ' entreat to be kindly remembered to Thackeray ' (who had a dangerous illness at this time) ; * that I think I have, without a ' doubt, got the Periodical notion ; and that I am writing under ' the depressing and discomforting influence of paying off the ' tribe of bills that pour in upon an unfortunate family-young man ' on the eve of a residence like this. So no more at present * from the disgusted, though still inimitable, and always affec- * tionate B.' TA'Rs^ He stayed at Broadstairs till he had finished his number seven, and what else chiefly occupied him were thoughts about the Periodical of which account will presently be given. * Such a * night and day of rain,' ran his first letter, * I should think the ' oldest inhabitant never saw ! and yet, in the ould formiliar ' Broadstairs, I somehow or other don't mind it much. The ' change has done Mamey a world of good, and I have begun to ' sleep again. As for news, you might as well ask me for ' dolphins. Nobody in Broadstairs — to speak of. Certainly no- ' body in Ballard's. We are in the part, which is the house next ' door to the hotel itself, that we once had for three years ' running, and just as quiet and snug now as it was then. I * don't think I shall return before the ^oth or so, when the § ni.] Seaside Holiday^s. * number is done; but I may, in some inconstant freak, run up to Broad- STAIKS: * you before. Prelimmary despatches and advices shall be for- 1849. * warded in any case to the fragrant neighbourhood of Clare- * market and the Portugal-street burying-ground.' Such was his polite designation of my whereabouts : for which nevertheless he had secret likings. * On the Portsmouth railway, coming here, Railway travellers. * encountered Kenyon. On the ditto ditto at Reigate, en- * countered young Dilke, and took him in tow to Canterbury. * On the ditto ditto at ditto (meaning Reigate), encountered * Fox, M.P. for Oldham, and his daughter. All within an hour. * Young Dilke great about the proposed Exposition under the ' direction of H.R.H. Prince Albert, and evincing, very pleasantly ' to me, unbounded faith in our old friend his father.' There was one more letter, taking a rather gloomy view of public affairs in connection with an inflated pastoral from Doctor Wiseman * given out of the Flaminian Gate,' and speaking dolefully of some family matters ; which was subscribed, each word forming a separate line, * Yours Despondently, And Disgustedly, Wilkins ' Micawber.' His visit to the little watering-place in the following year was Again at signalised by his completion of the most famous of his novels, and Stairs : his letters otherwise were occupied by elaborate managerial pre- paration for the private performances at Knebworth. But again the plague of itinerant music flung him into such fevers of irrita- tion, that he finally resolved against any renewed attempt to carry on important work here ; and the summer of 1851, when he was busy with miscellaneous writing only, was the last of his regular residences in the place. He then let his London house for the The Exhi- brief remainder of its term ; running away at the end of May, 185?" when some grave family sorrows had befallen him, from the crowds and excitements of the Great Exhibition ; and I will only add generally of these seaside residences that his reading was Hisread- considerable and very various at such intervals of labour. One of them, as I remember, took in all the minor tales as well as the plays of Voltaire, several of the novels (old favourites with him) of Paul de Kock, Ruskin's Lamps of Architecture, and a surprising number of books of African and other travel for which he had 72 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book VL UkOAb- STAiRS ; I85I. A correc- tion for Carlyle. Mumbo Jumbo. Haw- thorne's Scarlet Letter. Good criticism. insatiable relish : but there was never much notice of his reading in his letters. * By the bye, I observe, reading that wonderful ' book the French Revolution again for the 500th time, that * Carlyle, who knows everything, don't know what Mumbo * Jumbo is. It is not an Idol. It is a secret preserved among ' the men of certain African tribes, and never revealed by any of * them, for the punishment of their women. Mumbo Jumbo * comes in hideous form out of the forest, or the mud, or the ' river, or where not, and flogs some woman who has been back- '■ biting, or scolding, or with some other domestic mischief dis- ' turbing the general peace. Carlyle seems to confound him with ' the common Fetish ; but he is quite another thing. He is a ' disguised man ; and all about him is a freemasons' secret among ' the men.' — ' I finished the Scarlet Letter yesterday. It falls off * sadly after that fine opening scene. The psychological part of * the story is very much overdone, and not truly done I think. ' Their suddenness of meeting and agreeing to go away together, ' after all those years, is very poor. Mr. Chillingworth ditto. The ' child out of nature altogether. And Mr. Dimmisdale certainly ' never could have begotten her.' In Mr. Hawthorne's earHer books he had taken especial pleasure ; his Mosses from an Old Manse having been the first book he placed in my hands on his return from America, with reiterated injunctions to read it. I will add a word or two of what he wrote of the clever story of another popular writer, because it hits well the sort of ability that has become so common, which escapes the highest point of cleverness, but stops short only at the very verge of it. *The ' story extremely good indeed; but all the strongest things of * which it is capable, missed. It shows just how far that kind of ' power can go. It is more like a note of the idea than anything ' else. It seems to me as if it were written by somebody who ' lived next door to the people, rather than inside of 'em.' § IV.] Last of the Christmas Books. IV. CHRISTMAS BOOKS CLOSED AND HOUSEHOLD WORDS BEGUN. 1848— 1850. It has been seen that his fancy for his Christmas book of 1848 ^^84 first arose to him at Lausanne in the summer of 1846, and that, after writing its opening pages in the autumn of the following year, he laid it aside under the pressure of his Dombey. These lines were in the letter that closed his 1848 Broadstairs holiday. Broad- * At last I am a mentally matooring of the Christmas book — or, * as poor Macrone * used to write, " booke," " boke," " buke," * &c.' It was the first labour to which he appHed himself at his return. In London it soon came to maturity j was pubHshed duly as * I take occasion of the mention of this name to state that I have received in reference to my account of Dickens's repurchase of his Sketches from Mr. Macrone {ante, i. 78-80), a letter from the solicitor and friend of that gentle- man so expressed that I could have greatly wished to revise that narrative into nearer agreement with its writer's wish. But farther enquiry, and an examination of the books of Messrs. Chapman and Hall, have confirmed the statement given. Mr. Hansard is in error in supposing that * unsold im- * pressions ' of the books were included in the transaction (the necessary re- quirement being simply that the small remainders on hand should be trans- ferred with a view to being * wasted ') : I know myself that the sale could not have included any supposed right of Mr. Macrone to have a novel written for him, because upon that whole matter, and his continued unauthorised announcements of the story (as Gabriel Varden the Locksmith, the first name thought of for Barnaby KuJge), 1 de- cided myself the reference against him : and Mr. Hansard may be assured that Friendly the ;i{^20oo was paid for the copyright alone. For the same copyright, a crone, year before, Dickens had received £2^0, both the first and second series being included in the payment ; and he had already had about the same sum as his half share of the profits of sales. I quote the close of Mr. Han- sard's letter. ' Macrone ho doubt was * an adventurer, but he was sanguine ' to the highest degree. He was a * dreamer of dreams, putting no re- * straint on his exultant hopes by the ' reflection that he was not dealing * justly towards others. But reproach * has fallen upon him from wrong * quarters. He died in poverty, and * his creditors received nothing from * his estate. But that was because he * had paid away all he had, and all he ' had derived from trust and credit, to * authors.'' This may have been so, but Dickens was not among the authors so benefited. The Sketches rt^\xvc\\2i'<.Q(\ at so high a price never aftei ivards really justified the outlay. 74 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book VI. London ; 77?*? Haunted Man, or the Ghosfs Bargain ; sold largely, beginning 1848. with a subscription of twenty thousand ; and had a great success of°chris-°" on the Adelphi stage, to which it was rather cleverly adapted by Lemon. He had placed on its title page originally four lines from Tennyson's 'Departure.' * And o'er the hills, and far away ' Beyond their utmost purple rim, * Beyond the night, across the day, • Thro' all the world IT followed him ; ' but they were less applicable to the close than to the opening of the tale, and were dropped before publication. The hero is a The hero. gxQ-^X. chcmist, a lecturer at an old foundation, a man of studious philosophic habits, haunted with recollections of the past ' o'er ' which his melancholy sits on brood,' thinking his knowledge of the present a worthier substitute, and at last parting with that portion of himself which he thinks he can safely cast away. The recollections are of a great wrong done him in early life, and of all the sorrow consequent upon it ; and the ghost he holds nightly conference with, is the darker presentment of himself embodied in those bitter recollections. This part is finely managed. Out of heaped-up images of gloomy and wintry fancies, the super- natural takes a shape which is not forced or violent ; and the dialogue which is no dialogue, but a kind of dreary dreamy echo, is a piece of ghostly imagination better than Mrs. Radcliffe. The •^g^n.*^^"^ boon desired is granted and the bargain struck. He is not only to lose his own recollection of grief and wrong, but to destroy the like memory in all whom he approaches. By this means the effect is shown in humble as well as higher minds, in the worst poverty as in competence or ease, always with the same result The over-thinking sage loses his own affections and sympathy, sees them crushed in others, and is brought to the level of the only creature whom he cannot change or influence, an outcast of the streets, a boy whom the mere animal appetites have turned into a small fiend. Never having had his mind awakened, evil is this creature's good ; avarice, irreverence, and vindictiveness, are his nature ; sorrow has no place in his memory ; and from his brutish propensities the philosopher can take nothing away. The § IV.] Last of the Christmas Books. 75 juxtaposition of two people whom such opposite means have put London : 1848. in the same moral position is a stroke of excellent art. There are plenty of incredibilities and inconsistencies, just as in the pleasant Cricket on the Hearth^ which we do not care about, but enjoy rather than otherwise ; and, as in that charming little book, there were minor characters as delightful as anything in Dickens. The Tetterby group, in whose humble, homely, kindly, ungainly J^^'^'^^' figures there is everything that could suggest itself to a clear eye, family, a piercing wit, and a loving heart, became enormous favourites. Tilly Slowboy and her little dot of a baby, charging folks with it as if it were an offensive instrument, or handing it about as if it were something to drink, were not more popular than poor Johnny Tetterby staggering under his Moloch of an infant, the Juggernaut that crushes all his enjoyments. The story itself consists of nothing more than the effects of the Ghost's gift upon the various groups of people introduced, and the way the end is arrived at is very specially in Dickens's manner. What the highest exercise of the intellect had missed is found in the simplest form of the affections. The wife of the custodian of the college where the chemist is professor, in whom are all the unselfish virtues that can beautify and endear the humblest con- dition, is the instrument of the change. Such sorrow as she has suffered had made her only zealous to relieve others' sufferings : and the discontented wise man learns from her example that the world is, after all, a much happier compromise than it seems to Teachings of the be, and life easier than wisdom is apt to think it ; that grief gives ii"ie story, joy its relish, purifying what it touches truly ; and that * sweet are * the uses of adversity ' when its clouds are not the shadow of dishonour. All this can be shown but lightly within such space, it is true ; and in the machinery a good deal has to be taken for granted. But Dickens was quite justified in turning aside from objections of that kind. ' You must suppose,' he wrote to me (21st of November), 'that the Ghost's saving clause gives him ' those glimpses without which it would be impossible to carry * out the idea. Of course my point is that bad and good are * inextricably linked in remembrance, and that you could not * choose the enjoyment of recollecting only the good. To have 76 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book VI. London: * all the bcst of it vou must remember the worst also. My 1848. ... * intention in the other point you mention is, that he should not * know himself how he communicates the gift, whether by look or * touch j and that it should diffuse itself in its own way in each * case. I can make this clearer by a very few lines in the second * part It is not only necessary to be so, for the variety of the * story, but I think it makes the thing wilder and stranger.' Critical niceties are indeed out of place, where wildness and strangeness of means matter less than that there should be Meaning of cleamess of drift and intention. Dickens leaves no doubt as the tale. to this. He thoroughly makes out his fancy, that no man should so far question the mysterious dispensations of evil in this world as to desire to lose the recollection of such injustice or misery as he may suppose it to have done to himself. There may have been sorrow, but there was the kindness that assuaged it ; there may have been wrong, but there was the charity that forgave it ; and with both are connected inseparably so many thoughts that soften and exalt whatever else is in the sense of memory, that what is good and pleasurable in life would cease to continue so Forgive if thesc wcre forgotten. The old proverb does not tell you to that you may forget forget that you may forgive, but to forgive that you may forget It is forgiveness of wrong, for forgetfulness of the evil that was in it ; such as poor old Lear begged of Cordelia. The design for his much- though t-of new Periodical was still ' dim,' as we have seen, when the first cogitation of it at Bon- church occupied him ; but the expediency of making it clearer came soon after with a visit from Mr. Evans, who brought his half-year's accounts of sales, and some small disappointment for copperfieU him in those of Copperfield. * The accounts are rather shy, after * Dombey, and what you said comes true after all I am not sorry * I cannot bring myself to care much for what opinions people * may form ; and I have a strong belief, that, if any of my books * are read years hence, Dombey will be remembered as among the ' best of them : but passing influences are important for the time, chuzziewit * and as Chuzzlewit with its small sale sent me up, Dombey' s large leyS^^' * sale has tumbled me down. Not very much, however, in real ' truth. These accounts only include the first three numbers. § IV.] Household Words Begun. 77 * have of course been burdened with all the heavy expenses of ^on- ■' ^ CHURCH : * number one, and ought not in reason to be complained of. But ^^49- * it is clear to me that the Periodical must be set agoing in the * spring ; and I have already been busy, at odd half-hours, in * shadowing forth a name and an idea. Evans sa}'s they have * but one opinion repeated to them of Copperfield^ and they feel * very confident about it A steady twenty-five thousand, which * it is now on the verge of, will do very well. The back numbers * are always going off Read the enclosed.* It was a letter from a Russian man of letters, dated from St. Letter Petersburg, and signed * Trinarch Ivansvitch Wredenskii,' sending Russia, him a translation of Dombey into Russian ; and informing him that his works, which before had only been translated in the journals, and with certain omissions, had now been translated in their entire form by his correspondent, though even he had found an omission to be necessary in his version of Pickwick. He adds, with an exquisite courtesy to our national tongue which is yet not forgetfiil of the claims of his own nationality, that his difficulties (in the Sam Weller direction and others) had arisen from the * impossibility of portraying faithfully the beauties of the original * in the Russian language, which, though the richest in Europe in ^^"[^ * its expressiveness, is far from being elaborate enough for litera- * ture like other civilized languages.' He had however, he assured Dickens, been unremitting in his efforts to live with his thoughts ; and the exalted opinion he had formed of them was attended by only one wish, that such a writer * could but have expanded under * a Russian sky ! ' Still, his fate was an enviable one. * For the * last eleven years your name has enjoyed a wide celebrity in * Russia, and from the banks of the Neva to the remotest parts * of Siberia you are read with avidity. Your Dombey continues * to inspire with enthusiasm the whole of the literary Russia.' Much did we delight in the good Wredenskii ; and for a long time, on anything going ' contrairy ' in the public or private direction with him, he would tell me he had ordered his port- manteau to be packed for the more sympathizing and congenial Sympathy . , , of Siberia. climate of the remotest parts of Siberia. The week before he left Bonchurch I again had news of the The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book vi. old and often recurring fancy. * The old notion of the Periodical, * which has been agitating itself in my mind for so long, I really ' think is at last gradually growing into form.' This was on the 24th of September; and on the 7th of October, from Broadstairs, I had something of the form it had been taking. * I do great * injustice to my floating ideas (pretty speedily and comfortably ' settling down into orderly arrangement) by saying anything ' about the Periodical now : but my notion is a weekly journal, '■ price either three-halfpence or twopence, matter in part original ' and in part selected, and always having, if possible, a little good * poetry . . . Upon the selected matter, I have particular notions. * One is, that it should always be a subject For example, a his- * tory of Piracy ; in connexion with which there is a vast deal of ' extraordinary, romantic, and almost unknown matter. A history ' of Knight-errantry, and the wild old notion of the Sangreal. A * history of Savages, showing the singular respects in which all * savages are like each other ; and those in which civilised men, ' under circumstances of difficulty, soonest become like savages. * A history of remarkable characters, good and bad, in history ; * to assist the reader's judgment in his observation of men, and * in his estimates of the truth of many characters in fiction. All * these things, and fifty others that I have already thought of, * would be compilations ; through the whole of which the general * intellect and purpose of the paper should run, and in which ' there would be scarcely less interest than in the original matter. ' The original matter to be essays, reviews, letters, theatrical ' criticisms, &c. &c. as amusing as possible, but all distinctly * and boldly going to what in one's own view ought to be the * spirit of the people and the time . . . Now to bind all this * together, and to get a character established as it were which * any of the writers may maintain without difficulty, I want to * suppose a certain Shadow, which may go into any place, by ' sunlight, moonlight, starlight, firelight, candlelight, and be in all * homes, and all nooks and corners, and be supposed to be cogni- ' sant of everything, and go everywhere, without the least ' difficulty. Which may be in the Theatre, the Palace, the House ' of Commons, the Prisons, the Unions, the Churches, on the § IV.] Houselwld Words Begun. 79 Railroad, on the Sea, abroad and at home : a kind of semi- Broad- STAIRS : omniscient, omnipresent, intangible creature. I don't think it ^9- _ would do to call the paper The Shadow : but I want something a shadow for every- tacked to that title, to express the notion of its being a cheerful, where, useful, and always welcome Shadow. I want to open the first number with this Shadow's account of himself and his family. I want to have all the correspondence addressed to him. I want him to issue his warnings from time to time, that he is going to fall on such and such a subject; or to expose such and such a piece of humbug ; or that he may be expected shortly in such and such a place. I want the compiled part of the paper to express the idea of this Shadow's having been in libraries, and among the books referred to. I want him to loom as a fanciful thing all over London; and to get up a general notion of " What will the Shadow say about this, I wonder ? What will " the Shadow say about this ? Is the Shadow here ? " and so forth. Do you understand ? . . . I have an enormous difficulty in expressing what I mean, in this stage of the business ; but I think the importance of the idea is, that once stated on paper, there is no difficulty in keeping it up. That it presents an odd, unsubstantial, whimsical, new thing : a sort of previously un- thought of Power going about. That it will concentrate into one focus all that is done in the paper. That it sets up a crea- ture which isn't the Spectator, and isn't Isaac Bickerstaff, and isn't anything of that kind : but in which people will be per- fectly wiUing ♦■o believe, and which is just as mysterious and quaint enough to have a sort of charm for their imagination, while it will represent common-sense and humanity. I want to express in the title, and in the grasp of the idea to express also, that it is the Thing at everybody's elbow, and in everybody's footsteps. At the window, by the fire, in the street, in the Something for every- house, from infancy to old age, everybody's inseparable com- body, panion . . . Now do you make anything out of this ? which I let off as if I were a bladder full of it, and you had punctured me. I have not breathed the idea to any one ; but I have a lively hope that it is an idea, and that out of it the whole scheme may be hammered.' 8o The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book vi. Broad- Excellent the idea doubtless, and so described in his letter that STAIRS : ' ^^49- hardly anything more characteristic survives him. But I could not make anything out of it that had a quite feasible look. The ordinary ground of miscellaneous reading, selection, and compi- lation out of which it was to spring, seemed to me no proper soil for the imaginative produce it was meant to bear. As his fancies incompati- grcw and gathered round it, they had given it too much of the bilities of _ jo the design, range and scope of his own exhaustless land of invention and marvel ; and the very means proposed for letting in the help of others would only more heavily have weighted himself. Not to trouble the reader now with objections given him in detail, my judgment was clear against his plan; less for any doubt of the effect if its parts could be brought to combine, than for my belief that it was not in that view practicable ; and though he did not immediately accept my reasons, he acquiesced in them ultimately. * I do not lay much stress on your grave doubts about Periodical, * but more anon.' The more anon resolved itself into conversa- tions out of which the shape given to the project was that which it finally took. New design It was to be a weekly miscellany of general literature j and its stated objects were to be, to contribute to the entertainment and instruction of all classes of readers, and to help in the discussion of the more important social questions of the time. It was to comprise short stories by others as well as himself ; matters of passing interest in the liveliest form that could be given to them ; subjects suggested by books that might most be attracting atten- tion ; and poetry in every number if possible, but in any case something of romantic fancy. This was to be a cardinal point. There was to be no mere utilitarian spirit; with all familiar things, but especially those repellant on the surface, something was to be connected that should be fanciful or kindly ; and the hardest workers were to be taught that their lot is not necessarily excluded from the sympathies and graces of imagination. This was all finally settled by the close of 1849, when a general an- nouncement of the intended adventure was made. There remained Assistant Only a title and an assistant editor ; and I am happy now to re- pointed, member that for the latter important duty Mr. Wills was chosen § iv.J Household Words Begun. 8i at my suggestion. He discharged its duties with admirable London: patience and ability for twenty years, and Dickens's later life had — no more intimate friend. The title took some time and occupied many letters. One of the first thought-of has now the curious interest of having fore- shadowed, by the motto proposed to accompany it, the title of the ^^^1^2'°" series of All the Year Round which he was led to substitute for the older series in 1859. * The Robin. With this motto from * Goldsmith. The redbreast^ celebrated for its affection to man- * kindj continues with us, the year roundJ That however was rejected. Then came : * Mankind. This I think very good.' It followed the other nevertheless. After it came : * And here ' a strange idea, but with decided advantages. " Charles * " Dickens. A weekly journal designed for the instruction and * " entertainm.ent of all classes of readers. Conducted by Him- * " SELF." ' Still, something was wanting in that also. Next day there arrived : * I really think if there be anything wanting in * the other name, that this is very pretty, and just supplies it. * The Household Voice. I have thought of many others, as — Names * The Household Guest. The Household Face. The * Comrade. The Microscope. The Highway of Life. The * Lever. The Rolling Years. The Holly Tree (with two * lines from Southey for a motto). Everything. But I rather * think the Voice is it' It was near indeed ; but the following day came, * Household Words. This is a very pretty name : ' and the choice was made. The first number appeared on Saturday the 30th of March, 1850, and contained among other things the beginning of a story by a very original writer, Mrs. Gaskell, for whose powers he had a high admiration, and with whom he had friendly intercourse during many years. Other opportunities will arise for mention of those with whom this new labour brought him into personal communication, but I may at once say that of all the writers, before unknown, whom his journal helped to make familiar to a First con tributors. Wide world of readers, he had the strongest personal interest in Mr. Sala, and placed at once in the highest rank his capabilities VQL. II. Q 82 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. London: of help in such an enterprise.* An illustrative trait of what I have named as its cardinal point to him will fitly close my account of its establishment. Its first number, still unpublished, had not seemed to him quite to fulfil his promise, * tenderly to cherish the * light of fancy inherent in all breasts ; ' and, as soon as he re- At ceived the proof of the second, I heard from him. * Looking over * the suggested contents of number two at breakfast this morning ' (Brighton : 14th of March 1850) * I felt an uneasy sense of there ' being a want of something tender, which would apply to some Want first * uuivcrsal household knowledge. Coming down in the railroad him.^^ * the other night (always a wonderfully suggestive place to me * when I am alone) I was looking at the stars, and revolving a * little idea about them. Putting now these two things together, * I wrote the enclosed little paper, straightway ; and should like ' you to read it before you send it to the printers (it will not take * you five minutes), and let me have a proof by return.' This Supplied, was the child's 'dream of a star,' which opened his second number ; and, though it appears among his reprinted pieces, it may justify a word or two of description. It is of a brother and sister, constant child-companions, who used to make friends of a star, watching it together until they knew when and where it would rise, and always bidding it good-night ; so that when the sister dies the lonely brother still connects her with the star, which he then sees opening as a world of light, and its rays Child's making a shining pathway from earth to heaven ; and he also a star. sces angels waiting to receive travellers up that sparkling road, his little sister among them j and he thinks ever after that he belongs less to the earth than to the star where his sister is ; and * Mr. Sala's first paper appeared in * conscientious fellow. When he gets vSeptember 1851, and in the same * money ahead, he is not like the month of the following year I had an * imbecile youth who so often do the allusion in a letter from Dickens which * like in Wellington-street ' (the office I shall hope to have Mr, Sala's for- of Household Words) ' and walk off, giveness for printing. ' That was very * but only works more industriously. good indeed of Sala's' (some essay * I think he improves with everything he had written). ' He was twenty * he does. He looks sharply at the ' guineas in advance, by the bye, and * alterations in his articles, I observe ; * I told Wills dehcately to make him ' and takes the hint next time.' * a present of it. I find him a very § v.] I 71 Aid of Literature and Art, 83 he grows up to youth and through manhood and old age, consoled Brighton still under the successive domestic bereavements that fall to his earthly lot by renewal of that vision of his childhood ; until at last, lying on his own bed of death, he feels that he is moving as a child to his child-sister, and he thanks his heavenly father that the star had so often opened before to receive the dear ones who awaited him. His sister Fanny and himself, he told me long before this paper was written, used to wander at night about a church- yard near their house, looking up at the stars ; and her early death, of which I am shortly to speak, had vividly reawakened all the childish associations which made her memory dear to him. V. IN AID OF LITERATURE AND ART. 1850 — 1852. In the year of the establishment of Household Words Dickens London : 1848-50. resumed what I have called his splendid strolling on behalf of a scheme for the advantage of men of letters, to which a great brother-author had given the sanction of his genius and name. In November 1850, in the hall of Lord Lytton's old family seat in Knebworth-park, there were three private performances by the original actors in Ben Jonson's Every Man in His Humour, of which all the circumstances and surroundings were very brilliant ; some of the gentlemen of the county played both in comedy Origin of and farces ; our generous host was profuse of all noble encourage- Literature and Art. ment ; and amid the general pleasure and excitement hopes rose high. Recent experience had shown what the public interest in this kind of amusement might place within reach of its pro- viders ; and there came to be discussed the possibility of making permanent such help as had been afforded to fellow writers, by means of an endowment that should not be mere charity, but should combine something of both pension-list and college- lectureship, without the drawbacks of either. It was not enough considered that schemes for self-help, to be successful, require 84 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. London: from those they are meant to benefit, not only a general assent to 1850. — their desirability, but zealous co-operation. Too readily assummg what should have had more thorough investigation, the enterprise was set on foot, and the * Guild of Literature and Art ' originated at Kneb worth. A five-act comedy was to be written by Sir Edward Lytton ; and, when a certain sum of" money had been obtained by public representations of it, the details of the scheme were to be drawn up, and appeal made to those whom it addressed more especially. In a very few months everything was ready, except a ^^''ce farce which Dickens was to have written to follow the comedy, promi&ed by ' Dickens. which Unexpected cares of management and preparation were held to absolve him from. There were other reasons. ' I have * written the first scene,' he told me (23rd of March, 1851), *and it ' has droll points in it, " more farcical points than you commonly ' " find in farces," * really better. Yet I am constantly striving, for * my reputation's sake, to get into it a meaning that is impossible ' in a farce ; constantly thinking of it, therefore, against the grain ; ' and constantly impressed with a conviction that I could never ' act in it myself with that wild abandonment which can alone ' carry a farce off. Wherefore I have confessed to Bulwer Lytton Farce sub- < and askcd for absolution.' There was substituted a new farce of stituted Dkkens Lcmou's, to which, however, Dickens soon contributed so many writtln^^'' jokes and so much Gampish and other fun of his own, that it came to be in effect a joint piece of authorship ; and Gabblewigg, which the manager took to himself, was one of those personation parts requiring five or six changes of face, voice, and gait in the course of it, from which, as we have seen, he derived all the early theatrical ambition that the elder Mathews had awakened in him. * You have no idea,' he continued, * of the immensity of the work * as the time advances, for the Duke even throws the whole of the * audience on us, or he would get (he says) into all manner of * Fcrapes.' * The Duke ' was the Duke of Devonshire, of whose love of • * Those Rabbits have more nature showing his piece to the most distin- * in them than you commonly find in guished master in that line — was here * Rabbits ' — the self-commendatory in my friend's mind, reroa^k of an aspiring animal-painter § v.] In Aid of Literature and Art, 8s letters and interest for men of that calling I have given on a London: 1850. former page {ante^ L 472), one of the many instances that adorned ^ ^ a life which alone perhaps in England was genuinely and com- pletely that of the Grand Seigneur. Well-read and very accom- plished, he had the pleasing manners which proceed from a kind nature ; and splendid in his mode of living beyond any other English noble, his magnificence, by the ease and elegance that accompanied it, was relieved from all offence of ostentation. He had offered his house in Piccadilly for the first representations, and in his princely way discharged all the expenses attending them. A moveable theatre was built and set up in the great drawing-room, the library was turned into a green-room, and here Lytton's comedy was presented. While the rehearsals were in progress our friend Macready was bidding adieu to the art ot which he had long been the leading ornament ; and before the comedy was produced its author presided at the farewell dinner to that distinguished actor on his quitting the stage. Dickens and myself came up for it from Malvern {post^ § vi.), and a few words from his speech proposing the chairman's health will illustrate the enterprise on foot and indicate its most generous helper. 'There is a popular prejudice, a kind of superstition, * that authors are not a particularly united body, and I am afraid * that this may contain half a grain or so of the veracious. But * of our chairman I have never in my life made public mention * without adding what I can never repress, that in the path we * both tread I have uniformly found him to be, from the first, the Edward \ . Bulwer, * most generous of men ; quick to encourage, slow to disparage, Lord * and ever anxious to assert the order of which he is so great an * ornament That we men of letters are, or have been, invariably * or inseparably attached to each other, it may not be possible to * say, formerly or now ; but there cannot now be, and there can- * not ever have been, among the followers of literature, a man so * entirely without the grudging little jealousies that too often over- * shadow its brightness, as he who now occupies that chair. Nor * was there ever a time when such reason existed for bearing * testimony to his great consideration for the evils sometimes * unfortunately attendant upon literature, though never on his own 86 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. London : * pursuit of it 1850, ^ Lord Lytton's death. For, in conjunction with some other gentlemen * now present, I have just embarked in a design with him to * smooth the rugged way of young labourers both in literature and * the fine arts, and to soften, but by no eleemosynary means, the * declining years of meritorious age. If it prosper, as I hope it * will, and as I know it ought, there will one day in England be ' an honour where there is now a reproach ; and a future race of * men of letters will gratefully remember that it originated in the * sympathies, and was made practicable by the generosity, of Sir * Edward Bulwer Lytton.' The design nevertheless did not prosper, and both the great writers who had associated themselves with it are now passed away. Since it first was mentioned on this page. Lord Lytton has himself been borne to the Abbey where Dickens is laid, and which never opened to receive a more varied genius, a more gallant spirit, a man more constant to his friends, more true to any cause he represented, or whose name will hereafter be found entitled to a more honoured place in the history of his time.* Dickens to Lord Lyttoo, ifc66. * In the criticism of his day there is no one who has been more grudg- ingly appreciated, or more harshly and unjustly judged. What kind of ap- preciation many of Lytton's later wri- tings obtained from Dickens, and how his earlier seem to have affected him before the days when he was himself known as a writer, will be shown, now not unbecomingly, by extracts from a letter on the Tales of Miletus. * The ' book,' Dickens wrote to the author (loth January, 1866) 'arrived yester- ' day, and in the evening I had the * inexpressible pleasure of reading it * through. When I closed it at past * midnight, my mind was filled with a * crowd of new delights. To-day I * have read it again, and the crowd is * doubled. My ear instantly took to * the metres. When they changed, I * changed as easily and sympatheti- * cally. Insomuch that I cannot repre- * sent to myself any one of the Tales, * as told in any other way than your way. I mention this, because I am not usually free from a certain un- adaptable obstinacy as to novelties in poetic rhythm, and to this hour am forced to separate some ideas of some friends of ours from the mechanism with which they are associated — alto- gether to separate the one from the other, and to express the thoughts to my thoughts in my own manner. The extraordinary beauty, pictu- resqueness, and completeness of The Secret Way, fascinated me. Argiope holds her place in my heart, against all her rivals. When she is led in by the priest and takes the cup, she is peerless in the world of women. But the narrative itself, the painting in it, the distinctness attained, the glowing force of it, the imagination in it and yet the terseness and close- ness of it, these astonish me I I de- clare to you that I have never read any story, whatsoever the manner of its telling, so perfectly amazing to me § v.] In Aid of Literature and Art. 87 The Guild design failed because the support indispensable to London . . , , , . . , AND success was not, as Dickens too sangumely hoped, given to it by Provinces : 1851-52. literary men themselves. But one part of his prediction may Failure of yet have fulfilment, since the failure has made it perhaps even Guild, more rather than less likely that future followers of literature will have reason to remember, how wise and well-directed was the unavailing effort to enable the most sensitive of all professions to receive assistance in its hour of distress without the loss of self- respect or dignity. How high Dickens had carried his hope in this respect, and to what depth of disappointment he fell at its collapse, will have mention on a later page. Lytton's comedy, Not so Bad as We Seem, was played for the Perform- ance of first time at Devonshire-house on the i6th of May, 185 1, before Lytton's comedy. the Queen and Prince and as large an audience as places could be found for ; the farce of Mr. Nightingales Diary being reserved for the second performance. The success abundantly realised expectation ; and, after many representations at the Hanover- square Rooms in London, strolling began in the country, and was continued at intervals for considerable portions of this and the following year. From much of it, I was myself disabled by illness and occupation, and substitutes had to be found ; but to this I owe a lively and characteristic picture of Dickens amid the in- cidents and accidents to which his theatrical career exposed him, which may be taken from the closing performances. The com- Travelling pany carried with them, it should be said, the theatre constructed ^nd scenes, for Devonshire-house, as well as the admirable scenes which Stanfield, David Roberts, Thomas Grieve, Telbin, Absolon, and ' in these respects, quite apart from its * I suppose the Oread's son to have * winning tenderness and grace. Of * been one of the most difficult of the * Death and Sisyphus at table, again, * Tales to tell, because the legend in * I have as clear and vivid a picture * one form or other is the most familiar * as if I had looked in at the window * of all by far. But for a perfectly * and seen them together : and the ' different kind of beauty, my pastoral * last twenty lines of that poem are * reading cannot match it ; and the * magnificent. The sacrifice of the * reed is broken by the master-hand, * wife of Miletus, and the picture of * that, in the days of the Last Days * the Temple in Cydippe, are the two * of Pompeii^ I used to wonder whether * things next distinctest in the new * I should ever make myself famous * host by which I find myself begirt. * enough to touch.' The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. Louis Haghe had painted as their generous free-offerings to the comedy; of which the representations were thus rendered irre- spective of theatres or their managers, and took place in the large halls or concert-rooms of the various towns and cities. A design for the card of membership, taken from an incident in the life of Defoe, expressed the interest felt in the undertaking by another distinguished artist, Mr. E. M. Ward. * The comedy,' Dickens wrote from Sunderland on the 29th of August, 1852, ' is so far improved by the reductions which your ' absence and other causes have imposed on us, that it acts now * only two hours and twenty-five minutes, all waits included, and ' goes " like wildfire," as Mr. Tonson * says. We have had pro- ' digious houses, though smaller rooms (as to their actual size) ' than I had hoped for. The Duke was at Derby, and no end of * minor radiances. Into the room at Newcastle (where Lord ' Carlisle was by the bye) they squeezed six hundred people, at * twelve and sixpence, into a space reasonably capable of holding * three hundred. Last night, in a hall built like a theatre, with * pit, boxes, and gallery, we had about twelve hundred — I dare * say more. They began with a round of applause when Coote's * white waistcoat appeared in the orchestra, and wound up the * farce with three deafening cheers. I never saw such good * fellows. Stanny is their fellow-townsman ; was bom here ; and * they applauded his scene as if it were himselfi But what I * suffered from a dreadful anxiety that hung over me all the time, * I can never describe. When we got here at noon, it appeared * that the hall was a perfectly new one, and had only had the slates ' put upon the roof by torchlight over night. Farther, that the * proprietors of some opposition rooms had declared the building ' to be unsafe, and that there was a panic in the town about it ; * people having had their money back, and being undecided * Mr. Tonson was a small part in * The actors and the audience were so the comedy entrusted with much ap- * close together that as Mr. Jacob propriateness to Mr. Charles Knight, * Tonson sat in Wills's Coffee-house whose Autobiography has this allusion * he could have touched with his to the first performance, which, as Mr. * clouded cane the Duke of Welling- Pepys says, is 'pretty to observe.' * ton:' (iii. 116.) § V.J In Aid of Literature and Art. 89 * whether to come or not, and all kinds of such horrors. I didn't Sunder- land : * know what to do. The horrible responsibility of risking an ^^52- ' accident of that awful nature seemed to rest only upon me : for Troubles of •' a manager. * I had only to say we wouldn't act, and there would be no chance * of danger. I was afraid to take Sloman into council lest the * panic should infect our men. I asked W. what he thought, and * he consolingly observed that his digestion was so bad that death ' had no terrors for him ! I went and looked at the place ; at the * rafters, walls, pillars, and so forth ; and fretted myself into a * belief that they really were slight ! To crown all, there was an ' arched iron roof without any brackets or pillars, on a new prin- * ciple ! The only comfort I had was in stumbling at length on ' the builder, and finding him a plain practical north-countryman * with a foot rule in his pocket. I took him aside, and asked ' him should we, or could we, prop up any weak part of the * place : especially the dressing-rooms, which were under our ' stage, the weight of which must be heavy on a new floor, and * dripping wet walls. He told me there wasn't a stronger build- * ing in the world ; and that, to allay the apprehension, they had * opened it, on Thursday night, to thousands of the working ' people, and induced them to sing, and beat with their feet, and ' make every possible trial of the vibration. Accordingly there * was nothing for it but to go on. I was in such dread, however, * lest a false alarm should spring up among the audience and * occasion a rush, that I kept Catherine and Georgina out of the * front. When the curtain went up and I saw the great sea of Acting under * faces rolling up to the roof, I looked here and looked there, and cUflicuities. * thought I saw the gallery out of the perpendicular, and fancied * the lights in the ceiling were not straight. Rounds of applause * were perfect agony to me, I was so afraid of their effect upon ' the building. I was ready all night to rush on in case of an * alarm — a false alarm was my main dread — and implore the * people for God's sake to sit still. I had our great farce-bell * rung to startle Sir Geoffrey instead of throwing down a piece of * wood, which might have raised a sudden apprehension. I had * a palpitation of the heart, if any of our people stumbled up or * down a stair. I am sure I never acted better, but the anxiety 90 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. Sunder- * of my mind was so intense, and the relief at last so great, that I land: o 7 '852- * am half dead to-day, and have not yet been able to eat or drink * anything or to stir out of my room. I shall never forget it. As * to the short time we had for getting the theatre up ; as to the * upsetting, by a runaway pair of horses, of one of the vans at the f Jertu7ned. * Newcastle railway station with all the scenery in it, every atom of * which was turned over ; as to the fatigue of our carpenters, who * have now been up four nights, and who were lying dead asleep * in the entrances last night ; I say nothing, after the other * gigantic nightmare, except that Sloman's splendid knowledge of * his business, and the good temper and cheerfulness of all the * workmen, are capital. I mean to give them a supper at Liver- * pool, and address them in a neat and appropriate speech. We * dine at two to-day (it is now one) and go to Sheffield at four, * arriving there at about ten. I had been as fresh as a daisy ; * walked from Nottingham to Derby, and from Newcastle here ; * but seem to have had my nerves crumpled up last night, and * have an excruciating headache. That's all at present. I shall * never be able to bear the smell of new deal and fresh mortar * again as long as I live.' Manchester and Liverpool closed the trip with enormous suc- cess at both places; and Sir Edward Lytton was present at a public dinner which was given in the former city, Dickens's brief word about it being written as he was setting foot in the train Dinner at that was to bring him to London. * Bulwer spoke brilliantly at Man- chester. < the Manchester dinner, and his earnestness and determination * about the Guild was most impressive. It carried everything * before it. They are now getting up annual subscriptions, and * will give us a revenue to begin with. I swear I believe that * people to be the greatest in the world. At Liverpool I had a A round ' Round Robin on the stage after the play was over, a place being robin. * 'left for your signature, and as I am going to have it framed, I'll * tell Green to send it to Lincoln's-inn-fields. You have no idea ' how good Tenniel, Topham, and Collins have been in what they * had to do.' These names, distinguished in art and letters, represent ad- ditions to the company who had joined the enterprise ; and the § VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace, Qi last of them, Mr. Wilkie Collins, became, for all the rest of the London : . 1848-S1. life of Dickens, one of his dearest and most valued friends. VI. LAST YEARS IN DEVONSHIRE TERRACE. 1848— 1851. Excepting always the haunts and associations of his child- Sentiment hood, Dickens had no particular sentiment of locality, and any places, special regard for houses he had lived in was not a thing notice- able in him. But he cared most for Devonshire-terrace, perhaps for the bit of ground attached to it ; and it was with regret he suddenly discovered, at the close of 1847, that he should have to resign it * next lady-day three years. I had thought the lease two ' years more.' To that brief remaining time belong some inci- dents of which I have still to give account ; and I connect them with the house in which he lived during the progress of what is generally thought his greatest book, and of what I think were his happiest years. We had never had such intimate confidences as in the interval since his return from Paris ; but these have been used in my nar- rative of the childhood and boyish experiences, and what remain are incidental only. Of the fragment of autobiography there also given, the origin has been told : but the intention of leaving such a record had been also in his mind at an earlier date {anie, 38) ; and it was the very depth of our interest in the opening of his fragment that led to the larger design in which it became ab- sorbed. * I hardly know why I write this,' was his own comment Personal on one of his personal revelations, * but the more than friendship ' which has grown between us seems to force it on me in my present mood. We shall speak of it all, you and I, Heaven * grant, wisely and wonderingly many and many a time in after * years. In the meanwhile I am more at rest for having opened * all my heart and mind to you. . . This day eleven years, poor i. 7,. * dear Mary died.' 92 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book VI. London: That Was written on the seventh of May 1848, but another 1848-51. , . . / -T ) sadness impending at the time was taking his thoughts still Early memories, farther back ; to when he trotted about with his little elder sister in the small garden to the house at Portsea. The faint hope for her which EUiotson had given him in Paris had since completely broken down ; and I was to hear, in less than two months after the letter just quoted, how nearly the end was come. * A change Eldest < took place in poor Fanny,' he wrote on the 5 th of July, * about uiness. < the middle of the day yesterday, which took me out there last * night. Her cough suddenly ceased almost, and, strange to say, * she immediately became aware of her hopeless state ; to which * she resigned herself, after an hour's unrest and struggle, with * extraordinary sweetness and constancy. The irritability passed, * and all hope faded away ; though only two nights before, she * had been planning for " after Christmas." She is greatly * changed. I had a long interview with her to-day, alone ; and * when she had expressed some wishes about the funeral, and her * being buried in unconsecrated ground ' (Mr. Burnett's family were dissenters), ' I asked her whether she had any care or siJk-bed * anxiety in the world. She said No, none. It was hard to die * at such a time of life, but she had no alarm whatever in the *■ prospect of the change ; felt sure we should meet again in a * better world ; and although they had said she might rally for a ' time, did not really wish it. She said she was quite calm and * happy, relied upon the mediation of Christ, and had no terror ' at all. She had worked very hard, even when ill ; but believed * that was in her nature, and neither regretted nor complained ' of it. Burnett had been always very good to her ; they had * never quarrelled ; she was sorry to think of his going back to Last < such a lonely home : and was distressed about her children, thoughts. ^ ' ' * but not painfully so. She showed me how thin and worn she * was ; spoke about an invention she had heard of that she would * like to have tried, for the deformed child's back ; called to my ' remembrance all our sister Letitia's patience and steadiness ; * and, though she shed tears sometimes, clearly impressed upon * me that her mind was made up, and at rest I asked her very * often, if she could ever recall anything that she could le^^-ve to § VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace. 93 * my doing, to put it down, or mention it to somebody if I was London : * not there ; and she said she would, but she firmly believed that ■ * there was nothing — nothing. Her husband being young, she * said, and her children infants, she could not help thinking some- * times, that it would be very long in the course of nature before * they were reunited ; but she knew that was a mere human * fancy, and could have no reality after she was dead. Such an * affecting exhibition of strength and tenderness, in all that early * decay, is quite indescribable. I need not tell you how it ' moved me. I cannot look round upon the dear children here, * without some misgiving that this sad disease will not perish out * of our blood with her ; but I am sure I have no selfishness in * the thought, and God knows how small the world looks to ' one who comes out of such a sick-room on a bright summer ' day. I don't know why I write this before going to bed. I * only know that in the very pity and grief of my heart, I feel as * if it were doing something.' After not many weeks she died, ^^^^^ and the little child who was her last anxiety did not long survive her. In all the later part of the year Dickens's thoughts were turning much to the form his next book should assume. A Book to suggestion that he should write it in the first person, by way of early life, change, had been thrown out by me, which he took at once very gravely ; and this, with other things, though as yet not dreaming of any public use of his early personal trials, conspired to bring about the resolve to use them. His determination once taken, with what a singular truthfulness he contrived to blend the fact with the fiction may be shown by a small occurrence of this time. It has been inferred, from the vividness of the boy- impressions of Yarmouth in David's earliest experiences, that the place must have been familiar to his own boyhood : but the truth was that at the close of 1848 he first saw that celebrated sea-port One of its earlier months had been signalized by an adventure in which Leech, Lemon, and myself took part with him, when, obtaining horses from Salisbury, we passed the whole Riding over of a March day in riding over every part of the Plain ; visiting phiJ""^ Stonehenge, and exploring Hazlitt's ' hut ' at Winterslow, birth- 94 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. London : 1848-51. Scene of the Rush murders. First sees Yarmouth. Birth of sixth son. place of some of his finest essays ; altogether with so brilliant a success that now (13th of November) he proposed to 'repeat the * Salisbury Plain idea in a new direction in mid-winter, to wit * Blackgang Chine in the Isle of Wight, with dark winter cliffs * and roaring oceans.' But mid-winter brought with it too much dreariness of its own, to render these stormy accompaniments to it very palataole ; and on the last day of the year he bethought hin? * It would be better to make an outburst to some old cathe- * dral city we don't know, and what do you say to Norwich and * Stanfield-hall ? ' Thither accordingly the three friends went, illness at the last disabling me ; and of the result I heard (12th of January, 1849) ^^^^ Stanfield-hall, the scene of a recent frightful tragedy, had nothing attractive unless the term might be applied to ' a murderous look that seemed to invite such a crime. We * arrived,' continued Dickens, * between the Hall and Potass * farm, as the search was going on for the pistol in a manner so * consummately stupid, that there was nothing on earth to pre- * vent any of Rush's labourers from accepting five pounds from * Rush junior to find the weapon and give it to him. Norwich, a ' disappointment ' (one pleasant face * transformeth a city,' but he was unable yet to connect it with our delightful friend Elwin) ; * all save its place of execution, which we found fit for a gigantic * scoundrel's exit. But the success of the trip, for me, was to * come. Yarmouth, sir, where we went afterwards, is the * strangest place in the wide world : one hundred and forty-six * miles of hill-less marsh between it and London. More when * we meet. I shall certainly try my hand at it' He made it the home of his * Htde Em'ly.' Everything now was taking that direction with him ; and soon, to give his own account of it, his mind was upon names 'running * like a high sea.' Four days after the date of the last-quoted letter (* all over happily, thank God, by four o'clock this morning ') there came the birth of his eighth child and sixth son ; whom at first he meant to call by Oliver Goldsmith's name, but settled afterwards into that of Henry Fielding ; and to whom that early friend Ainsworth who had first made us known to each other, welcome and pleasant companion always, was asked to be god- § VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace, 95 father. Telling me of the change in the name of the little fellow, ^^^^^^^ • which he had made in a kind of homage to the style of work he was now so bent on beginning, he added, 'What should you * think of this for a notion of a character ? " Yes, that is very * " true : but now, Whafs his motive ?" I fancy I could make Notion for a character. ' something Hke it into a kind of amusing and more innocent * Pecksniff. *' Well now, yes — no doubt that was a fine thing to * " do ! But now, stop a moment, let us see — Whafs his ^ motive Here again was but one of the many outward signs of fancy and fertility that accompanied the outset of all his more important books; though, as in their cases also, other moods of the mind incident to such beginnings were less favourable. * Deepest despondency, as usual, in commencing, * besets me ; ' is the opening of the letter in which he speaks of what of course was always one of his first anxieties, the selection of a name. In this particular instance he had been undergoing doubts and misgivings to more than the usual degree. It was not until the 23rd of February he got to anything like the shape Choosing of a feasible title. * I should like to know how the enclosed (one ' of those I have been thinking of) strikes you, on a first * acquaintance with it. It is odd, I think, and new ; but it may * have A's difiiculty of being " too comic, my boy." I suppose I * should have to add, though, by way of motto, And in short it * " led to the very Mag's Diversions. Old Savins:" Or would it Mag's ^ ° ^ Diversions. * be better, there being equal authority for either, And in short * " they all played Mag's Diversions. Old Sayin% t " * Mag's Diversions. ' Being the personal history ot 'Mr. Thomas Mag the Younger, ' Of Blunderstone House.' This was hardly satisfactory, I thought ; and it soon became apparent that he thought so too, although within the next three days I had it in three other forms. ' Ma^s Diversions^ being the Thomas * Personal History, Adventures, Experience, and Observation of David. * Mr. David Mag the Younger, of Blunderstone House.' The 96 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. London : 1848-51. Blunder- stone be- comes Cop- perfield. * Copper- ' field ' chosen. second omitted Adventures, and called his hero Mr. David Mag the Younger, of Copperfield House. The third made nearer approach to what the destinies were leading him to, and trans- formed Mr. David Mag into Mr. David Copperfield the Younger and his great-aunt Margaret ; retaining still as his leading title, Ma£s Diversions. It is singular that it should never have occurred to him, while the name was thus strangely as by accident bringing itself together, that the initials were but his own reversed. He was much startled when I pointed this out, and protested it was just in keeping with the fates and chances which were always befalling him. ' Why else,' he said, * should I so obsti- * nately have kept to that name when once it turned up ? ' It was quite true that he did so, as I had curious proof following close upon the heels of his third proposal. ' I wish,' he wrote on the 26th of February, 'you would look over carefully the titles ' now enclosed, and tell me to which you most incline. You will * see that they give up Mag altogether, and refer exclusively to ^ one name — that which I last sent you. I doubt whether I * could, on the whole, get a better name. Varieties proposed. The Copperfield Disclosures. Be- * ing the personal history, expe- * rience, and observation, of Mr. * David Copperfield the Younger, * of Blunderstone House. The Copperfield Records. Being * the personal history, experience, * and observation, of Mr. David * Copperfield the Younger, of * Copperfield Cottage. The Last Living Speech and Con' * fession of David Coppa-field, ' yunior, of Blunderstone Lodge, * w^ho was never executed at the * Old Bailey. Being his personal * history found among his papers. The Copperfield Swvey of the * World as it Rolled. Being the * personal history, experience, and ' observation of David Copper- ' field the Younger, of Blunder- * stone Rookery. The Last Will and Testament of * Mr. David Copperfield. Being * his personal history left as a * legacy. Copperfield, Complete. Being the ' whole personal history and ex- * perience of Mr. David Copper- * field of Blunderstone House, ' which he never meant to be ' published on any account. ' Or, the opening words of No. 6 might be Copperfield' s Entire ; * and The Copperfield Confessions might open Nos. i and 2. Now, * WHAT SAY YOU ? ' What I said is to be inferred from what he wrote back on the 28th. * The Survey has been my favourite from the first. Kate § VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace. 97 ' picked it out from the rest, without my saying anything about it London : 1848-51. * Georgy too. You hit upon it, on the first glance. Therefore I *■ have no doubt that it is indisputably the best title ; and I will ' stick to it' There was a change nevertheless. His completion of the second chapter defined to himself, more clearly than before, the character of the book ; and the propriety of rejecting every- thing not strictly personal from the name given to it. The words proposed, therefore, became ultimately these only : ' The Personal Doubts de- termined. * History, Adventures, Experience, and Observation of David * Copperfield the Younger, of Blunderstone Rookery, which he * never meant to be pubHshed on any account' And the letter which told me that with this name it was finally to be launched on the first of May, told me also (19th April) the difficulties that still beset him at the opening. ' My hand is out in the matter of Difficulties of opening. ' Copperfield. To-day and yesterday I have done nothing. Though * I know what I want to do, I am lumbering on like a stage- * waggon. I can't even dine at the Temple to-day, I feel it so * important to stick at it this evening, and make some head. I * am quite aground ; quite a literary Benedict, as he appeared * when his heels wouldn't stay upon the carpet ; and the long * Copperfieldian perspective looks snowy and thick, this fine * morning.'* The allusion was to a dinner at his house the night before ; when not only Rogers had to be borne out, having fallen Remem- sick at the table, but, as we rose soon after to quit the dining- dinner, room, Mr. Jules Benedict had quite suddenly followed the poet's lead, and fallen prostrate on the carpet in the midst ot us. Amid the general consternation there seemed a want of proper attendance on the sick: the distinguished musician faring in this respect hardly so well as the famous bard, by whose protracted sufferings in the library, whither he had been removed, the sanitary help available on the establishment was still absorbed : and as Dickens had been eloquent during dinner on the atrocities of a pauper- * From letters of nearly the same ' until half-past two on such a day . . date here is another characteristic * Indian news bad indeed. Sad things word : * Pen and ink before me ! Am ' come of bloody war. If it were not * I not at work on Copperfield! No- * for Elihu, I should be a peace and * thing else would have kept me here * arbitration man.' VOL. II. H 98 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. LoNixm: farming case at Tooting which was then exciting a fury of indignation, Fonblanque now declared him to be no better him- self than a second Drouet, reducing his guests to a lamentable state by the food he had given them, and aggravating their sad condition by absence of all proper nursing. The joke was well kept up by Quin and Edwin Landseer, Lord Strangford joining in with a tragic sympathy for his friend the poet ; and the banquet so dolefully interrupted ended in uproarious mirth. For nothing really serious had happened. Benedict went laughing away with fhat ellds his wife, and I helped Rogers on with his over-shoes for his usual night-walk home. * Do you know how many waistcoats I wear ?' asked the poet of me, as I was doing him this service. I pro- fessed my inability to guess. * Five ! " he said : * and here they * are ! ' Upon which he opened them, in the manner of the gravedigger in Hamlet, and showed me every one. That dinner was in the April of 1849, and among others present were Mrs. Procter and Mrs. Macready, dear and familiar names always in his house. No swifter or surer perception than Dickens's for what was solid and beautiful in character ; he rated it higher than intellectual effort ; and the same lofty place, first in Procter and his affcction and respect, would have, been Macready's and Macready. Procter's, if the one had not been the greatest of actors, and the other a poet as genuine as old Fletcher or Beaumont. There were present at this dinner also the American minister and Mrs. Bancroft (it was the year of that visit of Macready to America, which ended in the disastrous Forrest riots) ; and it had among its guests Lady Graham, the wife of Sir James Graham and sister of Tom Sheridan's wife, than whom not even the wit She^ridans bcauty of her nieces, Mrs. Norton and Lady Dufferin, did greater justice to the brilliant family of the Sheridans ; so many of whose members, and these three above all, Dickens prized among his friends. The table that day will be * full ' if I add the celebrated singer Miss Catherine Hayes, and her homely good- natured Irish mother, who startled us all very much by com- compii-^ plimenting Mrs. Dickens on her having had for her father so clever a painter as Mr. Hogarth. Others familiar to Devonshire-terrace in these years will be § VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace, 99 indicated if I name an earlier dinner (3rd of January), for the - * christening' of the Haunied Man, when, besides Lemons, Evanses, Leeches, Bradburys, and Stanfields, there were present Tenniel, Topham, Stone, Robert Bell, and Thomas Beard. Next month (24th of March) I met at his table, Lord and Lady Love- lace ; Milner Gibson, Mowbray Morris, Horace Twiss, and their wives; Lady Molesworth and her daughter (Mrs. Ford); John Hardwick, Charles Babbage, and Doctor Locock. That dis- tinguished physician had attended the poor girl, Miss Aber- crombie, whose death by strychnine led to the exposure of Wainewright's murders ; and the opinion he had formed of her ^'^'^'^^ chances of recovery, the external indications of that poison being murders, then but imperfectly known, was first shaken, he told me, by the gloomy and despairing cries of the old family nurse, that her mother and her uncle had died exactly so ! These, it was after- wards proved, had been among the murderer's former victims. The Lovelaces were frequent guests after the return from Italy, Sir George Crawford, so friendly in Genoa, having married Lord Lovelace's sister ; and few had a greater warmth of admiration for Dickens than Lord Byron's ' Ada,' on whom Paul Dombey's Lord _ Byron's death laid a strange fascination. They were again at a dinner a^^- got up in the following year for Scribe and the composer Halevy, who had come over to bring out the Tempest at Her Majesty's theatre, then managed by Mr. Lumley, who with M. Van de Dmner to Halevy and Weyer, Mrs. Gore and her daughter, the Hogarths, and I think Scribe, the fine French comedian, Samson, were also amongst those present. Earlier that year there were gathered at his dinner- table the John Delanes, Isambard Brunels, Thomas Longmans (friends since the earliest Broadstairs days, and special favourites always), Lord Mulgrave, and Lord Carlisle, with all of whom his intercourse v/as intimate and frequent, and became especially so with Delane in later years. Lord Carlisle amused us that night, I remember, by repeating what the good old Brougham had said to him of ' those Fu7ich people,' expressing what was really his Brougham and the fixed belief. * They never get my face, and are obliged ' (which, ' P'*»<^^ * people.' like Pope, he always pronounced obleeged) * to put up with my * plaid trousers ! ' Of Lord Mulgrave, pleasantly associated with lOO The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. London : 1848-51. With Lord Mulgrave. The Duke at Vaux- hall. Dinner after first Copper- field. Carlyle. Thackeray. the first American experiences, let me add that he now went with us to several outlying places of amusement of which he wished to acquire some knowledge, and which Dickens knew better than any man \ small theatres, saloons, and gardens in city or borough, to which the Eagle and Britannia were as palaces ; and I think he was of the party one famous night in the summer of 1849 (29th of June), when with Talfourd, Edwin Landseer, and Stan- field we went to the Battle of Waterloo at Vauxhall, and were astounded to see pass in immediately before us, in a bright white overcoat, the great Duke himself. Lady Douro on his arm, the httle Ladies Ramsay by his side, and everybody cheering and clearing the way before him. That the old hero enjoyed it all, there could be no doubt, and he made no secret of his delight in * Young Hernandez ; ' but the * Battle ' was undeniably tedious, and it was impossible not to sympathize with the repeatedly and very audibly expressed wish of Talfourd, that ' the Prussians ' would come up ! ' The preceding month was that of the start of David Copperjield, and to one more dinner (on the T2th) I may especially refer for those who were present at it. Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle came, Thackeray and Rogers, Mrs. Gaskell and Kenyon, Jerrold and Hablot Browne, with Mr. and Mrs. Tagart ; and it was a delight to see the enjoyment of Dickens at Carlyle's laughing reply to questions about his health, that he was, in the language of Mr. Peggotty's housekeeper, a lorn lone creature and everything went contrairy with him. Things were not likely to go better, I thought, as I saw the great writer, — kindest as well as wisest of men, but not very patient under sentimental philosophies, — seated next the good Mr. Tagart, who soon was heard launching at him various metaphysical questions in regard to heaven and such like ; and the relief was great when Thackeray introduced, with quaint whimsicality, a story which he and I had heard Macready relate in talking to us about his boyish days, of a country actor who had supported himself for six months on his judicious treatment of the *tag' to the Castle Spectre. In the original it stands that you are to do away with suspicion, banish vile mistrust, and, almost in the words we had just heard from the § VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace, lOI minister to the philosopher, * Believe there is a heaven nor Doubt • * that heaven is just ! ' in place of which Macready's friend, J^^j~7~ observing that the drop fell for the most part quite coldly, substi- ^^^^"^ °^ tuted one night the more telling appeal, *And give us your * Applause, for that is always just ! ' which brought down the house with rapture. This chapter would far outrun its limits if I spoke of other as pleasant gatherings under Dickens's roof during the years which I am now more particularly describing ; when, besides the dinners, the musical enjoyments and dancings, as his children became able to take part in them, were incessant. * Remember that for my 'Biography!' he said to me gravely on twelfth-day in 1849, after telling me what he had done the night before ; and as gravely I now redeem my laughing promise that I would. Little Mary and her sister Kate had taken much pains to teach their father the polka, that he might dance it with them at their brother's birthday festivity (held this year on the 7th, as the 6th was a Sunday) ; and in the middle of the previous night as he lay in bed, the fear had fallen on him suddenly that the step was for- gotten, and then and there, in that wintry dark cold night, he got out of bed to practise it. Anything more characteristic could hardly be told, unless I were able to show him dancing it after- wards, and excelling the youngest performer in untiring vigour and vivacity. There was no one who approached him on these Marryat's occasions excepting only our attached friend Captain Marryat, wttif who had a frantic delight in dancing, especially with children, of whom and whose enjoyments he was as fond as it became so thoroughly good hearted a man to be. His name would have stood first among those I have been recalling, as he was among the first in Dickens's liking; but in the autumn of 1848 he had unexpectedly passed away. Other names however still reproach me for omission as my memory goes back. With Marryat's on a former page of this book stands that of Monckton Milnes, Moncktou familiar with Dickens over all the period since, and still more prominent in Tavistock-house days when with Lady Houghton he brought fresh claims to my friend's admiration and regard. Of Bulwer Lytton's frequent presence in all his houses, and of The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. Dickens^s admiration for him as one of the supreme masters in his art, so unswerving and so often pubHcly declared, it would be needless again to speak. Nor shall I dwell upon his interchange of hospitalities with distinguished men in the two great professions so closely allied to literature and its followers ; Denmans, Pollocks, Campbells, and Chittys ; Watsons, Southwood Smiths, Lococks, and Elliotsons. To Alfred Tennyson, through all the friendly and familiar days I am describing, he gave full allegiance and honoured welcome. Tom Taylor was often with him ; and there was a charm for him I should find it difficult to exaggerate in Lord Dudley Stuart's gentle yet noble character, his refined intelligence and generous public life, expressed so perfectly in his chivalrous face. Incomplete indeed would be the list if I did not add to it the frank and hearty Lord Nugent, who had so much of his grandfather, Goldsmith's friend, in his lettered tastes and jovial enjoyments. Nor should I forget occasional days with dear old Charles Kemble and one or other of his daughters ; with Alexander Dyce ; and with Harness and his sister, or his niece and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Archdale ; made especially pleasant by talk about great days of the stage. It was some- thing to hear Kemble on his sister's Mrs. Beverley; or to see Harness and Dyce exultant in recollecting her Volumnia. The enchantment of the Mrs. Beverley, her brother would delightfully illustrate by imitation of her manner of restraining Beverley'? intemperance to their only friend, ' You are too busy, sir ! * when she quietly came down the stage from a table at which she had seemed to be occupying herself, laid her hand softly on her husband's arm, and in a gentle half-whisper * No, not too busy ; ' mistaken perhaps; but — ' not only stayed his temper but reminded him of obligations forgotten in the heat of it. Up to where the tragic terror began, our friend told us, there was nothing but this composed domestic sweetness, expressed even in the simplicity and neat arrangement of her dress, her cap with the strait band, and her hair gathered up underneath ; but all changing when the passion did begin ; one single disordered lock escaping at the first outbreak, and, in the final madness, all of it streaming dishevelled down her beautiful face. Kemble made no secret §VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace. 103 of his belief that his sister had the highest genius of the two ; London : but he spoke with rapture of ' John's * Macbeth and parts of his Othello ; comparing his * Farewell the tranquil mind ' to the Kembie. running down of a clock, an image which he did not know that Hazlitt had applied to the delivery of ' To-morrow and to-morrow/ in the other tragedy. In all this Harness seemed to agree; and I thought a distinction was not ill put by him, on the night of which I speak, in his remark that the nature in Kemble's acting 9oo4 r J o tinction. only supplemented his magnificent art, whereas, though the artist was not less supreme in his sister, it was on nature she most relied, bringing up the other power only to the aid of it. ' It was ' in another sense like your writing,' said Harness to Dickens, * the commonest natural feelings made great, even when not * rendered more refined, by art.' Her Constance would have been fishwify, he declared, if its wonderful truth had not over- borne every other feeling; and her Volumnia escaped being vulgar only by being so excessively grand. But it was just what was so called ' vulgarity ' that made its passionate appeal to the vulgar in a better meaning of the word. When she first entered. Harness said, swaying and surging from side to side with every movement of the Roman crowd itself, as it went out and returned in confusion, she so absorbed her son into herself as she looked at him, so swelled and amplified in her pride and glory for him, that ' the people in the pit blubbered all round,' and he could no more help it than the rest There are yet some other names that should have place in these rambling recollections, though I by no means afiect to remember all. One Sunday evening Mazzini made memorable MazzinL by taking us to see the school he had estabHshed in Clerkenwell for the Italian organ-boys. This was after dining with Dickens, who had been brought into personal intercourse with the great Italian by having given money to a begging impostor who made unauthorized use of his name. Edinburgh friends made him Edinburgh " friends. regular visits in the spring time : not Jeffrey and his family alone, but sheriff' Gordon and his, with whom he was not less intimate, Lord Murray and his wife. Sir William Allan and his niece. Lord Robertson with his wonderful Scotch mimicries, and Peter Fraser I04 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book VI. London : with his enchanting Scotch songs ; our excellent friend Listen ^ the surgeon, until his fatal illness came in December 1848, being seldom absent from those assembled to bid such visitors welcome. Allan's name may remind me of other artists often at his house, Eastlakes, Leslies, Friths, and Wards, besides those who have had frequent mention, and among whom I should have included Charles as well as Edwin Landseer, and William Boxall. Nor should I drop from this section of his friends, than whom none were more attractive to him, such celebrated names in the sister arts as those of Miss Helen Faucit, an actress worthily associated acquaint- ' ance. ^hc brightest days of our friend Macready's managements, Mr. Sims Reeves, Mr. John Parry, Mr. Phelps, Mr. Webster, Mr. Harley, Mr. and Mrs. Keeley, Mr. Whitworth, and Miss Dolby. Mr. George Henry Lewes he had an old and great regard for ; among other men of letters should not be forgotten the cordial Thomas Ingoldsby, and many-sided true-hearted Charles Knight ; Mr. R. H. Home and his wife were frequent visitors at visltors both in London and at seaside holidays : and I have his house. met at his table Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall. There were the Duff Gordons too, the Lyells, and, very old friends of us both, the Emerson Tennents ; there was the good George Raymond ; Mr. Frank Beard and his wife ; the Porter Smiths, valued for Macready's sake as well as their own ; Mr. and Mrs. Charles Black, near connections by marriage of George Cattermole, with whom there was intimate intercourse both before and during the residence in Italy ; Mr. T. J. Thompson, brother of Mrs. Smithson formerly named, and his wife, whose sister Frederick Dickens married ; Mr. Mitton, his own early companion ; and Mrs. Torrens, who had played with the amateurs in Canada. These are all in my memory so connected with Devonshire-terrace, as friends or familiar acquaintance, that they claim this word before leaving it; and visitors from America, I may remark, had always a grateful reception. Of the Bancrofts mention has been made, and with them should be coupled the Abbot Lawrences, Prescott, Friends Hillard, George Curtis, and Felton's brother. Felton himself from America. did not visit England until the Tavistock-house time. In 1847 there was a delightful day with the Coldens and the Wilkses, § VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace, relatives by marriage of Jeffrey ; in the following year, I think at '^^^^^^^ ' my rooms because of some accident that closed Devonshire- terrace that day (25th of April), Dickens, Carlyle, and myself foregathered with the admirable Emerson ; and M. Van de Weyer will remember a dinner where he took joyous part with Dickens in running down a phrase which the learned in books, Mr. Cogswell, on a mission here for the Astor library, had startled us by denouncing as an uncouth Scotch barbarism — open up. Open up * You found it constantly in Hume, he said, but hardly anywhere else j and he defied us to find it more than once through the whole of the volumes of Gibbon. Upon this, after brief wonder and doubt, we all thought it best to take part in a general assault upon open up, by invention of phrases on the same plan that should show it in exaggerated burlesque, and support Mr. Cogs- well's indictment. Then came a struggle who should carry the absurdity farthest ; and the victory remained with M. Van de Van do Weyer until Dickens surpassed even him, and ' opened up ' depths of almost frenzied absurdity that would have delighted the heart of Leigh Hunt. It will introduce the last and not least honoured name into my list of his acquaintance and friends, if I mention his amusing little interruption one day to Professor Owen's description of a telescope of huge dimensions built by an enter- prising clergyman who had taken to the study of the stars ; and who was eager, said Owen, to see farther into heaven — he was Ambition " , ^ to see into going to say, than Lord Rosse ; if Dickens had not drily inter- heaven, posed, * than his professional studies had enabled him to pene- * trate.' Some incidents that belong specially to the three years that closed his residence in the home thus associated with not the least interesting part of his career, will farther show what now were his occupations and ways of life. In the summer of 1849 he came up from Broadstairs to attend a Mansion-house dinner, which the lord mayor of that day had been moved by a laudable ambition to give to * literature and art,' which he supposed would Literature be adequately represented by the Royal Academy, the con- the city " tributors to Punchy Dickens, and one or two newspaper men. On the whole the result was not cheering ; the worthy chief The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. magistrate, no doubt quite undesignedly, expressing too much - surprise at the unaccustomed faces around him to be altogether complimentary. In general (this was the tone) we axe in the habit of having princes, dukes, ministers, and what not for our guests, but what a delight, all the greater for being unusual, to see gentlemen like you ! In other words, what could possibly be pleasanter than for people satiated with greatness to get for a while by way of change into the butler's pantry ? This in sub- stance was Dickens's account to me next day, and his reason for having been very careful in his acknowledgment of the toast of *■ the Novelists.' He was nettled not a little therefore by a jesting allusion to himself in the Daily News in connection with the proceedings, and asked me to forward a remonstrance. Having a strong dislike to all such displays of sensitiveness, I suppressed the letter; but it is perhaps worth printing now. Its date is Broadstairs, Wednesday nth of July 1849. *I have no other * interest in, or concern with, a most facetious article on last ' Saturday's dinner at the Mansion-house, which appeared in your ' paper of yesterday, and found its way here to-day, than that it ' misrepresents me in what I said on the occasion. If you should * not think it at all damaging to the wit of that satire to state * what I did say, I shall be much obliged to you. It was this. . . ' That I considered the compliment of a recognition of Literature * by the citizens of London the more acceptable to us because it * was unusual in that hall, and likely to be an advantage and ^ benefit to them in proportion as it became in future less unusual. * That, on behalf of the novelists, I accepted the tribute as an * appropriate one ; inasmuch as we had sometimes reason to hope * that our imaginary worlds afforded an occasional refuge to men * busily engaged in the toils of life, from which they came forth * none the worse to a renewal of its strivings ; and certainly that * the chief magistrate of the greatest city in the world might be * fitly regarded as the representative of that class of our readers.' Of an incident towards the close of the year, though it had important practical results, brief mention will here sufl^ice. We saw the Mannings executed on the walls of Horsemonger-lane gaol ; and with the letter which Dickens wrote next day to the § VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace. 107 Times descriptive of what we had witnessed on that memorable London : 1848-51. mommg, there began an active agitation against public executions — which never ceased until the salutary change was effected which Letter ° against has worked so well. Shortly after this he visited Rockingham- PJ^e^'^^^Qj^ castle, the seat of Mr. and Mrs. Watson, his Lausanne friends ; and I must preface by a word or two the amusing letter in which he told me of this visit. It was written in character, and the character was that of an American visitor to England. * I knew him, Horatio ; ' and a very kindly honest man he was. An Amen- who had come to England authorised to make enquiry into our server in ^ . England. general agricultiural condition, and who discharged his mission by publishing some reports extremely creditable to his good sense and ability, expressed in a plain nervous English that reminded one of the rural writings of Cobbett. But in an evil hour he published also a series of private letters to friends written from the various residences his introductions had opened to him ; and these were filled with revelations as to the internal economy of English noblemen's country houses, of a highly startling descrip- tion. As for example, how, on arrival at a house your * name is ' announced, and your portmanteau immediately taken into your * chamber, which the servant shows you, with every convenience.' How * you are asked by the servant at breakfast what you will * have, or you get up and help yourself.' How at dinner you don't dash at the dishes, or contend for the * fixings,' but wait till * his portion is handed by servants to every one.' How all the wines, fruit, glasses, candlesticks, lamps, and plate are * taken ' care of by butlers, who have under-butlers for their * adjuncts ; ' Marvds how ladies never wear ' white satin shoes or white gloves more mamlefj."^ * than once ; ' how dinner-napkins are * never left upon the table, * but either thrown into your chair or on the floor under the * table j ' how no end of pains are taken to ' empty slops ; ' and above all what a national propensity there is to brush a man's clothes and polish his boots, whensoever and wheresoever the clothes and boots can be seized without the man.* This was what Dickens good-humouredly laughs at * Here is really an only average * I forgot to say, if you leave your specimen of the letters as published : * chamber twenty times a day, after The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. * Rockingham Castle: Friday, thirtieth of November, 1849. ' Picture to yourself, my dear F, a large old castle, approached ' by an ancient keep, portcullis, &c, &c, filled with company, ' waited on by six-and-twenty servants ; the slops (and wine- * glasses) continually being emptied ; and my clothes (with myself ' in them) always being carried off to all sorts of places ; and you ' will have a faint idea of the mansion in which I am at present ' staying. I should have written to you yesterday, but for ' having had a very busy day. Among the guests is a Miss B, * sister of the Honourable Miss B (of Salem, Mass.), whom we * once met at the house of our distinguished literary countryman * Colonel Landor. This lady is renowned as an amateur actress, ' so last night we got up in the great hall some scenes from the * School for Scandal ; the scene with the lunatic on the wall, from * the Nicholas Nickleby of Major-Gen eral the Hon. C. Dickens * (Richmond, Va.) ; some conjuring ; and then finished off with * country dances ; of which we had two admirably good ones, ' quite new to me, though really old. Getting the words, and * making the preparations, occupied (as you may believe) the * whole day ; and it was three o'clock before I got to bed. It * was an excellent entertainment, and we were all uncommonly * merry. . . I had a very polite letter from our enterprising * countryman Major Bentley * (of Lexington, Ky.), which I shall * show you when I come home. We leave here this afternoon, * and I shall expect you according to appointment, at a quarter * past ten a.m. to-morrow. Of all the country-houses and estates ' I have yet seen in England, I think this is by far the best. * Everything undertaken eventuates in a most magnificent hospi- ' tality j and you will be pleased to hear that our celebrated ' using your basin, you would find it ' clean, and the pitcher replenished on ' your return, and that you cannot take ' your clothes off, but they are taken ' away, brushed, folded, pressed, and * placed in the bureau ; and at the * dressing-hour, before dinner, you find * your candles lighted, your clothes ' laid out, your shoes cleaned, and * everything arranged for use ; . . . * the dress-clothes brushed and folded ' in the nicest manner, and cold water, * and hot water, and clean napkins in * the greatest abundance. . . Imagine * an elegant chamber, fresh water in * basins, in goblets, in tubs, and sheets * of the finest linen ! * * From this time to his death there was always friendly intercourse with his old publisher Mr. Bentley. § VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace, 109 * fellow citizen General Boxall (Pittsburg, Penn.) is engaged in = * handing down to posterity the face of the owner of the mansion ^^^^^^ * and of his youthful son and daughter. At a future time it will i^oxaii * be my duty to report on the turnips, mangel-wurzel, ploughs, * and live stock ; and for the present I will only say that I * regard it as a fortunate circumstance for the neighbouring com- * munity that this patrimony should have fallen to my spirited * and enlightened host. Every one has profited by it, and the * labouring people in especial are thoroughly well cared-for and * looked after. To see all the household, headed by an enor- a family scene. * mously fat housekeeper, occupying the back benches last night, * laughing and applauding without any restraint ; and to see a * blushing sleek-headed footman produce, for the watch-trick, a * silver watch of the most portentous dimensions, amidst the * rapturous delight of his brethren and sisterhood ; was a very * pleasant spectacle, even to a conscientious republican like your- * self or me, who cannot but contemplate the parent country with feelings of pride in our own land, which (as was well observed ' by the Honorable Elias Deeze, of Hartford, Conn.) is truly the * * land of the free. Best remembrances from Columbia's daughters. ' Ever thine, my dear F, — H.C Dickens, during the too brief time his excellent friend was spared to him, often repeated his visits to Rockingham, always a surpassing enjoyment ; and in the winter of 1850 he accomplished there, with help of the country carpenter, * a very elegant little theatre,' of which he con- pther^ stituted himself manager, and had among his actors a brother of ^'J^'''"^' the lady referred to in his letter, ' a very good comic actor, but * loose in words ; ' poor Augustus Stafford ' more than passable ; ' and * a son of Vernon Smith's, really a capital low comedian.' It will be one more added to the many examples I have given of his untiring energy both in work and play, if I mention the fact that this theatre was opened at Rockingham for their first repre- sentation on Wednesday the 15th of January; that after the performance there was a country dance which lasted far into the morning ; and that on the next evening, after a railway journey of more than 120 miles, he dined in London with the prime minister, Lord John RusselL no The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book vi. London: A little earlier in that winter we had together taken his eldest 1848-51. ° son to Eton, and a little later he had a ereat sorrow. * Poor dear Death of ' ^ Jeffrey^ * Jeffrey ! ' he wrote to me on the 29th January, 1850. * I bought * a Times at the station yesterday morning, and was so stunned * by the announcement, that I felt it in that wounded part of me, * almost directly; and the bad symptoms (modified) returned * within a few hours. I had a letter from him in extraordinary ' good spirits within this week or two — he was better, he said, ' than he had been for a long time — and I sent him proof-sheets * of the number only last Wednesday. I say nothing of his won- * derful abilities and great career, but he was a most affectionate ' and devoted friend to me ; and though no man could wish to * live and die more happily, so old in years and yet so young ' in faculties and sympathies, I am very very deeply grieved for * his loss.' He was justly entitled to feel pride in being able so to word his tribute of sorrowing affection. Jeffrey had completed with consummate success, if ever man did, the work appointed him in this world ; and few, after a Hfe of such activities, have ' left a memory so unstained and pure. But other and sharper sorrows awaited Dickens. Progress of The chicf occupation of the past and present year, David his work. Copperfield^ will have a section to itself, and in this may be touched but lightly. Once fairly in it, the story bore him irre- sistibly along ; certainly with less trouble to himself in the com- position, beyond that ardent sympathy with the creatures of the fancy which always made so absolutely real to him their sufferings or sorrows ; and he was probably never less harassed by interrup- tions or breaks in his invention. His principal hesitation The child- occurrcd in connection with the child-wife Dora, who had be- come a great favourite as he went on ; and it was shortly after her fate had been decided, in the early autumn of 1850,* but * It may be proper to record the sor, Rue de Rivoli. ' There being no fact that he had made a short run to * room in the Hotel Brighton, we are Paris, with Maclise, at the end of * lodged (in a very good apartment) June, of which sufficient farther note * here. The heat is absolutely fright- will have been taken if I print the * ful. I never felt anything like it in subjoined passages from a letter to me * Italy. Sleep is next to impossible, dated 24th June, 1850, Hotel Wind- * except in the day, when the room is § vi.j Last Years in Devonshire Terrace, 1 1 1 before she breathed her last, that a third daughter was bom to London him, to whom he gave his dying little heroine's name. On these '- and other points, without forestalling what waits to be said of the composition of this fine story, a few illustrative words from his letters will properly find a place here. * Copperfield half done,* he wrote of the second number on the 6th of June. * I feel, thank * God, quite confident in the story. I have a move in it ready * for this month ; another for next; and another for the next' * I think it is necessary ' (15th of November) ' to decide against * the special pleader. Your reasons quite suffice. I am not sure * but that the banking house might do. I will consider it in a * walk.' * Banking business impracticable' (17th of November) Banker or * on account of the confinement : which would stop the story, I * foresee. I have taken, for the present at all events, the proctor. * I am wonderfully in harness, and nothing galls or frets.' * Copperfield done ' (20th of November) * after two days' very * hard word indeed ; and I think a smashing number. His first * dissipation I hope will be found worthy of attention, as a piece * of grotesque truth.' * I feel a great hope ' (23rd of January, 1850) 'that T shall be remembered by little Em'ly, a good many Little ' years to come.' * I begin to have my doubts of being able to ^"^ * dark, and the patient exhausted. We ' purpose leaving here on Saturday * morning and going to Rouen, whence * we shall proceed either to Havre or * Dieppe, and so arrange our proceed- * ings as to be home, please God, on ' Tuesday evening. We are going to * some of the little theatres to-night, * and on Wednesday to the Fran^ais, * for Rachel's last performance before ' she goes to London. There does * not seem to be anything remarkable ' in progress, in the theatrical way. * Nor do I observe that out of doors ' the place is much changed, except * in respect of the carriages which are * certainly less numerous. I also think the Sunday is even much more a day * of business than it used to be. As * we are going into the country with * Regnier to-morrow, 1 write this after ' letter time and before going out to * dine at the Trois Freres, that it may * come to you by to-morrow's post. * The twelve hours' journey here is ' astounding — marvellously done, ex- * cept in respect of the means of * refreshment, which are absolutely A nm to ' none. Mac (extremely loose as to * his waistcoat, and otherwise careless ' in regard of buttons) is very well and ' sends his love. De Fresne proposes * a dinner with all the notabilities of * Paris present, but I won't stand it ! * I really have undergone so much fa- * tigue from work, that I am resolved ' not even to see him, but to please * myself. I find, my child (as Horace ' Walpole would say), that I have * written you nothing here, but you ' >vill take the will for the deed.' 112 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. London 1848-51, Doubts as to Dora settled. Third daughter bom. At Great Malvern. * join you* (20th of Februaiy), 'for Copperfield rxms high, and * must be done to-morrow. But Fll do it if possible, and strain ' every nerve. Some beautiful comic love, I hope, in the number. * Still undecided about Dora' (7th of May), 'but must decide ' to-day.'* * I have been' (Tuesday, 20th of August) *very hard * at work these three days, and have still Dora to kill. But with * good luck, I may do it to-morrow. Obliged to go to Shep- * herd's-bush to-day, and can consequently do little this morning. * Am eschewing all sorts of things that present themselves to my * fancy — coming in such crowds ! ' * Work in a very decent state * of advancement * (13th of August) ' domesticity notwithstanding. ' I hope I shall have a splendid number. I feel the story to its * minutest point.' 'Mrs. Micawber is still' (15th of August), 'I ' regret to say, in statu quo. Ever yours, Wilkins Micawber.' The little girl was born the next day, the i6th, and received the name of Dora Annie. The most part of what remained of the year was passed away from home. The year following did not open with favourable omen, both the child and its mother having severe illness. The former rallied however, and 'Htde Dora is getting on bravely, thank * God ! * was his bulletin of the early part of February. Soon after, it was resolved to make trial of Great Malvern for Mrs. Dickens ; and lodgings were taken there in March, Dickens and her sister accompanying her, and the children being left in London. * It is a most beautiful place,' he wrote to me (15th of March). ' O Heaven, to meet the Cold Waterers (as I did this * The rest of the letter may be allowed to nil the comer of a note. The allusions to Rogers and Landor are by way of reply to an invitation I had sent him. * I am extremely sorry * to hear about Fox. Shall call to * enquire, as I come by to the Temple. * And will call on you (taking the ' chance of finding you) on my way to * that seat of Boredom. I wrote my ' paper for H. W. yesterday, and ' have begun Copperficld this morning. * Still undecided about Dora, but * MUST decide to-day. La difficulte d'ecrire I'Anglaise m'est extreme- ment ennuyeuse. Ah, mon Dieu ! si I'on pourrait toujours ecrire cette belle langue de France 1 Monsieur Rogere ! Ah ! qu'il est homme d'esprit, homme de genie, homme des lettres ! Monsieur Landore ! Ah qu'il parle Frangais — pas par- faitement comme un ange— un pen (peut-etre) comme un diable ! Mais il est bon garfon — serieusement, il est un de la vraie noblesse de la na- ture. Votre tout devoue, Charles, A Monsieur Monsieur Fos-tere.' § VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace, * morning when I went out for a shower-bath) dashing down the London * hills, with severe expressions on their countenances, like men ■ * doing matches and not exactly winning ! Then, a young lady Coid * in a grey polka going up the hills, regardless of legs j and * meeting a young gentleman (a bad case, I should say) with a * light black silk cap on under his hat, and the pimples of I don't * know how many douches under that. Likewise an old man * who ran over a milk-child, rather than stop ! — with no neckcloth, * on principle ; and with his mouth wide open, to catch the * morning air.* He had to return to London after the middle of March, for business connected with a charitable Home estab- lished at Shepherd's-bush by Miss Coutts in the benevolent hope ^^^^ at of rescuing fallen women by testing their fitness for emigration, bJsh!^^'^'^ ^' frequently mentioned in his letters, and which largely and regu- larly occupied his time for several years. On this occasion his stay was prolonged by the illness of his father, whose health had been failing latterly, and graver symptoms were now spoken of. * I saw my poor father twice yesterday,' he wrote to me on the 27th, ^ the second time between ten and eleven at night. In * the morning I thought him not so well. At night, as well as * any one in such a situation could be.' Next day he was so Father's much better that his son went back to Malvern : but the end came suddenly. We were expecting him at Knebworth, and I supposed that some accident had detained him in Malvern ; but at my return this letter waited me. ' Devonshire-terrace, Monday, * thirty-first of March 185 1. . . . My poor father died this morning * at five and twenty minutes to six. They had sent for me to * Malvern, but I passed John on the railway. . . . Arrived at * eleven last night, and was in Keppel-street at a quarter past * eleven. He did not know me, nor any one. He began to * sink at about noon yesterday, and never rallied afterwards. I * remained there until he died — O so quietly. ... I hardly know . ^ ^ Death of * what to do. I am going up to Highgate to get the ground. jj>jiji * Perhaps you may like to go, and I should like it if you do. I * will not leave here before two o'clock, but I must go down to * Malvern again, at night. . . Mr. John Dickens was laid in Highgate Cemetery on the 5th of April ; and the stone placed VOL. II. 1 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book vi. over him by the son who has made his name a famous one in England, bore tribute to his * zealous, useful, cheerful spirit.' What more is to be said of him will be most becomingly said in speaking of David Copperjield. While the book was in course of being written, all that had been best in him came more and more vividly back to its author's memory; as time wore on, nothing else was remembered ; and five years before his own death, after using in one of his letters to me a phrase rather out of the common with him, this was added : * I find this looks * like my poor father, whom I regard as a better man the longer * I live/ He was at this time under promise to take the chair at the General Theatrical Fund on the 14th of April. Great efforts were made to relieve him from the promise ; but such special importance was attached to his being present, and the Fund so sorely then required help, that, no change of day being found possible for the actors who desired to attend, he )delded to the pressure put upon him ; of which the result was to throw upon me a sad responsibility. The reader will under- stand why, even at this distance of time, my allusion to it is brief. The train from Malvern brought him up only five minutes short of the hour appointed for the dinner, and we first met that day at the London Tavern. I never heard him to greater advantage than in the speech that followed. His liking for this Fund was the fact of its not confining its benefits to any special or exclusive body of actors, but opening them undoubtingly to all ; and he gave a description of the kind of actor, going down to the infinitesi- mally small, not omitted from such kind help, which had a half- pathetic humour in it that makes it charming still. *In our ' Fund,' he said, ' the word exclusiveness is not known. We ' include every actor, whether he be Hamlet or Benedict : the * ghost, the bandit, or the court physician ; or, in his one person, * the whole king's army. He may do the light business, or the * heavy, or the comic, or the eccentric. He may be the captain ' who courts the young lady, whose uncle still unaccountably * persists in dressing himself in a costume one hundred years $ VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace. 1 1 5 * older than his time. Or he may be the young lady's brother London ; * in the white gloves and inexpressibles, whose duty in the family ^- * appears to be to listen to the female members of it whenever * they sing, and to shake hands with everybody between all the * verses. Or he may be the baron who gives the fete, and who * sits uneasily on the sofa under a canopy with the baroness while * the fete is going on. Or he may be the peasant at the fete who * comes on to the stage to swell the drinking chonis, and who, * it may be observed, always turns his glass upside down before * he begins to drink out of it. Or he may be the clown who Jg^Jh^^'*^'^* * takes away the doorstep of the house where the evening party is * going on. Or he may be the gentleman who issues out of the * house on the false alarm, and is precipitated into the area. Or, * if an actress, she may be the fairy who resides for ever in a * revolving star with an occasional visit to a bower or a palace. ' Or again, if an actor, he may be the armed head of the witch's ' cauldron ; or even that extraordinary witch, concerning whom I * have observed in country places, that he is much less like the * notion formed from the description of Hopkins than the Mal- * colm or Donalbain of the previous scenes. This society, in * short, says, " Be you what you may, be you actor or actress, * " be your path in your profession never so high or never so * " low, never so haughty or never so humble, we offer you the * " means of doing good to yourselves, and of doing good to your ' " brethren." ' Half an hour before he rose to speak I had been called out of the room. It was the servant from Devonshire-terrace to tell me his child Dora was suddenly dead. She had not been strong gfath of from her birth ; but there was just at this time no cause for ^"^f^^^^ special fear, when unexpected convulsions came, and the frail little life passed away. My decision had to be formed at once ; and I satisfied myself that it would be best to permit his part of the proceedings to close before the truth was told to him. But as he went on, after the sentences I have quoted, to speak of actors having to come from scenes of sickness, of suffering, aye. Difficult even of death itself, to play their parts before us, my part was very difficult ' Yet how often is it with all of us,' he pro- I 2 1 1 6 T^he Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. London: cceded to say, and I remember to this hour with what anguish 1848-51. — ~ 1 listened to words that had for myself alone, in all the Dora's grave. crowded room, their full significance : ' how often is it with * all of us, that in our several spheres we have to do violence * to our feelings, and to hide our hearts in carrying on this * fight of life, if we would bravely discharge in it our duties ' and responsibilities.' In the disclosure that followed when he left the chair, Mr. Lemon, who was present, assisted me ; and I left this good friend with him next day, when I went myself to Malvern and brought back Mrs. Dickens and her sister. The little child lies in a grave at Highgate near that of Mr. and Mrs. John Dickens ; and on the stone which covers her is now written also her father's name, and those of two of her brothers. One more public discussion he took part in, before quitting London for the rest of the summer ; and what he said (it was a meeting, with Lord Carlisle in the chair, in aid of Sanitary reform) very pregnantly illustrates what was remarked by me on a former page. He declared his belief that neither education nor religion could do anything really useful in social improvement until the way had been paved for their ministrations by cleanHness and decency. He spoke warmly of the services of Lord Ashley in connection with ragged schools, but he put the case of a miserable child tempted into one of those schools out of the noisome places in which his life was passed, and he asked what a few hours' teaching could effect against the ever-renewed lesson of a whole existence. * But give him, and his, a glimpse of heaven through ' a little of its light and air ; give them water ; help them to be Advocating ' clean j lighten the heavy atmosphere in which their spirits flag, reform. < and which makes them the callous things they are ; take the * body of the dead relative from the room where the living * live with it, and where such loathsome familiarity deprives * death itself of awe ; and then, but not before, they will * be brought willingly to hear of Him whose thoughts were ' so much with the wretched, and who had compassion for * all human sorrow.' He closed by proposing Lord Ashley's health as having preferred the higher ambition of labouring § VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace, 1 1 7 for the poor to that of pursuing the career open to him in broad- STAIRS • the service of the State ; and as having also had * the courage ^^si- * on all occasions to face the cant which is the worst and Lord Shaftes- * commonest of all, the cant about the cant of philanthropy.' ^"ry. Lord Shaftesbury first dined with him in the following year at Tavistock-house. Shortly after the Sanitary meeting, came the first Guild per- formances : and then Dickens left Devonshire-terjrace, never to . . . ^ . return to it With intervals of absence, chiefly at the Guild representations, he stayed in his favourite Fort-hpuse by the sea until October, when he took possession of Tavistbck-house ; and from his letters may be added a few notices of this >d,st holiday at Broadstairs, which he had always afterwards a kindly word for ; and to which he said pleasant adieu in the sketch of Our Watering-place, written shortly before he left. ' It is more * delightful here' (ist of June) 'than I can express. Corn * growing, larks singing, garden full of flowers, fresh air on the * sea. — O it is wonderful ! Why can't you come down next ' Saturday (bringing work) and go back with me on Wednesday * for the Copperfield banquet ? Concerning which, of course, I a Copper. * say yes to Talfourd's kind proposal. Lemon by all means, "quet! * And — don't you think — Browne ? Whosoever, besides, pleases * Talfourd will please me.' Great was the success of this banquet. The scene was the Star-and- Garter at Richmond ; Thackeray and Alfred Tennyson joined in the celebration ; and the generous giver was in his best vein. I have rarely seen Dickens happier than he was amid the sunshine of that day. Jerrold and Thackeray returned to town with us ; and a little argument between them about money and its uses, led to an avowal of Dickens about himself to which I may add the confirmation of all our years of intercourse. * No man,' he said, ' attaches less * importance to the possession of money, or less disparagement to * the want of it, than I do.' I joined him for the August regatta and stayed a pleasant fort- night. His paper on * Our Watering-place ' appeared while I was there, and great was the local excitement. But now his own rest- ° of a new lessness with fancies for a new book had risen beyond bounds, ii8 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book vi. Broad- stairs : 1851. The old restless- ness. Bleak House in his mind. and for the time he was eager to open it in that prettiest quaintest bit of English landscape, Strood valley, which reminded him always of a Swiss scene. I had not left him many days when these lines followed me. * I very nearly packed up a portmanteau * and went away, the day before yesterday, into the mountains of * Switzerland, alone ! Still the victim of an intolerable restless- * ness, I shouldn't be at all surprised if I wrote to you one of ' these mornings from under Mont Blanc. I sit down between * whiles to think of a new story, and, as it begins to grow, such a * torment of a desire to be anywhere but where I am ; and to be ' going I don't know where, I don't know why ; takes hold of me, * that it is like being driven away. If I had had a passport, I * sincerely t)elieve I should have gone to Switzerland the night * before last. I should have remembered our engagement — say, * at Paris, and have come back for it ; but should probably * have left by the next express train.' It was not until the end of November, when he had settled himself in his new London abode, that the book was begun (and as generally happened with the more important incidents of his life, though always accidentally, begun on a Friday) ; but precedence is due, before anything more is said of Bleak House, to what remains to be said of Copperfield. It was the last book written in Devonshire Terrace ; and on the page opposite is engraved a drawing by Maclise of this house where so many of Dickens's masterpieces were composed, done on the first anniversary of the day when his daughter Kate was born. § VI.] Last Years in Devonshire Terrace. IT9 I20 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. VII. DAVID COPPERFIELD. 1850. London : DiCKENS nevcr stood SO high in reputation as at the completion — — of Copperfield. From the first it had surpassed in popularity, though not in sale, all his previous books excepting Pickwick. * You * gratify me more than I can tell you/ he wrote to Lytton, * by * what you say about Copperfield^ because I hope myself that some * heretofore deficient qualities are there.' If the power was not greater than in Chuzzlewit^ the subject had more attractiveness ; ^CoppTr- °^ there was more variety of incident, with a freer play of character ; and there was withal a suspicion, which though general and vague had sharpened interest not a little, that underneath the fiction lay something of the author's life. How much, was not known by the world until he had passed away. When engaged upon its close he had written thus (21st October 1850) : ^ I am within three * pages of the shore ; and am strangely divided, as usual in such * cases, between sorrow and joy. Oh, my dear Forster, if I * were to say half of what Copperfield makes me feel to-night, * how strangely, even to you, I should be turned inside out ! ' I seem to be sending some part of myself into the Shadowy ' World.' To be acquainted with English literature is to know, that into its most famous prose fiction autobiography has entered largely in disguise, and that the characters most familiar to us in the English novel had originals in actual life. Smollett never wrote a Real people story that was not in some degree a recollection of his own in novels. adventures ; and Fielding, who put something of his wife into all his heroines, had been as fortunate in finding, not TrulHber only, but Parson Adams himself, among his living experiences. To come later down, there was hardly any one ever known to Scott of whom his memory had not treasured up something to give minuter reality to the people of his fancy ; and we know exactly whom to look for in Dandie Dinmont and Jonathan Oldbuck, in § VII.1 David Copperfield. I2t the office of Alan Fairford and the sick room of Crystal Croft- London: ^ 1850. angry. We are to observe also that it is never anything complete ■ that is thus taken from life by a genuine writer, but only leading Scott, traits, or such as may give greater finish ; that the fine artist will and Field- embody in his portraiture of one person his experiences of fifty ; and that this would have been Fielding's answer to TruUiber if he had objected to the pigstye, and to Adams if he had sought to make a case of scandal out of the affair in Mrs. Slipslop's bed- room. Such questioning befell Dickens repeatedly in the course of his writings, where he freely followed, as we have seen, the method thus common to the masters in his art ; but there was an instance of alleged wrong in the course of Copperfield where he felt his vindication to be hardly complete, and what he did there- upon was characteristic. * I have had the queerest adventure this morning,* he wrote (28th of December 1849) on the eve of his tenth number, * the * receipt of the enclosed from Miss Moucher ! It is serio-comic, * but there is no doubt one is wrong in being tempted to such a * use of power.' Thinking a grotesque little oddity among his acquaintance to be safe from recognition, he had done what Smollett did sometimes, but never Fielding, and given way, in the first outburst of fun that had broken out around the fancy, to the temptation of copying too closely peculiarities of figure and face amounting in effect to deformity. He was shocked at discovering Too^dose ^ the pain he had given, and a copy is before me of the assurances by way of reply which he at once sent to the complainant. That he was grieved and surprised beyond measure. That he had not intended her altogether. That all his characters, being made up out of many people, were composite, and never individual. That the chair (for table) and other matters were undoubtedly from her, but that other traits were not hers at all ; and that in Miss Moucher's * Ain't I volatile ' his friends had quite correctly recog- nized the favourite utterance of a different person. That he felt confession nevertheless he had done wrong, and would now do anything ment?'""" to repair it. That he had intended to employ the character in an unpleasant way, but he would, whatever the risk or incon- venience, change it all, so that nothing but an agreeable impression 122 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book VI. London: should be left. The reader will remember how this was managed, • and that the thirty-second chapter went far to undo what the twenty-second had done. A much earlier instance is the only one known to me where a character in one of his books intended to be odious was copied wholly from a living original. The use of such material, never without danger, might have been justifiable here if anywhere, and he had himself a satisfaction in always admitting the identity of Mr. Fang in Oliver Twist with Mr. Laing of Hatton-garden. But the avowal of his purpose in that case, and his mode of setting about it, mark strongly a difference of procedure from that which, following great examples, he adopted in his later books. An allusion to a common friend in one of his letters of the present date — ' A dreadful thought occurs to me ! how brilliant in a * book ! ' — expresses both the continued strength of his temptations and the dread he had brought himself to feel of immediately yielding to them ; but he had no such misgivings in the days of Oliver Twist. Wanting an insolent and harsh police-magistrate, he bethought him of an original ready to his hand in one of the Earlier Loudou officcs ; and instead of pursuing his later method of and later . , i i t • methods. givmg a persoual appearance that should m some sort render difficult the identification of mental peculiarities, he was only eager to get in the whole man complete upon his page, figure and face as well as manners and mind. He wrote accordingly (from Doughty-street on the 3rd of June 1837) to Mr. Haines,* a gentleman who then had general super- vision over the police reports for the daily papers. * In my next Mr LainT * numbcr of Oliver Twist I must have a magistrate ; and, casting fIh^"^' * about for a magistrate whose harshness and insolence would * render him a fit subject to be shown up, I have as a necessary * consequence stumbled upon Mr. Laing of Hatton-garden * celebrity. I know the man's character perfectly well ; but as it * would be necessary to describe his personal appearance also, I * ought to have seen him, which (fortunately or unfortunately as * the case may be) I have never done. In this dilemma it This letter is now in the possession of S. R. Goodman Esq. of Brighton. § VII.] David Copperfield. 123 * occurred to me that perhaps I might under your auspices be London : * smuggled into the Hatton-garden office for a few moments some ' morning. If you can further my object I shall be really very ' greatly obliged to you.' The opportunity was found ; the ^^5]^^"^^^^. magistrate was brought up before the novelist ; and shortly after, s^rde" on some fresh outbreak of intolerable temper, the home-secretary found it an easy and popular step to remove Mr. Laing from the bench. This was a comfort to everybody, saving only the principal person ; but the instance was highly exceptional, and it rarely indeed happens that to the individual objection natural in every such case some consideration should not be paid. In the book that followed Copperfieldy characters appeared having resemblances in manner and speech to distinguished writers too vivid to be mistaken by their personal friends. To Lawrence Boythorn, OHginaisof -> ^ •> ' Boythorn under whom Landor figured, no objection was made : but Harold and Skim- . pole. Skimpole, recognizable for Leigh Hunt, led to much remark ; the difference being, that ludicrous traits were employed in the first to enrich without impairing an attractive person in the tale, whereas to the last was assigned a part in the plot which no fasci- nating foibles or gaieties of speech could redeem from contempt. Though a want of consideration was thus shown to the friend whom the character would be likely to recall to many readers, it is nevertheless very certain that the intention of Dickens was not at first, or at any time, an unkind one. He erred from thought- lessness only. What led him to the subject at all, he has himself stated. Hunt's philosophy of moneyed obligations, always, though loudly, half jocosely proclaimed, and his ostentatious wilfulness in the humouring of that or any other theme on which he cared for the time to expatiate,* had so often seemed to Dickens to be Yielding to temptattun. * Here are two passages taken from Hunt's writing in the Tatler (a charm- ing little paper which it was one of the first ventures of the young firm of Chapman and Hall to attempt to establish for Hunt in 1830), to which accident had unluckily attracted Dickens's notice : — * Supposing us to be in want of patronage, and in pos- session of talent enough to make it an honour to notice us, we would much rather have some great and comparatively private friend, rich enough to assist us, and amiable Sayings enough to render obligation delight- ^^"^j.g ful, than become the public property Tatler. of any man, or of any government. . . . . If a divinity had given us our The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. whimsical and attractive, that, wanting an * airy quality ' for the man he invented, this of Hunt occurred to him ; and ' partly for * that reason, and partly, he has since often grieved to think, for * the pleasure it afforded to find a delightful manner reproducing ' itself under his hand, he yielded to the temptation of too often ' making the character speak like his old friend." This apology was made * after Hunt's death, and mentioned a revision of the first sketch, so as lo render it less like, at the suggestion of two other friends of Hunt. The friends were Procter (Barry Corn- wall) and myself \ the feeling having been mine from the first that the likeness was too like. Procter did not immediately think so, but a little reflection brought him to that opinion. * You will * see from the enclosed/ Dickens wrote (17th of March 1852), * that Procter is much of my mind. I will nevertheless go through * the character again in the course of the afternoon, and soften * down words here and there.' But before the day closed Procter had again written to him, and next morning this was the result. * I have again gone over every part of it very carefully, and I * think I have made it much less like. I have also changed ' Leonard to Harold. I have no right to give Hunt pain, and ' I am so bent upon not doing it that I wish you would look ' at all the proof once more, and indicate any particular place ' in which you feel it particularly like. Whereupon I will alter ' that place.* ' choice we should have said — make * us La Fontaine, who goes and lives * twenty years with some rich friend, * as innocent of any harm in it as a ' child, and who writes what he thinks ' charming verses, sitting all day under ' a tree.' Such sayings will not bear to be deliberately read and thought over, but any kind of extravagance or oddity came from Hunt's lips with a curious fascination. There was surely never a man of so sunny a nature, who could draw so much pleasure from common things, or to whom books were a world so real, so exhaustless, so delightful. I was only seventeen when I derived from him the tastes which have been the solace of all sub- sequent years, and I well remember the last time I saw him at Hammer- smith, not long before his death in 1859, when, with his delicate, worn, but keenly intellectual face, his large luminous eyes, his thick shock of wiry grey hair, and a little cape of faded black silk over his shoulders, he looked like an old French abbe. He was buoyant and pleasant as ever ; and was busy upon a vindication of Chaucer and Spenser from Cardinal Wiseman, who had attacked them for alleged sensuous and voluptuous qualities. * In a paper in All the Yeat Round. § VII.] David Copperfield. 125 Upon the whole the alterations were considerable, but the London: radical wrong remained. The pleasant sparkling airy talk, which could not be mistaken, identified with odious qualities a friend only known to the writer by attractive ones ; and for this there was no excuse. Perhaps the only person acquainted with the The wrong not reme- original who failed to recognize the copy, was the original himself died, (a common case) ; but good-natured friends in time told Hunt everything, and painful explanations followed, where nothing was possible to Dickens but what amounted to a friendly evasion of the points really at issue. The time for redress had gone. I yet well remember with what eager earnestness, on one of these occasions, he strove to set Hunt up again in his own esteem. * Separate in your own mind,' he said to him, ' what you see of * yourself from what other people tell you that they see. As it * has given you so much pain, I take it at its worst, and say I am * deeply sorry, and that I feel I did wrong in doing it. I should * otherwise have taken it at its best, and ridden off upon what * I strongly feel to be the truth, that there is nothing in it that Seif-de- * should have given you pain. Every one in writing must speak ' from points of his experience, and so I of mine with you : but * when I have felt it was going too close I stopped myself, and * the most blotted parts of my MS. are those in which I have * been striving hard to make the impression I was writing from, * unX^t you. The diary-writing I took from Haydon, not from * you. I now first learn from yourself that you ever set anything * to music, and I could not have copied thai from you. The * character is not you, for there are traits in it common to fifty * thousand people besides, and I did not fancy you would ever * recognize it. Under similar disguises my own father and mother Relatives ^ . put into * are in my books, and you might as well see your likeness in books. * Micawber.' The distinction is that the foibles of Mr, Micawber and of Mrs. Nickleby, however laughable, make neither of them in speech or character less loveable ; and that this is not to be said of Skimpole's. The kindly or unkindly impression makes all the difference where liberties are taken with a friend ; and even this entirely favourable condition will not excuse the practice to many, where near relatives are concerned. 126 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book vi. London : 1850. Scott and his father. Scott to Lockhart. Dickens and his father. Flourishes of speech. For what fonnerly was said of the Micawber resemblances, Dickens has been sharply criticized ; and in like manner it was thought objectionable in Scott that for the closing scenes of Crystal Croftangry he should have found the original of his fretful patient at the death-bed of his own father. Lockhart, who tells us this, adds with a sad significance that he himself lived to see the curtain fall at Abbotsford upon even such another scene. But to no purpose will such objections still be made. All great novelists will continue to use their experiences of nature and fact, whencesoever derivable ; and a remark made to Lockhart by Scott himself suggests their vindication. * If a man will paint from * nature, he will be most likely to interest and amuse those who * are daily looking at it' The Micawber offence otherwise was not grave. We have seen in what way Dickens was moved or inspired by the rough lessons of his boyhood, and the groundwork of the character was then undoubtedly laid ; but the rhetorical exuberance impressed itself upon him later, and from this, as it expanded and developed in a thousand amusing ways, the full-length figure took its great charm. Better illustration of it could not perhaps be given than by passages from letters of Dickens, written long before Micawber was thought of, in which this peculiarity of his father found frequent and always agreeable expression. Several such have been given in this work from time to time, and one or two more may here be added. It is proper to preface them by saying that no one could know the elder Dickens without secretly liking him the better for these flourishes of speech, which adapted themselves so readily to his gloom as well as to his cheerfulness, that it was difficult not to fancy they had helped him considerably in both, and had rendered more tolerable to him, if also more possible, the shade and sunshine of his chequered life. * If you should * have an opportunity, pendente lite, as my father would observe — * indeed did on some memorable ancient occasions when he * informed me that the ban-dogs would shortly have him at bay ' — Dickens wrote in December 1847. ' I ^^ve a letter from my * father' (May 1841) 'lamenting the fine weather, invoking con- * genial tempests, and informing me that it will not be possible § VII.] David Copperjield, 12 * for him to stay more than another year in Devonshire, as he London * must then proceed to Paris to consoHdate Augustus's French.' — * There has arrived,' he writes from the Peschiere in September 1844, a characteristic letter for Kate from my father. He dates * it Manchester, and says he has reason to beHeve that he will be * in town with the pheasants, on or about the first of October. * He has been with Fanny in the Isle of Man for nearly two ' months : finding there, as he goes on to observe, troops of ' friends, and every description of continental luxury at a cheap * rate.* Describing in the same year the departure from Genoa of an English physician and acquaintance, he adds : * We are very Micawber * sorry to lose the benefit of his advice — or, as my father would * say, to be deprived, to a certain extent, of the concomitant * advantages, whatever they may be, resulting from his medical * skill, such as it is, and his professional attendance, in so far as * it may be so considered.' Thus also it delighted Dickens to remember that it was of one of his connections his father wrote a celebrated sentence; *And I must express my tendency to * believe that his longevity is (to say the least of it) extremely * problematical : ' and that it was to another, who had been insisting somewhat obtrusively on dissenting and nonconformist superiorities, he addressed words which deserve to be no less celebrated ; ' The Supreme Being must be an entirely different jjjjfjf * individual from what I have every reason to believe Him to be, ^»ckens. * if He would care in the least for the society of your relations.' There was a laugh in the enjoyment of all this, no doubt, but with it much personal fondness \ and the feeling of the creator of Micawber, as he thus humoured and remembered the foibles of his original, found its counterpart in that of his readers for the creation itself, as its part was played out in the story. Nobody Ukes Micawber less for his follies ; and Dickens liked his father more, the more he recalled his whimsical qualities. * The longer I live, * the better man I think him,' he exclaimed afterwards. The fact and the fancy had united whatever was most grateful to him in both. It is a tribute to the generally healthful and manly tone of the story of Copperfield that such should be the outcome of the ecceu- 128 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book VI. London : 1850, Resem- blances and differ- ences. Skim- pole and Micawber. Dickens and David. tricities of this leading personage in it ; and the superiority in this respect of Micawber over Skimpole is one of the many indications of the inferiority of Bleak House to its i^redecessor. With leading resemblances that make it difficult to say which character best represents the principle or no principle of impe- cuniosity, there cannot be any doubt which has the advantage in moral and intellectual development. It is genuine humour against personal satire. Between the worldly circumstances of the two, there is nothing to choose; but as to everything else it is the difference between shabbiness and greatness. Skimpole's sunny talk miight be expected to please as much as Micawber's gorgeous speech, the design of both being to take the edge off poverty. But in the one we have no relief from attendant meanness or distress, and we drop down from the airiest fancies into sordidness and pain ; whereas in the other nothing pitiful or merely selfish ever touches us. At its lowest depth of what is worst, we never doubt that something better must turn up ; and of a man who sells his bedstead that he may entertain his friend, we altogether refuse to think nothing but badly. This is throughout the free and cheery style of Copperfield. The masterpieces of Dickens's humour are not in it; but he has nowhere given such variety of play to his invention, and the book is unapproached among his writings for its completeness of effect and uniform pleasantness of tone. What has to be said hereafter of those writings generally, will properly restrict what is said here, as in previous instances, mainly to personal illustration. The Copperfield disclosures formerly made will for ever connect the book with the author's individual story; but too much has been assumed, from those revelations, of a full identity of Dickens with his hero, and of a supposed intention that his own character as well as parts of his career should be expressed in the narrative. It is right to warn the reader as to this. He can judge for himself how far the childish experiences are likely to have given the turn to Dickens's genius ; whether their bitterness had so burnt into his nature, as, in the hatred of oppression, the revolt against abuse of power, and the war with injustice under every form displayed in his § VII.] David Copperfield. 129 earliest books, to have reproduced itself only; and to what London: 1850. extent mere compassion for his own childhood may account for the strange fascination always exerted over him by child-suffering and sorrow. But, many as are the resev c- Seif-por- , failure not blances in Copperfield's adventures to portions of those of^'^mpted. Dickens, and often as reflections occur to David which no one intimate with Dickens could fail to recognize as but the repro- duction of his, it would be the greatest mistake to imagine any- thing like a complete identity of the fictitious novelist with the real one, beyond the Hungerford scenes ; or to suppose that the youth, who then received his first harsh schooling in life, came out of it as little harmed or hardened as David did. The language of the fiction reflects only faintly the narrative of the actual fact ; and the man whose character it helped to form was expressed not less faintly in the impulsive impressionable youth, incapable of resisting the leading of others, and only disciplined into self- control by the later griefs of his entrance into manhood.* Here was but another proof how thoroughly Dickens understood his calling, and that to weave fact with fiction unskilfully would be only to make truth less true. The character of the hero of the novel finds indeed his right place in the story he is supposed to tell, rather by unlikeness than by likeness to Dickens, even where intentional resemblance might seem to be prominent. Take autobiography as a design to show Autobio- graphic that any man's life may be as a mirror of existence to all men, dangers avoided. and the individual career becomes altogether secondary to the variety of experiences received and rendered back in it. This particular form in imaginative literature has too often led to the indulgence of mental analysis, metaphysics, and senti- ment, all in excess : but Dickens was carried safely over these allurements by a healthy judgment and sleepless creative fancy; and even the method of his narrative is more simple here than it generally is in his books. His imaginative growths have less luxuriance of underwood, and the crowds of external images always rising so vividly before him are more within control. * Compare ante^ i. 24-39, with the eleventh c-hapter of Copperfield^ yOL. II. K The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. LoNPON : Consider Copperfield thus in his proper place in the story, and — — sequence as well as connection will be given to the varieties of its childish adventure. The first warm nest of love in which his vain fond mother, and her quaint kind servant, cherish him ; the quick-following contrast of hard dependence and servile treat- ment ; the escape from that premature and dwarfed maturity by natural relapse into a more perfect childhood ; the then leisurely growth of emotions and faculties into manhood ; these are com- ponent parts of a character consistently drawn. The sum of its achievement is to be a successful cultivation of letters ; and often as such imaginary discipline has been the theme of fiction, there are not many happier conceptions of it. The ideal and real parts of the boy's nature receive development in the proportions which contribute best to the end desired j the readiness for impulsive attachments that had put him into the leading of others, has underneath it a base of truthfulness on which at last he rests in safety ; the practical man is the outcome of the fanciful Design of youth ; and a more than equivalent for the graces of his visionary David's , . . . character, days, is found in the active sympathies that life has opened to him. Many experiences have come within its range, and his heart has had room for all. Our interest in him cannot but be increased by knowing how much he expresses of what the author had himself gone through ; but David includes far less than this, and infinitely more. That the incidents arise easily, and to the very end connect themselves naturally and unobtrusively with the characters of which they are a part, is to be said perhaps more truly of this than of any other of Dickens's novels. There is a profusion of distinct and distinguishable people, and a prodigal wealth of detail ; but unity of drift or purpose is apparent always, and the IoveL°^ uniformly right. By the course of the events we learn the value of self-denial and patience, quiet endurance of unavoid- able ills, strenuous effort against ills remediable ; and everything in the fortunes of the actors warns us, to strengthen our generous emotions and to guard the purities of home. It is easy thus to account for the supreme popularity of Copperfield^ without the addition th3,t it can hardly have had a reader, maa or lad, who § VII.] David Copperfield. did not discover that he was something of a Copperfield himself. London : Childhood and youth live again for all of us in its marvellous boy-experiences. Mr. Micawber's presence must not prevent my saying that it does not take the lead of the other novels in humorous creation : but in the use of humour to brinsr out Humour ° and senti- prominently the ludicrous in any object or incident without excluding or weakening its most enchanting sentiment, it stands decidedly first. It is the perfection of English mirth. We are apt to resent the exhibition of too much goodness, but it is here so qualified by oddity as to become not merely palatable but attractive ; and even pathos is heightened by what in other hands would only make it comical. That there are also faults in the book is certain, but none that are incompatible with the most masterly qualities ; and a book becomes everlasting by the ^'°°^* fact, not that faults are not in it, but that genius nevertheless is there. Of its method, and its author's generally, in the delineation of character, something will have to be said on a later page. The author's own favourite people in it, I think, were the Peggotty group ; and perhaps he was not far wrong. It has been their fate, as with all the leading figures of his invention, to pass their The Peg- ^ gottys. names into the language, and become types ; and he has no- where given happier embodiment to that purity of homely good- ness, which, by the kindly and all-reconcihng influences of humour, may exalt into comeliness and even grandeur the clumsiest forms of humanity. What has been indicated in the style of the book as its greatest charm is here felt most strongly. The ludicrous so helps the pathos, and the humour so uplifts and refines the sentiment, that mere rude affection and simple man- liness in these Yarmouth boatmen, passed through the fires of unmerited suft'ering and heroic endurance, take forms half- chivalrous half-sublime. It is one of the cants of critical superio- rity to make supercilious mention of the serious passages in this great writer ; but the storm and shipwreck at the close of Copperfield^ when the body of the seducer is flung dead upon the J^*^,? ^f^f™ shore amid the ruins of the home he has wasted and by the side ''^^^^^ of the man whose heart he has broken, the one as unconscious of K 2 132 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. London.' what he had failed to reach as the other of what he has perished 1850. ... — to save, is a description that may compare with the most impres- sive in the language. And to those who, knowing Dickens best, know what realities his books were to him, the expression of his sense of suffering in composing such passages, will have in it not a grain of pretence or affectation. * I have been tremendously at * work these two days ' (i 5th of September), 'eight hours at a stretch * yesterday, and six hours and a half to-day, with the Ham and * Steerforth chapter, which has completely knocked me over — ' utterly defeated me.' There are other people drawn into this catastrophe who are among the failures of natural delineation in the book. But iviiss though Miss Dartle is curiously unpleasant, there are some and^Mrs. natural traits in her (which Dickens's least life-like people are Steerforth. ^^^^^ without) j and it was from one of his lady friends, very familiar to him indeed, he copied her peculiarity of never saying anything outright, but hinting it merely, and making more of it that way. Of Mrs. Steerforth it may also be worth remem- bering that Thackeray had something of a fondness for her. ' I knew how it would be when I began,' says a pleasant letter all about himself written immediately after she appeared in the story. * My letters to my mother are like this, but * then she likes 'em — like Mrs. Steerforth : don't you like Mrs. ' Steerforth ? ' Turning to another group there is another elderly lady to be liked without a shadow of misgiving ; abrupt, angular, extrava- gant, but the very soul of magnanimity and rectitude ; a character thoroughly made out in all its parts ; a gnarled and knotted piece of female timber, sound to the core ; a woman Captain Shandy would have loved for her startling oddities, and who is linked to the gentlest of her sex by perfect womanhood. Dickens has done xStwood i^othing better, for solid ness and truth all round, than Betsey Trotwood. It is one of her oddities to have a fool for a com- panion ; but this is one of them that has also most pertinence and wisdom. By a line thrown out in Wilhelm Meister^ that the true way of treating the insane was, in all respects possible, to act to them as if they were sane, Goethe anticipated what it took a cen- § VII.] David Copperfield. 133 tury to apply to the most terrible disorder of humanity ; and what London : 1850. Mrs. Trotwood does for Mr. Dick goes a step farther, by showing how often asylums might be dispensed with, and how large might be the number of deficient intellects manageable with patience in their own homes. Characters hardly less distinguishable for truth as well as oddity are the kind old nurse and her husband the carrier, whose vicissitudes alike of love and of mortality are con- densed into the three words since become part of universal speech, Barkis is willin\ There is wholesome satire of much Truths in oddities. utiHty in the conversion of the brutal schoolmaster of the earlier scenes into the tender Middlesex magistrate at the close. Nor is the humour anywhere more subtle than in the country undertaker, who makes up in fullness of heart for scantness of breath, and has so Httle of the vampire propensity of the town undertaker in Chuzzkwit, that he dares not even inquire after friends who are ill for fear of unkindly misconstruction. The test of a master in creative fiction, according to Hazlitt, is less in contrasting characters that are unlike than in distinguishing those that are like ; and to many examples of the art in Dickens, such as the Shepherd and Chadband, Creakle and Squeers, Charley Characters lilce yet Bates and the Dodger, the Guppys and the Wemmicks, Mr. unlike. Jaggers and Mr. Vholes, Sampson Brass and Conversation Kenge, Jack Bunsby, Captain Cuttle, and Bill Barley, the Per- kers and Pells, the Dodsons and Foggs, Sarah Gamp and Betsy Prig, and a host of others, is to be added the nicety of distinction between those eminent furnishers of funerals, Mr. Mould and Messrs. Omer and Joram. All the mixed mirth and sadness of the story are skilfully drawn into the handling of this portion of it ; and, amid wooings and preparations for weddings and church- ringing bells for baptisms, the steadily-going rat-tat of the hammer on the coffin is heard. Of the heroines who divide so equally between them the im- pulsive, easily swayed, not disloyal but sorely distracted affections of the hero, the spoilt fooli.shness and tenderness of the loving The two heroines. little child-wife, Dora, is more attractive than the too unfailing wisdom and self-sacrificing goodness of the angel-wife, Agnes. The scenes of the courtship and housekeeping are matchless; 134 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI. loNDON : and the glimpses of Doctors' Commons, opening those views, by — Spenlow, of man's vanity of expectation and inconsistency of conduct in neglecting the sacred duty of making a will, on which he largely moralises the day before he dies intestate, form a back- ground highly appropriate to David's domesticities. This was among the reproductions of personal experience in the book ; but it was a sadder knowledge that came with the conviction some years later, that David's contrasts in his earliest married life between his happiness enjoyed and his happiness once antici- pated, the * vague unhappy loss or want of something ' of which he so frequently complains, reflected also a personal expe- rience which had not been supplied in fact so successfully as in fiction BOOK SEVENTH. CONTINENT REVISITED. 1852 1856. ^T. 40 43. I. Bleak House and Hard Times. 11. Home Incidents. III. In Switzerland and Italy. IV. Three Summers at Boulogne. V. Residence in Paris. I. BLEAK HOUSE AND HARD TIMES. 1852— 1856. These books were written between 185 1 and 1854, when for a London: portion of the time the author was living abroad ; and, reserving — — to another section the home hfe that filled the same interval, some account of both novels will be given here. ZtU/e Dorrit, though begun in Paris, was not finished until some time after the Continental residence had closed, and belongs therefore to a later division. David Copperfield had been written between the opening of 1849 and October i^5°> its publication covering that time; and its sale, which has since taken the lead of all his books but Pickwick^ never then exceeding twenty-five thousand. But though it remained thus steady for the time, the popularity of the book added largely to the sale of its successor. Bleak House was begun in his new abode of Tavistock House at the end of November 1851 ; was carried on, amid the excitements of the Guild performances, through the following year ; was finished at Boulogne in the August of 1853; and was dedicated to 'his * friends and companions in the Guild of Literature and Art.' Hard Times was planned and begun in the winter of 1853, amid the busy preparation of Christmas theatricals for his children to be presently described ; was finished at Boulogne in the summer of 1854 ; and was dedicated to Carlyle. The autobiographical form of Copperfield was in some respects continued in Bleak House by means of extracts from the personal relation of its heroine. But the distinction between the narrative of David and the diary of Esther, like that between Micawber and Contrast of ^ ' Lsther and Skimpole, marks the superiority of the first to its successor. To i^avid. represent a storyteller as giving the most surprising vividness to manners, motives, and characters of which we are to believe her, all the time, as artlessly unconscious, as she is also entirely igno- 138 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VII- i^NDON : rant of the good qualities in herself she is naively revealing in the — story, was a difficult enterprise, full of hazard in any case, not worth success, and certainly not successful. Ingenuity is more apparent than freshness, the invention is neither easy nor un- strained, and though the old mai-vellous power over the real is again abundantly manifest, there is some alloy of the artificial Nor can this be said of Esther's relation without some general application to the book of which it forms so large a part. The novel is nevertheless, in the very important particular of con- struction, perhaps the best thing done by Dickens. In his later writings he had been assiduously cultivating this essential of his art, and here he brought it very nearly to perfec- tion. Of the tendency of composing a story piecemeal to induce greater concern for the part than for the whole, he had been always conscious ; but I remember a remark also made by him to the effect that to read a story in parts had no less a ten- dency to prevent the reader's noticing how thoroughly a work so presented might be calculated for perusal as a whole. Look back Sr?fd- ^^^"^ ^^^^ ^^^^ P^S^ the present novel, and not even inrtl" the highest examples of this kind of elaborate care will it be found that event leads more closely to event, or that the separate incidents have been planned with a more studied con- sideration of the bearing they are severally to have on the general result. Nothing is introduced at random, everything tends to the catastrophe, the various lines of the plot converge and fit to its centre, and to the larger interest all the rest is irresistibly drawn. The heart of the story is a Chancery suit On this the plot hinges ; and on incidents connected with it, trivial or im- portant, the passion and suffering turn exclusively. Chance words, or the deeds of chance people, to appearance irrelevant, Construe- are found everywhere influencing the course taken by a train of iiv« art. incidents of which the issue is life or death, happiness or misery, to men and women perfectly unknown to them, and to whom they are unknown. Attorneys of all possible grades, law clerks of every conceivable kind, the copyist, the law stationer, the usurer, all sorts of money lenders, suitors of every description, haunters of the Chancery court and their victims, are for ever moving Bleak House and Hard Times. 139 round about the lives of the chief persons in the tale, and drawing London : 185^. them on insensibly, but very certainly, to the issues that await ^ — them. Even the fits of the little law-stationer's servant help incidents ^ and persons directly in the chain of small things that lead indirectly to Lady interwoven. Dedlock's death. One strong chain of interest holds together Chesney Wold and its inmates, Bleak House and the Jamdyce group. Chancery with its sorry and sordid neighbourhood. The characters multiply as the tale advances, but in each the drift is the same. ' There's no great odds betwixt my noble and learned * brother and myself,' says the grotesque proprietor of the rag and bottle shop under the wall of Lincoln's-inn, ' they call me Two Chan- ■' eery shops. * Lord Chancellor and my shop Chancery, and we both of us * grub on in a muddle.' Edax rerum the motto of both, but with a difference. Out of the lumber of the shop emerge slowly some fragments of evidence by which the chief actors in the story are sensibly affected, and to which Chancery itself might have succumbed if its devouring capacities had been less complete. But by the time there is found among the lumber the will which puts all to rights in the Jamdyce suit, it is found to be too late to put anything to rights. The costs have swallowed up the estate, and there is an end of the matter. What in one sense is a merit however may in others be a defect, and this book has suffered by the very completeness with which its Chancery moral is worked out. The didactic in Dickens's earlier novels derived its strengtli from being merely incidental to interest of a higher and more permanent kind, and not in a small degree from the playful sportiveness and fancy that lighted up its graver illustrations. Here it is of sterner JJ^Jg^^^ stuff, too little relieved, and all-pervading. The fog so marvel- ^f*"*"- lously painted in the opening chapter has hardly cleared away when there arises, in Jamdyce v. Jarndyce^ as bad an atmosphere to breathe in; and thenceforward to the end, clinging round the people of the story as they come or go, in dreary mist or in heavy cloud, it is rarely absent. Dickens has himself described his purpose to have been to dwell on the romantic side of familiar things. But it is the romance of discontent and misery, with a very restless dissatisfied moral, and is too much The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VII. brought about by agencies disagreeable and sordid. The Guppys, -Weevles, Snagsbys, Chadbands, Krooks, and Smallweeds, even the Kenges, Vholeses, and Tulkinghorns, are much too real to be pleasant; and the necessity becomes urgent for the reliefs and contrasts of a finer humanity. These last are not wanting ; yet it must be said that we hardly escape, even with them, into the old freedom and freshness of the author's imaginative worlds, and that the too conscious unconsciousness of Esther flings something of a shade on the radiant goodness of John Jarndyce himself. Nevertheless there are very fine delineations in the story. The crazed little Chancery lunatic, Miss Flite; the loud- voiced tender-souled Chancery victim, Gridley ; the poor good- hearted youth Richard, broken up in life and character by the suspense of the Chancery suit on whose success he is to * begin ' the world,' believing himself to be saving money when he is stopped from squandering it, and thinking that having saved it he is entided to fling it away ; trooper George, with the Bagnets and their household, where the most ludicrous points are more forcible for the pathetic touches underlying them ; the Jellyby interior, and its philanthropic strong-minded mistress, placid and smiling amid a household muddle outmuddling Chancery itself ; the model of deportment, Turveydrop the elder, whose relations to the young people, whom he so superbly patronizes by being dependent on them for everything, touch delightfully some subtle points of truth ; the inscrutable Tulkinghorn, and the immortal Bucket ; all these, and especially the last, have been added by this book to the list of people more intimately and permanently known to us than the scores of actual familiar acquaintance whom we see around us living and dying. But how do we know them ? There are plenty to tell us that it is by vividness of external observation rather than by depth of imaginative insight, by tricks of manner and phrase rather than by truth of character, by manifestation outwardly rather than by what Hes behind. Another opportunity will present itself for some remark on this kind of criticism, which has always had a special pride in the subtlety of its differences from what the world may have shown itself prone to admire. ' In my father's § I.] Bleak House and Hard Times. 141 * library,' wrote Landor to Southey's daughter Edith, * was the Cri- London : * tical Review from its commencement : and it would have taught Value of ' me, if I could not even at a very early age teach myself better, critical ■> ° •> judgments. * that Fielding, Sterne, and Goldsmith were really worth nothing.' It is a style that will never be without cultivators, and its frequent application to Dickens will be shown hereafter. But in speaking of a book in which some want of all the freshness of his genius first became apparent, it would be wrong to omit to add that his method of handling a character is as strongly impressed on the better portions of it as on the best of his writings. It is difficult to say when a peculiarity becomes too grotesque, or an extrava- gance too farcical, to be within the limits of art, for it is the truth of these as of graver things that they exist in the world in just the proportions and degree in which genius can discover them. But no man had ever so surprising a faculty as Dickens of becoming himself what he was representing; and of entering into mental phases and processes so absolutely, in conditions of life the most varied, as to reproduce them completely in dialogue without need of an explanatory word. (He only departed from Mastery ia dialogue. this method once, with a result which will then be pointed out.) In speaking on a former page of the impression of reality thus to a singular degree conveyed by him, it was remarked that where characters so revealed themselves the author's part in them was done ; and in the book under notice there is none, not excepting those least attractive which apparently present only prominent or salient qualities, in which it will not be found that the charac- teristic feature embodied, or the main idea personified, contains Handling as certainly also some human truth universally applicable. To ten ^^'^'^'^ expound or discuss his creations, to lay them psychologically bare, to analyse their organisms, to subject to minute demonstra- tion their fibrous and other tissues, was not at all Dickens's way. His genius was his fellow feeling with his race ; his mere per- sonaUty was never the bound or limit to his perceptions, how- ever strongly sometimes it might colour them ; he never stopped to dissect or anatomize his own work ; but no man could better adjust the outward and visible oddities in a delineation to its inner and unchangeable veracities. The rough estimates wc The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VII. form of character, if we have any truth of perception, are on the whole correct : but men touch and interfere with one another by the contact of their extremes, and it may very often become necessarily the main business of a novelist to display the salient points, the sharp angles, or the prominences merely. The pathetic parts of Bleak House do not live largely in re- membrance, but the deaths of Richard and of Gridley, the wandering fancies of Miss Flite, and the extremely touching way in which the gentleman-nature of the pompous old baronet, Dedlock, asserts itself under suffering, belong to a high order of writing. There is another most affecting example, taking the lead of the rest, in the poor street-sweeper Jo ; which has made perhaps as deep an impression as anything in Dickens. *We ' have been reading Bleak House aloud,' the good Dean Ramsay wrote to me very shortly before his death. * Surely it is one of * his most powerful and successful ! What a triumph is Jo ! * Uncultured nature is there indeed ; the intimations of true * heartfeeling, the glimmerings of higher feeling, all are there ; * but everything still consistent and in harmony. Wonderful is ' the genius that can show all this, yet keep it only and really part ' of the character itself, low or common as it may be, and use no * morbid or fictitious colouring. To my mind, nothing in the ' field of fiction is to be found in English literature surpassing the ' death of Jo ! ' What occurs at and after the inquest is as worth remembering. Jo's evidence is rejected because he cannot exactly say what will be done to him after he is dead if he should tell a lie ; * but he manages to say afterwards very exactly what the * ' O ! Here's the boy, gentlemen ! * Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, ' very ragged. Now, boy ! — But stop * a minute. Caution. This boy must * be put through a few preliminary ' paces. Name, Jo. Nothing else that ' he knows on. Don't know that ' everybody has two names. Never ' heerd of sich a think. Don't know * that Jo is short for a longer name. ' Thinks it long enough for him. He ' don't find no fault with it. Spell it ? * No. /^e can't spell it. No father, ' no mother, no friends. Never been * to school. What's home ? Knows * a broom's a broom, and knows it's ' wicked to tell a lie. Don't recollect ' who told him about the broom, or * about the lie, but knows both. Can't ' exactly say what'll be done to him * arter he's dead if he tells a lie to the * gentleman here, but believes it'll be * something wery bad to punish him, * and serve him right — and so he'll 'tell the truth. "This won't do, * *' gentlemen," says the coroner, with § I.] Bleak House and Hard Times. 143 deceased while he Hved did to him. That one cold winter London: night, when he was shivering in a doonvay near his crossing, a man turned to look at him, and came back, and, having ques- tioned him and found he had not a friend in the world, said Neither have I. Not one ! ' and gave him the price of a supper and a night's lodging. That the man had often spoken to him what jo since, and asked him if he slept of a night, and how he bore cold very and hunger, or if he ever wished to die ; and would say in passing ' I am as poor as you to-day, Jo ' when he had no money, but when he had any would always give some. ' He wos wery good ' to me,' says the boy, wiping his eyes with his wretched sleeve. * Wen I see him a-layin' so stritched out just now, I wished he * could have heerd me tell him so. He wos werry good to me, * he wos !' The inquest over, the body is flung into a pestiferous churchyard in the next street, houses overlooking it on every side, and a reeking little tunnel of a court giving access to its iron gate. * With the night, comes a slouching figure through the * tunnel-court, to the outside of the iron gate. It holds the gate * with its hands, and looks in within the bars ; stands looking in, ' for a little while. It then, with an old broom it carries, softly * sweeps the step, and makes the archway clean. It does so, ' very busily, and trimly ; looks in again, a little while ; and so * departs.' These are among the things in Dickens that cannot be forgotten ; and if Bleak House had many more faults than have been found in it, such salt and savour as this might freshen it for some generations. The first intention was to have made Jo more prominent in the story, and its earliest title was taken from the tumbling tenements in Chancery, * Tom-all-Alone's,' where he finds his wretched habitation ; but this was abandoned. On the other hand, Dickens was encouraged and strengthened in his design of assailing Chancery abuses and delays by receiving, a few days after the originals of appearance of his first number, a striking pamphlet on the * a melancholy shake of the head. .. . 'aside; to the great edification of ' " Ca7iH exactly say won't do, you * the audience ; — especially of Little * "know, . . It's terrible depravity. 'Swills, the Comic Vocalist.' •♦'^ut the boy aside." Boy put 144 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book vii. London: subject Containing details so apposite that he took from them, 1853. ■ without change m any material pomt, the memorable case related in his fifteenth chapter. Any one who examines the tract * will see how exactly true is the reference to it made by Dickens in his preface. * The case of Gridley is in no essential altered from one * of actual occurrence, made public by a disinterested person who * was professionally acquainted with the whole of the monstrous o?Gridiey's ' ^rong from beginning to end.' The suit, of which all par- ticulars are given, affected a single farm, in value not more than ;£"i2oo, but all that its owner possessed in the world, against which a bill had been filed for a ;£^3oo legacy left in the will bequeathing the farm. In reality there was only one defendant, but in the bill, by the rule of the Court, there were seventeen ; and, after two years had been occupied over the seventeen answers, everything had to begin over again because an eighteenth had been accidentally omitted. * What a mockery of justice this ' is,' says Mr. Challinor, * the facts speak for themselves, and I ' can personally vouch for their accuracy. The costs already * incurred in reference to this £,z^o legacy are not less than from * £^00 to ;£"9oo, and the parties are no forwarder. Already near * five years have passed by, and the plaintiff would be glad to * give up his chance of the legacy if he could escape from his * liability to costs, while the defendants who own the little farm ' left by the testator, have scarce any other prospect before them * than ruin.' * I wish you would look,' Dickens wrote on the 20th of January 1854, 'at the enclosed titles for the Household Words * story, between this and two o'clock or so, when I will call. It is * my usual day, you observe, on which I have jotted them down — * Friday ! It seems to me that there are three very good ones Titles for a ' among them. I should like to know whether you hit upon the new story. . ^ , , i • a -.• ' same. On the paper enclosed was written : i. According to * By W. Challinor Esq. of Leek in iith of March 1852. On the first of Staffordshire, by whom it has been that month the first number of Bleak obligingly sent to me, with a copy of House had appeared, but two nua Dickens's letter acknowledging the hers of it were then already written, receipt of it from the author on th^ Bleak House and Hard Times. H5 Cocker. 2. Prove it. 3. Stubborn Things. 4. Mr. Gradgrind's London Facts. 5. The Grindstone. 6. Hard Times. 7. Two and Two are Four. 8. Something Tangible. 9. Our Hard-headed Friend. 10. Rust and Dust 11. Simple Arithmetic. 12. A Matter of Calculation. 13. A Mere Question of Figures. 14. The Grad- grind Philosophy.* The three selected by me were 2, 6, and II : the three that were his own favourites were 6, 13, and 14 ; and as 6 had been chosen by both, that title was taken. It was the first story written by him for his weekly periodical ; and in the course of it the old troubles of the Clock came back, i- 135- with the difference that the greater brevity of the weekly portions made it easier to write them up to time, but much more difficult to get sufficient interest into each. * The difficulty of the space,' he wrote after a few weeks' trial, * is crushing. Nobody can Difficulties * have an idea of it who has not had an experience of patient pubTui-^^ * fiction-writing with some elbow-room always, and open places ^'°°* * in perspective. In this form, with any kind of regard to the * current number, there is absolutely no such thing.' He went on, however; and, of the two designs he started with, accom- plished one very perfectly and the other at least partially. He more than doubled the circulation of his journal ; and he wrote a story which, though not among his best, contains things as characteristic as any he has written. I may not go as far as Mr. Ruskin in giving it a high place ; but to anything faUing from that writer, however one may differ from it, great respect is due, and every word here said of Dickens's intention is in the most strict sense just. * The essential value and truth of Dickens's * writings,' he says,t ' have been unwisely lost sight of by many ' thoughtful persons, merely because he presents his truth with ' some colour of caricature. Unwisely, because Dickens's ' caricature, though often gross, is- never mistaken. Allow- * ing for his manner of telling them, the things he tells us are * always true. I wish that he could think it right to limit * his brilliant exaggeration to works written only for pubHc * To show the pains he took in such Heads and Soft Hearts; 4. Heads matters I will give other titles also and Tales ; 5. Black and White, thought of for this tale. i. Fact; 2. t Unto this End: note to First Hard-headed Gradgrind ; 3. Hard Essay, 14- 15. VOL. 11. L The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book vil. London 1854. * amusement ; and when he takes up a subject of high national ' importance, such as that which he handled in Hard Times^ * that he would use severer and more accurate analysis. The use- * fulness of that work (to my mind, in several respects, the greatest * he has written) is with many persons seriously diminished, ' because Mr. Bounderby is a dramatic monster instead of a ^n'H^ard^^ * charactcristic example of a worldly master ; and Stephen Black- Tifnes. i pool a dramatic perfection, instead of a characteristic example ' of an honest workman. But let us not lose the use of Dickens's * wit and insight, because he chooses to speak in a circle of stage * fire. He is entirely right in his main drift and purpose in every * book he has written ; and all of them, but especially Ifard * Times, should be studied with close and earnest care by persons ' interested in social questions. They will find much that is ' partial, and, because , partial, apparently unjust ; but if they * examine all the evidence on the other side, which Dickens * seems to overlook, it will appear, after all their trouble, that his ' view was the finally right one, grossly and sharply told.' * The best points in it, out of the circle of stage fire (an expression of wider application to this part of Dickens's life than its inventor supposed it to be), were some sketches among the riding-circus people and the Bounderby household ; but it is a wise hint of Mr. Ruskin's that there may be, in the drift of a story, truths of sufficient importance to set against defects of workmanship ; and Exagge- rated re- buke of ex- aggeration. * It is curious that with as strong a view in the opposite direction, and with an equally mistaken exaltation above the writer's ordinary level, of a book which on the whole was un- doubtedly below it, Mr. Taine speaks of Hard Times 2.% that one of Dickens's romances which is a summary of all the rest : exalting instinct above reason, and the intuitions of the heart above practical knowledge ; attacking all education based on statistic figures and facts ; heaping sorrow and ridicule on the practical mercantile people ; fight- ing against the pride, hardness, and selfishness of the merchant and noble ; cursing the manufacturing towns for imprisoning bodies in smoke and mud, and souls in falsehood and factitious- ness ; — while it contrasts, with that satire of social oppression, lofty eulogy of the oppressed ; and searches out poor workmen, jugglers, foundlings, and circus people, for types of good sense, sweetness of disposition, gene- rosity, delicacy, and courage, to per- petual confusion of the pretended knowledge, pretended happiness, pre- tended virtue, of the rich and powerful who trample upon them ! This is a fair specimen of the exaggerations with which exaggeration is rebuked, in Mr. Taine's and much similar criticism. § I.] Bleak House and Hard Times. 147 here they challenged wide attention. You cannot train any one London : 1854. properly, unless you cultivate the fancy, and allow fair scope to — — - the affections. You cannot govern men on a principle of forced, averages ; and to buy in the cheapest and sell in the dearest market is not the summum bonum of life. You cannot treat the working man fairly unless, in dealing with his wrongs and his delusions, you take equally into account the simplicity and tenacity of his nature, arising partly from limited knowledge, but more from honesty and singleness of intention. Fiction cannot prove a case, but it can express forcibly a righteous sentiment ; Yc^i,^^ and this is here done unsparingly upon matters of universal con- cern. The book was finished at Boulogne in the middle of July,* and is inscribed to Carlyle. An American admirer accounted for the vivacity of the circus- scenes by declaring that Dickens had ' arranged with the master ' of Astley's Circus to spend many hours behind the scenes with Horsc- * the riders and among the horses ; ' a thing just as likely as that scenes, he went into training as a stroller to qualify for Mr. Crummies in Nickleby. Such successes belonged to the experiences of his youth ; he had nothing to add to what his marvellous observation had made familiar from almost childish days ; and the glimpses we get of them in the Sketches by Boz are in these points as perfect as anything his later experience could supply. There was one thing nevertheless which the choice of his subject made him anxious to verify while Hard Times was in hand ; and this was a strike in a manufacturing town. He had gone to Preston to see one at the end of January, and was somewhat disappointed. * I am afraid ' I shall not be able to get much here. Except the crowds at the * street-comers reading the placards pro and con ; and the cold * Here is a note at the close. * Wednesday night . . I have been * Tavistock House. Look at that ! * looking forward through so many * Boulogne, of course. Friday, 14th * weeks and sides of paper to this 'of July, 1854. I am three parts 'Stephen business, that now — as ' mad, and the fourth delirious, with * usual — it being over, I feel as if no- * perpetual rushing at Hard Times. I * thing in the world, in the way of * have done what I hope is a good * intense and violent rushing hither ' thing with Stephen, taking his story * and thither, could quite restore my ' as a wnole ; and hope to be over in * balance.' * town with the end of the book on Prf.ston. 148 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VII. ^'^1854°'* ' * a.bsence of smoke from the mill-chimneys ; there is very little in ■ * the streets to make the town remarkable. I am told that the Manufac- * people " sit at home and mope." The delegates with the money turing town on strike. ' from the neighbouring places come m to-day to report the * amounts they bring ; and to-morrow the people are paid. When * I have seen both these ceremonies, I shall return. It is a nasty * place (I thought it was a model town) ; and I am in the Bull * Hotel, before which some time ago the people assembled sup- ' posing the masters to be here, and on demanding to have them ' out were remonstrated with by the landlady in person. I saw ' the account in an Italian paper, in which it was stated that ' " the populace then environed the Palazzo Bull, until the ' "padrona of the Palazzo heroically appeared at one of the * " upper windows and addressed them ! " One can hardly con- * ceive anything less likely to be represented to an Italian mind * by this description, than the old, grubby, smoky, mean, intensely ' formal red brick house with a narrow gateway and a dingy yard, ' to which it applies. At the theatre last night I saw Hamlet^ and ' should have done better to " sit at home and mope " like the * idle workmen. In the last scene, Laertes on being asked how it ' was with him replied (verbatim) " Why, like a woodcock — on * " account of my treachery." ' II. HOME INCIDENTS. 1853— 1854— 1855. London : The first number of Bleak House had appeared in March 1852,* and its sale was mentioned in the same letter from Tavistock Proposed * I subjoin the dozen titles succes- 4. ' The East Wind ; ' 5. * Tom-all- titles. sively proposed for Bleak House. I, ' Alone's. The Ruined [House, * Tom - all - Alone's. The Ruined ' Building, Factory, Mill] that got ' House;' 2. ' Tom-all-Alone's. The 'into Chancery and never got out ;' * Solitary House that was always shut 6. * Tom-all-Alone's. The Solitary ' up 3- 'Bleak House Academy ; ' * House where the Grass Grew 7. §11.] Home Incidents. 149 House (7th of March) which told of his troubles in the tale at its London: outset, and of other anxieties incident to the common lot and inseparable equally from its joys and sorrows, through which his life was passing at the time. * My Highgate journey yesterday was a H^ghgate * sad one. Sad to think how all journeys tend that way. I went "^-s- * up to the cemetery to look for a piece of ground. In no hope ' of a Government bill,* and in a foolish dislike to leaving the little * child shut up in a vault there, I think of pitching a tent under * the sky. . . Nothing has taken place here : but I believe, every * hour, that it must next hour. Wild ideas are upon me of going * to Paris — Rouen — Switzerland — somewhere — and writing the * remaining two- thirds of the next No. aloft in some queer inn 'room. I have been hanging over it, and have got restless, ' Want a change I think. Stupid. We were at 30,000 when I Sale oi his ° ^ novel. * last heard. . . I am sorry to say that after all kinds of evasions, * I am obliged to dine at Lansdowne House to-morrow. But * maybe the affair will come off to-night and give me an excuse ! * I enclose proofs of No. 2. Browne has done Skimpole, and * helped to make him singularly unlike the great original. Look * it over, and say what occurs to you. . . Don't you think Mrs. * Gaskell charming ? With one ill-considered thing that looks like ' a want of natural perception, I think it masterly.' His last allusion is to the story by a delightful writer then appearing in Household Words ; and of the others it only needs to say that the family affair which might have excused his absence at the Lans- downe dinner did not come off until four days later. On the 13th of March his last child was born; and the boy, his seventh Lastchiu . . . born. son, bears his godfather's distmguished name, Edward Bulwer Lytton. ' Tom - all - Alone's. The Solitary * and the East Wind. How they both * House that was always shut up and * g:ot into Chancery and never got * never Lighted;' 8. 'Tom-all- Alone's. * out ;' 12. ' Bleak House.' * The Ruined Mill, that got into * He was greatly interested in the * Chancery and never got out ; ' 9. movement for closing town and city * Tom - all - Alone's. The Solitary graves (see the close of the iith chap- ' House where the Wind howled ;' ter of Bleak House), and providing 10. 'Tom-all -Alone's. The Ruined places of burial under Stale super- * House that got into Chancery nnd vision, never got out ; ' ii. 'Bleak House 150 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book VII. Lo^^oN : The inability to ' grind sparks out of this dull blade/ as he ' characterized his present labour at Bleak House^ still fretting him, he struck out a scheme for Paris. * I could not get to Switzerland ' very well at this time of year. The Jura would be covered with ' snow. And if I went to Geneva I don't know where I might ' not go to.' It ended at last in a flight to Dover ; but he found time before he left, amid many occupations and some anxieties, for a good-natured journey to Walworth to see a youth rehearse who was supposed to have talents for the stage, and he was able Young to gladden Mr. Toole's friends by thinking favourably of his stage-aspi- iz- j • 'ant. chances of success. ' I remember what I once myself wanted m * that way,' he said, * and I should like to serve him.' At one of the last dinners in Tavistock House before his de- §11.] Ho7ne Incidents. 151 parture, Mr. Watson of Rockingham was present ; and he was Dover : 1852. hardly settled in Camden-crescent, Dover, when he had news of the death of that excellent friend. ' Poor dear Watson ! It was Mr. wat- * this day two weeks when you rode with us and he dined with us. ^ * We all remarked after he had gone how happy he seemed to ' have got over his election troubles, and how cheerful he was. * He was full of Christmas plans for Rockingham, and was very ' anxious that we should get up a little French piece I had been * telling him the plot of He went abroad next day to join Mrs. * Watson and the children at Homburg, and then go to Lausanne, * where they had taken a house for a month. He was seized at * Homburg with violent internal inflammation, and died — without ' much pain — in four days. ... I was so fond of him that I * am sorry you didn't know him better. I believe he was as ' thoroughly good and true a man as ever lived ; and I am sure I * can have no greater affection for him than he felt for me. When ' I think of that bright house, and his fine simple honest heart, ' both so open to me, the blank and loss are like a dream.' Other deaths followed. ' Poor d'Orsay ! ' he wrote after only Count d'Orsay's seven days (8th of August). * It is a tremendous consideration death. ' that friends should fall around us in such awful numbers as we * attain middle life. What a field of battle it is ! ' Nor had another month quite passed before he lost, in Mrs. Macready, a very dear family friend. 'Ah me ! ah me ! ' he wrote. ' This Mrs. , . , Macready's. ' tremendous sickle certainly does cut deep into the surrounding * corn, when one's own small blade has ripened. But this is all ' a Dream, may be, and death will wake us.' Able at last to settle to his work, he stayed in Dover three months ; and early in October, sending home his family caravan, crossed to Boulogne to try it as a resort for seaside holiday. ' I Boulognh. * never saw a better instance of our countrymen than this place. < Because it is accessible it is genteel to say it is of no character, * quite English, nothing continental about it, and so forth. It is * as quaint, picturesque, good a place as I know ; the boatmen * and fishing-people quite a race apart, and some of their villages * as good as the fishing-villages on the Mediterranean. The ' Kautc Ville, with a walk all round it on the rainpartb, charming. ^52 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VII. Publishing agreements, ante, i. 345. Boulogne: * The couti try walks, dclisfhtful. It is the best mixture of town 1852. * and country (with sea air into the bargain) I ever saw ; every- ' thing cheap, everything good ; and please God I shall be writing * on those said ramparts next July ! ' Before the year closed, the time to which his publishing arrangements with Messrs. Bradbury and Evans were limited had expired, but at his suggestion the fourth share in such books as he might write, which they had now received for eight years, was continued to them on the understanding that the publishers' per- centage should no longer be charged in the partnership accounts, and with a power reserved to himself to withdraw when he pleased. In the new year his first adventure was an ovation in Birmingham, where a silver-gilt salver and a diamond ring were presented to him, as well for eloquent service specially rendered to the Institution, as in general testimony of 'varied literary ' acquirements, genial philosophy, and high moral teaching/ A great banquet followed on Twelfth Night, made memorable by an offer * to give a couple of readings from his books at the following Christmas, in aid of the new Midland Institute. It might seem to have been drawn from him as a grateful return for the enthu- siastic greeting of his entertainers, but it was in his mind before he left London. It was his first formal undertaking to read in public. His eldest son had now left Eton, and, the boy's wishes pointing at the time to a mercantile career, he was sent to Leipzig for completion of his education.! At this date it seemed to me Birming- ham : 1853- A banquet and a pro- mise. Dickens to Mr. Ryland. * The promise was formally con- veyed next morning in a letter to one who took the lead then and since in all good work for Birmingham, Mr. Arthur Ryland, The reading would, he said in this letter (7th of Jan. 1853), * take about two hours, with a pause * of ten minutes 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. ' t Baron Tauchnitz, describing to me his long and uninterrupted friendly intercourse with Dickens, has this re- mark : * I give also a passage from one ' of his letters written at the time * when he sent his son Charles, through * my mediation, to Leipzig. He says ' in it what he desires for his son. '* I * " want him to have all interest in, * ** and to acquire a knowledge of, the * ** life around him, and to be treated * ** like a gentleman though pampered * **in nothing. By punctuality in all * ** things, great or small, I set great ' "store."' Home Incidents. 153 that the overstrain of attempting too much, brought upon him by London : the necessities of his weekly periodical, became first apparent in Dickens. Not unfrequently a complaint strange upon his lips fell from him. ' Hypochondriacal whisperings tell me that I am * rather overworked. The spring does not seem to fly back again sdf- * directly, as it always did when I put my own work aside, and ^^''"^^'^ * had nothing else to do. Yet I have everything to keep me * going with a brave heart. Heaven knows ! ' Courage and hope- fulness he might well derive from the increasing sale of Bleak House, which had risen to nearly forty thousand ; but he could no longer bear easily what he carried so lightly of old, and enjoy- ments with work were too much for him. 'What with Bleak * House and Household Words and Child's History ' (he dictated from week to week the papers which formed that little book, and cannot be said to have quite hit the mark with it), * and Miss ' Coutts's Home, and the invitations to feasts and festivals, I * really feel as if my head would split like a fired shell if I * remained here.' He tried Brighton first, but did not find it answer and returned. * A few days of unalloyed enjoyment were afterwards given to the visit of his excellent American friend Felton ; and on the 13th of June he was again in Boulogne, thanking heaven for escape from a breakdown. ' If I had sub- * stituted anybody's knowledge of myself for my own, and lingered * in London, I never could have got through.' What befell him in Boulogne will be given, with the incidents Boulogne" 1853- * From one of his letters while ' profoundly staring -^t these lines for there I take a passage of observation * half-an-hour together— and even go full of character. ' Great excitement * back to stare again— that I feel quite ' here about a wretched woman who * certain they had not the power of ' has murdered her child. Apropos * thinking about the thing at all con- * of which I observed a curious thing * nectedly or continuously, without * last night. The newspaper offices * having something about it before * (local journals) had placards like this ' their sense of sight. Having got ' outside : ' that, they were considering the case, ' wondering how the devil they had ' CHILD MURDER IN BRIGHTON. « ^ome into that power. I saw one * INQUEST. * man in a smock frock lose the said * COMMITTAL OF THE MURDERESS. ' power the moment he turned away, * and bring; his hob-nails back again.' I saw so many common people staatl ^54 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book Vii. Boulogne : of his sccond and third summer visits to the place, on a later 1853. page. He completed Bleak House by the third week of August, Projected and it was resolved to celebrate the event by a two months' trip trip to , Italy. to Italy, in company with Mr. Wilkie Collins and Mr. Augustus Egg. The start was to be made from Boulogne in the middle of October, when he would send his family home ; and he described the intervening weeks as a fearful * reaction and prostration of * laziness ' only broken by the Child's History. At the end of September he wrote : ' I finished the httle History yesterday, and ' am trying to think of something for the Christmas number. * After which I shall knock off ; having had quite enough to do, * small as it would have seemed to me at any other time, since I * finished Bleak House.' He added, a week before his departure : * I get letters from Genoa and Lausanne as if I were going to * stay in each place at least a month. If I were to measure my * deserts by people's remembrance of me, I should be a prodigy * of intolerability. Have recovered my Italian, which I had all * but forgotten, and am one entire and perfect chrysolite of * idleness.* BiRMiNG- From this trip, of which the incidents have an interest inde- HAM : 1853- pendent of my ordinary narrative, Dickens was home again in the middle of December 1853, and kept his promise to his Birmingham friends by reading in their Town Hall his Christinas Carol on the 27th,* and his Cricket on the Hearth on the 29th. The enthusiasm was great, and he consented to read his Carol a second time, on First Friday the 30th, if seats were reserved for working men at prices public readings. within their means. The result was an addition of between four and five hundred pounds to the funds for establishment of the new Institute ; and a prettily worked flower-basket in silver, pre- sented to Mrs. Dickens, commemorated these first public readings ' to nearly six thousand people,' and the design they had generously helped. Other applications then followed to such extent that Hmits to compliance had to be put ; and a letter of the 1 6th of May 1854 is one of many that express both the diffi- culty in which he found himself, and his much desired expedient jj| * The reading occupied nearly three hours : double the time devoted to it ia the later years. Home Incidents, 155 for solving it. 'The objection you suggest to paid public = * lecturing does not strike me at all. It is worth consideration, - 77 ° ' As to paid ' but I do not think there is anything in it On the contrary, if ^^ifj'^p^^^ ' the lecturing would have any motive power at all (like my poor ' father this, in the sound !) I believe it would tend the other way. * In the Colchester matter I had already received a letter from a ' Colchester magnate ; to whom I had honestly replied that 'I ' stood pledged to Christmas readings at Bradford * and at * Reading, and could in no kind of reason do more in the public * way.' The promise to the people of Reading was for Talfourd's sake ; the other was given after the Birmingham nights, when an institute in Bradford asked similar help, and offered a fee of fifty pounds. At first this was entertained : but was abandoned, with Argument against some reluctance, upon the argument that to become publicly a read- reader must alter without improving his position publicly as a writer, and that it was a change to be justified only when the higher calling should have failed of the old success. Thus yielding for the time, he nevertheless soon found the question rising again with the same importunity ; his own position to it being always that of a man assenting against his will that it should rest in abeyance. But nothing farther was resolved on yet. The readings mentioned came off as promised, in aid of public objects ;t a-nd besides others two years later for the family of a * * After correspondence with all wrote in the autumn of 1855 - * ^^^h * parts of England, and every kind of ' of Sept. I am going to read for * refusal and evasion on my part, I am * them here, on the 5th of next month, * now obliged to decide this question ' and have answered in the last fort- * — whether I shall read two nights at * night thirty applications to do the * Bradford for a hundred pounds. If * like all over England, Ireland, and *I do, I may take as many hundred 'Scotland. Fancy my having to come * pounds as I choose.' 27th of Jan. ' from Paris in December, to do this, 1854. * at Peterborough, Birmingham, ami t On the 28th of Dec. 1854 he 'Sheffield — old promises.* Again : Q^^j^ifQ^g wrote from Bradford : ' The hall is 23rd of Sept. * I am going to read Readings. ' enormous, and they expect to seat * here, next P'riday week. There are ' 37CO people to-night ! Notwith- ' (as there are everywhere) a Literary ' standing which, it seems to me a ' Institution and a Working Men's * tolerably easy place — except that * Institution, which have not the * the width of the platform is so * slii^htest sympathy or connexion. ' very great to the eye at first.' From 'The stalls are five sliillings, l)ut I Fuikebtone, on kis way to Paris, he ' have made ilicu; fix the working 156 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VII. London: friend, he had given the like liberal help to institutes in Folke- stone, Chatham, and again in Birmingham, Peterborough, Sheffield, Coventry, and Edinburgh, before the question settled itself finally in the announcement for paid public readings issued by him in 1858. Children's Carrying memory back to his home in the first half of 1854, theatricals. ^^^^ things that rise more pleasantly in connection with it than the children's theatricals. These began with the first Twelfth Night at Tavistock House, and were renewed until the principal actors ceased to be children. The best of the performances were Tom Thumb and Forttmio, in '54 and '55; Dickens now joining first in the revel, and Mr. Mark Lemon Big actors, bringing into it his own clever children and a very mountain of child-pleasing fun in himself. Dickens had become very intimate with him, and his merry genial ways had given him unbounded popularity with the * young 'uns/ who had no such favourite as * Uncle Mark.' In Fielding's burlesque he was the giantess Glumdalca, and Dickens was the ghost of Gaffer Thumb ; the names by which they respectively appeared being the Infant Phenomenon and the Modem Garrick. But the younger actors Small carried off the palm. There was a Lord Grizzle, at whose ballad of Miss Villikins, introduced by desire, Thackeray rolled ofi" his seat in a burst of laughter that became absurdly contagious. Yet even this, with hardly less fun from the Noodles, Doodles, and King Arthurs, was not so good as the pretty, fantastic, comic grace of Dollalolla, Huncamunca, and Tom. The girls wore steadily the grave airs irresistible when put on by little children ; and an actor not out of his fourth year, who went through the comic songs and the tragic exploits without a wrong note or a victim unslain, represented the small helmeted hero. He was in Henry the bills as Mr. H , but bore in fact the name of the Fielding Dickens. illustrious author whose conception he embodied; and who certainly would have hugged him for Tom's opening song, delivered in the arms of Huncamunca, if he could have forgiven * men's admission at threepence, and * be got' In 1857, at Sir Joseph * I hope it may bring them together. Paxton's request, he read his Carol ' The event comes oflf in a carpenter's at Coventry for the Institute ' shop, as the biggest place that can §11.] Home Incidents. 157 the later master in his own craft for having composed it afresh to the air of a ditty then wildly popular . at the 'Coal Hole.'* The encores were frequent, and for the most part the little fellow responded to them; but the misplaced enthusiasm that took similar form at the heroic intensity with which he stabbed Dolla- lolla, he rebuked by going gravely on to the close. His Fortunio, Fortunia the next Twelfth Night, was not so great ; yet when, as a prelude to getting the better of the Dragon, he adulterated his drink (Mr. Lemon played the Dragon) with sherry, the sly relish with which he watched the demoralization, by this means, of his formidable adversary into a helpless imbecility, was perfect. Here Dickens played the testy old Baron, and took advantage of the excitement against the Czar raging in 1855 to denounce him (in Y^a^I 2l song) as no other than own cousin to the very Bear that Fortunio had gone forth to subdue. He depicted him, in his desolation of autocracy, as the Robinson Crusoe of absolute state, who had at his court many a show-day and many a high- day, but hadn't in all his dominions a Friday. f The bill, which attributed these interpolations to * the Dramatic Poet ot the * Establishment,' deserves allusion also for the fun of the six large- lettered announcements which stood at the head of it, and could • My name it is Tom Thumb, * portion of the extravaganza put into Small my size, « mouth of one of the characters ma my sue, « f-Qj. jj^g moment a few lines of bur- My name it is Tom Thumb, Small my size. * lesque upon Macbeth, and we re- Yet though I am so small, ' member Mr. Dickens's unsuccessful I have kill'd the giants tall ; < attempts to teach the performer how And now I'm paid for all. , Macready, whom he (the Small my size, < _r \ v, j ■ a j Small my size; 'performer) had never seen! And And now I'm paid for all, ' after the performance, when we were Small my size. « restored to our evening-party cos- * tumes, and the school-room was t This finds mention, I observe, * cleared for dancing, still a stray Account by in a pleasant description of ' Mr. * "property" or two had escaped ilie o"e of the • Dickens's Amateur Theatricals,' * vigilant eye of the property-man, for which appeared in Macmillan's Maga- • Douglas Jerrold had picked up the zine two years ago, by one who had ' horse's head (Fortunio's faithful steed been a member of the Juvenile Com- ' Comrade), and was holding it up pany. I quote a passage, recom- ' before the gi-eatest living animal mending the whole paper as very * painter, who had been one of tlic agreeably written, with some shrewd ' audience, with ** Looks a^ if it kui.'W criticism. 'Mr. Planche had in one ' Edwi» !" ' The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book vii. London : i8ss. Mr. Crummies. Smallest of the come- dians. Speaking at Drury- lane. not have been bettered by Mr. Crummies himself. * Re-engage- ' ment of that irresistible comedian ' (the performer of Lord Grizzle) ' Mr. Ainger ! ' * Reappearance of Mr. H. who created * so powerful an impression last year ! ' * Return of Mr. Charles * Dickens Junior from his German engagements ! ' ' Engagement * of Miss Kate, who declined the munificent offers of the Manage- ' ment last season ! ' ' Mr. Passd, Mr. Mudperiod, Mr. Measly ' Servile, and Mr. Wilkini Collini ! ' * First appearance on any * stage of Mr. Plornishmaroontigoonter (who has been kept out of ' bed at a vast expense).' The last performer mentioned* was yet at some distance from the third year of his age. Dickens was Mr. Passe. The home incidents of the summer and autumn of 1855 may be mentioned briefly. It was a year of much unsettled discontent with him, and upon return from a short trip to Paris with Mr. Wilkie Collins, he flung himself rather hotly into agitation with the administrative reformers, and spoke at one of the great meetings in Drury-lane Theatre. * Generally I quite agree with * you that they hardly know what to be at ; but it is an immensely * difficult subject to start, and they must have every allowance. * At any rate, it is not by leaving them alone and giving them no * help, that they can be urged on to success.' In the following month (April) he took occasion, even from the chair of the General Theatrical Fund, to give renewed expression to political dissatisfactions. * The Government hit took immensely ; but I'm * He went with the rest to Bou- logne in the summer, and an anecdote transmitted in one of his father's letters will show that he maintained the reputation as a comedian which his early debut had awakened. 'Original * AnecdoteofthePlornishghen- * TER. This distinguished wit, being ' at Boulogne with his family, made ' a close acquaintance with his land- * lord, whose name was M. Beaucourt ' — the only French word with which ' he was at that time acquainted. It * happened that one day he was left * unusually long in a bathing-machine when the tide was making, accom- panied by his two young brothers and little English nurse, without be- ing drawn to land. The little nurse, being frightened, cried '* M'soo ! " M'soo ! " The two young brothers being frightened, cried " Ici ! Ici !" Our wit, at once perceiving that his English was of no use to him under the foreign circumstances, immedi- ately fell to bawling *' Beau-court ! " which he continued to shout at the utmost pitch of his voice and with great gravity, until rescued. — New Boulogne Jest Book, page 578.' Home Incidents. 159 'afraid to look at the report, these things are so ill done.' In London: 1855. the summer he threw open to many friends his Tavistock House Theatre, having secured for its 'lessee and manager Mr. * Crummies ; ' for its poet Mr. Wilkie Collins, in ' an entirely * new and original domestic melodrama ; ' and for its scene- painter 'Mr. Stanfield, R.A.'* The Lighthouse^ by Mr. Wilkie Tavistock ^ ^ House Collins, was then produced, its actors being Mr. Crummies the theatricals, manager (Dickens in other words), the Author of the play, Mr. Lemon and Mr. Egg, and the manager's sister-in-law and eldest daughter. It was followed by the Guild farce of Mr. Nightin- gale's Diary, in which, besides the performers named, and Dickens in his old personation part, the manager's youngest daughter and Mr. Frank Stone assisted. The success was wonderful ; and in the three delighted audiences who crowded to what the bills described as ' the smallest theatre in the world,' were not a few of the notabilities of London. Mr. Carlyle compared Dickens's Mr. Car- wild picturesqueness in the old lighthouse keeper to the famous figure in Nicholas Poussin's bacchanalian dance in the National Gallery; and at one of the joyous suppers that followed on each night of the play, Lord Campbell told the company that he had Loj the float — an immense * everybody who came in a vinegar- * success. ' * cruet. The man who read the will 238 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Rook VI II. London: ^857. II. WHAT HAPPENED AT THIS TIME. 1857— 1858. An unsettled feeling greatly in excess of what was usual with Dickens, more or less observable since his first residence at Boulogne, became at this time almost habitual, and the satis- factions which home should have supplied, and which indeed were essential requirements of his nature, he had failed to find in his home. He had not the alternative that under this disap- pointment some can discover in what is called society. It did not Disappoint- suit him, and he set no store by it. No man was better fitted to ments and distastes. adorn any circle he entered, but beyond that of friends and equals he rarely passed. He would take as much pains to keep out of the houses of the great as others take to get into them. Not always wisely, it may be admitted. Mere contempt for toadyism and flunkeyism was not at all times the prevailing motive with him which he supposed it to be. Beneath his horror of those vices of Englishmen in his own rank of life, there was a still stronger resentment at the social inequalities that engender them, of which he was not so conscious and to which he owned less freely. Not the less it served secretly to justify what he might otherwise have had no mind to. To say he was not a gentleman would be as true as to say he was not a writer ; but if any one should assert his occasional preference for what was even beneath his level over that which was above it, this would be difficult of disproof. It was among those defects of temperament for which his early trials and his early successes were accountable in perhaps What we equal measure. He was sensitive in a passionate degree to praise are!"^" and blame, which yet he made it for the most part a point of pride to assume indifference to ; the inequalities of rank which he secretly resented took more galling as well as glaring pro- minence from the contrast of the necessities he had gone through with the fame that had come to him ; and when the forces he § tl.] What Happened at this Time. 239 most affected to despise assumed the form of barriers he could London : 1857. not easily overleap, he was led to appear frequently intolerant (for he very seldom was really so) in opinions and language. His early sufferings brought with them the healing powers of energy, will, and persistence, and taught him the inexpressible value of a determined resolve to live down difficulties ; but the habit, in Contrasted . 1 • /. • • 1 • influences. small as m great thmgs, of renunciation and self-sacrifice, they did not teach ; and, by his sudden leap into a world-wide popu- larity and influence, he became master of everything that might seem to be attainable in life, before he had mastered what a man must undergo to be equal to its hardest trials. Nothing of all this has yet presented itself to notice, except in occasional forms of restlessness and desire of change of place, which were themselves, when his books were in progress, so incident as well to the active requirements of his fancy as to call, thus far, for no other explanation. Up to the date of the com- pletion of Copperfield he had felt himself to be in possession of an Compensa- all-sufficient resource. Against whatever might befall he had a set-off in his imaginative creations, a compensation derived from his art that never failed him, because there he was supreme. It was the world he could bend to his will, and make subserve to all his desires. He had otherwise, underneath his exterior of a singular precision, method, and strictly orderly arrangement in all things, and notwithstanding a temperament to which home and home interests were really a necessity, something in common with those eager, impetuous, somewhat overbearing natures, that Hidden rush at existence without heeding the cost of it, and are not more ^^"'^ ready to accept and make the most of its enjoyments than to be easily and quickly overthrown by its burdens.* But the world he * Anything more completely op- posed to the Micawber type could hardly be conceived, and yet there were moments (really and truly only moments) when the fancy would arise that if the conditions of his life had been reversed, something of a vaga- bond existence (using the word in Goldsmith's meaning) might have supervened. It would have been an unspeakable misery to him, but it might have come nevertheless. The question of hereditary transmission had a curious attraction for him, and considerations connected with it were frequently present to his mind. Of a youth who had fallen into a father's weaknesses without the possibility of 240 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book VI 1 1. London : had Called into being had thus far borne him safely through these perils. He had his own creations always by his side. They were living, speaking companions. With them only he was everywhere thoroughly identified. He laughed and wept with them ; was as much elated by their fun as cast down by their grief ; and brought to the consideration of them a belief in their reality as well as in the influences they were meant to exercise, which in every circumstance sustained him. Misgivings. It was during the composition of Little Dorrit that I think he first felt a certain strain upon his invention which brought with it other misgivings. In a modified form this was present during the later portions of Bleak House, of which not a few of the defects might be traced to the acting excitements amid which it was written ; but the succeeding book made it plainer to him ; and it is remarkable that in the interval between them he resorted for the first and only time in his life to a practice, which he abandoned at the close of his next and last story published in the twenty-number form, of putting down written * Memoranda ' of Written suggestions for characters or incidents by way of resource to him fofSeT in his writing. Never before had his teeming fancy seemed to want such help ; the need being less to contribute to its fulness than to check its overflowing ; but it is another proof that he had been secretly bringing before himself, at least, the possibility that what had ever been his great support might some day desert him. It was strange that he should have had such doubt, and he would hardly have confessed it openly ; but apart from that wonderful world of his books, the range of his thoughts was not always pro- portioned to the width and largeness of his nature. His ordinary circle of activity, whether in likings or thinkings, was full of such surprising animation, that one was apt to believe it more com- prehensive than it really was ; and again and again, when a wide having himself observed them for imi- * What A. evidently derives from his tation, he thus w^rote on one occasion : * father cannot in his case be derived * It suggests the strangest considera- * from association and observation, ' tion as to which of our own failings * but must be in the very principles * we are really responsible, and as to * of his individuality as a living * which of them we cannot quite * creature.' * reasonably hold ourselves to be so. What Happened at this Time. 241 horizon might seem to be ahead of him, he would pull up suddenly • and stop short, as though nothing lay beyond. For the time, ^ ^^^^^^ — though each had its term and change, he was very much a man without of one idea, each having its turn of absolute predominance ; and this was one of the secrets of the thoroughness with which every- thing he took in hand was done. As to the matter of his writings, the actual truth was that his creative genius never really failed hinL Not a few of his inventions of character and humour, up to the very close of his life, his Marigolds, Lirripers, Gargerys, Pips, Sapseas and many others, were as fresh and fine as in his greatest day. He had however lost the free and fertile method of the earlier time. He could no longer fill a wide-spread canvas impatience with the same facility and certainty as of old ; and he had fre- founded quently a quite unfounded apprehension of some possible break- down, of which the end might be at any moment beginning. There came accordingly, from time to time, intervals of unusual impatience and restlessness, strange to me in connection with his home ; his old pursuits were too often laid aside for other excite- ments and occupations; he joined a public political agitation, set on foot by administrative reformers ; he got up various quasi- public private theatricals, in which he took the leading place ; and though it was but part of his always generous devotion in any friendly duty to organize the series of performances on his friend Jerrold's death, yet the eagerness with which he flung himself into them, so arranging them as to assume an amount of labour in acting and travelling that might have appalled an experienced comedian, and carrying them on week after week unceasingly in London and the provinces, expressed but the craving which still had possession of him to get by some means at some change that should make existence easier. What was highest in his nature had ceased for the time to be highest in his life, and he had put himself at the mercy of lower accidents and conditions. The mere effect of the strolling wandering ways into which this acting led him could not be other than unfavourable. But remonstrance as yet was unavailing. To one very earnestly made in the early autumn of 1857, in which opportunity was taken to compare his recent rush up VOL. II. K 242 The Life of Charles Dickens, [book vill. London : Camck Fell to his rush into other difficulties, here was the reply. 1857. ' . * Too late to say, put the curb on, and don't rush at hills — the * wrong man to say it to. I have now no relief but in action. * I am become incapable of rest. I am quite confident I should ' rust, break, and die, if I spared myself. Much better to die, ^ doing. What I am in that way, nature made me first, and my Reply to < way of Hfc has of late, alas ! confirmed. I must accept the a remon- strance. <■ drawback — since it is one — with the powers I have ; and I must ' hold upon the tenure prescribed to me.' Something of the same sad feeling, it is right to say, had been expressed from time to time, in connection also with home dissatisfactions and mis- givings, through the three years preceding; but I attributed it to other causes, and gave little attention to it. During his absences abroad for the greater part of 1854, '55, and '56, while the elder of his children were growing out of childhood, and his books were less easy to him than in his earlier manhood, evidences presented themselves in his letters of the old * unhappy loss or ' want of something ' to which he had given a pervading pro- minence in Copperfield. In the first of those years he made express allusion to the kind of experience which had been one of his descriptions in that favourite book, and, mentioning the Dangerous drawbacks of his present life, had first identified it with his own : comfort. * the so happy and yet so unhappy existence which seeks its ' realities in unrealities, and finds its dangerous comfort in a per- ' petual escape firom the disappointment of heart around it.' Later in the same year he thus wrote from Boulogne : * I have ' had dreadful thoughts of getting away somewhere altogether by ' myself. If I could have managed it, I think possibly I might ' have gone to the Pyreennees (you know what I mean that word ' for, so I won't re-write it) for six months ! I have put the idea * into the perspective of six months, but have not abandoned it. * I have visions of living for half a year or so, in all sorts of * inaccessible places, and opening a new book therein. A floating j^'ace»to < idea of going up above the snow-line in Switzerland, and living Dooks in. <■ in some astonishing convent, hovers about me. If Household * Words could be got into a good train, in short, I don't know ' iii what strange place, or at what remote elevation above the § II.] What Happened at this Time. 243 * level of the sea, I might fall to work next. Restlessness^ you will Londom: * say. Whatever it is, it is always driving me, and I cannot help * it. I have rested nine or ten weeks, and sometimes feel as if * it had been a year — though I had the strangest nervous miseries * before I stopped. If I couldn't walk fast and far, I should just * explode and perish.' Again, four months later he wrote : ' You * will hear of me in Paris, probably next Sunday, and I may go * on to Bordeaux. Have general ideas of emigrating in the ' summer to the mountain-ground between France and Spain. * Am altogether in a dishevelled state of mind — motes of new * books in the dirty air, miseries of older growth threatening to close upon me. Why is it, that as with poor David, a sense One happitiess ' comes always crushing on me now, when I fall into low spirits, missed. * as of one happiness I have missed in life, and one friend and * companion I have never made ? ' Early in 1856 (20th of January) the notion revisited him of writing a book in solitude. * Again I am beset by my former * notions of a book whereof the whole story shall be on the top * of the Great St. Bernard. As I accept and reject ideas for ' Little Dorritj it perpetually comes back to me. Two or three ' years hence, perhaps you'll find me living with the Monks and More book projects. ' the Dogs a whole winter — among the blinding snows that fall * about that monastery. I have a " serious idea that I shall do it, * if I live.' He was at this date in Paris ; and during the visit to him of Macready in the following April, the self-revelations were resumed. The great actor was then living in retirement at Sherborne, to which he had gone on quitting the stage ; and Dickens gave favourable report of his enjoyment of the change to his little holiday at Paris. Then, after recurring to his own old notion of having some slight idea of going to settle in Austraha, only he could not do it until he should have finished Little Dorrity he went on to say that perhaps Macready, if he could get into harness again, would not be the worse for some such troubles as were worrying himself. * It fills me with pity * to think of him away in that lonely Sherborne place. I have * always felt of myself that I must, please God, die in harness, * but I have never felt it more strongly than in looking at, and 244 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book viii. London: < thinking of, him. However strange it is to be never at rest, and ' never satisfied, and ever trying after something that is never Homily on < reached, and to be always laden with plot and plan and care * and worry, how clear it is that it must be, and that one is driven ' by an irresistible might until the journey is worked out ! It is * much better to go on and fret, than to stop and fret. As to * repose— for some men there's no such thing in this life. The * foregoing has the appearance of a small sermon j but it is so * often in my head in these days that it cannot help coming out. * The old days — the old days ! Shall I ever, I wonder, get the * frame of mind back as it used to be then ? Something of it * perhaps — but never quite as it used to be. I find that the ' skeleton in my domestic closet is becoming a pretty big one.' It would be unjust and uncandid not to admit that these and other similar passages in the letters that extended over the years while he lived abroad, had served in some degree as a preparation for what came after his return to England in the following year. blhinV*^ It came with a great shock nevertheless ; because it told plainly what before had never been avowed, but only hinted at more or less obscurely. The opening reference is to the reply which had been made to a previous expression of his wish for some con- fidences as in the old time. I give only what is strictly necessary to account for what followed, and even this with deep reluctance. * Your letter of yesterday was so kind and hearty, and sounded so * gently the many chords we have touched together, that I cannot * leave it unanswered, though I have not much (to any purpose) dences * reference to " confidences " was merely to the ' relief of saying a word of what has long been pent up in my * mind. Poor Catherine and I are not made for each other, and *■ there is no help for it. It is not only that she makes me uneasy * and unhappy, but that I make her so too — and much more so. * She is exactly what you know, in the way of being amiable and * complying ; but we are strangely ill-assorted for the bond there * is between us. God knows she would have been a thousand * times happier if she had married another kind of man, and that * her avoidance of this destiny would have been at least equally ' good for us both. I am often cut to the heart by thinking what §11.] What Happened at this Time, 245 * a pity it is, for her own sake, that I ever fell in her way ; and if London : * I were sick or disabled to-morrow, I know how sorry she would * be, and how deeply grieved myself, to think how we had lost ^^^^^J")^ * each other. But exactly the same incompatibility would arise, * the moment I was well again ; and nothing on earth could make * her understand me, or suit us to each other. Her temperament * will not go with mine. It mattered not so much when we had ' only ourselves to consider, but reasons have been growing since * which make it all but hopeless that we should even try to * struggle on. What is now befalling me I have seen steadily ' coming, ever since the days you remember when Mary was * bom ; and I know too well that you cannot, and no one can, ' help me. Why I have even written I hardly know ; but it is a * miserable sort of comfort that you should be clearly aware how * matters stand. The mere mention of the fact, without any * complaint or blame of any sort, is a relief to my present state of * spirits — and I can get this only from you, because I can speak * of it to no one else.' In the same tone was his rejoinder to my reply. * To the most part of what you say — Amen ! You are * not so tolerant as perhaps you might be of the wayward and un- ' settled feeling which is part (I suppose) of the tenure on which * one holds an imaginative life, and which I have, as you ought to 'Tenure of * know well, often only kept down by riding over it like a dragoon • tSv^iife.' * — but let that go by. I make no maudlin complaint I agree * with you as to the very possible incidents, even not less bearable * than mine, that might and must often occur to the married con- * dition when it is entered into very young. I am always deeply * sensible of the wonderful exercise I have of life and its highest * sensations, and have said to myself for years, and have honestly * and truly felt. This is the drawback to such a career, and is not * to be complained of. I say it and feel it now as strongly as * ever I did ; and, as I told you in my last, I do not with that * view put all this forward. But the years have not made it easier * to bear for either of us : and, for her sake as well as mine, the sharing blame. * wish will force itself upon me that something might be done. I * know too well it is impossible. There is the fact, and that is * all one can say. Nor are you to suppose that I disguise from 246 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI 11 London : 1857- Opportunity missed and better influences weakened. What the world can- not give. Old project revived. * myself what might be urged on the other side. I claim no * immunity from blame. There is plenty of fault on my side, I * dare say, in the way of a thousand uncertainties, caprices, and * difficulties of disposition ; but only one thing will alter all that, * and that is, the end which alters everything.' It will not seem to most people that there was anything here which in happier circumstances might not have been susceptible of considerate adjustment; but all the circumstances were un- favourable, and the moderate middle course which the admissions In that letter might wisely have prompted and wholly justified, was unfortunately not taken. Compare what before was said of his temperament, with what is there said by himself of its defects, and the explanation will not be difficult. Every counteracting influence against the one idea which now predominated over him had been so weakened as to be almost powerless. His elder children were no longer children ; his books had lost for the time the importance they formerly had over every other consideration in his life ; and he had not in himself the resource that such a man, judging him from the surface, might be expected to have had. Not his genius only, but his whole nature, was too ex- clusively made up of sympathy for, and with, the real in its most intense form, to be sufficiently provided against failure in the realities around him. There was for him no * city of the mind ' against outward ills, for inner consolation and shelter. It was in and from the actual he still stretched forward to find the freedom and satisfactions of an ideal, and by his very attempts to escape the world he was driven back into the thick of it. But what he would have sought there, it supplies to none; and to get the infinite out of anything so finite, has broken many a stout heart. At the close of that last letter from Gadshill (5th of September) was this question — * What do you think of my paying for this ' place, by reviving that old idea of some Readings from my * books. I am very strongly tempted. Think of it' The reasons against it had great force, and took, in my judgment, greater from the time at which it was again proposed. The old ground of opposition remained. It was a substitution of lower for higher aims ; a change to commonplace from more elevated § II.] What Happened at this Time. 247 pursuits ; and it had so much of the character of a public exhibi- London : tion for money as to raise, in the question of respect for his tions to iu calling as a writer, a question also of respect for himself as a objecd gentleman. This opinion, now strongly reiterated, was referred ultimately to two distinguished ladies of his acquaintance, who decided against it* Yet not without such momentary misgiving in the direction of * the stage,' as pointed strongly to the danger, which, by those who took the opposite view, was most of all thought incident to the particular time of the proposal. It might be a wild exaggeration to fear that he was in danger of being led to adopt the stage as a calling, but he was certainly about to place himself within reach of not a few of its drawbacks and dis- advantages. To the full extent he perhaps did not himself know, Disadvan- tages 01 how much his eager present wish to become a public reader was public . . reading. but the outcome of the restless domestic discontents of the last four years ; and that to indulge it, and the unsettled habits in- separable from it, was to abandon every hope of resettling his disordered home. There is nothing, in its appHcation to so divine a genius as Shakespeare, more affecting than his expressed dislike to a profession, which, in the jealous self-watchfulness of * * You may as well know ' (20th of * As she wished me to ask B, who was March 1858) ' that I went on ' (I de- * in another room, I did so. She was signate the ladies by A and B respec- ' for a moment tremendously discon- tively) * and propounded the matter to * certed, ** under the impression that it * A, without any preparation. Result. ^ was to lead to the sta^e" {I I). * — "I am surprised, and I should ' Then, without knowing anything of * " have been surprised if I had seen ' A's opinion, closely followed it. * *' it in the newspaper without pre- * That absurd association had never ' " vious confidence from you. But * entered my head or yours ; but it * ** nothing more. N — no. Certainly ' might enter some other heads for all '"not. Nothing more. I don't see 'that. Take these two opinions for ' " that there is anything derogatory * whatever they are worth. A (being ' " in it, even now when you ask me * very much interested and very anxious * " that question. I think upon the ' tohelp to aright conclusion) proposed ' ' ' whole that most people would be ' to ask a few people of various de- ' " glad you should have the money, ' grees who know what the Reading* '" rather than other people. It might 'are, what they think — not compro- * " be misunderstood here and there, ' misingme, but suggesting the project C { ' at first ; but I think the thing ' afar-off, as an idea in somebody * would very soon express itself, and * else's mind. I thanked her, and said * " that your own power of making it ' " Yes," of course.' • ** express itself would be very great." The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book Vlll. his noble nature, he feared might hurt his mind.* The long sub- sequent line of actors admirable in private as in public life, and all the gentle and generous associations of the histrionic art, have not weakened the testimony of its greatest name against its less favourable influences ; against the laxity of habits it may en- courage ; and its public manners, bred of public means, not always compatible with home felicities and duties. But, freely open as Dickens was to counsel in regard of his books, he was, for reasons formerly stated,t less accessible to it on points of personal conduct ; and when he had neither self-distrust nor self- denial to hold him back, he would push persistently forward to whatever object he had in view. An occurrence of the time hastened the decision in this case. An enterprise had been set on foot for establishment of a hos- pital for sick children ; J a large old-fashioned mansion in Great Ormond-street, with spacious garden, had been fitted up with more than thirty beds ; during the four or five years of its exist- ence, outdoor and indoor relief had been afforded by it to nearly fifty thousand children, of whom thirty thousand were under five years of age ; but, want of funds having threatened to arrest the merciful work, it was resolved to try a public dinner by way of charitable appeal, and for president the happy choice was made of one who had enchanted everybody with the joys and sorrows of little children. Dickens threw himself into the service heart and soul. There was a simple pathos in his address from the * Oh ! for my sake do you with Fortune chide The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand ; And almost thence my nature is sub- du'd ; To what it works in, like the dyer's hand. . . Pity me then, and wish I were re- new'd. . - Sonnet cxi. And in the preceding Sonnet ex. Alas ! 'tis true I have gone here and there, And made myself a motley to the view, Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear. . . + See the remarks made ante^ i. 40. X The Board of Health returns, showing that out of every annual thou- sand of deaths in London, the immense proportion of four hundred were those of children under four years old, had established the necessity for such a scheme. Of course the stress of this mortality fell on the children of the poor, * dragged up rather than brought * up,' as Charles Lamb expressed it, and perishing unhelped by the way. §11.] What Happened at this Time. 249 chair quite startling in its effect at such a meeting ; and he pro- London : bably never moved any audience so much as by the strong per- sonal feeHng with which he referred to the sacrifices made for the o/^Jjjfpoof Hospital by the very poor themselves : from whom a subscription of fifty pounds, contributed in single pennies, had come to the treasurer during almost every year it had been open. The whole speech, indeed, is the best of the kind spoken by him ; and two little pictures from it, one of the misery he had witnessed, the other of the remedy he had found, should not be absent from the picture of his own life. ' Some years ago, being in Scotland, I went with one of the ' most humane members of the most humane of professions, on * a morning tour among some of the worst lodged inhabitants of * the old town of Edinburgh. In the closes and wyrids of that * picturesque place (I am sorry to remind you what fast friends * picturesqueness and typhus often are), we saw more poverty * and sickness in an hour than many people would believe in, in * a life. Our way lay from one to another of the most wretched * dwellings, reeking with horrible odours j shut out from the sky * and from the air, mere pits and dens. In a room in one of * these places, where there was an empty porridge-pot on the cold * hearth, a ragged woman and some ragged children crouching on a sad * the bare ground near it, — and, I remember as I speak, where ' the very light, refracted from a high damp-stained wall outside, * came in trembling, as if the fever which had shaken everything * else had shaken even it, — there lay, in an old egg-box which the * mother had begged fi-om a shop, a little, feeble, wan, sick child. * With his little wasted face, and his little^ hot worn hands folded ' over his breast, and his little bright attentive eyes, I can see him * now, as I have seen him for several years, looking steadily at us. * There he lay in his small frail box, which was not at all a bad Smaii * emblem of the small body from which he was slowly parting — p"""^"*' ' there he lay, quite quiet, quite patient, saying never a word. He * seldom cried, the mother said ; he seldom complained ; " he lay * " there, seemin' to woonder what it was a' abooL" God knows, * I thought, as I stood looking at him, he had his reasons for * wondering . . . Many a poor child, sick and neglected, I have The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI i I. * seen since that time in London ; many have I also seen most * affectionately tended, in unwholesome houses and hard circum- *■ stances where recovery was impossible ; but at all such times I * have seen my little drooping friend in his egg-box, and he has * always addressed his dumb wonder to me what it meant, and * why, in the name of a gracious God, such things should be ! . . . * But, ladies and gentlemen,' Dickens added, * such things need * NOT be, and will not be, if this company, which is a drop of the * life-blood of the great compassionate public heart, will only * accept the means of rescue and prevention which it is mine to ' offer. Within a quarter of a mile of this place where I speak, *■ stands a once courtly old house, where blooming children were * bom, and grew up to be men and women, and married, and ' brought their own blooming children back to patter up the old * oak staircase which stood but the other day, and to wonder at * the old oak carvings on the chimney-pieces. In the airy wards * into which the old state drawing-rooms and family bedchambers * of that house are now converted, are lodged such small patients * that the attendant nurses look like reclaimed giantesses, and the ' kind medical practitioner like an amiable Christian ogre. * Grouped about the little low tables in the centre of the rooms, * are such tiny convalescents that they seem to be playing at * having been ill. On the doll's beds are such diminutive * creatures that each poor sufferer is supplied with its tray of toys : * and, looking round, you may see how the little tired flushed * cheek has toppled over half the brute creation on its way into * the ark ; or how one little dimpled arm has mowed down (as I * saw myself) the whole tin soldiery of Europe.* On the walls of * these rooms are graceful, pleasant, bright, childish pictures. At * the beds' heads, hang representations of the figure which is the * universal embodiment of all mercy and compassion, the figure * of Him who was once a child Himself, and a poor one. But ' alas ! reckoning up the number of beds that are there, the ' visitor to this Child's Hospital will find himself perforce obliged * to stop at very little over thirty ; and will learn, with sorrow and * The reader may be referred to the for the uses to which Dickens after- ninth chapter of Our Mutual Friend wards turned this touching experience. § 11.] What Happened at this Time. 251 * surprise, that even that small number, so forlornly, so miserably London : * diminutive compared with this vast London, cannot possibly be - ~ * maintained unless the Hospital be made better known. I limit * myself to saying better known, because I will not believe that in * a Christian community of fathers and mothers, and brothers and * sisters, it can fail, being better known, to be well and richly * endowed.' It was a brave and true prediction. The Child's Hospital has never since known want. That night alone added greatly more than three thousand pounds to its funds, and Dickens put the crown to his good work by reading on its behalf, shortly afterwards, his Christ7nas Carol ; when the sum realized, and the urgent demand that followed for a repetition of the pleasure given by the reading, bore down farther opposition to the project Hospital, of his engaging publicly in such readings for himself. The Child's Hospital night was the 9th of February, its Reading was appointed for the 15th of April, and, nearly a month before, renewed efforts at remonstrance had been made. ' Your view * of the reading matter,' Dickens replied, * I still think is uncon- * sciously taken from your own particular point. You don't seem * to me to get out of yourself in considering it. A word more * upon it. You are not to think I have made up my mind. If I * had, why should I not say so ? I find very great difficulty in * doing so because of what you urge, because I know the question * to be a balance of doubts, and because I most honestly feel in * my innermost heart, in this matter (as in all others for years and * years), the honour of the calling by which I have always stood * most conscientiously. But do you quite consider that the public Reasons' * exhibition of oneself takes place equally, whosoever may get jj" * the money ? And have you any idea that at this moment — this * very time — half the public at least supposes me to be paid ? * My dear F, out of the twenty or five-and-twenty letters a week that * I get about Readings, twenty will ask at what price, or on what * terms, it can be done. The only exceptions, in truth, are when * the correspondent is a clergyman, or a banker, or the member * for the place in question. Why, at this very time half Scotland ' believes that I am paid for going to Edinburgh ! — Here is * Greenock writes to me, and asks could it be done for a hundred The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book VIII. * pounds ? There is Aberdeen writes, and states the capacity of ' its hall, and says, though far less profitable than the very large * hall in Edinburgh, is it not enough to come on for ? W. answers ' such letters continually. ( — At this place enter Beale. He * called here yesterday morning, and then wrote to ask if I would ' see him to-day. I replied " Yes," so here he came in. With * long preface called to know whether it was possible to arrange * anything in the way of Readings for this autumn — say, six * months. Large capital at command. Could produce partners, * in such an enterprise, also with large capital. Represented such. * Returns would be enormous. Would I name a sum ? a minimum ' sum that I required to have, in any case ? Would I look at it as * a Fortune, and in no other point of view ? I shook my head, * and said, my tongue was tied on the subject for the present ; I ' might be more communicative at another time. Exit Beale in * confusion and disappointment.) — You will be happy to hear that * at one on Friday, the Lord Provost, Dean of Guild, Magistrates, * and Council of the ancient city of Edinburgh will wait (in pro- * cession) on their brother freeman, at the Music Hall, to give * him hospitable welcome. Their brother freeman has been * cursing their stars and his own, ever since the receipt of solemn * notification to this effect' But very grateful, when it came, was the enthusiasm of the greeting, and welcome the gift of the silver wassail-bowl which followed the reading of the Carol. ' I had no * opportunity of asking any one's advice in Edinburgh,' he wrote on his return. * The crowd was too enormous, and the excitement * in it much too great But my determination is all but taken. I * must do somethings or I shall wear my heart away. I can see no ' better thing to do that is half so hopeful in itself, or half so well * suited to my restless state.' What is pointed at in those last words had been taken as a ground of objection, and thus he turned it into an argument the other way. During all these months many sorrowful misunder- standings had continued in his home, and the relief sought from the misery had but the effect of making desperate any hope of a better understanding. * It becomes necessary,' he wrote at the end of March, * with a view to the arrangements that would have §11.] What Happened at this Time. 253 * to be begun next month if I decided on the Readings, to con- London: * sider and settle the question of the Plunge. Quite dismiss from * your mind any reference whatever to present circumstances Question of . . ^ . the Plunge. * at home. Nothmg can put them right, until we are all dead * and buried and risen. It is not, with me, a matter of will, or ' trial, or sufferance, or good humour, or making the best of it, or * making the worst of it, any longer. It is all despairingly over. * Have no lingering hope of, or for, me in this association. A * dismal failure has to be borne, and there an end. Will you * then try to think of this reading project (as I do) apart from all * personal likings and dislikings, and solely with a view to its ' effect on that particular relation (personally affectionate and like * no other man's) which subsists between me and the public? I * want your most careful consideration. If you would like, when ' you have gone over it in your mind, to discuss the matter with me * and Arthur Smith (who would manage the whole of the Business, * which I should never touch) ; we will make an appointment. * But I ought to add that Arthur Smith plainly says, Of the * " immense return in money, I have no doubt. Of the Dash * " into the new position, however, I am not so good a judge." * I enclose you a rough note * of my project, as it stands in my * mind.' * Here is the rough note : in which the reader will be interested to observe the limits originally placed to the pro- posal. The first Readings were to comprise only the Carols and for others a new story was to be written. He had not yet the full confidence in his power or versatility as an actor which subsequent experience gave him. * I propose to announce in a short and * plain advertisement (what is quite * true) that I cannot so much as answer ' the numerous applications that are ' made to me to read, and that com- * pliance with ever so few of them is, * in any reason, impossible. That I * have therefore resolved upon a ' course of readings of the Christmas ' Carol both in town and country, and * that those in London will take place * at St. Martin's Hall on certain even- First rough * ings. Those evenings will be either ?eadiSl° * four or six Thursdays, in May and * the beginning of June ... I pro- * pose an Autumn Tour, for the * country, extending through August, * September, and October. It would * comprise the Eastern Counties, the * West, Lancashire, Yorkshire, and * Scotland. I should read from 35 to * 40 times in this tour, at the least. * At each place where there was a * great success, I would myself an- * nounce that I should come back, on ' the turn of Christmas, to read a new * Christmas story written for that ' purpose. This story I should first * read a certain number of times m ' London. I have the strongest belief * that by April in next year, a very 254 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI 1 1. London: Mr. Arthur Smith, a man possessed of many qualities that '■ — justified the confidence Dickens placed in him, might not have Smith. been a good judge of the * Dash ' into the new position, but no man knew better every disadvantage incident to it, or was less likely to be disconcerted by any. His exact fitness to manage the scheme successfully, made him an unsafe counseller respecting it. Within a week from this time the reading for the Charity was Child's- to be given. * They have let,' Dickens wrote on the 9th of April, reading. * fivc hundred stalls for the Hospital night ; and as people come ^ every day for more, and it is out of the question to make more, * they cannot be restrained at St Martin's Hall from taking down * names for other Readings.' This closed the attempt at farther objection. Exactly a fortnight after the reading for the children's hospital, on Thursday the 29th April, came the first public reading for his own benefit ; and before the next month was over, this launch into a new life had been followed by a change in his Change in old home. Theuccforward he and his wife lived apart. The eldest son went with his mother, Dickens at once giving effect to her expressed wish in this respect ; and the other children re- mained with himself, their intercourse with Mrs. Dickens being left entirely to themselves. It was thus far an arrangement of a strictly private nature, and no decent person could have had excuse for regarding it in any other light, if public attention had not been unexpectedly invited to it by a printed statement in Unwise Household Words, Dickens was stung into this by some miser- statement able gossip at which in ordinary circumstances no man would more determinedly have been silent ; but he had now publicly to show himself, at stated times, as a public entertainer, and this, with his name even so aspersed, he found to be impossible. All * large sum of money indeed would * Readings and to nothing else, * be gained by these means. Ireland * opened in London ; I would have * would be still untouched, and I con- * the advertisements emanating from * ceive America alone (if I could * it, and also signed by some one be- ' resolve to go there) to be worth Ten * longing to it ; and they should al- * Thousand Pounds. In all these ' ways mention me as a third person — * proceedings, the Business would be * just as the Child's Hospital, for in- * wholly detached from me, and I * stance, in addressing the public, * should never appear in it. I would ' mentions mCf' ' have an office, belonging to the § in.] Gadshill Place. 255 he would concede to my strenuous resistance against such a publication, was an offer to suppress it, if, upon reference to the opinion of a certain distinguished man (still living), that opinion 'ie"er.' should prove to be in agreement with mine. Unhappily it fell in with his own, and the publication went on. It was foUov/ed by another statement, a letter subscribed with his name, which got into print without his sanction ; nothing publicly being known of it (I was not among those who had read it privately) imtil it appeared in the N'ew York Tribune. It had been addressed and given to Mr. Arthur Smith as an authority for correction of false rumours and scandals, and Mr. Smith had given a copy of it, with like intention, to the Tribune correspondent in London. Its writer referred to it always afterwards as his * vio- * lated letter.' The course taken by the author of this book at the time of these occurrences, will not be departed from here. Such illus- tration of grave defects in Dickens's character as the passage in his life affords, I have not shrunk from placing side by side with such excuses in regard to it as he had unquestionable right to claim should be put forward also. How far what remained of what alone concerned his Story took tone or colour from it, and especially from the public, altered career on which at the same time he entered, will thus be sufficiently explained ; and with anything else the public have nothing to do. III. GADSHILL PLACE. 1856— 1870. ' I WAS better pleased with Gadshill Place last Saturday,' he Gadshiu. wrote to me from Paris on the 13th of February 1856, 'on going i856-7a * down there, even than I had prepared myself to be. The * country, against every disadvantage of season, is beautiful ; and ' the house is so old fashioned, cheerful, and comfortable, that it 256 The Life of Charles Dickens. [BookVIII. Gadshill * is really pleasant to look at. The good old Rector now there, 1856-70.* *■ has lived in it six and twenty years, so I have not the heart to First de- * turn him out. He is to remain till Lady-Day next year, when oTir " ' I shall go in, please God ; make ray alterations ; furnish the * house ; and keep it for myself that summer.' Returning to England through the Kentish country with Mr. Wilkie Collins in July, other advantages occurred to him. * A railroad opened * from Rochester to Maidstone, which connects Gadshill at once Expected ' with the whole sea coast, is certainly an addition to the place, advantages. * and an enhancement of its value. Bye and bye we shall have * the London, Chatham and Dover, too ; and that will bring it * within an hour of Canterbury and an hour and a half of Dover. * I am glad to hear of your having been in the neighbourhood. * There is no healthier (marshes avoided), and none in my eyes * more beautiful. One of these days I shall show you some places ' up the Medway with which you will be charmed.' The association with his youthful fancy that first made the place attractive to him has been told ; and it was with wonder he had heard one day, from his friend and fellow worker at House- hold Words, Mr. W. H. Wills, that not only was the house for sale to which he had so often looked wistfully, but that the lady chiefly interested as its owner had been long known and much esteemed by himself. Such curious chances led Dickens to the saying he so frequently repeated about the smallness of the world (anU, i. 69) j but the close relation often found thus existing between things and persons far apart, suggests not so much the smallness of the world as the possible importance of the least things done in it, and is better explained by the grander teaching of Carlyle, that causes and effects, connecting every man and thing with every other, extend through all space and time. It was at the close of 1855 the negociation for its purchase began. *They wouldn't,' he wrote (25th of November), *take *;£i7oo for the Gadshill property, but "finally" wanted ;^i8oo. Negocia- * I have finally offered ;£'i75o. It will require an expenditure of purchase. * about ;^3oo more before yielding ;^ioo a year.' The usual discovery of course awaited him that this first estimate would have to be increased threefold. ' The changes absolutely neces- t I IT.] Gadshill Place. 257 *sary'(9th of February 1856) *will take a thousand pounds; GKD^mx.\. * which sum I am always resolving to squeeze out of this, grind ^856-70. * out of that, and wring out of the other ; this, that, and the other The Porch at GadshilU * generally all three declining to come up to the scratch for the * purpose.' * This day,' * he wrote on the 14th of March, *I have * paid the purchase-money for Gadshill Place. After drawing the ' cheque 1790) I turned round to give it to Wills, and said, * On New Year's Day he had * title of my estate, sir, my place down written from Paris. ' When in London * in Kent) until the conveyance was * Coutts's advised me not to sell out * settled and ready.' the money for Gadshill Place (the VOL. II. 8 The Life of Charles Dickens. [BookVIII. Gadshill ^ " Now isn't it an extraordinary thing — look at the Day — Friday ! 1 856-70- ' " I have been nearly drawing it half a dozen times when the *■ "lawyers have not been ready, and here it comes round upon a * " Friday as a matter of course." ' He had no thought at this time of reserving the place wholly for himself, or of making it his own residence except at intervals of summer. He looked upon it as an investment only. ' You will hardly know Gadshill again,' he wrote in January 1858, 'I am improving it so much — yet I ' have no interest in the place.' But continued ownership brought increased liking ; he took more and more interest in his own im- interest provcmcnts, which were just the kind of occasional occupation in it in- . . . , creasing. and rcsource his life most wanted m its next seven or eight years ; and any farther idea of letting it he soon abandoned altogether. It only once passed out of his possession thus, for four months in 1859; in the following year, on the sale of Tavistock House, he transferred to it his books and pictures and choicer furniture ; and thenceforward, varied only by houses taken from time to time for the London season, he made it his His home permanent family abode. Now and then, even during those from 1859. ygg^j,g^ would talk of selling it ; and on his final return from America, when he had sent the last of his sons out into the world, he really might have sold it if he could then have found a house in London suitable to him, and such as he could purchase. But in this he failed ; secretly to his own satisfaction, as I be- lieve ; and thereupon, in that last autumn of his life, he projected Additions, and Carried out his most costly addition to Gadshill. Already of course more money had been spent upon it than his first inten- tion in buying it would have justified. He had so enlarged the accommodation, improved the grounds and offices, and added to the land, that, taking also into account this closing outlay, the reserved price placed upon the whole after his death more than quadrupled what he had given in 1856 for the house, shrubbery, and twenty years' lease of a meadow field. It was then purchased, and is now inhabited, by his eldest son. Its position has been described, and a history of Rochester P. 30a. published a hundred years ago quaintly mentions the principal interest of the locality. 'Near the twenty-seventh stone from § III.] Gadshill Place. 259 * London is Gadshill, supposed to have been the scene of the Gadshill ' ^ ^ Place: * robbery mentioned by Shakespeare in his play of Henry IV ; 18 56-70. * there being reason to think also that it was Sir John Falstaff, Gadshiii a century * of truly comic memory, who under the name of Oldcastle a?o. * inhabited Cooling Castle of which the ruins are in the neigh- * bourhood. A small distance to the left appears on an eminence ' the Hermitage, the seat of the late Sir Francis Head, Bart ; * ^ and close to the road, on a small ascent, is a neat building * lately erected by Mr. Day. In descending Strood-hill is a fine * prospect of Strood, Rochester, and Chatham, which three towns * form a continued street extending above two miles in length.' It had been supposed f that ' the neat building lately erected by * Mr. Day ' was that which the great novelist made famous ; but Gadshill Place had no existence until eight years after the date ^^l^^^ of the history. The good rector who so long lived in it told me, JJj^^g"^'* in 1859, that it had been built eighty years before by a well-known character in those parts, one Stevens, grand-father-in-law of Henslow the Cambridge professor of botany. Stevens, who could only with much difficulty manage to write his name, had begun life as ostler at an inn ; had become husband to the landlord's widow ; then a brewer ; and finally, as he subscribed himself on one occasion, *■ mare ' of Rochester. Afterwards the house was its own- inhabited by Mr. Lynn (from some of the members of whose tenants, family Dickens made his purchase) ; and, before the Rev. Mr. Hindle became its tenant, it was inhabited by a Macaroni parson named Townshend, whose horses the Prince Regent bought, throwing into the bargain a box of much desired cigars. Alto- gether the place had notable associations even apart from those which have connected it with the masterpieces of English humour. *■ This House, Gadshill Place, stands on the summit of * Shakespeare's Gadshill, ever memorable for its association with • Two houses now stand on what that court out of Tavistock-square of was Sir Francis Head's estate, the which Tavistock House formed part, Great and Little Hermitage, occupied had occupied the Great Hermitage respectively by Mr. Malleson and Mr. previously. Hulkes, who both became intimate + By the obliging correspondent with Dickens. Perry of the Morning who sent me this History of Rochester^ Chronicle^ whose tovni house was in 8vo. (Rochester, 1772). s 2 26o The Life of Charles Dickens. [BookVIII. Gadshill ' Sir John Falstaff in his noble fancy. But, my lads, my lads, 1856-70.' ''to-morrow morning, by four d clock, early at Gadshill! there are Greeting tc '■pilgrims gotng to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders visitors. • t /• '■ riding to London with fat purses : I have vizards for you all ; ^ you have horses for yourselves.^ Illuminated by Mr. Owen Jones, and placed in a frame on the first-floor landing, these words were the greeting of the new tenant to his visitors. It was his first act of ownership. All his improvements, it should perhaps be remarked, were not exclusively matters of choice; and to illustrate by his letters what befell at the beginning ot his changes, will show what attended them to the close. His earliest difficulty was very grave. There was only one spring of water for gentlefolk and villagers, and from some of the houses or cottages it was two miles away. * We are still ' (6th of July) * boring for water here, at the rate of ' two pounds per day for wages. The men seem to like it very * much, and to be perfectly comfortable.* Another of his earliest experiences (5th of September) was thus expressed : ' Hop- ' picking is going on, and people sleep in the garden, and * breathe in at the keyhole of the house door. I have been JJ^P-P'*^^' * amazed, before this year, by the number of miserable lean ' wretches, hardly able to crawl, who go hop-picking. I find it is * a superstition that the dust of the newly picked hop, falling ' freshly into the throat, is a cure for consumption. So the poor ' creatures drag themselves along the roads, and sleep under wet ' hedges, and get cured soon and finally.' Towards the close of The well. the same month (24th of September) he wrote : ' Here are six '■ men perpetually going up and down the well (I know that some- ' body will be killed), in the course of fitting a pump ; which is ' quite a railway terminus — it is so iron, and so big.* The process * A passage in his paper on Tramps ' body of workmen for a certain spell embodies very amusingly experiences ' of work in a pleasant part of the recorded in his letters of the sinking of ' country ; and I was at one time this well and the construction of a * honoured M'ith the attendance of as brick-work tunnel; but I can only * many as seven-and -twenty, who were borrow one sentence. 'The current 'looking at six.' Bits of wonderful, ' of my uncommercial pursuits caused observation are in that paper, ' me only last sun^nier to want a little § in.] Gadshill Place, ' is much more like putting Oxford-street endwise, and la)dng gas Gadshill ' along it, than anything else. By the time it is finished, the cost 1856-70. * of this water will be something absolutely frightful. But of * course it proportionately increases the value of the property, ' and that's my only comfort. . . The horse has gone lame from * a sprain, the big dog has run a tenpenny nail into one of his * hind feet, the bolts have all flown out of the basket-carriage, and Country mishaps * the gardener says all the fruit trees want replacing with new and con- . solations. ' ones.' Another note came in three days. * I have discovered * that the seven miles between Maidstone and Rochester is one * of the most beautiful walks in England. Five men have been * looking attentively at the pump for a week, and (I should hope) * may begin to fit it in the course of October.' . . With even such varying fortune* he effected other changes. Exterior and Porch The exterior remamed to the last much as it was when he used as a boy to see it first ; a plain, old-fashioned, two-story, brick- built country house, with a bell-turret on the roof, and over the front door a quaint neat wooden porch with pillars and seats. But, among his additions and alterations, was a new drawing- room built out from the smaller existing one, both being thrown together ultimately ; two good bedrooms built on a third floor at the back; and such re-arrangement of the ground floor as, besides its handsome drawing-room, and its dining-room which he hung with pictures, transformed its bedroom into a study which he lined with books and sometimes wrote in, and changed its break- fast-parlour into a retreat fitted up for smokers into which he put a small biUiard-table. These several rooms opened from a hall having in it a series of Hogarth prints, until, after the artist's death, Stanfield's noble scenes were placed there, when the Hogarths were moved to his bedroom ; and in this hall, during Gradual , . , , . . , , , , additions his last absence in America, a parquet floor was laid down. Nor and changes did he omit such changes as might increase the comfort of his • 'As to the carpenters,' he wrote * fixed on Maidstone and nibbing his to his daughter in September i860, * hands to conciliate his moody em- ' they are absolutely maddening. They * ployer) that "he didn't think there ' are always at work yet never seem * " would be very much left to do after * to do anything. L. was down on * *' Saturday the 291 h. " I didn't throw 'Friday, and said (with his eye * him out of window. ' 262 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VIII. Gadshill Place : 1856-70. Connection of shrub- bery and lawn. servants. He built entirely new offices and stables, and replaced a very old coach-house by a capital servants' hall, transforming the loft above into a commodious school-room or study for his boys. He made at the same time an excellent croquet-ground out of a waste piece of orchard. Belonging to the house, but unfortunately placed on the other side of the high road, was a shrubbery, well wooded though in desolate condition, in which stood two magnificent cedars ; and having obtained, in 1859, the consent of the local authorities for the necessary underground work, Dickens constructed a passage beneath the road from his front lawn \ and in the shrubbery thus rendered accessible, and which he then laid out very prettily, he placed afterwards a Swiss chalet presented to him by Mr. Fechter, which arrived from Paris in ninety-four pieces fitting like the joints ol a puzzle, but which proved to be somewhat costly in setting on its legs by means of a foundation of brickwork. ' It ' will really be a very pretty thing,' he wrote (January 1865), *and ' in the summer (supposing it not to be blown away in the spring), ' the upper room will make a charming study. It is much higher- ' than we supposed.' Once up, it did really become a grea resource in the summer months, and much of Dickens's work was done there. * I have put five mirrors in the chalet where I write,' * Dickens's writing- table. * As surely, however, as he did any work there, so surely his indispensable little accompaniments of work {ante, i. 457) were carried along with him ; and of these I will quote what was written shortly after his death by his son-in-law, Mr. Charles Collins, to illustrate a very touching sketch by Mr, Fildes of his writing-desk and vacant chair. ' Ranged in front of, ' and round about him, were always a ' variety of objects for his eye to rest * on in the intervals of actual writing, ' and any one of which he would have ' instantly missed had it been removed. * There was a French bronze group * representing a duel with swords, * fought by a couple of very fat toads, * one of them (characterised by that particular buoyancy which belongs to corpulence; in the act of making a prodigious lunge forward, which the other receives in the very middle of his digestive apparatus, and under the influence of which it seems likely that he will satisfy the wounded honour of his opponent by promptly expiring. There was another bronze figure which always stood near the toads, also of French manufacture, and also full of comic suggestion. It was a statuette of a dog-fancier, such ■ a one as you used to see on the bridges or quays of Paris, with a profusion of little dogs stuck under his arms and into his pockets, and everywhere where little dogs could possibly be insinuated, all for sale, § III.] Gadshill Place. 263 he told an American friend, ' and they reflect and refract, in all Gadshill . . . Place: * kinds of ways, the leaves that are quivering at the windows, and 1856-70. The Chaiet. * the great fields of waving corn, and the sail-dotted river^ * My room is up among the branches of the trees ; and the birds ' and the butterflies fly in and out, and the green branches shoot * and all, as even a casual glance at ' the vendor's exterior would convince ' the most unsuspicious person, with * some screw loose in their physical * constitutions or moral natures, to be * discovered immediately after pur- * chase. There was the long gilt leaf * with the rabbit sitting erect upon its * haunches, the huge paper-knife often * held in his hand during his public * readings, and the little fresh green * cup ornamented with the leaves and * blossoms of the cowslip, in which a * few fresh flowcrb were always placed ' every morning — for Dickens invari- * ably worked with flowers on his ' writing-table. There was also the ' register of the day of the week and ' of the month, which stood always ' before him ; and when the room in * the chalet in which he wrote his last ' paragraph was opened, some time ' after his death, the first thing to be ' notked by those who entered was * this register, set at '* Wednesday, ' "June 8" — the day of his seizure.' It remains to this day as it was found. 264 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI 1L Gadshill ' in at the open windows, and the lights and shadows of the ^856-70- ' clouds come and go with the rest of the company. The scent chalet ' flowers, and indeed of everything that is growing for * miles and miles, is most delicious.' He used to make great boast, too, not only of his crowds of singing birds all day, but of his nightingales at night. One or two more extracts from letters having reference to these changes may show something of the interest to him with which Gadshill thus grew under his hands. A sun-dial on his back-lawn had a bit of historic interest about it. * One of the balustrades of * the destroyed old Rochester Bridge,' he wrote to his daughter in June 1859, 'has been (very nicely) presented to me by the * contractors for the works, and has been duly stone-masoned ' and set up on the lawn behind the house. I have ordered a ' sun-dial for the top of it, and it will be a very good object ' indeed.' ' When you come down here next month,' he wrote to me, ' we have an idea that we shall show you rather a neat * house. What terrific adventures have been in action ; how ' many overladen vans were knocked up at Gravesend, and had ' to be dragged out of Chalk-turnpike in the dead of the night by ' the whole equine power of this establishment ; shall be revealed ' at another time.' That was in the autumn of i860, when, on the sale of his London house, its contents were transferred to Making his couutrv homc. ' I shall have an alteration or two to show Gadshill his home. ' you at Gadshill that greatly improve the little property ; and 'when I get the workmen out this time, I think I'll leave off.' October 1861 had now come, when the new bedrooms were built ; but in the same month of 1863 he announced his trans- formation of the old coach-house. * I shall have a small new ' improvement to show you at Gads, which I think you will * accept as the crowning ingenuity of the inimitable.' But of course it was not over yet. ' My small work and planting,' he wrote in the spring of 1866, * really, truly, and positively the last, ' are nearly at an end in these regions, and the result will await Much ' summer inspection.' No, nor even yet. He afterwards ob- coveted ac- quisition, tained, by exchange of some land with the trustees of Watts's Charity, the much coveted meadow at the back of the house of § III.] Gadshill Place. 265 which heretofore he had the lease only ; and he was then able to plant a number of young hmes and chesnuts and other quick- ^^56-70. growing trees. He had already planted a row of limes in front. ^^^^^ He had no idea, he would say, of planting only for the benefit of posterity, but would put into the ground what he might himself enjoy the sight and shade of. He put them in two or three clumps in the meadow, and in a belt all round. Still there were ' more last words,' for the limit was only to be set by his last year of life. On abandoning his notion, after the American readings, of exchanging Gadshill for London, a new staircase was put up from the hall : a parquet floor laid on the Last great ... . improva- first landing ; and a conservatory built, opening into both drawing- nwnt. room and dining-room, * glass and iron,' as he described it, * brilliant but expensive, with foundations as of an ancient ' Roman work of horrible solidity.' This last addition had long been an object of desire with him ; though he would hardly even now have given himself the indulgence but for the golden shower from America. He saw it first in a completed state on the Sunday before his death, when his younger daughter was on a visit to him. *Well, Katey,' he said to her, 'now you see * POSITIVELY the last improvement at Gadshill ; ' and every one laughed at the joke against himself. The success of the new New con- conservatory was unquestionable. It was the remark of all around him that he was certainly, from this last of his improve- ments, drawing more enjoyment than from any of its predecessors, when the scene for ever closed. Of the course of his daily life in the country there is not much to be said. Perhaps there was never a man who changed places so much and habits so little. He was always methodical and course of regular ; and passed his Hfe from day to day, divided for the '^^'^^ most part between working and walking, the same wherever he was. The only exception was when special or infrequent visitors were with him. When such friends as Longfellow and his daughters, or Charles Eliot Norton and his wife, came, or when Mr. Fields brought his wife and Professor Lowell's daughter, or when he received other Americans to whom he owed special courtesy, he would compress into infinitely few days an enormous 266 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI i I. Gadsmpx amount of sight seeing and country enjoyment, castles, cathe- 1856-70. drals, and fortified lines, lunches and picnics among cherry orchards and hop-gardens, excursions to Canterbury or Maid- stone and their beautiful neighbourhoods, Druid-stone and Blue Bell Hill. 'All the neighbouring country that could be shown * in so short a time/ he wrote of the Longfellow visit, ' they saw. m m House and conserva- tory : from the mea- dow. * I turned out a couple ot postilions in the Old red jackets ot the Visits of * old red royal Dover road for our ride, and it was like a holiday friends. ^ ^ * ride in England fifty years ago.' For Lord Lytton he did the same, for the Emerson Tennents, for Mr. Layard and Mr. Helps, for Lady Molesworth and the Higginses (Jacob Omnium), and such other less frequent visitors. Excepting on such particular occasions however, and not always even then, his mornings were reserved wholly to himself ; Morning and he would generally preface his morning work (such was his love of order in everything around him) by seeing that all was in its place in the several rooms, visiting also the dogs, stables, and kitchen garden, and closing, unless the weather was very bad indeed, with a turn or two round the meadow before settling to his desk. His dogs were a great enjoyment to him and, with * Dickens's interest in dogs (as in was inexhaustible, and he welcomed the habits and ways of all animals) with delight any new trait. The su^- Gadshill Place. 267 his high road traversed as frequently as any in England by tramps Gadshill and wayfarers of a singularly undesirable description, they were 1856-70- also a necessity. There were always two, of the mastiff kind, ^^«j^'^°ss : but latterly the number increased. His own favourite was Turk, Linda, a noble animal, full of affection and intelligence, whose death by a railway-accident, shortly after the Staplehurst catastrophe, caused him great grief. Turk's sole companion up to that date was Linda, puppy of a great St. Bernard brought over by Mr. Albert Smith, and grown into a superbly beautiful creature. After Turk there was an interval of an Irish dog. Sultan, given by • * Mr. Percy Fitzgerald; a cross between a St. Bernard and a bloodhound, built and coloured like a lioness and of splendid proportions, but of such indomitably aggressive propensities, that, after breaking his kennel-chain and nearly devouring a luckless little sister of one of the servants, he had to be killed. Dickens always protested that Sultan was a Fenian, for that no dog, not a secretly sworn member of that body, would ever have made such a point, muzzled as he was, of rushing at and bearing down with fury anything in scarlet with the remotest resemblance to a British uniform. Sultan's successor was Don, presented by Mr. Frederic Lehmann, a grand Newfoundland brought over very joined, told him by a lady friend, was * followed, the beer-shop-keeper is a great acquisition. *I must close' 'seen to take down a pot (pewter A dog with (14th of May 1867) * with an odd story * pot) and is heard to say: *' Well, ^ 'of a Newfoundland dog. An im- * '* old chap ! Come for your beer as * mense black good-humoured New- * "usual, have you?" Upon which * foundland dog. He came from Ox- * he draws a pint and puts it down, and * ford, and had lived all his life at a * the dog drinks it. Being required 'brewery. Instructions were given ' to explain how this comes to pass, the * with him that if he were let out every ' man says, " Yes ma'am, I know he's •morning alone, he would immedi- '" your dog ma'am, but I didn't when ' ately find out the river; regularly *" he first come. He looked in ma'am ' take a swim ; and gravely come home ' " — as a Brickmaker might — and ' again. This he did with the greatest ' " then become in — as a Brickmaker * punctuality, but after a little while * " might— and he wagged his tail at * was observed to smell of beer. She * " the pots, and he giv' a sniff round, * was so sure that he smelt of beer * ' * and conveyed to me as he was used * thai she resolved to watch hMusic. Change. Time and Tide. Twopence. English Bells. Weekly Bells. The Rocket. Good Humour. Still the great want was the line adaptable from Shakespeare, which at last exultingly he sent on the 28th of January. * I am dining early, before reading, and ' write literally with my mouth full. But I have just hit upon * a name that I think really an admirable one — especially with * the quotation before it, in the place where our present H. W. * quotation stands. * ** The story of our lives, from year to year." — Shakespeare,' *All the Year Round. ' A weekly journal conducted by Charles Dickens.' Stanfield scenes at Tavistock House : ante, 159, With the same resolution and energy other things necessary to the adventure were as promptly done. ' I have taken the new * office,' he wrote from Tavistock House on the 21st of February ; * have got workmen in ; have ordered the paper ; settled with the * printer ; and am getting an immense system of advertising ready. * Blow to be struck on the 12th of March. . . Meantime I cannot * please myself with the opening of my story ' (the Tale of Two Cities^ which All the Year Round was to start with), ' and cannot * in the least settle at it or take to it. . . I wish you M~ould come * and look at what I flatter myself is a rather ingenious account * to which I have turned the Stanfield scenery here.' He had placed the Lighthouse scene in a single frame ; had divided the scene of the Frozen Deep into two subjects, a British man-of-war and an Arctic sea, which he had also framed ; and the school- room that had been the theatre was now hung with sea-pieces by a great painter of the sea. To believe them to have been but the amusement of a few mornings was difficult indeed. Seen from the due distance there was nothing wanting to the most masterly and elaborate art §V.] All Ihe Year Round. 285 The first number of All the Year Round appeared on the 30th London: r 1 1 1859-61. of April, and the result of the first quarter's accounts of the sale will tell everything that needs to be said of a success that went on without intermission to the close. ' A word before I go back * to Gadshill,' he wrote from Tavistock House in July, ' which I * know you will be glad to receive. So well has All the Year Success. * Round gone that it was yesterday able to repay me, with five * per cent interest, all the money I advanced for its establishment * (paper, print &c. all paid, down to the last number), and yet to * leave a good ;£"5oo balance at the banker's ! ' Beside the opening of his Tale of Two Cities its first number had contained another piece of his writing, the ' Poor Man and his Beer ; ' as to which an interesting note has been sent me. The Rev. T. B. Lawes, of Rothamsted, St. Alban's, had been associated upon a sanitary commission with Mr. Henry Austin, Dickens's brother- in-law and counsellor in regard to all such matters in his own houses, or in the houses of the poor \ and this connection led to Dickens's knowledge of a club that Mr. Lawes had established at Beer with- out the Rothamsted, which he became eager to recommend as an example public- house. to other country neighbourhoods. The club had been set on foot to enable the agricultural labourers of the parish to have their beer and pipes independent of the public-house ; and the description of it, says Mr. Lawes, ' was the occupation of a drive * between this place (Rothamsted) and London, 2 5 miles, Mr. * Dickens refusing the offer of a bed, and saying that he could * arrange his ideas on the journey. In the course of our con- * versation I mentioned that the labourers were very jealous of * the small tradesmen, blacksmiths and others, holding allotment- * gardens ; but that the latter did so indirectly by paying higher * rents to the labourers for a share. This circumstance is not * forgotten in the verses on the Blacksmith in the same number, * composed by Mr. Dickens and repeated to me while he was Verses in * walking about, and which close the mentioa of his gains with * allusion to * A share (concealed) in the poor man's field, * Which adds to the poor man's store,* It is pleasant to be able to add that the club was still flourishing when I received Mr. Lawes's letter, on the i8th of December 187 1. 286 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI 1 1. London : 1859-61. Distinction of All the Year Round from Household Words. At Kneb- worth. The periodical thus established M^as in all respects, save one, so exactly the counterpart of what it replaced, that a mention of this point of difference is the only description of it called for. Besides his own three-volume stories of The Tale of Two Cities and Great Expectations^ Dickens admitted into it other stories of the same length by writers of character and name, of which the authorship was avowed. It published tales of varied merit and success by Mr. Edmund Yates, Mr. Percy Fitzgerald, and Mr. Charles Lever. Mr. Wilkie Collins contributed to it his Woman in White, No Name, and Moonstone, the first of which had a pre- eminent success ; Mr. Reade his Hard Cash ; and Lord Lytton his Strange Story. Conferring about the latter Dickens passed a week at Knebworth, accompanied by his daughter and sister- in-law, in the summer of 1 861, as soon as he had closed Great Expectations ; and there met Mr. Arthur Helps, with whom and Lord Orford he visited the so-called ' Hermit ' near Stevenage, whom he described as Mr. Mopes in Tom Tiddlet^s Ground. With his great brother-artist he thoroughly enjoyed himself, as he invariably did ; and reported him as ' in better health and spirits * than I have seen him in, in all these years, — a little weird * occasionally regarding magic and spirits, but always fair and * frank under opposition. He was brilliantly talkative, anecdotical, * and droll ; looked young and well ; laughed heartily ; and ' enjoyed with great zest some games we played. In his artist- ' character and talk, he was full of interest and matter, saying the * subtlest and finest things — but that he never fails in. I enjoyed ' myself immensely, as we all did.'* In All the Year Round, as in its predecessor, the tales for Famous men going off. * From the same letter, dated 1st of July 1 86 1, I take what follows, * Poor Lord Campbell's seems to me as ' easy and good a death as one could * desire. There must be a sweep of * these men very soon, and one feels ' as if it must fall out like the breaking * of an arch — one stone goes from a * prominent place, and then the rest * begin to drop. So, one looks, nof. * without satisfaction (in our sadness) * at lives so rounded and complete, ' towards Brougham, and Lyndhurst, ' and Pollock ' , . . Yet, of Dickens's own death, Pollock lived to write to me as the death of * one of the most ' distinguished and honoured men Eng- ' land has ever produced ; in whose * loss every man among us feels that he * has lost a friend and an instructor.* Temple-Hatton, loth of June 1870. Uncommercial Traveller. 287 Christmas were of course continued, but with a surprisingly London: 1859-61. increased popularity ; and Dickens never had such sale for any of his writings as for his Christmas pieces in the later periodical. It had reached, before he died, to nearly three hundred thousand. Christmas numbers. The first was called the Haunted House^ and had a small mention of a true occurrence in his boyhood which is not included in the bitter record on a former page. ' I was taken home, and there * was debt at home as well as death, and we had a sale there. * My own little bed was so superciliously looked upon by a * power unknown to me hazily called The Trade, that a brass ' coal-scuttle, a roasting jack, and a bird cage were obliged to be * put into it to make a lot of it, and then it went for a song. So * I heard mentioned, and I wondered what song, and thought * what a dismal song it must have been to sing ! ' The other subjects will have mention in another chapter. His tales were not his only important work in All the Year Detached papers. Round. The detached papers written by him there had a character and completeness derived from their plan, and from the personal tone, as well as frequent individual confessions, by which their interest is enhanced, and which will always make them specially attractive. Their title expressed a personal liking. Of all the societies, charitable or self-assisting, which his tact and eloquence in the ' chair ' so often helped, none had interested him by the character of its service to its members, and the perfection of its management, so much as that of the Commercial Travellers. Com- mercial His admiration of their schools introduced him to one who then TraveiieiV schools. acted as their treasurer, and whom, of all the men he had known, I think he rated highest for the union of business qualities in an incomparable measure to a nature comprehensive enough to deal with masses of men, however differing in creed or opinion, humanely and justly. He never afterwards wanted support for any good work that he did not think first of Mr. George Moore,* * If space were available here, his allusion to an incident that tickled his letters would supply many proofs of fancy very much at the time. * I hope ' his interest in Mr. George Moore's (20th of Aug. 1863) 'you have been admirable projects ; but I can only * as much amused as I am by the make exception for his characteristic * account of the Bishop of Carlisle at 288 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book viii. London : 1859-61. Mr. George Moore. A traveller for Human- interest Brothers. Personal references. and appeal was never made to him in vain. * Integrity, enter- * prise, public spirit, and benevolence,' he told the Commercial Travellers on one occasion, ' had their synonym in Mr. Moore's * name ; ' and it was another form of the same liking when he took to himself the character and title of a Traveller 6^com- mercial. * I am both a town traveller and a country traveller, * and am always on the road. Figuratively speaking, I travel for * the great house of Human-interest Brothers, and have rather a * large connection in the fancy goods way. Literally speaking, I * am always wandering here and there from my rooms in Covent- *■ garden, London : now about the city streets, now about the * country by-roads : seeing many little things, and some great things,^ which, because they interest me, I think may interest * others.' In a few words that was the plan and drift of the papers which he began in i860, and continued to write from time to time until the last autumn of his life. Many of them, such as * Travelling Abroad,' * City Churches,* * Dullborough,' * Nurses' Stories ' and * Birthday Celebrations,' have supplied traits, chiefly of his younger days, to portions of this memoir ; and parts of his later life receive illustration from others, such as * Tramps,' * Night Walks,' * Shy Neighbourhoods,' * The Italian Prisoner,' and * Chatham Dockyard.' Indeed hardly any is without its personal interest or illustration. One may learn from them, among other things, what kind of treatment he resorted to for the disorder of sleeplessness from which he had often suffered amid his late anxieties. Experimenting upon it in bed, he found to be too slow and doubtful a process for him ; but he very soon defeated his enemy by the brisker treatment, of getting up directly after lying down, going out, and coming home tired at sunrise. * My last special feat was turning out of bed at * two, after a hard day pedestrian and otherwise, and walking Children * particular friend's) Mr. and Bisliop. * George Moore's schools ? It strikes ' me as the funniest piece of weakness * I ever saw, his addressing those un- * fortunate children concerning Colen- ' so, I cannot get over the ridiculous * image I have erected in my mind, of * the shovel-hat and apron holding * forth , at that safe distance, to that « safe audience. There is nothing so * extravagant in Rabelais, or so sati- ' rically humorous in Swift or Voltaire.' § v.] Unco7nmercial Traveller. 2S9 * thirty miles into the country to breakfast' One description he London : did not give in his paper, but I recollect his saying that he had — seldom seen anything so striking as the way in which the wonders of an equinoctial dawn (it was the 15th of October 1857) pre- sented themselves during that walk. He had never before hap- pened to see night so completely at odds with morning, * which * was which.' Another experience of his night ramblings used to a great city gettinjj be given in vivid sketches of the restlessness of a great city, and to sleep, the manner in which // also tumbles and tosses before it can get to sleep. Nor should anyone curious about his habits and ways omit to accompany him with his Tramps into Gadshill lanes ; or to follow him into his Shy Neighbourhoods of the Hackney-road, Waterloo-road, Spitalfields, or Bethnal-green. For delightful observation both of country and town, for the wit that finds analogies between remote and familiar things, and for humorous personal sketches and experience, these are perfect of their kind. * I have my eye upon a piece of Kentish road, bordered on 'Tramp * either side by a wood, and having on one hand, between the rientes. * road-dust and the trees, a skirting patch of grass. Wild flowers * grow in abundance on this spot, and it lies high and airy, with * a distant river stealing steadily away to the ocean, like a man's * life. To gain the milestone here, which the moss, primroses, * violets, blue-bells, and wild roses, would soon render illegible * but for peering travellers pushing them aside with their sticks, * you must come up a steep hill, come which way you may. So, * all the tramps with carts or caravans — the Gipsy-tramp, the * Show-tramp, the Cheap Jack — find it impossible to resist the * temptations of the place ; and all turn the horse loose when they * come to it, and boil the pot. Bless the place, I love the ashes * of the vagabond fires that have scorched its grass ! ' It was there he found Dr. Marigold, and Chops the Dwarf, and the White-haired Lady with the pink eyes eating meat-pie with the Giant. So, too, in his Shy Neighbourhoods, when he relates his experiences of the bad company that birds are fond of, and of the Birds effect upon domestic fowls of living in low districts, his method of Jhe'^worid. handling the subject has all the charm of a discovery. * That ^ anything born of an egg and invested with win^s should have VOL. II. V 290 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI 1 1. London: * got to the pass that it hops Contentedly down a ladder into a 1859-61. * cellar, and calls that going home, is a circumstance so amazing * as to leave one nothing more in this connexion to wonder at.* One of his illustrations is a reduced Bantam family in the Hackney-road deriving their sole enjoyment from crowding together in a pawnbroker's side-entry ; but seeming as if only newly come down in the world, and always in a feeble flutter of fear that they may be found out. He contrasts them with others. ' I know a low fellow, originally of a good family from Dorking, ' who takes his whole establishment of wives, in single file, in at ' the door of the Jug Department of a disorderly tavern near the ' Haymarket, manoeuvres them among the company's legs, ' emerges with them at the Bottle Entrance, and so passes his ' hfe : seldom, in the season, going to bed before two in the ^ morning. . . . But the family I am best acquainted with reside * in the densest part of Bethnal-green. Their abstraction from Bethnai- <■ the objects among which they live, or rather their conviction fowls. < that those objects have all come into existence in express sub- * servience to fowls, has so enchanted me, that I have made them ^ the subject of many journeys at divers hours. After careful ' observation of the two lords and the ten ladies of whom this ' family consists, I have come to the conclusion that their ' opinions are represented by the leading lord and leading lady : ' the latter, as I judge, an aged personage, afflicted with a paucity ' of feather and visibility of quill that gives her the appearance of ' a bundle of office pens. When a railway goods-van that would * crush an elephant comes round the comer, tearing over these * fowls, they emerge unharmed from under the horses, perfectly ' satisfied that the whole rush was a passing property in the air, * which may have left something to eat behind it. They look * upon old shoes, wrecks of kettles and saucepans, and fragments * of bonnets, as a kind of meteoric discharge, for fowls to peck at. ' . . . Gaslight comes quite as natural to them as any other light ; ' and I have more than a suspicion that, in the minds of the two * lords, the early public-house at the corner has superseded the * sun. They always begin to crow when the public-house abutters * begin to be taken down, and they salute the Potboy, the instant Uncommercial Traveller, 291 * he appears to perform that duty, as if he were Phoebus in person.' London : 1859-61. For the truth of the personal adventure in the same essay, which he tells in proof of a propensity to bad company in more refined members of the feathered race, I am myself in a position to vouch. Walking by a dirty court in Spitalfields one day, the quick little busy intelligence of a goldfinch, drawing water for himself in his cage, so attracted him that he bought the bird, which had other accomplishments j but not one of them would the little creature show off in his new abode in Doughty-street, and he drew no An incident of Doughty- water but by stealth or under the cloak of night. ' After an street. * interval of futile and at length hopeless expectation, the mer- * chant who had educated him was appealed to. The merchant * was a bow-legged character, with a flat and cushiony nose, like * the last new strawberry. He wore a fur cap, and shorts, and * was of the velveteen race, velveteeny. He sent word that he * would " look round." He looked round, appeared in the door- *■ way of the room, and slightly cocked up his evil eye at the gold- * finch. Instantly a raging thirst beset that bird ; and when it * was appeased, he still drew several unnecessary buckets of water, ' leaping about his perch and sharpening his bill with irrepressible * satisfaction.' The Uncommercial Traveller papers, his two serial stories, and his Christmas tales, were all the contributions of any importance made by Dickens to All the Year Round ; but he reprinted in it, on the completion of his first story, a short tale called Hunted Down, written for a newspaper in America called the New York Ledger. Its subject had been taken from the life of a notorious criminal already named {ante^ i. 121, 523), and its principal claim to notice was the price paid for it. For a story not longer than half of one of the numbers of Chuzzlewit or Copperfield, he had received a thousand pounds.* It was one of the indications of the eager offers from desire which his entry on the career of a public reader had aroused in America to induce him again to visit that continent ; and at * Eight years later he wrote * I loli- same length, and for the same price. * day Romance' for a Child's Magazine There are no other such instances, I published by Mr. Fields, and * George suppose, in the history of literature. ^ Silverman's txplauatipn ' — of the V a 292 The Life of Charles Dickens. [BookVIII. London : the verv time he had this masriificent offer from the New York 1859—61. ^ journal, Mr. Fields of Boston, who was then on a visit to Europe, was pressing him so much to go that his resolution was almost shaken. * I am now,* he wrote to me from Gadshill on the 9th of July 1859, * getting the Tale of Two Cities into that state that IF * I should decide to go to America late in September, I could * turn to, at any time, and write on with great vigour. Mr. Fields * has been down here for a day, and with the strongest intensity * urges that there is no drawback, no commercial excitement or * crisis, no political agitation ; and that so favourable an oppor- * tunity, in all respects, might not occur again for years and years. * I should be one of the most unhappy of men if I were to go, * and yet I cannot help being much stirred and influenced by the ' golden prospect held before me.' Not yet He yielded nevertheless to other persuasion, and for that time to be. . . the visit was not to be. In six months more the Civil War began^ and America was closed to any such enterprise for nearly five years. VI. SECOND SERIES OF READINGS. 1861— 1863. Gadshill : At the end of the first year of residence at Gadshill it was the remark of Dickens that nothing had gratified him so much as the confidence with which his poorer neighbours treated him. He had tested generally their worth and good conduct, and they had been encouraged in any illness or trouble to resort to him for help. There was pleasant indication of the feeling thus awakened, Daughter's when, in the summer of i860, his younger daughter Kate was married to Charles Alston Collins, brother of the novelist, and younger son of the painter and academician, who might have found, if spared to witness that summer-morning scene, subjects not unworthy of his delightful pencil in many a rustic group near Gadshill All the villagers had turned out in honour of Dickens, J VI.] Second Series of Readings, 293 and the carnages could hardly get to and from the little church ^^^^muL for the succession of triumphal arches they had to pass through. It was quite unexpected by him ; and when the feu de joie of the blacksmith in the lane, whose enthusiasm had smuggled a couple of small cannon into his forge, exploded upon him at the return, I doubt if the shyest of men was ever so taken aback at an ovation. To name the principal persons present that day will indicate the faces that (with addition of Miss Mary Boyle, Miss Margue- rite Power, Mr. Fechter, Mr. Charles Kent, Mr. Edmund Yates, Mr. Percy Fitzgerald, and members of the family of Mr. Frank Stone, whose sudden death * in the preceding year had been a great grief to Dickens) were most familiar at Gadshill in these later years. Mr. Frederic Lehmann was there with his wife, whose sister. Miss Chambers, was one of the bridesmaids ; Mr. and Mrs. Wills were there, and Dickens's old fast friend Weddinjf party. Mr. Thomas Beard ; the two nearest country neighbours with whom the family had become very intimate, Mr. Hulkes and Mr. Malleson, with their wives, joined the party ; among the others were Henry Chorley, Chauncy Hare Townshend, and Wilkie Collins ; and, for friend special to the occasion, the bridegroom had brought his old fellow-student in art, Mr. Hol- man Hunt. Mr. Charles Collins had himself been bred as a painter, for success in which line he had some rare gifts ; but inclination and capacity led him also to literature, and, after much indecision between the two callings, he took finally to letters. His contributions to All the Year Round were among charies the most charming of its detached papers, and two stories pub- CoiHns. lished independently showed strength of wing for higher flights. * ' You will be grieved ' he wrote (Saturday 19th of Nov. 1859) * to hear ' of poor Stone. On Sunday he was * not well. On Monday, went to Dr. ' Todd, who told him he had aneurism ' of the heart. On Tuesday, went to ' Dr. Walsh, who told him he hadn't. * On Wednesday I met him in a cab * in the Square here, and he got out ' to talk to me. I walked about with Death ol ' him a little while at a snail's pace, Ij^i^e * cheering him up ; but when I came A.R.A. * home, I told them that I thought ' him much changed and in danger. ' Yesterday at 2 o'clock he died of ' spasm of the heart. I am going up ' to Ilighgate to look for a p^rave for 'him.' 294 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VIII. Gadshill: But his health broke down, and his taste was too fastidious for i860. ... . his failing power. It is possible however that he may live by two small books of description, the New Sentimental J^oumey and the Cruise on Wheels^ which have in them unusual delicacy and refinement of humour ; and if those volumes should make any readers in another generation curious about the writer, they will learn, if correct reply is given to their inquiries, that no man disappointed so many reasonable hopes with so little fault or failure of his own, that his difficulty always was to please himself, and that an inferior mind would have been more suc- cessful in both the arts he followed. He died in 1873 forty-fifth year ; and until then it was not known, even by those nearest to him, how great must have been the suffering which he had borne, through many trying years, with uncomplaining patience. His daughter's marriage was the chiet event that had crossed the even tenor of Dickens's life since his first paid readings closed; and it was followed by the sale of Tavistock House, with the resolve to make his future home at Gadshill. In the brief interval (29th of July) he wrote to me of his brother Alfred's death. * I was telegraphed for to Manchester on Friday * night. Arrived there at a quarter past ten, but he had been * dead three hours, poor fellow ! He is to be buried at High- * gate on Wednesday. I brought the poor young widow back ' with me yesterday.' All that this death involved,* the troubles of his change of home, and some difficulties in working out his story, gave him more than sufficient occupation till the following Sale of Tavistock House. Brother Alfred's deatli. * He was now hard at work on his story ; and a note written from Gads- hill after the funeral shows, what so frequently was incident to his pursuits, the hard conditions under which sor- row, and its claim on his exertion, often came to him. 'To-morrow I * have to work against time and tide * and everything else, to fill up a No. * keeping open for me, and the stereo- * type plates of which must go to ' America on Friday. But indeed the * enquiry into poor Alfred's affairs ; * the necessity of putting the widow ' and children somewhere ; the diffi- * culty of knowing what to do for the * best ; and the need I feel under of * being as composed and deliberate as ' I can be, and yet of not shirking or ' putting off the occasion that there ' is for doing a duty ; would have ' brought me back here to be quiet, * under any circumstances.' Second Series of Readings. 295 spring ; and as the time arrived for the new readings, the change London : was a not unwelcome one. The first portion of this second series was planned by Mr. Arthur Smith, but he only superintended the six readings in London which opened it. These were the first at St. James's Hall (St. Martin's Hall having been burnt since the last readings Metro- politan there) and were given in March and April 1861. 'We are all readings. ' well here and flourishing,' he wrote to me from Gadshill on the 28th of April. * On the i8th I finished the readings as I pur- ' posed. We had between seventy and eighty pounds in the * stalls, which, at four shillings apiece, is something quite unpre- * cedented in these times. . . . The result of the six was, that, * after paying a large staff of men and all other charges, and * Arthur Smith's ten per cent, on the receipts, and replacing *■ everything destroyed in the fire at St. Martin's Hall (including * all our tickets, country-baggage, cheque-boxes, books, and a * quantity of gas-fittings and what not), I got upwards of *;^5oo. A very great result We certainly might have gone on * through the season, but I am heartily glad to be concentrated on * my story.' It had been part of his plan that the Provincial Readings Proposed readings in should not begm until a certain interval after the close of his provinces, story of Great Expectations. They were delayed accordingly until the 28th of October, from which date, when they opened at Norwich, they went on with the Christmas intervals to be presently named to the 30th of January 1862, when they closed at Chester. Kept within England and Scotland, they took in the border town of Berwick, and, besides the Scotch cities, comprised the contrasts and varieties of Norwich and Lancaster, Bury St. Edmunds and Cheltenham, Carlisle and Hastings, Plymouth and Birmingham, Canterbury and Torquay, Preston and Ipswich, Manchester and Brighton, Colchester and Dover, Newcastle and Chester. They were followed by ten readings at the St. others in James's Hall, between the 13th of March and the 27th of June sSe^ 1862 ; and by four at Paris in January 1863, given at the Em- bassy in aid of the British Charitable Fund. The second series had thus in the number of the readings nearly equalled the 296 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VIII. London: first, when it closed at London in June 1863 with thirteen readings in the Hanover Square Rooms ; and it is exclusively the subject of such illustrations or references as this chapter will supply. On Great Expectations closing in June 1861, Bulwer Lytton, at Dickens's earnest wish, took his place in All the Year Rou?id with the * Strange Story ; ' and he then indulged himself in idle- do°inl no- ^^^^ ^ ^^^^^^ while. * The subsidence of those distressing thing. < pains in my face the moment I had done my work, made me ' resolve to do nothing in that way for some time if I could help ' it.' * But his ^ doing nothing' was seldom more than a figure of speech, and what it meant in this case was soon told. * Every ' day for two or three hours, I practise my new readings, and ' (except in my office work) do nothing else. With great ' pains I have made a continuous narrative out of Copper- ^ field, that I think will reward the exertion it is likely to cost ' me. Unless I am much mistaken, it will be very valuable in ' London. I have also done Nicholas JMckleby at the Yorkshire ' school, and hope I have got something droll out of Squeers, New sub- < John Browdie, & Co. Also, the Bastille prisoner from the Tale readings. i ^ j'^fQ Ciftes. Also, the Dwarf from one of our Christmas ' numbers.' Only the first two were added to the list for the present circuit. It was in the midst of these active preparations that painful news reached him. An illness under which Mr. Arthur Smith had been some time suffering took unexpectedly a dangerous turn, and there came to be but small chance of his recovery. A dis- tressing interview on the 28th of September gave Dickens little Illness of hope. * And yet his wakings and wanderings so perpetually ' turn on his arrangements for the Readings, and he is so ' desperately unwilling to relinquish the idea of " going on with ^ " the business " to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow, that ' I had not the heart to press him for the papers. He told me * The same letter adds : * The * up bravely. As well as we can * fourth edition of Great Expectations * make out, we have even risen fifteen * is now going to press, the third being * hundred.' * nearly out. Bulwer's story keeps us Second Series of Readings. 297 * that he believed he had by him " 70 or 80 letters unanswered." London : * You may imagine how anxious it makes me, and at what a * deadstop I stand,' Another week passed, and with it the time fixed at the places where his work was to have opened ; but he could not bring himself to act as if all hope had gone. * With * a sick man who has been so zealous and faithful, I feel bound * to be very tender and patient. When I told him the other day * about my having engaged Headland — " to do all the personally * " bustling and fatiguing part of your work," I said — he nodded * his heavy head with great satisfaction, and faintly got of him- * self the words, " Of course I pay him, and not you." ' The poor fellow died in October ; and on the day after attending the ^is death, funeral,* Dickens heard of the death of his brother-in-law and friend, Mr. Henry Austin, whose abilities and character he re- spected as much as he liked the man. He lost much in losing the judicious and safe counsel which had guided him on many gj^^'^f^^^ pubhc questions in which he took lively interest, and it was with a heavy heart he set out at last upon his second circuit. * With * what difficulty I get myself back to the readings after all this ' loss and trouble, or with what unwillingness I work myself up * to the mark of looking them in the face, I can hardly say. As * for poor Arthur Smith at this time, it is as if my right arm were Jj^^^^^^P" * gone. It is only just now that I am able to open one of the Readings. * books, and screw the text out of myself in a flat dull way. En- * closed is the list of what I have to do. You will see that I * have left ten days in November for the Christmas number, and * also a good Christmas margin for our meeting at Gadshill. I • ' There was a very touching thing * in the Chapel ' (at Brompton). « When the body was to be taken up * and carried to the grave, there * stepped out, instead of the under- * taker's men with their hideous para- * phemaha, the men who had always * been with the two brothers at the * Egyptian Hall ; and they, in their * plain, decent, own mourning clothes, * carried the poor fellow away. Also, * standing about among the grave- ' stones, dressed in black, I noticed * every kind of person who had ever * had to do with him — from our own ' gas man and doorkeepers and bill- ' stickers, up to Johnson the printer * and that class of man. The father ' and Albert and he now lie together, * and the grave, I suppose, will be no ' more disturbed. I wrote a little in- Funeral cf < • r ^1 , , . . Mr. Arthui scnption for the stone, and it is quite Smith. ' full.' 298 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VIII. Provinces ; 1861. Eldest son's mar- riage. Effect of Nickleby. At Brigh- ton. * shall be very glad to have the money that I expect to get ; but * it will be earned/ That November interval was also the date of the marriage of his eldest son to the daughter of Mr. Evans, so long, in connection with Mr. Bradbury, his publisher and printer. The start of the readings at Norwich was not good, so many changes of vexation having been incident to the opening an- nouncements as to leave some doubt of their fulfilment. But the second night, when trial was made of the Nickleby scenes, * we * had a splendid hall, and I think Nickleby will top all the ' readings. Somehow it seems to have got in it, by accident, exactly the qualities best suited to the purpose ; and it went * last night, not only with roars, but with a general hilarity and ' pleasure that I have never seen surpassed.' * From this night onward, the success was uninterrupted, and here was his report to me from Brighton on the 8th of November. * We turned * away half Dover and half Hastings and half Colchester ; and, if * you can believe such a thing, I may tell you that in round * numbers we find 1000 stalls already taken here in Brighton ! * I left Colchester in a heavy snow-storm. To-day it is so warm * here that I can hardly bear the fire, and am writing with the * window open down to the ground. Last night I had a most * charming audience for Copperfield^ with a delicacy of perception ' that really made the work delightful. It is very pretty to see ' the girls and women generally, in the matter of Dora ; and ' everywhere I have found that peculiar personal relation between * my audience and myself on which I counted most when I * entered on this enterprise. Nickleby continues to go in the * wildest manner.' A storm was at this time sweeping round the coast, and while at Dover he had written of it to his sister-in-law (7 th of No- vember) : * The bad weather has not in the least touched us, and * Of his former manager he writes in the same letter : * I miss him dread- ' fully. The sense I used to have of * compactness and comfort about me ' while I was reading, is quite gone ; ' and on my coming out for the ten * minutes, when I used to find him * always ready for me with something * cheerful to say, it is forlorn. . . Be- * sides which, H. and all the rest of * them are always somewhere, and he * was always everywhere. ' $ VI.] Second Series of Readings. 299 * the storm was most magnificent at Dover. All the great side of ^^^^^ ' * the Lord Warden next the sea had to be emptied, the break of A storm. * vne waves was so prodigious, and the noise so utterly con- * founding. The sea came in like a great sky of immense clouds, * for ever breaking suddenly into furious rain ; all kinds of wreck * were washed in, among other things a very pretty brass-bound * chest being thrown about like a feather. . . . The unhappy * Ostend packet, unable to get in or go back, beat about the * Channel all Tuesday night, and until noon yesterday ; when I * saw her come in, with five men at the wheel, a picture of * misery inconceivable. . . The effect of the readings at Hastings * and Dover really seems to have outdone the best usual impres- * sion ; and at Dover they wouldn't go, but sat applauding like * mad. The most delicate audience I have seen in any pro- At Canter- bury and * vincial place, is Canterbury ' an intelligent and delightful Dover. * response in them,' he wrote to his daughter, ' like the touch of * a beautiful instrument ') ; ' but the audience with the greatest * sense of humour, certainly is Dover. The people in the stalls * set the example of laughing, in the most curiously unreserved * way ; and they laughed with such really cordial enjoyment, * when Squeers read the boys' letters, that the contagion extended * to me. For, one couldn't hear them without laughing too ... So, * I am thankful to say, all goes well, and the recompense for the * trouble is in every way Great.' From the opposite quarter of Berwick-on-Tweed he wrote again in the midst of storm. But first his mention of Newcastle, which he had also taken on his way to Edinburgh, reading two nights there, should be given. * At Newcastle, against the very * heavy expenses, I made more than a hundred guineas profit A * finer audience there is not in England, and I suppose them to * be a specially earnest people ; for, while they can laugh till they * shake the roof, they have a very unusual sympathy with what is * pathetic or passionate. An extraordinary thing occurred on the * second night. The room was tremendously crowded and my Alarming * gas-apparatus fell down. There was a terrible wave among the * people for an instant, and God knows what destruction of life * a rush to the stairs would have caused. Fortunately a lady in 300 The Life of Charles Dickens, [book VI 1 1. Berwick- * the front of the Stalls ran out towards me, exactly in a place ON-TWHED : 1861. where I knew that the whole hall could see her. So I ad- *■ dressed her, laughing, and half-asked and half-ordered her to ' sit down again ; and, in a moment, it was all over. But the * men in attendance had such a fearful sense of what might have * happened (besides the real danger of Fire) that they positively * shook the boards I stood on, with their trembling, when they * came up to put things right. I am proud to record that the * gas-man's sentiment, as delivered afterwards, was, " The more * " you want of the master, the more you'll find in him." With compliment. ' which complimentary homage, and with the wind blowing so ' that I can hardly hear myself write, I conclude.' * It was still blowing, in shape of a gale from the sea, when, an hour before the reading, he wrote from the King's Arms at Berwick-on-Tweed. * As odd and out of the way a place to be * at, it appears to me, as ever was seen ! And such a ridiculous ' room designed for me to read in ! An immense Corn Ex« * change, made of glass and iron, round, dome-topp'd, lofty, * utterly absurd for any such purpose, and full of thundering * echoes ; with a little lofty crow's nest of a stone gallery, breast * high, deep in the wall, into which it was designed to put ''me! I instantly struck, of course ; and said I would either residing * read in a room attached to this house (a very snug one, capable hall. < Qf holding 500 people), or not at all. Terrified local agents * glowered, but fell prostrate, and my men took the primitive * A sentence or two, from the ac- * It took some five minutes to mend, count written to his daughter, are also * and I looked on with my hands in worth giving. ' There were three * my pockets : for I think if I had * great galleries crammed to the roof, * turned my back for a moment, there ' and a high steep flight of stairs ; and * might still have been a move. My * a panic must have destroyed numbers * people were dreadfully alarmed — * of people. . . A lady in the front row * Boycott ' (the gas-man) ' in particu- * of stalls screamed, and ran out wildly * lar, who I suppose had some notion ' towards me. . . I addressed that lady, * that the whole place might have taken ' laughing, and called out as if it hap- * fire— * ' but there stood the master, " ' pened every night—" There's no- * he did me the honour to say after- * "thing the matter I assure you; 'wards, in addressing the rest, "as * *' don't be alarmed ; pray sit down * " cool as ever I see him a lounging * «« " and she sat down directly, * " at a Railway Station." ' * and there was a thunder of applause. y VI.] Second Series of Readings. * accommodation in hand. Ever since, I am alarmed to add, the Berwick- ' ON-TwEED : * people (who besought the honour of the visit) have been coming * in numbers quite irreconcileable with the appearance of the * place, and what is to be the end I do not know. It was poor * Arthur Smith's principle that a town on the way paid the ex- * penses of a long through-journey, and therefore I came.' The Reading paid more than those expenses. Enthusiastic greeting awaited him in Edinburgh. * We had in Scotland. * the hall exactly double what we had on the first night last time. * The success of Copperfield was perfectly unexampled. Four * great rounds of applause with a burst of cheering at the end, * and every point taken in the finest manner.' But this was nothing to what befell on the second night, when, by some mistake of the local agents, the tickets issued were out of pro- portion to the space available. Writing from Glasgow next day (3rd of December) he described the scene. * Such a pouring of Over-issue of ticlccts * hundreds into a place already full to the throat, such indescribable * confusion, such a rending and tearing of dresses, and yet such * a scene of good humour on the whole, I never saw the faintest * approach to. While I addressed the crowd in the room, G * addressed the crowd in the street. Fifty frantic men got up in ' all parts of the hall and addressed me all at once. Other frantic * men made speeches to the walls. The whole B family were Confusion and good- * borne in on the top of a wave, and landed with their faces humour. * against the front of the platform. I read with the platform ' crammed with people. I got them to lie down upon it, and * it was like some impossible tableau or gigantic pic-nic — one * pretty girl in full dress, lying on her side all night, holding on ' to one of the legs of my table ! It was the most extraordinary * sight And yet, from the moment I began to the moment ot * my leaving off, they never missed a point, and they ended with * a burst of cheers. . . . The expenditure of lungs and spirits was * (as you may suppose) rather great ; and to sleep well was out ot * the question. I am therefore rather fagged to-day ; and as the ' hall in which I read to-night is a large one, I must make my * letter a short one. . . . My people were torn to ribbons last * night. They have not a hat among them — and scarcely a coat.' 302 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI 1 1. p:din- He came home for his Christmas rest by way of Manchester, and BURGH : i86t. thus spoke of the reading there on the 14th of December. ' Copperfield in the Free Trade Hall last Saturday was really a ' grand scene.' Provinces : He was in southcrn latitudes after Christmas, and on the 8th of ^ ^" January wrote from Torquay : *We are now in the region of small ' rooms, and therefore this trip will not be as profitable as the * long one. I imagine the room here to be very small. Exeter * I know, and that is small too. I am very much used up on * the whole, for I cannot bear this moist warm climate. It would ' kill me very soon. And I have now got to the point of taking ' so much out of myself with Copperfield that I might as well do Torquay. ' Richard Wardour . . . This is a very pretty place — a compound ' of Hastings, Tunbridge Wells, and little bits of the hills about ' Naples ; but I met four respirators as I came up from the ' station, and three pale curates without them who seemed in a bad * way.' They had been not bad omens, however. The success was good, at both Torquay and Exeter ; and he closed the month, and this series of the country readings, at the great towns of Liverpool and Chester. ' The beautiful St. George's Hall crowded 'to excess last night' (28th of January 1862) *and numbers * turned away. BriUiant to see when lighted up, and for a read- LiverpooL < "j-^g Simply perfect You remember that a Liverpool audience * is usually dull ; but they put me on my mettle last night, for I * never saw such an audience — no, not even in Edinburgh ! The * agents (alone, and of course without any reference to ready money at the doors) had taken for the two readings two * hundred pounds.' But as the end approached the fatigues had told severely on him. He described himself sleeping horribly, and with head dazed and worn by gas and heat. Rest, before he could resume at the St. James's Hall in March, was become an absolute necessity. London. Two brief extracts from letters of the dates respectively of the 8th of April * and the 28th of June will sufficiently describe the * The letter referred also to the * ton's death is a shock of surprise as death of his American friend Professor * well as grief to me, for I had not Felton. ' Your mention of poor Fel- ' heard a word j^bout it. Mr. Fields § VI.] Second Series of Readings, 303 London readings. * The money returns have been quite astound- London : * ing. Think of 190 a night ! The effect of Copperfield exceeds '■ — * all the expectations which its success in the country led me to * form. It seems to take people entirely by surprise. If this is * not new to you, I have not a word of news. The rain that * raineth every day seems to have washed news away or got it ' under water.' That was in April. In June he wrote : * I * finished my readings on Friday night to an enormous hall — * nearly ^200. The success has been throughout complete. It * seems almost suicidal to leave off with the town so full, but * I don't like to depart from my public pledge. A man from * Australia is in London ready to pay 10,000 for eight months Offer from * there. If — It was an If that troubled him for some time, and led to agitating discussion. The civil war having closed America, an increase made upon the just-named offer tempted him to Australia. He tried to familiarize himself with the fancy that he should thus also get new material for observation, and he went so far as to plan an Uncommercial Traveller Upside Down.* * told me when he was here that the * effect of that hotel disaster of bad * drinking water had not passed away ; * so I suppose, as you do, that he sank * under it. Poor dear Felton ! It is * 20 years since I told you of the de. * light my first knowledge of him gave * me, and it is as strongly upon me to * this hour. I wish our ways had * crossed a little oftener, but that * would not have made it better for us * now, Alas ! alas ! all ways have * the same finger-post at the head of * them, and at every turning in them.' * I give the letter in which he put the scheme formally before me, after the renewed and larger offers had been submitted. * If there were reasonable * hope and promise, I could make up ' my mind to go to Australia and get ' money. I would not accept the ' Australian people's offer. I would * take no money from them ; would * bind myself to nothing with them ; * but would merely make them my * agents at such and such a per cent- * age, and go and read there. I would ' take some man of literary preten- * sions as a secretary (Charles Collins? ' What think you ?) and with his aid ' (he afterwards made the proposal to his old friend Mr. Thomas Beard) ' would do, for All the Year Round * while I was away, The Uncom- * mercial Traveller Upside Dov^m. If * the notion of these speculators be * anything like accurate, I should come * back rich. I should have seen a * great deal of novelty to boot. I * should have been very miserable Case for * too. . . Of course one cannot pos- against ^ Australia. ' sibly count upon the money to be * realized by a six months' absence, * but 1 2, 000 is supposed to be a low ' estimate. Mr. S. brought me letters * from members of the legislature, * newspaper editors, and the like, * exhorting me to come, saying how * much the people talk of me, and * dwelling on the kind of reception The Life of Charles Dickens. [BookVIII. It is however very doubtful if such a scheme would have been entertained for a moment, but for the unwonted difficulties of invention that were now found to beset a twenty-number story. Such a story had lately been in his mind, and he had just chosen the title for it {^Our Mutual Friend) but still he halted and hesitated sorely. * If it was not ' (he wrote on the 5th of October 1862) 'for the hope of a gain that would make me more * independent of the worst, I could not look the travel and * absence and exertion in the face. I know perfectly well before- * hand how unspeakably wretched I should be. But these * renewed and larger offers tempt me. I can force myself to ' go aboard a ship, and I can force myself to do at that reading- * desk what I have done a hundred times ; but whether, with all * this unsettled fluctuating distress in my mind, I could force an * original book out of it, is another question.' On the 22nd, still striving hard to find reasons to cope with the all but irresistible arguments against any such adventure, which indeed, with every- thing that then surrounded him, would have been little short of madness, he thus stated his experience of his two circuits of public reading. * Remember that at home here the thing has * never missed fire, but invariably does more the second time * than it did the first j and also that I have got so used to it, and * have worked so hard at it, as to get out of it more than I ever * thought was in it for that purpose. I think all the probabilities * for such a country as Australia are immense.' The terrible difficulty was that the home argument struck both ways. ' If I * that would await me. No doubt * this is so, and of course a great deal ' of curious experience for after use * would be gained over and above the * money. Being my own master too, * I could ** work " myself more deli- ' cately than if I bound myself for * money beforehand. A few years ' hence, if all other circumstances * were the same, I might not be so * well fitted for the excessive wear and * tear. This is about the whole case. * But pray do not suppose that I am * in my own mind favourable to going, * or that I have any fancy for going.' That was late in October. From Paris in November (1862), he wrote : ' I mentioned the question to Bulwer ' when he dined with us here last * Sunday, and he was all for going. ' He said that not only did he think ' the whole population would go to * the Readings, but that the country * would strike me in some quite new * aspect for a Book ; and that wonders ' might be done with such book in ' the way of profit, over there as wel| ' as here.' § VI.] Second Series of Readings. 305 * were to go it would be a penance and a misery, and I dread the London : 1862. * thought more than I can possibly express. The domestic life * of the Readings is all but intolerable to me when I am away * for a few weeks at a time merely, and what would it be On the other hand it was also a thought of home, far beyond the mere personal loss or gain of it, that made him willing still to risk even so much misery and penance ; and he had a fancy that it might be possible to take his eldest daughter with him. * It is * useless and needless for me to say what the conflict in my own * mind is. How painfully unwilling I am to go, and yet how * painfully sensible that perhaps I ought to go — with all the ^^[1]^^^^ * hands upon my skirts that I cannot fail to feel and see there, * whenever I look round. It is a struggle of no common sort, * as you will suppose, you who know the circumstances of the * struggles' It closed at once when he clearly saw that to take any of his family with him, and make satisfactory arrangement for the rest during such an absence, would be impossible. By this time also he began to find his way to the new story, and better hopes and spirits had returned. In January 1863 he had taken his daughter and his sister-in- ^jg^^^"* law to Paris, and he read twice at the Embassy in behalf of the British Charitable Fund, the success being such that he consented to read twice again.* He passed his birthday of that year (the 7 th of the following month) at Arras. * You will remember me * to-day, I know. Thanks for it. An odd birthday, but I am as ^^f^^ * little out of heart as you would have me be — floored now and * then, but coming up again at the call of Time. I wanted to see ' this town, birthplace of our amiable Sea Green ' (Robespierre) ; * and I find a Grande Place so very remarkable and picturesque * that it is astonishing how people miss it. Here too I found, in a * bye-country place just near, a Fair going on, with a Religious * Richardson's in it — Theatre Religieux — " donnant six fois * A person present thus described * hours' storm of excitement and plea- Reading at (ist of February 1863) the second 'sure. They actually murmured and night to Miss Dickens. ' No one can * applauded right away into their ' imagine the scene of last Friday * carriages and down the street.' * night at the Embassy . . a two VOL. II. X The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book vill. * "par jour, Thistoire de la Croix en tableaux vivants, depuis la ' "naissance de notre Seigneur jusqu'k son sepulture. Aussi * " rimmolation d'Isaac, par son pbre Abraham." It was just * before nightfall when I came upon it ; and one of the three ' wise men was up to his eyes in lamp oil, hanging the moderators. ' A woman in blue and fleshings (whether an angel or Joseph's * wife I don't know) was addressing the crowd through an * enormous speaking-trumpet ; and a very small boy with a pro- ' perty lamb (I leave you to judge who he was) was standing on * his head on a barrel-organ.' Returning to England by Boulogne in the same year, as he stepped into the Folkestone boat he encountered a friend, Mr. Charles Manby (in recording a trait of character so pleasing and honourable it is not necessary that I should suppress the name), also passing over to England. * Taking ' leave of Manby was a shabby man of whom I had some remem- ' brance, but whom I could not get into his place in my mind. ' Noticing when we stood out of the harbour that he was on the * brink of the pier, waving his hat in a desolate manner, I said to * Manby, " Surely I know that man." " I should think you * " did," said he ; " Hudson ! " He is living — ^just living — at ' Paris, and Manby had brought him on. He said to Manby at ' parting, " I shall not have a good dinner again, till you come ' " back." I asked Manby why he stuck to him ? He said, * Because he (Hudson) had so many people in his power, and ' had held his peace ; and because he (Manby) saw so many * Notabilities grand with him now, who were always grovelling ' for " shares " in the days of his grandeur.' Upon arrival in London the second series of the readings was brought to a close. § Vll.j Third Series of Readings, 307 VII. THIRD SERIES OF READINGS. 1864^1867. The sudden death of Thackeray on the Christmas eve of 1863 London: was a painful shock to Dickens. It would not become me to — — speak, when he has himself spoken, of his relations with so great a writer and so old a friend. * I saw him first, nearly twenty-eight years ago, when he pro- Death of ' posed to become the illustrator of my earliest book. I saw him * last,* shortly before Christmas, at the Athenaeum Club, when he * told me that he had been in bed three days . . . and that he * had it in his mind to try a new remedy which he laughingly * described. He was cheerful, and looked very bright. In the * night of that day week, he died. The long interval between * these two periods is marked in my remembrance of him by * many occasions when he was extremely humorous, when he was * irresistibly extravagant, when he was softened and serious, when * he was charming with children. . . No one can be surer than I, * of the greatness and goodness of his heart. . . In no place * should I take it upon myself at this time to discourse of his * books, of his refined knowledge of character, of his subtle * acquaintance with the weaknesses of human nature, of his * delightful playfulness as an essayist, of his quaint and touching * ballads, of his mastery over the English language. . . But * before me lies all that he had written of his latest story . . . and * There had been some estrange- ment between them since the autumn of 1858, hardly now worth mention even in a note. Thackeray, justly in- dignant at a published description of himself by the member of a club to which both he and Dickens belonged, referred it to the Committee, who decided to expel the writer. Dickens, thinking expulsion too harsh a penalty for an offence thoughtlessly given, and, Estrat as far as might be, manfully atoned mcnt. for by withdrawal and regret, inter- posed to avert that extremity. Thacke- ray resented the interference, and Dickens was justly hurt by the manner in which he did so. Neither was wholly right, nor was either altogetlicr in the wrong. The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book Vill. London : < the pain I have felt in perusing it has not been deeper than the conviction that he was in the healthiest vigour of his powers Dickens on Thackeray. < when he worked on this last labour. . . The last words he * corrected in print were " And my heart throbbed with an * " exquisite bliss/' God grant that on that Christmas Eve when ' he laid his head back on his pillow and threw up his arms as he * had been wont to do when very weary, some consciousness of ' duty done, and of Christian hope throughout life humbly ' cherished, may have caused his own heart so to throb, when he * passed away to his Redeemer's rest. He was found peacefully ' lying as above described, composed, undisturbed, and to all * appearance asleep.' * Other griefs were with Dickens at this time, and close upon them came the too certain evidence that his own health was yielding to the overstrain which had been placed upon it by the occurrences and anxieties of the few preceding years. His Mother's mothcr, whose infirm health had been tending for more than two years to the close, died in September 1863; and on his own birthday in the following February he had tidings of the death of his second son Walter, on the last day of the old year, in the officers' hospital at Calcutta; to which he had been sent up invalided from his station, on his way home. He was a Death lieutenant in the 26th Native Infantry regiment, and had been cf son v/aiter. doing duty with the 42nd Highlanders. In 1853 his father had thus written to the youth's godfather, Walter Savage Landor; * Walter is a very good boy, and comes home from school with * honorable commendation and a prize into the bargain. He * never gets into trouble, for he is a great favourite with the whole * house and one of the most amiable boys in the boy-world. He * comes out on birthdays in a blaze of shirt pin.' The pin was a present from Landor ; to whom three years later, when the boy had obtained his cadetship through the kindness of Miss Coutts, Dickens wrote again. ' Walter has done extremely well at school ; ' has brought home a prize in triumph ; and will be eligible to " go up " for his India examination soon after next Easter, * From the Cornhill Magazine for February 1S64. § VII.] Third Series of Readings. 309 ' Having a direct appointment he will probably be sent out soon Lo ndon ; * after he has passed, and so will fall into that strange life " up • * " the country " before he well knows he is alive, or what life is — * which indeed seems to be rather an advanced state of know- * ledge.' If he had lived another month he would have reached his twenty-third year, and perhaps not then the advanced state of knowledge his father speaks of But, never forfeiting his claim to those kindly paternal words, he had the goodness and simplicity of boyhood to the close. Dickens had at this time begun his last story in twenty ^J*^^^^ numbers, and my next chapter will show through what unwonted ^^'^^ troubles, in this and the following year, he had to fight his way. What otherwise during its progress chiefly interested him, was the enterprise of Mr. Fechter at the Lyceum, of which he had become the lessee ; and Dickens was moved to this quite as much by generous sympathy with the difficulties of such a position to an artist who was not an Englishman, as by genuine admiration of Mr. Fechter's acting. He became his helper in disputes, adviser Jjf on literary points, referee in matters of management ; and for meS?^" some years no face was more familiar than the French comedian's at Gadshill or in the office of his journal. But theatres and their affairs are things of a season, and even Dickens's whim and humour will not revive for us any interest in these. No bad example, however, of the difficulties in which a French actor may find himself with English playwrights, will appear in a few amusing words from one of his letters about a piece played at the Princess's before the Lyceum management was taken in hand. ' I have been cautioning Fechter about the play whereof he Revisiivg * gave the plot and scenes to B ; and out of which I have struck ' some enormities, my account of which will (I think) amuse you. * It has one of the best first acts I ever saw ; but if he can do * much with the last two, not to say three, there are resources in * his art that / know nothing about. When I went over the play * this day week, he was at least 20 minutes, in a boat, in the last * scene, discussing with another gentleman (also in the boat) * whether he should kill him or not ; after which the gentleman ' dived overboard and swam for it. Also, in the most important The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI 1 1. London ; 1865. Sorrowful New Year. Lameness. Post, Book xi. § 3. Over-con- fidence. * and dangerous parts of the play, there was a young person of the * name of Pickles who was constantly being mentioned by name, * in conjunction with the powers of light or darkness ; as, " Great '"Heaven! Pickles By Hell, 'tis Pickles !"—" Pickles ? a ' thousand Devils ! " Distraction ! Pickles ? " ' The old year ended and the new one opened sadly enough. The death of Leech in November affected Dickens very much,* and a severe attack of illness in February put a broad mark between his past life and what remained to him of the future. The lameness now began in his left foot which never afterwards wholly left him, which was attended by great suffering, and which baffled experienced physicians. He had persisted in his ordinary exercise during heavy snow-storms, and to the last he had the fancy that the illness was merely local. But that this was an error is now certain ; and it is more than probable that if the nervous danger and disturbance it implied had been correctly appreciated at the time, its warning might have been of priceless value to Dickens. Unhappily he never thought of husbanding his strength except for the purpose of making fresh demands upon it, and it was for this he took a brief holiday in France during the summer. * Before I went away,' he wrote to his daughter, ' I had certainly * worked myself into a damaged state. But the moment I got Charles Wentworth Dilke. * Writing to me three months be- fore, he spoke of the death of one whom he had known from his boyhood {ante, i. 22-3) and with whom he had fought unsuccessfully for some years against the management of the Literary Fund. * Poor Dilke ! I am very sorry ' that the capital old stout-hearted * man is dead.' Sorrow may also be expressed that no adequate record should remain of a career which for steadfast purpose, conscientious main- tenance of opinion, and pursuit of public objects with disregard of self, was one of very high example. So averse was Mr, Dilke to every kind of display that his name appears to none of the literary investigations which were conducted by him with an acute- ness wonderful as his industry, and it was in accordance with his express in- structions that the literary journal which his energy and self-denial had established kept silence respecting him at his death. — Since that note was written in 1873, tribute in the most durable form has been affectionately paid to Mr. Dilke's memory by his grandson, Sir Charles Dilke, who has collected some masterly specimens of his critical handling of questions that will always have imperishable inte- rest for students of English literature, and has prefixed a memoir, brief yet sufficient for its purpose. Character is the salt that saves books and men, and it is on every page of Papers 0/ a Critic. 1875. § VII.] Third Series of Readings. 3^1 * away, I began, thank God, to get well. I hope to profit by this London: 1865. * experience, and to make future dashes from my desk before * I want them.' At his return he was in the terrible railway accident at Staplehurst, on a day * which proved afterwards more Fatal anni- •' ^ versary. fatal to him ; and it was with shaken nerves but unsubdued ^"^^^ 366-7. energy he resumed the labour to be presently described. He was beset by nervous apprehensions which the accident had caused to himself, not lessened by his generous anxiety to assuage the severer sufferings inflicted by it on others ; his foot also troubled him more or less throughout the autumn ; f and that he should nevertheless have determined, on the close of his book, to under- take a series of readings involving greater strain and fatigue than any hitherto, was a startling circumstance. He had perhaps become conscious, without owning it even to himself, that for exertion of this kind the time left him was short ; but, whatever New Read- pressed him on, his task of the next three years, self-imposed, was taken."^^"^ to make the most money in the shortest time without any regard to the physical labour to be undergone. The very letter an- nouncing his new engagement shows how entirely unfit he was to enter upon it * For some time,' he wrote at the end of February 1866, *I * One day before, the 8th of June 1865, his old friend Sir Joseph Paxton had breathed his last. t Here are allusions to it at that timg. ' I have got a boot on to-day — * made on an Otranto scale, but really * not very discernible from its ordinary * sized companion.* After a few days' holiday : ' I began to feel my foot * stronger the moment I breathed the * sea air. Still, during the ten days I * have been aw^ay, I have never been * able to wear a boot after four or five * in the afternoon, but have passed all * the evenings vnth the foot up, and * nothing on it I am burnt brown * and have walked by the sea per- * petually, yet I feel certain that if I * wore a boot this evening, I should be * taken with those torments again be- * fore the night was out.' This last letter ended thus : ' As a relief to my * late dismal letters, I send you the ' newest American story. Backwoods p.ackwoods ' Doctor is called in to the little boy Doctor. * of a woman-settler. Stares at the ' child some time through a pair of * spectacles. Ultimately takes them ' off, and says to the mother : " Wa'al ' " marm, this is small-pox. 'Tis * '* marm, small-pox. But I am not * ** posted up in pustuls, and I do not * *' know as I could bring him along * " slick through it. But I'll tell you * ** wa'at I can do, marm : — I can ' ** send him a draft as will certainly * *' put him into a most etamal fit, * ** and I am almighty smart at fits, * ** and we might git round Old Grisly ' " that way." ' The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book Vlll. * have been very unwell. F. B. wrote me word that with such a * pulse as I described, an examination of the heart was absolutely * necessary. " Want of muscular power in the heart," B said. * " Only remarkable irritability of the heart," said Doctor Brinton * of Brook-street, who had been called in to consultation. I was * not disconcerted ; for I knew well beforehand that the effect * could not possibly be without the one cause at the bottom of it, ' of some degeneration of some function of the heart. Of course ' I am not so foolish as to suppose that all my work can have been ' achieved without some penalty, and I have noticed for some time * a decided change in my buoyancy and hopefulness — in other * words, in my usual " tone." But tonics have already brought * me round. So I have accepted an offer, from Chappells of * Bond-street, of ;^5o a night for thirty nights to read in * " England, Ireland, Scotland, or Paris ; " they undertaking all * the business, paying all personal expenses, travelling and other- * wise, of myself, John * (his office servant), *and my gasman ; and * making what they can of it. I begin, I believe, in Liverpool on * the Thursday in Easter week, and then come to London. I am * going to read at Cheltenham (on my own account) on the 23rd * and 24th of this month, staying with Macready of course.' The arrangement of this series of Readings differed from those of its predecessors in relieving Dickens from every anxiety except of the reading itself ; but, by such rapid and repeated change of nights at distant places as kept him almost wholly in a railway carriage when not at the reading-desk or in bed, it added enormously to the physical fatigue. He would read at St. James's Hall in London one night, and at Bradford the next. He would read in Edinburgh, go on to Glasgow and to Aberdeen, then come back to Glasgow, read again in Edinburgh, strike off to Manchester, come back to St. James's Hall once more, and begin the same round again. It was labour that must in time have broken down the strongest man, and what Dickens was when he assumed it we have seen. He did not himself admit a shadow of misgiving. * As to the * readings ' (nth of March), ' all I have to do is, to take in my * book and read, at the appointa 1 place and hour, and come ou § VII.] Third Series of Readings. 313 * again. All the business of every kind, is done by Chappells. ^^^^^^ ' * They take John and my other man, merely for my convenience. * I have no more to do with any detail whatever, than you have. * They transact all the business at their own cost, and on their ' own responsibility. I think they are disposed to do it in a very ' good spirit, because, whereas the original proposition was for * thirty readings " in England, Ireland, Scotland, or Paris," they * "wrote out their agreement "in London, the Provinces, or else- * "where as you and we may agree" For this they pay 1500 in * three sums : £$00 on beginning, ;^5oo on the fifteenth Reading, * jCS^o at the close. Every charge of every kind, they pay * besides. I rely for mere curiosity on Doctor Marigold (I am ' going to begin with him in Liverpool, and at St. James's Hall). ' I have got hin up with immense pains, and should like to give * you a notion what I am going to do with him.' The success everywhere went far beyond even the former successes. A single night at Manchester, when eight hundred stalls were let, two thousand five hundred and sixty-five people admitted, and the receipts amounted to more than three hundred pounds, was followed in nearly the same proportion by all the greater towns ; and on the 20th of April the outlay for the entire Success be- venture was paid, leaving all that remained, to the middle of the month of June, sheer profit. ' I came back last Sunday,' he wrote on the 30th of May, * with my last country piece of work * for this time done. Everywhere the success has been the same. * St. James's Hall last night was quite a splendid spectacle. Two * more Tuesdays there, and I shall retire into private life. I have * only been able to get to Gadshill once since I left it, and that * was the day before yesterday.' One memorable evening he had passed at my house in the Memorable interval, when he saw Mrs. Carlyle for the last time. Her sudden 2nd"Aprii. death followed shortly after, and near the close of April he had ' thus written to me from Liverpool. ' It was a terrible shock to * me, and poor dear Carlyle has been in my mind ever since. ' How often I have thought of the unfinished novel. No one * now to finish it None of the writing women come near her at all.' This was an allusion to what had passed at their meeting. 314 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI 1 1. London : It was OH the sccond of April, the day when Mr. Carlyle had delivered his inaugural address as Lord Rector of Edinburgh Rector University, and a couple of ardent words from Professor Tyndall had told her of the triumph just before dinner. She came to us flourishing the telegram in her hand, and the radiance of her enjoyment of it was upon her all the night. Among other things she gave Dickens the subject for a novel, from what she had her- self observed at the outside of a house in her street ; of which the various incidents were drawn from the condition of its blinds and curtains, the costumes visible at its windows, the cabs at its door, its visitors admitted or rejected, its articles of furniture delivered or carried away ; and the subtle serious humour of it all, the truth in trifling bits of character, and the gradual progress into a half-romantic interest, had enchanted the skilled novelist. She was well into the second volume of her small romance before she left, being as far as her observation then had taken her ; but in a few days exciting incidents were expected, the denouement could not be far ofl", and Dickens was to have it when they met again. Mrs. Car- Yet it was to something far other than this amusing little fancy his thoughts had carried him, when he wrote of no one being capable to finish what she might have begun. In greater things this was still more true. None could doubt it who had come within the fascinating influence of that sweet and noble nature. With some of the highest gifts of intellect, and the charm of a most varied knowledge of books and things, there was something * beyond, beyond.' No one who knew Mrs. Carlyle could replace her loss when she had passed away. The same letter which told of his uninterrupted success to the last, told me also that he had a heavy cold upon him and was *• very tired and depressed.' Some weeks before the first batch of readings closed, Messrs. Chappell had already tempted him with an offer for fifty more nights to begin at Christmas, for which he meant, as he then said, to ask them seventy pounds a night. ' It ' would be unreasonable to ask anything now on the ground of * the extent of the late success, but I am bound to look to myself * for the future. The ChappellS are speculators, though of the * worthiest and most honourable kind. They make some bad Offer for more Read- ings. § VII.] Third Series of Readings. 315 * speculations, and have made a very good one in this case, and PRovmcEs: * will set this against those. I told them when we agreed : " I ~ — * " offer these thirty Readings to you at fifty pounds a night, * because I know perfectly well beforehand that no one in your * " business has the least idea of their real worth, and I wish to *" prove it." The sum taken is /'4720.' The result of the Result of ^ ^i-/ ^ ^ ^ the last fresh negotiation, though not completed until the beginning of Readings August, may be at once described. * Chappell instantly accepts * my proposal of forty nights at sixty pounds a night, and every * conceivable and inconceivable expense paid. To make an even * sum, I have made it forty-two nights for ^[^2^00. So I shall * now try to discover a Christmas number ' (he means the subject for one), * and shall, please Heaven, be quit of the whole series * of readings so as to get to work on a new story for our proposed * new series of All the Year Round early in the spring. The *■ readings begin probably with the New Year.' These were fair designs, but the fairest are the sport of circumstance, and though the subject for Christmas was found, the new series of All the Year Round never had a new story from its founder. With what- ever consequence to himself, the strong tide of the Readings was to sweep on to its full. The American war had ceased, and the first renewed offers from the States had been made and rejected. Hovering over all, too, were other sterner dispositions. ' I think,' he wrote in September, * there is some strange influence in the * atmosphere. Twice last week I was seized in a most distressing Grave warnings. * manner — apparently in the heart ; but, I am persuaded, only in * the nervous system.' In the midst of his ovations such checks had not been wanting. *■ The police reported officially,' he wrote to his daughter from Liverpool on the 14th of April, 'that three thousand people were * turned away from the hall last night. . . Except that I can not At Liver- *■ sleep, I really think myself in very much better training than I *■ had anticipated. A dozen oysters and a little champagne * between the parts every night, seem to constitute the best * restorative I have ever yet tried.' ' Such a prodigious demon- * stration last night at Manchester,' he wrote to the same cor- respondent twelve days later, ' that I was obliged (contrary to my 3i6 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI 1 1. PRovmcEs : < principle in such cases) to go back. I am very tired to-day ; 7—- ' for it would be of itself very hard work in that immense place, if At Man- •' r ■> Chester. « there were not to be added eighty miles of railway and late hours * to boot.' * It has been very heavy work/ he wrote to his sister- in-law on the nth of May from Clifton, * getting up at 6*30 each morning after a heavy night, and I am not at all well to-day. At Bir- < We had a tremendous hall at Birmingham last night, ^^230 odd, tningham * 2100 people; and I made a most ridiculous mistake. Had * Nickleby on my list to finish with, instead of Trial. Read * Nickleby with great go, and the people remained. Went back * again at 10 o'clock, and explained the accident : but said if ' they liked I would give them the Trial. They did like ; — and * I had another half hour of it, in that enormous place. . . I have ' so severe a pain in the ball of my left eye that it makes it hard * for me to do anything after 100 miles shaking since breakfast * My cold is no better, nor my hand either.' It was his left eye, it will be noted, as it was his left foot and hand ; the irritabiHty or faintness of heart was also of course on the left side ; and it See ^ost "^^^ ^"B^m^ left side he felt most of the effect of the railway Bookix;§4. accident. Everything was done to make easier the labour of travel, but In Scot- nothing could materially abate either the absolute physical ex- haustion, or the nervous strain. 'We arrived here,' he wrote from Aberdeen (i6th of May), 'safe and sound between 3 and 4 ' this morning. There was a compartment for the men, and a * charming room for ourselves furnished with sofas and easy chairs. ' We had also a pantry and washing-stand. This carriage is to ' go about with us.' Two days later he wrote from Glasgow : ' We halted at Perth yesterday, and got a lovely walk there. ' Until then I had been in a condition the reverse of flourishing ; ' half strangled with my cold, and dyspeptically gloomy and dull ; ' but, as I feel much more like myself this morning, we are going ' to get some fresh air aboard a steamer on the Clyde.' The last letter during his country travel was from Portsmouth on the 24th of May, and contained these words : * You need have no fear * about America.' The readings closed in June. The readings of the new year began with even increased § vii.j Third Series of Readings. 317 enthusiasm, but not otherwise with happier omen. Here was his Provincr* 1867. first outline of plan : *I start on Wednesday afternoon (the 15 th — * of January) for Liverpool, and then go on to Chester, Derby, * Leicester, and Wolverhampton. On Tuesday the 29th I read * in London again, and in February I read at Manchester and * then go on into Scotland.' From Liverpool he wrote on the 2 1 St: *The enthusiasm has been unbounded. On Friday night * I quite astonished myself ; but I was taken so taint afterwards Over-exer- tion and * that they laid me on a sofa at the hall for half an hour. I its result*. * attribute it to my distressing inability to sleep at night, and to * nothing worse. Everything is made as easy to me as it possibly * can be. Dolby would do anything to lighten the work, and * does everything.' The weather was sorely against him. * At ' Chester,' he wrote on the 24th from Birmingham, * we read in * a snow-storm and a fall of ice. I think it was the worst weather * I ever saw ... At Wolverhampton last night the thaw had ' thoroughly set in, and it rained furiously, and I was again * heavily beaten. We came on here after the reading (it is only * a ride of forty miles), and it was as much as I could do to hold * out the journey. But I was not faint, as at Liverpool. I was ' only exhausted.' Five days later he had returned for his Reading in London, and thus replied to a summons to dine with Macready at my house : ' I am very tired ; cannot sleep ; have been severely * shaken on an atrocious railway ; read to-night, and have to read * at Leeds on Thursday. But I have settled with Dolby to put * off our going to Leeds on Wednesday, in the hope of coming to * dine with you, and seeing our dear old friend. I say " in the * " hope," because if I should be a little more used-up to-morrow * than I am to-day, I should be constrained, in spite of myself, to * take to the sofa and stick there.' On the 15 th of February he wrote to his sister-in-law from Liverpool that they had had * an enormous turn-away ' the previous night 'The day has been very fine, and I have ' turned it to the wholesomest account by walking on the sands * at New Brighton all the morning. I am not quite right within, sdf-decep * but believe it to be an effect of the railway shaking. There is * no doubt of the fact that, after the Staplehurst experience, it 3i8 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VI 1 1. Provinces: < tclls more and more (railway shaking, that is) instead of, as one ' might have expected, less and less.' The last remark is a strange one, from a man of his sagacity \ but it was part of the too-willing self-deception which he practised, to justify him in his professed belief that these continued excesses of labour and Scotland, excitement were really doing him no harm. The day after that last letter he pushed on to Scotland, and on the 1 7th wrote to his daughter from Glasgow. The closing night at Manchester had been enormous. * They cheered to that extent after it was * over that I was obliged to huddle on my clothes (for I was * undressing to prepare for the journey) and go back again. * After so heavy a week, it was rather stiff to start on this long * journey at a quarter to two in the morning ; but I got more ' sleep than I ever got in a railway carriage before ... I have, ' as I had in the last series of readings, a curious feeling of sore- ness all round the body — which I suppose to arise from the great exertion of voice . . Two days later he wrote to his sister-in-law from the Bridge of Allan, which he had reached from malady Glasgow that moming. ' Yesterday I was so unwell with an i. 198. < internal malady that occasionally at long intervals troubles me * a little, and it was attended with the sudden loss of so much * blood, that I wrote to F. B. from whom I shall doubtless hear * to-morrow ... I felt it a little more exertion to read, afterwards, * and I passed a sleepless night after that again ; but otherwise I am * in good force and spirits to-day : I may say, in the best force . . . * The quiet of this little place is sure to do me good.' He raUied again from this attack, and, though he still complained of sleep- lessness, wrote cheerfully from Glasgow on the 21st, describing himself indeed as confined to his room, but only because 'in '• close hiding from a local poet who has christened his infant * son in my name, and consequently haunts the building.' On getting back to Edinburgh he wrote to me, with intimation that many troubles had beset him; but that the pleasure of his audiences, and the providence and forethought of Messrs. Chappell, had borne him through. * Everything is done for me ' with the utmost liberality and consideration. Every want I can ' have on these journeys is anticipated, and not the faintest spark 4 § VII.] Third Series of Readings. 319 * of the tradesman spirit ever peeps out. I have three men in New- . CASTLE constant attendance on me ; besides Dolby, who is an agreeable 1867. * companion, an excellent manager, and a good fellow.' On the 4th of March he wrote from Newcastle : ' The readings * have made an immense effect in this place, and it is remarkable * that although the people are individually rough, collectively they * are an unusually tender and sympathetic audience ; while their * comic perception is quite up to the high London standard. The. * atmosphere is so very heavy that yesterday we escaped to Tyne- * mouth for a two hours' sea walk. There was a high north wind * blowing, and a magnificent sea running. Large vessels were * being towed in and out over the stormy bar, with prodigious *■ waves breaking on it ; and, spanning the restless uproar of the * waters, was a quiet rainbow of transcendent beauty. The scene ' was quite wonderful. We were in the full enjoyment of it when At Tyne- 1 • mouth. ' a heavy sea caught us, knocked us over, and in a moment * drenched us and filled even our pockets. We had nothing for ' it but to shake ourselves together (like Doctor Marigold), and * dry ourselves as well as we could by hard walking in the wind * and sunshine. But we were wet through for all that, when we * came back here to dinner after half-an-hour's railway drive. I * am wonderfully well, and quite fresh and strong.' Three days later he was at Leeds ; from which he was to work himself round through the most important neighbouring places to another read- ing in London, before again visiting Ireland. This was the time of the Fenian excitements ; it was with great reluctance he consented to go ; * and he told us all at his first * He wrote to me on the 15th of March from Dublin : * So profoundly * discouraging were the accounts from * here in London last Tuesday that I * held several councils with Chappell * about coming at all ; had actually * drawn up a bill announcing (indefi- * nitely) the postponement of the read- ' ings ; and had meant to give him a ' reading to cover the charges incurred ' — but yielded at last to his represen- * tations the other way. We ran through * a snow storm nearly the whole way, At the * and in Wales got snowed up, came jj^fe"^ * to a stoppage, and had to dig the ' engine out. . . We got to Dublin at * last, found it snowing and raining, ' and heard that it had been snowing * and raining since the first day of the * year ... As to outward signs of * trouble or preparation, they are very * few. At Kingstown our boat was * waited for by four armed policemen, * and some stragglers in various dresses 320 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book VIII. Ireland : arrival that he should have a complete breakdown. More than 1867. ^ — 300 stalls were gone at Belfast two days before the reading, but on the afternoon of the reading in Dublin not 50 were taken. Strange to say however a great crowd pressed in at night, he had a tumultuous greeting, and on the 22 nd of March I had this In Dublin, announcement from him : ' You will be surprised to be told that * we have done wonders ! Enthusiastic crowds have filled the .* halls to the roof each night, and hundreds have been turned * away. At Belfast the night before last we had 246 5^-. In * Dublin to-night everything is sold out, and people are besieging * Dolby to put chairs anjnvhere, in doorways, on my platform, in * any sort of hole or comer. In short the Readings are a perfect *■ rage at a time when everything else is beaten down.' He took Eastern the Eastern Counties at his return, and this brought the series to a close. * The reception at Cambridge was something to be proud ' of in such a place. The colleges mustered in full force, from * the biggest guns to the smallest ; and went beyond even Man- ' Chester in the roars of welcome and rounds of cheers. The ' place was crammed, and all through the reading everything was * taken with the utmost heartiness of enjoyment' The temptation of offers from America had meanwhile again been presented to him so strongly, and in such unlucky connection with immediate family claims threatening excess of expenditure even beyond the income he was making, that he was fain to write to his sister-in- Yieiding law : * I begin to feel myself drawn towards America as Darnay troi!""^'* * in the Tale of Two Cities was attracted to Paris. It is my * who were clearly detectives. But * there was no show of soldiery. My * people carry a long heavy box con- * taining gas-fittings. This was imme- * diately laid hold of ; but one of the ' stragglers instantly interposed on * seeing my name, and came to me in ' the carriage and apologised . , . ' The worst looking young fellow I ' ever saw turned up at Holyhead be- * fore we went to bed there, and sat * glooming and glowering by the * coffee-room fire while we warmed * ourselves. He said he had been * snowed up with us (which we didn't ' believe), and was horribly discon- * certed by some box of his having * gone to Dublin without him. We * said to one another " Fenian : " and * certainly he disappeared in the morn- ' ing, and let his box go where it ' would.' What Dickens heard and saw in Dublin, during this visit, con- vinced him that Fenianism and dis- affection had found their way into several regiments. § VII.] Third Series of Readings, * Loadstone Rock.' Too surely it was to be so : and Dickens Eastern Counties: was not to be saved from the consequence of yielding to the 1867. temptation, by any such sacrifice as had rescued Darnay. The letter which told me of the close of his English readings had in it no word of the farther enterprise, yet it seemed to be in some sort a preparation for it. * Last Monday evening' (14th May) ' I finished the 50 Readings with great success. You have * no idea how I have worked at them. Finding it necessary, as * their reputation widened, that they should be better than at first, ' I have learnt them all, so as to have no mechanical drawback * in looking after the words. I have tested all the serious passion study ^ given to ' in them by everything I know ; made the humorous points readings. * much more humorous ; corrected my utterance of certain words ; ' cultivated a self-possession not to be disturbed ; and made * myself master of the situation. Finishing with Dombey (which * I had not read for a long time), I learnt that, like the rest ; and * did it to myself, often twice a day, with exactly the same pains * as at night, over and over and over again.' . . Six days later brought his reply to a remark, that no degree of excellence to which he might have brought his readings could reconcile me to what there was little doubt would soon be pressed upon him. ' It is curious' (20th May) ' that you should touch the American * subject, because I must confess that my mind is in a most dis- * turbed state about it. That the people there have set themselves * on having the readings, there is no question. Every mail brings * me proposals, and the number of Americans at St. James's Hall Read- ' has been surprising. A certain Mr. Grau, who took Ristori out, America. ' and is highly responsible, wrote to me by the last mail (for the ' second time) saying that if I would give him a word of en- ' couragement he would come over immediately and arrange on * the boldest terms for any number I chose, and would deposit ' a large sum of money at Coutts's. Mr. Fields writes to me on ' behalf of a committee of private gentlemen at Boston who ' wished for the credit of getting me out, who desired to heai * the readings and did not want profit, and would put down as * a guarantee 10,000 — also to be banked here. Every American offer?. ' speculator who comes to London repairs straight to Dolby, vo;.. 11. Y 322 The Life of Charles Dickens. [BookVIII. London: * with similar proposals. And, thus excited, Chappells, the 1867. ' moment this last series was over, proposed to treat for * America!* Upon the mere question of these various offers he had little difficulty in making up his mind. If he went at all, he would go on his own account, making no compact with any one. Whether he should go at all, was what he had to determine. One thing with his usual sagacity he saw clearly enough. He must make up his mind quickly. * The Presidential election * would be in the autumn of next year. They are a people whom * a fancy does not hold long. They are bent upon my reading * there, and they believe (on no foundation whatever) that I am ' going to read there. If I ever go, the time would be when the * Christmas number goes to press. Early in this next November.* Every sort of enquiry he accordingly set on foot ; and so far came to the immediate decision, that, if the answers left him no room to doubt that a certain sum might be reaHzed, he would go. ' Have no fear that anything will induce me to make the experi- fof gSng^^ * ment, if I do not see the most forcible reasons for believing * that what I could get by it, added to what I have got, would * leave me with a sufficient fortune. I should be wretched ' beyond expression there. My small powers of description can- * not describe the state of mind in which I should drag on from *■ day to day.' At the end of May he wrote : * Poor dear Stan- * field ! ' (our excellent friend had passed away the week before). * I cannot think even of him, and of our great loss, for this spectre * of doubt and indecision that sits at the board with me and stands * at the bedside. I am in a tempest-tossed condition, and can * hardly believe that I stand at bay at last on the American * question. The difficulty of determining amid the variety of * statements made to me is enormous, and you have no idea how ' heavily the anxiety of it sits upon my soul. But the prize looks * so large ! ' One way at last seemed to open by which it was possible to get at some settled opinion. * Dolby sails for ^^ut out. ' America ' (2nd of July) * on Saturday the 3rd of August. It is * impossible to come to any reasonable conclusion, without * sending eyes and ears on the actual ground. He will take out § VII.] Third Series of Readings, 323 * my MS. for the Children's Magazine. I hope it is droll, and London * very child-like ; though the joke is a grown-up one besides, — — * You must try to like the pirate story, for I am very fond of it' See Book xi. The allusion is to his pleasant Holiday Romance which he had written for Mr. Fields. Hardly had Mr. Dolby gone when there came that which should have availed to dissuade, far more than any of the argu- ments which continued to express my objection to the enter- ^nheeded^ prise. *I am laid up,' he wrote on the 6th of August, 'with ' another attack in my foot, and was on the sofa all last night in * tortures. I cannot bear to have the fomentations taken off for a * moment. I was so ill with it on Sunday, and it looked so * fierce, that I came up to Henry Thompson. He has gone into * the case heartily, and says that there is no doubt the complaint * originates in the action of the shoe, in walking, on an enlarge- * ment in the nature of a bunion. Erysipelas has supervened * upon the injury; and the object is to avoid a gathering, and to * stay the erysipelas where it is. Meantime I am on my back, * and chafing. ... I didn't improve my foot by going down to * Liverpool to see Dolby off, but I have Httle doubt of its yielding * to treatment, and repose.' A few days later he was chafing still j the accomplished surgeon he consulted having dropped ^ij^^p"''^ ,^ other hints that somewhat troubled him. ' I could not walk a opinion. * quarter of a mile to-night for ^500. I make out so many * reasons against supposing it to be gouty that I really do not ' think it is.' So momentous in my judgment were the consequences of the American journey to him that it seemed right to preface thus much of the inducements and temptations that led to it. My own part in the discussion was that of steady dissuasion throughout : Discussioo though this might perhaps have been less persistent if I could have reconciled myself to the belief, which I never at any time did, that Public Readings were a worthy employment for a man of his genius. But it had by this time become clear to me that nothing could stay the enterprise. The result of Mr. Dolby's visit to America — drawn up by Dickens himself in a paper possessing still the interest of having given to the Readings when V 2 324 The Life of Charles Dickens. [BookVIII. London: he crosscd the Atlantic much of the form they then assumed 1867. ^ reached me when I was staying at Ross ; and upon it was • This renders it worth preservation in a note. He called it • THE CASE IN A NUTSHELL. * I. I think it may be taken as proved, that general enthusiasm and excitement are avv^akened in America on the subject of the Readings, and that the people are prepared to give me a great reception. The New York He- rald, indeed, is of opinion that " Dickens must apologise first "; and where a New York Herald is possible, any thing is possible. But the prevailing tone, both of the press and of people of all conditions, is highly favourable. I have an opinion myself that the Irish element in New York is dangerous ; for the reason that the Fenians would be glad to damage a conspicuous Eng- lishman. This is merely an opinion of my own. All our original calculations were based on 100 Readings. But an unexpected result of careful en- quiry on the spot, is the dis- covery that the month of May is generally considered (in the large cities) bad for such a pur- pose. Admitting that what go- verns an ordinary case in this wise, governs mine, this reduces the Readings to 80, and conse- quently at a blow makes a re- duction of 20 per cent, in the means of making money within the half year — unless the objec- tion should not apply in my exceptional instance, dismiss the consideration that the great towns of America could not possibly be exhausted — or even visited— within 6 months, * and that a large harvest would * be left unreaped. Because 1 * hold a second series of Readings * in America is to be set down as * out of the question : whether * regarded as involving two more * voyages across the Atlantic, or * a vacation of five months in * Canada. * 4. The narrowed calculation we have * made, is this : What is the * largest amount of clear profit * derivable under the most advan- * tageous circumstances possible, * as to their public reception, from * 80 readings and no more ? In * making this calculation, the ex- * penses have been throughout * taken on the New York scale — * which is the dearest ; as much * as 20 per cent, has been deducted * for management, including Mr. * Dolby's commission ; and no * credit has been taken for any ' extra payment on reserved seats, * though a good deal of money is * confidently expected from this * source. But on the other hand ' it is to be observed that four * Readings (and a fraction over) ' are supposed to take place every * week, and that the estimate of * receipts is based on the assump- * tion that the audiences are, on * all occasions, as large as the * rooms will reasonably hold. * 5. So considering 80 Readings, we ' bring out the nett profit of that ' number, remaining to me after ' payment of all charges what- * ever, as ^^15,500. ' 6. But it yet remains to be noted * that the calculation assumes * New York City, and the State * of New York, to be good for a ' very large proportion of the 80 § vn.] Third Series of Readings. founded my last argument against the scheme. This he received London : 1867. in London on the 28th of September, on which day he thus wrote to his eldest daughter : * As I telegraphed after I saw you, I am * off to Ross to consult with Mr. Forster and Dolby together. * You shall hear, either on Monday, or by Monday's post from * London, how I decide finally.' The result he wrote to her three days later : * You will have had my telegram that I go to Decision to go. * America. After a long discussion with Forster, and considera- * tion of what is to be said on both sides, I have decided to go * through with it We have telegraphed Yes " to Boston.' Seven days later he wrote to me : ' The Scotia being full, I do not * sail until lord mayor's day ; for which glorious anniversary I ' have engaged an officer's cabin on deck in the Cuba. I am not * in very brilliant spirits at the prospect before me, and am deeply * sensible of your motive and reasons for the line you have taken ; ' but I am not in the least shaken in the conviction that I could * never quite have given up the idea.' The remaining time was given to preparations ; on the 2nd of November there was a Farewell Banquet in the Freemasons' Hall over which Lord Lytton presided ; and on the 9th Dickens sailed for Boston. Before he left he had contributed Departure, his part to the last of his Christmas Numbers ; all the writings he was able to complete were done ; and the interval of his voyage may be occupied by a general review of the literary labour of his life. * Readings ; and that the calcula- * within the time : by reason of * tion also assumes the necessary * other places that would come * travelling not to extend beyond * into the list, lying wide asunder, q^^^ * Boston and adjacent places, New 'and necessitating long and fa- nutshell * York City and adjacent places, * tiguing journeys. ' Philadelphia, Washington, and ' 7- The loss consequent on the con- « Baltimore. But, if the calcula- ' version of paper money into gold * tion should prove too sanguine ' (^^^^ S^^^ ^xt^tnt ruling ' on this head, and if these places * premium) is allowed for in the « should be good for so many ' calculation. It counts seven 4,, r .. • dollars m the pound. * Keadmgs, then it may prove ' impracticable to get through 80 BOOK NINTH. AUTHOR. 1836—1870. JEt. 26—58. I. Dickens as a Novelist. II. Tale of two Cities. III. Great Expectations. IV. Christmas Sketches. V. Our Mutual Friend. VI. Dr. Marigold's Prescriptions. VII. Hints for Books Written and Unwritten. VIII. Closing Word. 1. DICKENS AS A NOVELIST. 1836— 1870. What I have to say generally of Dickens's genius as a writer London: may introduce the notices, which still remain to be given, of his '^^^ books from The Tale of Two Cities to the time at which we have arrived, leaving Edwin Drood for mention in its place; and these will be accompanied, as in former notices of individual stories, by illustrations drawn from his letters and life. His literary work was so intensely one with his nature that he is not separable from it, and the man and the method throw a singular light on each other. But some allusion to what has been said of these books, by writers assuming to speak with authority, will properly precede what has to be offered by me ; and I shall preface this part of my task with the hint of Carlyle, that in looking at a man out of the common it is good for common men to make sure that they ' see ' before they attempt to * oversee ' See before you over- him. see. Of the French writer, M. Henri Taine, it has before been remarked that his inability to appreciate humour is fatal to his pretensions as a critic of the English novel. But there is much that is noteworthy in his criticism notwithstanding, as well as remarkable in his knowledge of our language ; his position en- m. Taine's titles him to be heard without a suspicion of partizanship or intentional unfairness \ whatever the value of his opinion, the elaboration of its form and expression is itself no common tribute ; and what is said in it of Dickens's handling in regard to style and character, embodies temperately objections which have since been taken by some English critics without his impartiality and with less than his ability. As to style M. Taine does not find that the natural or simple prevails sufficiendy. The tone is too passionate. The imaginative or poetic side of allusion is so uniformly dwelt on, that the descriptions cease to be subsidiary, 330 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. London : and the minutc details of pain or pleasure wrought out by them 1836-70. ... become active agencies in the tale. So vivid and eager is the display of fancy that everything is borne along with it ; imaginary objects take the precision of real ones ; living thoughts are con- trolled by inanimate things ; the chimes console the poor old ticket-porter ; the cricket steadies the rough carrier's doubts ; the sea waves soothe the dying boy ; clouds, flowers, leaves, play their several parts ; hardly a form of matter without a living quality ; no silent thing without its voice. Fondling and exag- gerating thus what is occasional in the subject of his criticism, into what he has evidently at last persuaded himself is a fixed and universal practice with Dickens, M. Taine proceeds to ex- plain the exuberance by comparing such imagination in its What M. vividness to that of a monomaniac. He fails altogether to Taine over- looks, apprehend that property m Humour which involves the feeling of subtlest and most affecting analogies, and from which is drawn the rare insight into sympathies between the nature of things and their attributes or opposites, in which Dickens's fancy revelled with such delight. Taking the famous lines which express the lunatic, the lover, and the poet as ' of Imagination ' all compact,' in a sense that would have startled not a little the great poet who wrote them, M. Taine places on the same level of creative fancy the phantoms of the lunatic and the personages of the artist He exhibits Dickens as from time to time, in the several stages of his successive works of fiction, given up to one idea, possessed by it, seeing nothing else, treating it in a hundred forms, exaggerating it, and so dazzling and overpowering his readers with it that escape is impossible. This he maintains to Alleged be equally the effect as Mr. Mell the usher plays the flute, as 'mono- • mania.' Tom Pinch enjoys or exposes his Pecksniff, as the guard blows his bugle while Tom rides to London, as Ruth Pinch crosses Fountain Court or makes the beefsteak pudding, as Jonas Chuzzlewit commits and returns from the murder, and as the storm which is Steerforth's death-knell beats on the Yarmouth shore. To the same kind of power he attributes the extraordi- nary clearness with which the commonest objects in all his books, the most ordinary interiors, any old house, a parlour, a boat, a §1.] Dickens as a Novelist 331 school, fifty things that in the ordinary tale-teller would pass London: unmarked, are made vividly present and indelible ; are brought — out with a strength of reHef, precision, and force, unapproached in any other writer of prose fiction ; with everything minute yet nothing cold, * with all the passion and the patience of the * painters of his country/ And while excitement in the reader is thus maintained to an extent incompatible with a natural style or simple narrative, M. Taine yet thinks he has discovered, in this very power of awakening a feverish sensibility and moving laughter or tears at the commonest things, the source of Dickens's astonishing popularity. Ordinary people, he says, are so tired of what is always around them, and take in so little of the detail that makes up their lives, that when, all of a sudden, there comes a man to make these things interesting, and turn them into Secret of wide popu- objects of admiration, tenderness, or terror, the effect is enchant- i^"ty. ment Without leaving their arm-chairs or their firesides, they find themselves trembling with emotion, their eyes are filled with tears, their cheeks are broad with laughter, and, in the discovery they have thus made that they too can suffer, love, and feel, their very existence seems doubled to them. It had not occurred to M. Taine that to effect so much might seem to leave little not achieved. So far from it, the critic had satisfied himself that such a power of style must be adverse to a just delineation of character. Dickens is not calm enough, he says, to penetrate to the bottom of what he is dealing with. He takes sides with it as friend or enemy, laughs or cries over it, makes it odious or touching, re- pulsive or attractive, and is too vehement and not enough inquisi- tive to paint a likeness. His imagination is at once too vivid Excesses rr • 1 1 T • 1 • defect. and not sumciently large. Its tenacious quality, and the force and concentration with which his thoughts penetrate into the details he desires to apprehend, form limits to his knowledge, confine him to single traits, and prevent his sounding all the depths of a soul. He seizes on one attitude, trick, expression, or grimace ; sees nothing else ; and keeps it always unchanged. Mercy Pecksniff laughs at every word, Mark Tapley is nothing but jolly, Mrs. Gamp talks incessantly of Mrs. Harris, Mr. Chillip 332 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. London : is invariably timid, and Mr. Micawber is never tired of empha- sizing his phrases or passing with ludicrous brusqueness from joy- to grief. Each is the incarnation of some one vice, virtue, or absurdity; whereof the display is frequent, invariable, and ex- clusive. The language I am using condenses with strict accuracy what is said by M. Taine, and has been repeated ad nauseam by others, professing admirers as well as open detractors. Mrs. Gamp and Mr. Micawber, who belong to the first rank of humorous crea- tion, are thus without another word dismissed by the French critic ; Our own and he shows no consciousness whatever in doing it, of that very fault con- ^ ^ ... o 7 j demned in fault in himself for which Dickens is condemned, of mistaking another. ' ^ lively observation for real insight. He has however much concession in reserve, being satisfied, by his observation of England, that it is to the people for whom Dickens wrote his deficiencies in art are mainly due. The taste Morality of his nation had prohibited him from representing character in a S°Engiand. grand style. The English require too much morality and re- ligion for genuine art. They made him treat love, not as holy and sublime in itself, but as subordinate to marriage ; forced him to uphold society and the laws, against nature and enthusiasm ; and compelled him to display, in painting such a seduction as in Copperfieid, not the progress, ardour, and intoxication of passion, but only the misery, remorse, and despair. The result of such surface religion and morality, combined with the trading spirit, M. Taine continues, leads to so many national forms of hypocrisy, and of greed as well as worship for money, as to justify this great writer of the nation in his frequent choice of those vices for illus- tration in his tales. But his defect of method again comes into play. He does not deal with vices in the manner of a physiolo- gist, feeling a sort of love for them, and delighting in their finer Dickens traits as if they were virtues. He gets angry over them. (I do over-angry . . .... with vice, not interrupt M. Tame, but surely, to take one mstance illustrative of many, Dickens's enjoyment in dealing with Pecksniff is as mani- fest as that he never ceases all the time to make him very hateful.) He cannot, like Balzac, leave morality out of account, and treat a passion, however loathsome, as that great tale-teller did, from the only safe ground of belief, that it is a force, and that force of §1.] Dickens as a Novelist. 333 whatever kind is srood.* It is essential to an artist of that London ° ^ 1836-70. superior grade, M. Taine holds, no matter how vile his subject, to show its education and temptations, the form of brain or habits of mind that have reinforced the natural tendency, to deduce it from its cause, to place its circumstances around it, and to develop its effects to their extremes. In handling such and such Balzac's a capital miser, hypocrite, debauchee, or what not, he should method, never trouble himself about the evil consequences of the vices. He should be too much of a philosopher and artist to remember that he is a respectable citizen. But this is what Dickens never forgets, and he renounces all beauties requiring so corrupt a soil. M. Taine's conclusion upon the whole nevertheless is, that though those triumphs of art which become the property of all the earth have not been his, much has yet been achieved by him. Out of his unequalled observation, his satire, and his sensi- bility, has proceeded a series of original characters existing nowhere but in England, which will exhibit to future generations not the record of his own genius only, but that of his country and his times. Between the judgment thus passed by the distinguished French lecturer, and the later comment to be now given from an English critic, certainly not in arrest of that judgment, may fitly come a * I may now subjoin what has been said more recently by M. Taine's countryman, M. Mezieres, professor of Foreign Literature at the Sorbonne, who closed a course of lectures on Dickens in June 1875. ^ comparison between Dickens and Balzac, he said in his last address, offered much like- ness, but much diversity. Both were admirable observers, but Balzac, who often shut himself out from the world and lived only with the creations of his brain, enjoyed the pleasure merely of an artist or psychologist, dissipating illusions but pointing to no conclu- sions, whereas Dickens was a moralist. He did not deliberately set himself to develop a thesis, but he planted a fruitful seed in his readers' minds. He aimed at a useful and beneficient re- Anothei suit, and his works had corrected French many abuses. One rose from the 1875! perusal of Balzac with a liking for mental anatomy, but with no generous emotion ; whereas Dickens stimulated noble sentiments, devotion to duty, and a passion for what was good. The intensity with which he did this was alike honourable to himself and his country. It was the great praise of English novelists that one closed their books the better for having read them ; with more elevated resolutions, with a better knowledge of mankind ; yet a knowledge which was not discourag- ing, but stimulated to the practice of what was good. 334 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. London: passage from one of Dickens's letters saying something of the 1836-70. " limitations placed upon the artist in England. It may read like Limitations . /.nyrrr.-.! i- of art in a quasi-confession of one of M. Tame s charges, though it was England- not written with reference to his own but to one of Scott's later novels. ^Similarly ' (15th of August 1856) *I have always a fine * feeling of the honest state into which we have got, when some * smooth gentleman says to me or to some one else when I am ' by, how odd it is that the hero of an English book is always ' uninteresting — too good — not natural, &c. I am continually * hearing this of Scott from English people here, who pass their Antjcipa- ' Hves with Balzac and Sand. But O my smooth friend, what a lor>- reoly toM. Taine. < shining impostor you must think yourself and what an ass you * must think me, when you suppose that by putting a brazen face ' upon it you can blot out of my knowledge the fact that this * same unnatural young gentleman (if to be decent is to be neces- * sarily unnatural), whom you meet in those other books and in * mine, must be presented to you in that unnatural aspect by * reason of your morality, and is not to have, I will not say any * of the indecencies you like, but not even any of the experiences, * trials, perplexities, and confusions insepai'able from the making * or unmaking of all men ! ' M. Taine's criticism was written three or four years before Dickens's death, and to the same date belong some notices in England which adopted more or less the tone of depreciation ; conceding the great effects achieved by the writer, but disputing the quality and value of his art For it is incident to all sucli criticism of Dickens to be of necessity accompanied by the ad- mission, that no writer has so completely impressed himself on the time in which he lived, that he has made his characters a part of literature, and that his readers are the world. Blame and But, a little morc than a year after his death, a paper was pub- reconciled. lished of which the object was to reconcile such seeming incon- sistency, to expound the inner meanings of * Dickens in relation ' to Criticism,' and to show that, though he had a splendid genius and a wonderful imagination, yet the objectors were to be excused who called him only a stagy sentimentalist and a clever caricaturist. This critical essay appeared in the Fortnightly §1.] Dickens as a Novelist. 335 Review for February 1872, with the signature of Mr. George London: 1836-70. Henry Lewes ; and the pretentious airs of the performance, with its prodigious professions of candour, force upon me the painful task of stating what it really is. During Dickens's life, especially when any fresh novelist could be found available for strained comparison with him, there were plenty of attempts to write him down : but the trick of studied depreciation was never carried so far or made so odious as in this case, by intolerable assumptions of an indulgent superiority ; and to repel it in such a form once for all is due to Dickens's memory. The paper begins by the usual concessions — that he was a 'Dickens writer of vast popularity, that he delighted no end of people, that ' tion to ' Criti- his admirers were in all classes and all countries, that he stirred ' cism.' the sympathy of masses not easily reached through literature and always to healthy emotion, that he impressed a new direction on popular writing, and modified the literature of his age in its spirit no less than its form. The very splendour of these successes, on the other hand, so deepened the shadow of his failures, that to many there was nothing but darkness. Was it unnatural ? Could greatness be properly ascribed, by the fastidious, to a writer Objectors . . . to Dickens whose defects were so glaring, exaggerated, untrue, fantastic, and excused, melodramatic ? Might they not fairly insist on such defects as outweighing all positive qualities, and speak of him with conde- scending patronage or sneering irritation ? Why, very often such men, though their talk would be seasoned with quotations from, and allusions to, his writings, and though they would lay aside their most favourite books to bury themselves in his new * number,' had been observed by this critic to be as niggardly in their praise of him as they were lavish in their scorn. He actually heard * a very distingiiished man^ on one occasion, express mea- sureless contempt for Dickens, and a few minutes afterwards admit that Dickens had ' entered into his life.' And so the critic betook himself to the task of reconciling this immense popularity and this critical contempt, which he does after the following manner. He says that Dickens was so great in *fun' (humour he does 'Fun conceded. not concede to him anywhere) that Fielding and Smollett are 336 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. London: small in Comparison, but that this would only have been a passing i836-7a ~ amusement for the world if he had not been ' gifted with an * imagination of marvellous vividness, and an emotional sympa- * thetic nature capable of furnishing that imagination with * elements of universal power.' To people who think that words should carry some meaning it might seem, that, if only a man • Gifts • could be * gifted ' with all this, nothing more need be said. With described. ^ marvellous imagination, and a nature to endow it with elements of universal power, what secrets of creative art could possibly be closed to him ? But this is a reckoning without your philoso- phical critic. The vividness of Dicken's imagination M. Taine found to be simply monomaniacal, and his follower finds it to be But all merely hallucinative. Not the less he heaps upon it epithet after * mono- « maniac' epithet He talks of its irradiating splendour; calls it glorious as well as imperial and marvellous ; and, to make us quite sure he is not with these fine phrases puffing-off an inferior article, he interposes that such imagination is * common to all great writers.' Luckily for great witers in general, however, their creations are of the old, immortal, common-place sort; whereas Dickens in his creative processes, according to this philo- sophy of criticism, is tied up hard and fast within hallucinative limits. ' He was,' we are told, * a seer of visions.' Amid silence and darkness, we are assured, he heard voices and saw objects ; of which the revived impressions to him had the vividness of sensa- tions, and the images his mind created in explanation of them had the coercive force of realities ; * so that what he brought into existence in this way, no matter how fantastic and unreal, was * I hope my readers will find them- selves able to understand that, as well as this which follows : ' What seems * preposterous, impossible to us, seemed * to him simple fact of observation. * When he imagined a street, a house, * a room, a figure, he saw it not in the * vague schematic way of ordinary * imagination, but in the sharp defini- * tion of actual perception, all the ' salient details obtruding themselves ' on his attention. He, seeing it thus * vividly, made us also see it ; and * believing in its reality however fan- * tastic, he communicated something * of his behef to us. He presented it * in such relief that we ceased to think * of it as a picture. So definite and * insistent was the image, that even * while knowing it was false we could * not help, for a moment, being afFec- ' ted, as it were, by his hallucination. * Dickens as a Novelist. 337 (whatever this may mean) universally intelligible. * His types London : * established themselves in the public mind like personal ex- — '■ * periences. Their falsity was unnoticed in the blaze of their * illumination. Every humbug seemed a Pecksniff, every jovial ' improvident a Micawber, every stinted serving-wench a Mar- * chioness/ The critic, indeed, saw through it all, but he gave Critics of his warnings m vam. * In vam cntical reflection showed these * figures to be merely masks ; not characters, but personified * characteristics ; caricatures and distortions of human nature. * The vividness of their presentation triumphed over reflection ; * their creator managed to communicate to the public his own * unhesitating belief What, however, is the public ? Mr. Lewes wiih a headstrong goes on to relate. 'Give a child a wooden horse, with hair for 'public' * mane and tail, and wafer-spots for colouring, he will never be ' disturbed by the fact that this horse does not move its legs but * runs on wheels ; and this wooden horse, which he can handle * and draw, is believed in more than a pictured horse by a * Wouvermanns or an Ansdell (! !). It may be said of Dickens's * human figures that they too are wooden, and run on wheels ; * but these are details which scarcely disturb the belief of admirers. ' Just as the wooden horse is brought within the range of the * child's emotions, and dramatizing tendencies, when he can * handle and draw it, so Dickens's figures are brought witnm the * range of the reader's interests, and receive from these mterests * a sudden illumination, when they are the puppets of a drama * every incident of which appeals to the sympathies.' Risum teneatis 1 But the smile is grim that rises to the face of one to whom the relations of the writer and his critic, while both writer and critic lived, are known ; and who sees the drift of now scattering such rubbish as this over an established fame. As it fares with the imagination that is imperial, so with the drama every incident of which appeals to the sympathies. The one being explained by hallucination, and the other by the wooden horse, plenty of fine words are to spare by which con- candour af tempt may receive the show of candour. When the characters in a play are puppets, and the audiences of the theatre fools or children, no wise man forfeits his wisdom by proceeding to admit VOL. II. % 338 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book IX London : 1836-70. daul What the Micawbers are : not com- plex organ- isms ; ^hat the successful pla5rwTight, * with a fine felicity of instinct/ seized upon situations, for his wooden figures, having ' irresistible * hold over the domestic affections ; ' that, through his puppets, he spoke *in the mother-tongue of the heart;' that, with his spotted horses and so forth, he * painted the life he knew and * everyone knew ; ' that he painted, of course, nothing ideal or heroic, and that the wo^jd of thought and passion lay beyond his horizon ; but that, with his artificial performers and his feeble- witted audiences, ' all the resources of the bourgeois epic were in ' his grasp ; the joys and pains of childhood, the petty tyrannies ' of ignoble natures, the genial pleasantries of happy natures, the * life of the poor, the struggles of the street and back parlour, * the insolence of office, the sharp social contrasts, east wind and * Christmas jollity, hunger, misery, and hot punch ' — * so that even critical spectators who complained that these broadly ' painted pictures were artistic daubs could not wholly resist ' their effective suggestiveness.' Since Trinculo and Caliban were under one cloak, there has surely been no such delicate monster with two voices. ' His forward voice, now, is to speak well of ' his friend j his backward voice is to utter foul speeches and ' to detract.' One other of the foul speeches I may not overlook, since it contains what is alleged to be a personal revelation of Dickens made to the critic himself. ' When one thinks of Micawber always presenting himself in ' the same situation, moved with the same springs and uttering * the same sounds, always confident of something turning up, ' always crushed and rebounding, always making punch — and his ' wife always declaring she will never part from him, always * referring to his talents and her family — when one thinks of the * " catchwords " personified as characters, one is reminded of * the frogs whose brains have been taken out for physiological * purposes, and whose actions henceforth want the distinctive * peculiarity of organic action, that of fluctuating spontaneity.' Such was that sheer inability of Dickens, indeed, to comprehend this complexity of the organism, that it quite accounted, in the view of this philosopher, for all his unnaturalness, for the whole of his fantastic people, and for the strained dialogues of which Dickens as a Novelist. 339 his books are made up, painfully resembling in their incongruity London : 1836-70. * the absurd and eager expositions which insane patients pour * into the listener's ear when detailing their wrongs, or their * schemes. Dickens once declared to me,' Mr. Lewes continues, * that every word said by his characters was distinctly heard by *■ him ; I was at first not a little puzzled to account for the fact * that he could hear language so utterly unlike the language of tut haiiud- 00 native phe- ' real feeling, and not be aware of its preposterousness ; but the nomena. * surprise vanished when I thought of the phenomena of hJlu- * cination.' Wonderful sagacity ! to unravel easily such a bewil- dering * puzzle ' ! And so to the close. Between the uncultivated whom Dickens moved, and the cultivated he failed to move ; between the power that so worked in delf as to stir the universal heart, and the commonness that could not meddle with porcelain or aspire to any noble clay ; the pitiful see-saw is continued up to the final sentence, where, in the impartial critic's eagerness to discredit even the value of the emotion awakened in such men as Jeffrey by such creations as Little Nell, he reverses all he has been saying about the cultivated and uncultivated, and presents to us a cultivated philosopher, in his ignorance of the stage, applauding an actor whom every uncultivated playgoing apprentice despises as stagey. But the bold stroke just exhibited, of bringing Dickens in forward Dickens himself in the actual crisis of one of his fits of S ° hallucination, requires an additional word. To establish the hallucinative theory, he is said on one occasion to have declared to the critic that every word uttered by his characters was distinctly heard by him before it was written down. Such an averment, not credible for a moment as thus made, indeed simply not true to the extent described, may yet be accepted in the limited and quite different sense which a passage in one of Dickens's letters gives to it. All writers of genius to whom their art has become as a second nature, will be found capable of doing upon occasion what the vulgar may think to be * hallucination,' but hallucination will never account for. After Scott began the Bride of Lammertnoor he had one of his terrible Incident IT -ii/-'" Scott's seizures of cramp, yet dunng his torment he dictated * that fine life. * * Though,* John Ballantyne told Lockhart, ' he often turned himself on z 2 340 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book ix. London: novcl : and when he rose from his bed, and the published book 1836-70. , was placed in his hands, * he did not,' James Ballantyne explicitly assured Lockhart, 'recollect one single incident, character, or * conversation it contained.' When Dickens was under the greatest trial of his life, and illness and sorrow were contending for the mastery over him, he thus wrote to me. * Of my distress ' I will say no more than that it has borne a terrible, frightful, * horrible proportion to the quickness of the gifts you remind me Not Invent- <■ of But may I not be forgiven for thinking it a wonderful ing but see- , inR^what is < testimony to my being made for my art, that when, in the midst ' of this trouble and pain, I sit down to my book, some beneficent ' power shows it all to me, and tempts me to be interested, and * I don't invent it — really do not — but see it, and write it dowiL . * It is only when it all fades away and is gone, that I begin to ' suspect that its momentary relief has cost me something.' Whatever view may be taken of the man who wrote those words, he had the claim to be judged by reference to the highest models in the art which he studied. In the literature of his Claim to time, from 1836 to 1870, he held the most conspicuous place, be fairly judged. and his claim to the most popular one in the literature of fiction was by common consent admitted. He obtained this rank by the sheer force of his genius, unhelped in any way, and he held it without dispute. As he began he closed. After he had written for only four months, and after he had written incessantly for four and thirty years, he was of all living writers the most widely read. It is of course quite possible that such popularity might imply rather littleness in his contemporaries than greatness in him : but his books are the test to judge by. Each thus far, as it appeared, has had notice in these pages for its illustration of * his pillow with a groan of toiment, statement of James Ballantyne is at * he usually continued the sentence in p. 89 of the same volume. The original ' the same breath. But when dialogue incidents on which he had founded the * of peculiar animation was in pro- tale Scott remembered on recovery, ' gress, spirit seemed to triumph alto- but * not a single character woven by ' gether over matter — he arose from * the romancer, not one of the many * his couch and walked up and down * scenes and points of humour, nor ' the room, raising and lowering his * anything with which he was con- ' voice, and as it were acting the ' nected as the writer of the work. ' * parts.' Lockhart^ vi. 67-8. The §1.] Dickens as a Novelist. 341 his life, or of his method of work, or of the variety and versatility London : 1836-70. in the manifestations of his power. But his latest books remain still for notice, and will properly suggest what is farther to be said of his general place in literature. His leading quality was Humour. It has no mention in either His leading .... . . . . quality. of the cnticisms cited, but it was his highest faculty ; and it accounts for his magnificent successes, as well as for his not infrequent failures, in characteristic delineation. He was conscious of this himself. Five years before he died, a great and generous brother artist. Lord Lytton, amid much ungrudging praise of a work he was then publishing, asked him to consider, as to one part of it, if the modesties of art were not a little overpassed. * I cannot tell you,' he replied, * how highly I prize your letter, * or with what pride and pleasure it inspires me. Nor do I for * a moment question its criticism (if objection so generous and * easy may be called by that hard name) otherwise than on this * ground — that I work slowly and with great care, and never give * way to my invention recklessly, but constantly restrain it ; and * that I think it is my infirmity to fancy or perceive relations in * things which are not apparent generally. Also, I have such an ^^^^^ * inexpressible enjoyment of what I see in a droll light, that I strancT" * dare say I pet it as if it were a spoilt child. This is all I have * to offer in arrest of judgment' To perceive relations in things which are not apparent generally, is one of those exquisite pro- perties of humour by which are discovered the affinities between the high and the low, the attractive and the repulsive, the rarest things and things of every day, which bring us all upon the level of a common humanity. It is this which gives humour an immortal touch that does not belong of necessity to pictures, even the most exquisite, of mere character or manners ; the property which in its highest aspects Carlyle so subtly described humour at as a sort of inverse sublimity, exalting into our affections what is below us as the other draws down into our affections what is above us. But it has a danger which Dickens also hints at, and into which he often fell. All humour has in it, is indeed identical with, what ordinary people are apt to call exaggeration ; but there is an excess beyond the allowable even hercv and to The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. * pet ' or magnify out of proper bounds its sense of what is droll, is to put the merely grotesque in its place. What might have been overlooked in a writer with no uncommon faculty of in- vention, was thrown into overpowering prominence by Dickens's wealth of fancy ; and a splendid excess of his genius came to be objected to as its integral and essential quality. It cannot be said to have had any place in his earlier books. His powers were not at their highest and the humour was less fine and subtle, but there was no such objection to be taken. No misgiving interrupted the enjoyment of the wonderful fresh- ness of animal spirits in Pickwick ; but beneath its fun, laughter, and light-heartedness were indications of ability of the first rank in the delineation of character. Some caricature was in the plan ; but as the circle of people widened beyond the cockney club, and the delightful oddity of Mr. Pickwick took more of an inde- pendent existence, a different method revealed itself, nothing appeared beyond the exaggerations permissible to humorous comedy, and the art was seen which can combine traits vividly true to particular men or women with propensities common to all mankind. This has its highest expression in Fielding : but even the first of Dickens's books showed the same kind of mastery ; and, by the side of its life-like middle-class people universally familiar, there was one figure before seen by none but at once knowable by all, delightful for the surprise it gave by its singularity and the pleasure it gave by its truth ; and, though short of the highest in this form of art, taking rank with the class in which live everlastingly the dozen unique inventions that have im- mortalized the English novel. The groups in Oliver Twisty Fagin and his pupils, Sikes and Nancy, Mr. Bumble and his parish-boy, belong to the same period ; when Dickens also began those pathetic delineations that opened to the neglected, the poor, and the fallen, a world of compassion and tenderness. Yet I think it was not until the third book, Nickleby^ that he began to have his place as a writer conceded to him ; and that he ceased to be regarded as a*mere phenomenon or marvel of for- tune, who had achieved success by any other means than that of deserving it, and who challenged no criticism better worth the Dickens as a Novelist. 343 name than such as he has received from the Fortnightly reviewer. London : 1836-7C. It is to be added to what before was said of Nickleby^ that it Dialogue in established beyond dispute his mastery of dialogue, or that power of making characters real existences, not by describing them but by letting them describe themselves, which belongs only to story- tellers of the first rank. Dickens never excelled the easy handling of the subordinate groups in this novel, and he never repeated its mistakes in the direction of aristocratic or merely polite and dissipated life. It displayed more than before of his humour on the tragic side ; and, in close connection with its affecting scenes of starved and deserted childhood, were placed those contrasts of miser and spendthrift, of greed and generosity, of hypocrisy and simple-heartedness, which he handled in later books with greater force and fulness, but of which the first formal expression was here. It was his first general picture, so to speak, of the character and manners of his time, which it was the design more or less of all his books to exhibit ; and it suffers by comparison with his later productions, because the humour is not to the same degree enriched by imagination ; but it is free from the not in- frequent excess into which that supreme gift also tempted its possessor. None of the tales is more attractive throughout, and on the whole it was a step in advance even of the stride previously taken. Nor was the gain lost in the succeeding story of the Old Curiosity Shop, The humorous traits of Mrs. Nickleby could ^^"^'^jj* hardly be surpassed : but, in Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness, osityShop. there was a subtlety and lightness of touch that led to finer issues ; and around Little Nell * and her fortunes, surpassingly touching and beautiful, let criticism object what it will, were gathered some small characters that had a deeper intention and more imaginative insight, than anything yet done. Strokes of this kind were also observable in the hunted life of the murderer * * Do you know Master Hum- * to some. No doubt it was suggested * phrey's Clock? I admire Nell in the 'by Mignon.' — Sara Coleridge to * Old Curiosity Shop exceedingly. The Aubrey de Vere {Memoirs and Letters^ * whole thing is a good deal borrowed ii. 269-70.) Expressing no opinion * from Wilhelm Meister. But Little on this comparison, I may state it as * Nell is a far purer, lovelier, more within my knowledge that the book * English conception than Mignon, referred :o was not then known to * treasonable as the saying would seem Dickens. 344 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. ^1836-70 " Barnaby Rudge ; and his next book, Chuzzleunt^ was, as it Bamaby ^"^^ rcmains, one of his greatest achievgnents. Even so brief a Rudie. retrospect of the six opening years of Dickens's literary labour will help to a clearer judgment of the work of the twenty-eight more years that remained to him. To the special observations already made on the series of Later storics which followed the return from America, Chuzzlewit, Dombey, Copperfield^ and Bleak House, in which attention has been directed to the higher purpose and more imaginative treat- ment that distinguished them,* a general remark is to be added. Though the range of character they traverse is not wide, it is surrounded by a fertility of invention and illustration without example in any previous novelist ; and it is represented in these books, so to speak, by a number and variety of existences sufficiently real to have taken places as among the actual people of the world. Could half as many known and universally recognisable men and women be selected out of one story, by any other prose writer of the first rank, as at once rise to the Realities mind from one of the masterpieces of Dickens ? So difficult of of fiction. dispute is this, that as much perhaps will be admitted ; but then it will be added, if the reply is by a critic of the school burlesqued by Mr. Lewes, that after all they are not individual or special men and women so much as general impersonations of men and women, abstract types made up of telling catchwords or surface traits, though with such accumulation upon them of a wonderful wealth of humorous illustration, itself filled with minute and accurate knowledge of life, that the real nakedness of the land of character is hidden. Well, what can be rejoined to this, but that the poverty or richness of any territory worth survey will for the most part lie in the kind of observation brought to it. There * The distinction so pointed out * besides all the fun, some very marked was remarked by Sara Coleridge {Me- ' and available morals. I scarce know moirs and Letters^ ii. 169) in writing * any book in which the evil and of her children. ' They like to talk * odiousness of selfishness are more ' to me . . . above all about the pro- ' forcibly brought out, or in a greater * ductionsof Dickens, the never-to-be- * variety of exhibitions. In the midst * exhausted fun of Pickwick, and the * of the merry quotations, or at least ' capital new strokes of Martin Chuz- ' on any fair opportunity, I draw the * z/rwii. This last work contains, * boys' attention to these points. ' §1.] Dickens as a Novelist. 345 was no finer observer than Johnson of the manners of his time, London : 1836-70. and he protested of their greatest delineator that he knew only j^^^^ — the shell of Hfe. Another of his remarks, after a fashion followed °" ' contempo- by the criticizers of Dickens, places Fielding below one of his ^^^^ famous contemporaries ; but who will not now be eager to reverse such a comparison, as that Fielding tells you correctly enough what o'clock it is by looking at the face of the dial, but that Richardson shows you how the watch is made? There never was a subtler or a more sagacious observer than Fielding, or who better deserved what is generously said of him by Smollett, that he painted the characters and ridiculed the follies of life with equal strength, humour, and propriety. But might it not be said ^j.^'^J^JJ^^^" of him, as of Dickens, that his range of character was limited ; ^° Fielding, and that his method of proceeding from a central idea in all his leading people, exposed him equally to the charge of now and then putting human nature itself in place of the individual who should only be a small section of it ? This is in fact but another shape of what I have expressed on a former page, that what a character, drawn by a master, will roughly present upon its surface, is frequently such as also to satisfy its more subtle requirements ; and that when only the salient points or sharper prominences are thus displayed, the great novelist is using his See undoubted privilege of showing the large degree to which human intercourse is carried on, not by men's habits or ways at their commonest, but by the touching of their extremes. A definition of Fielding's genius has been made with some accuracy in the saying, that he shows common propensities in connection with the identical unvarnished adjuncts which are peculiar to the individual, nor could a more exquisite felicity of handling than this be any man's aim or desire ; but it would be just as easy, by employ- ment of the critical rules applied to Dickens, to transform it into matter of censure. Partridge, Adams, Trulliber, Squire Western, Fielding's and the rest, present themselves often enough under the same aspects, and use with sufficient uniformity the same catchwords, to be brought within the charge of mannerism ; and though M. Taine cannot fairly say of Fielding as of Dickens, that he suffers from too much morality, he brings against him precisely 346 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. London : the charge so strongly put against the later novelist of ' looking 1836-70. ' upon the passions not as simple forces but as objects of appro- ' bation or blame/ We must keep in mind all this to understand the worth of the starved fancy, that can find in such a delineation as that of Micawber only the man described by Mr. Lewes as always in the same situation, moved with the same springs and uttering the same sounds, always confident of something turning up, always crushed and rebounding, always making punch, and his wife always declaring she will never part from him. It is not thus that such creations are to be viewed ; but by the light which ^uois of ei^^bles us to see why the country squires, village schoolmasters, fiction live. hedge parsons of Fielding became immortal. The later ones will live, as the earlier do, by the subtle quality of genius that makes their doings and sayings part of those general incentives which pervade mankind. Who has not had occasion, however priding himself on his unlikeness to Micawber, to think of Micawber as he reviewed his own experiences? Who has not himself waited, like Micawber, for something to turn up ? Who has not at times discovered, in one or other acquaintance or friend, some one or other of that cluster of sagacious hints and fragments of human life and conduct which the kindly fancy of Dickens embodied in this delightful form ? If the irrepressible New Zealand er ever comes over to achieve his long promised sketch of St. Paul's, who can doubt that it will be no other than our undying Micawber, who had taken to colonisation the last time we saw him, and who will thus again have turned up ? There Univer- are uot many conditions of life or society to which his and his sality of humorous wifc's expcriences are not applicable : and when, the year after experiences. the immortal couple made their first appearance on earth. Pro- tection was in one of its then frequent difficulties, declaring it could not live without something widely different from existing circumstances shortly turning up, and imploring its friends to throw down the gauntlet and boldly challenge society to turn up a majority and rescue it from its embarrassments, a distinguished wit seized upon the likeness to Micawber, showed how closely it was borne out by the jollity and gin-punch of the banquets at which the bewailings were heard, and asked whether Dickens §1.] Dickens as a Novelist. 347 had stolen from the farmer's friends or the farmer's friends had London: 1836-70. stolen from Dickens. * Com, said Mr. Micawber, may be gentle- — * manly, but it is not remunerative. . . I ask myself this question : * if com is not to be relied on, what is? We must live. . .' Loud as the general laughter was, I think the laughter of Dickens himself was loudest, at this discovery of so exact and unexpected a likeness.* A readiness in all forms thus to enjoy his own pleasantry was Dickens's ■' •' ^ •' enjoyment indeed always observable (it is common to great humourists, nor J^^^^"^" would it be easier to carry it farther than Sterne did), and his own confession on the point may receive additional illustration before proceeding to the later books. He accounted by it, as we have seen, for occasional even grotesque extravagances. In another of his letters there is this passage : ' I can report that I ' have finished the job I set myself, and that it has in it some- * thing — to me at all events — so extraordinarily droll, that though * I have been reading it some hundred times in the course of the * working, I have never been able to look at it with the least * composure, but have always roared in the most unblushing * All the remarks in my text had ' of his ridicule of philosophy, or Unpub- been some time in type when Lord * summons Frogs and Gods to unite by^j^ifg"^^* Lytton sent me what follows, from one ' in his satire on Euripides. The late Lord of his father's manuscript note-books. * Don Quixote of Cervantes never ^y"""* Substantially it agrees with what I ♦ lived, nor, despite the vulgar beHef, have said ; and such unconscious * ever could have lived, in Spain ; testimony of a brother novelist of * but the art of the portrait is in the so high a rank, preeminently careful * admirable exaltation of the humorous in the study of his art, is of special ' by means of the exaggerated. With value. * The greatest masters of the * more or less qualification, the same * novel of modern manners have gene- * may be said of Parson Adams, of * rally availed themselves of Humour ' Sir Roger de Coverley, and even of ' for the illustration of manners ; and * the Vicar of Wakefield. . . It fol- ' have, with a deep and true, but per- * lows therefore that art and correct- ' haps unconscious, knowledge of art, * ness are far from identical, and that ' pushed the humour almost to the * the one is sometimes proved by the * verge of caricature. For, as the ' disdain of the other. For the ideal, * serious ideal requires a certain ex- * whether humorous or serious, does * aggeration in the proportions of the * not consist in the imitation but in * natural, so also does the ludicrous. ' the exaltation of nature. And we * Thus Aristophanes, in painting the ' must accordingly enquire of art, not * humours of his time, resorts to the * how far it resembles what we have * most poetical extravagance of ma- ' seen, so much as how far it embodies ' chiner)-, and calls the Clouds in aid ' what we can imagine. ' 348 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. London: ' manner. I leave you to find out what it was.' It was the 1836-70. ^-7- encounter of the major and the tax-collector in the second Mrs. per.' Lirriper. Writing previously of the papers in Household Words called The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices, after saying that he and Mr. Wilkie Collins had written together a story in the •Lazy second part, * in which I think you would find it very difficult * to say where I leave off and he comes in,* he had said of the preceding descriptions : * Some of my own tickle me very much ; ' but that may be in great part because I know the originals, and ' delight in their fantastic fidelity.' * I have been at work with * such a will,' he v/rites later of a piece of humour for the holidays, * that I have done the opening and conclusion of the Christmas ' number. They are done in the character of a waiter, and I * think are exceedingly droll. The thread on which the stories * are to hang, is spun by this waiter, and is, purposely, very * slight ; but has, I fancy, a ridiculously comical and unexpected Somebody's * end. The waiter's account of himself includes (I hope) every- Luggage. ^ ^j^-j^g know about waiters, presented humorously.' In this last we have a hint of the * fantastic fidelity ' with which, when a fancy * tickled ' him, he would bring out what Corporal Nym calls the humour of it under so astonishing a variety of con- ceivable and inconceivable aspects of subtle exaggeration, that nothing was left to the subject but that special individual illus- tration of it. In this, however, humour was not his servant but his master: because it reproduced too readily, and carried too far, the grotesque imaginings to which great humourists are prone ; which lie indeed deep in their nature ; and from which they derive their genial sympathy with eccentric characters that enables them to find motives for what to other men is hopelessly obscure, to exalt into types of humanity what the world turns impatiently aside at, and to enshrine in a form for eternal homage and love such whimsical absurdity as Captain Toby Shandy's. But Dickens Tempta- was too couscious of thcsc exccsses from time to time, not zealously tion of all great to endeavour to keep the leading characters in his more important humour- _ ... stories under some strictness of discipline. To confine exaggera- tion within legitimate limits was an art he laboriously studied ; and, in whatever proportions of failure or success, during the Dickens as a Novelist. 349 vicissitudes of both that attended his later years, he continued to London : •' i836-7a endeavour to practise it. In regard to mere description, it is ~ true, he let himself loose more frequently, and would sometimes defend it even on the ground of art ; nor would it be fair to omit his reply, on one occasion, to some such remonstrance as M. Taine has embodied in his adverse criticism, against the too great imaginative wealth thrown by him into mere narrative.* *It does a word for ° the fanciful * not seem to me to be enough to say of any description that it * is the exact truth. The exact truth must be there ; but the * merit or art in the narrator, is the manner of stating the truth. * As to which thing in literature, it always seems to me that there * is a world to be done. And in these times, when the tendency ' is to be frightfully literal and catalogue-like — to make the thing, * in short, a sort of sum in reduction that any miserable creature * I cannot refuse myself the satis- faction of quoting, from the best criti- cism of Dickens I have seen since his death, remarks very pertinent to what is said in my text. * Dickens pos- * sessed an imagination unsurpassed, * not only in vividness, but in swift- * ness. I have intentionally avoided * all needless comparisons of his works ' with those of other writers of his ' time, some of whom have gone be- ' fore him to their rest, while others * survive to gladden the darkness and * relieve the monotony of our daily * life. But in the power of his imagi- * nation — of this I am convinced — he * surpassed them, one and all. That * imagination could call up at will * those associations which, could we * but summon them in their full num- * ber, would bind together the human * family, and make that expression no ' longer a name, but a living reality. * . . . Such associations sympathy ' alone can warm into life, and imagi- ' nation alone can at times discern. ' The great humourist reveals them to * every one of us ; and his genius is ' indeed an inspiration from no human * source, in that it enables him to * render this service to the brotherhood Professor ' of mankind. But more than this, ^ickti^ * So marvellously has this earth become ' the inheritance of mankind, that * there is not a thing upon it, animate * or inanimate, with which, or with * the likeness of which, man's mind * has not come into contact ; . . . * with which human feelings, aspira- * tions, thoughts, have not acquired * an endless variety of single or subtle * associations. . . These also, which * we imperfectly divine or carelessly * pass by, the imagination of genius * distinctly reveals to us, and power- * fully impresses upon us. When they ' appeal directly to the emotions of * the heart, it is the power of Pathos * which has awakened them ; and ' when the suddenness, the unexpec- * tedness, the apparent oddity of the * one by the side of the other, strike ' the mind with irresistible force, it is * the equally divine gift of Humour ' which has touched the spring of * laughter by the side of the spring of * tears.' — Charles Dickens. A Lecture by Professor Ward. Delivered in Manchester^ ydth November, 1870. 350 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book ix. London : ' can do in that way — I have an idea (really founded on the love 1859. ' of what I profess), that the very holding of popular literature * through a kind of popular dark age, may depend on such fanciful * treatment.* II. THE TALE OF TWO CITIES. °' Dickens's next story to Little Dorrit was the Tale of Two 1857-8^- Cities, of which the first notion occurred to him while acting with his friends and his children in the summer of 1857 in Mr. Wilkie Collins's drama of The Frozen Deep. But it was only a vague fancy, and the sadness and trouble of the winter of that year were not favourable to it. Towards the close (27th) of January 1858, talking of improvements at Gadshill in which he took little interest, it was again in his thoughts. ' Growing inclinations of a fitful and undefined sort are upon me sometimes to fall to work * on a new book. Then I think I had better not worry my ' worried mind yet awhile. Then I think it would be of no use if * I did, for I couldn't settle to one occupation. — And that's all ! ' * If I can discipline my thoughts,' he wrote three days later, * into ' the channel of a story, I have made up my mind to get to work ' on one : always supposing that I find myself, on the trial, able ' to do well. Nothing whatever will do me the least " good " in * the way of shaking the one strong possession of change im- * pending over us that every day makes stronger ; but if I could * work on with some approach to steadiness, through the summer, * the anxious toil of a new book would have its neck well broken * before beginning to publish, next October or November. Some- * times, I think I may continue to work ; sometimes, I think not. Title-hunt- . What do you say to the title. One of these Days ? ' That title held its ground very briefly. * What do you think,' he wrote after six weeks, * of this name for my story — Buried Alive ? * Does it seem too grim ? Or, The Thread of Gold ? Or, * The Doctor of Beauvais ? * But not until twelve months The Tale of Two Cities. 351 later did he fairly buckle himself to the task he had contemplated London : so long. All the Year Round had taken the place of Household — Words in the interval ; and the tale was then started to give strength to the new weekly periodical, in which it was resolved to publish it * This is merely to certify/ he wrote on the i ith of March 1859, * that I have got exactly the name for the story that is wanted ; * exactly what will fit the opening to a T. A Tale of Two * Cities. Also, that I have struck out a rather original and bold ' idea. That is, at the end of each month to publish the monthly * part in the green cover, with the two illustrations, at the old * shilling. This will give All the Year Round always the interest * and precedence of a fresh weekly portion during the month ; * and will give me my old standing with my old public, and the Monthly advantage (very necessary in this story) of having numbers of weekly^' * people who read it in no portions smaller than a monthly part. ' . . My American ambassador pays a thousand pounds for the * first year, for the privilege of republishing in America one day * after we publish here. Not bad ? ' . . He had to struggle at the opening through a sharp attack of illness, and on the 9th of July progress was thus reported. * I have been getting on in health * very slowly and through irksome botheration enough. But * I think I am round the corner. This cause — and the heat — * has tended to my doing no more than hold my ground, my old * month's advance, with the Tale of Two Cities, The small * portions thereof, drive me frantic ; but I think the tale must * have taken a strong hold. The run upon our monthly parts is * surprising, and last month we sold 35,000 back numbers. A * note I have had from Carlyle about it has given me especial * pleasure.' A letter of the following month expresses the intention he had when he began the story, and in what respect it differs as to method from all his other books. Sending in proof Speciality ^ in its four numbers ahead of the current publication, he adds : * I hope treatment. * you will like them. Nothing but the interest of the subject, and * the pleasure of striving with the difficulty of the form of treat- * ment, — nothing in the way of mere money, I mean, — could else * repay the time and trouble of the incessant condensation. But 352 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book ix. London : ' I sct myself the little task of making a picturesque story ^ rising in 1859. * every chapter, with characters true to nature, but whom the ' story should express more than they should express themselves Not dia- ' by dialogue. I mean in other words, that I fancied a story of incident. ' incident might be written (in place of the odious stuff that is * written under that pretence), pounding the characters in its own * mortar, and beating their interest out of them. If you could ' have read the story all at once, I hope you wouldn't have ' stopped halfway.' * Another of his letters supplies the last illustration I need to give of the design and meanings in regard to this tale expressed by himself. It was a reply to some objections of which the principal were, a doubt if the feudal cruelties came sufficiently within the date of the action to justify his use of them, and some question as to the manner of disposing of the chief revolutionary agent in the plot. * I had of course full knowledge * of the formal surrender of the feudal privileges, but these had Pspiy to an < bcen bitterly felt quite as near to the time of the Revolution as * the Doctor's narrative, which you will remember dates long ' before the Terror. With the slang of the new philosophy on the ' one side, it was surely not unreasonable or unallowable, on the * other, to suppose a nobleman wedded to the old cruel ideas, * The opening of this letter (25 th * plain without it. . . Lastly of course, of August 1859), referring to a con- ' though a merciful man (because a viction for murder, afterwards reversed * merciful man, I mean), I would hang by a Home Office pardon against the * any Home Secretary, Whig, Tory, continued and steadily expressed ' Radical, or otherwise, who should opinion of the judge who tried the * step in between so black a scoundrel case, is much too characteristic of the ' and the gallows. . . I am reminded writer to be lost. ' I cannot easily of Tennyson by thinking that King ' tell you how much interested I am * Arthur would have made short work * by what you tell me of our brave and ' of the amiable man ! How fine the ' excellent friend. . . I have often had * Idylls are ! Lord ! what a blessed * more than half a mind to write and * thing it is to read a man who really ' thank that upright judge. I declare * can write. I thought nothing could * to heaven that I believe such a ser- * be finer than the first poem, till I ' vice one of the greatest that a man * came to the third ; but when I had ' of intellect and courage can render * read the last, it seemed to me to be ' to society. . . Of course I have been * absolutely unapproachable. ' Other ' driving the girls out of their wits literary likings rose and fell with him. * here, by incessantly proclaiming that but he never faltered in his allegiance ' there needed no medical evidence to Tennyson. * either way, and that the case was The Tale of Two Cities. 353 * aiid representing the time going out as his nephew represents London: * the time coming in. If there be anything certain on earth, I * take it that the condition of the French peasant generally at that * day was intolerable. No later enquiries or provings by figures * will hold water against the tremendous testimony of men living * at the time. There is a curious book printed at Amsterdam, AuthoritieiL * written to make out no case whatever, and tiresome enough in * its literal dictionary-like minuteness ; scattered up and down the 'pages of which is full authority for my marquis. This is * Mercier's Tableau de Paris. Rousseau is the authority for the * peasant's shutting up his house when he had a bit of meat. The * tax-tables are the authority for the wretched creature's im- * poverishment. . . I am not clear, and I never have been clear, * respecting the canon of fiction which forbids the interposition of * accident in such a case as Madame Defarge's death. Where ' the accident is inseparable from the passion and action of the * character ; where it is strictly consistent with the entire design, * and arises out of some culminating proceeding on the part of the *in dividual which the whole story has led up to ; it seems to me * to become, as it were, an act of divine justice. And when I use * Miss Pross (though this is quite another question) to bring about * such a catastrophe, I have the positive intention of making that * half-comic intervention a part of the desperate woman's failure • * and of opposing that mean death, instead of a desperate one in *■ the streets which she wouldn't have minded, to the dignity of * Carton's. Wrong or right, this was all design, and seemed to * me to be in the fitness of things.' These are interesting intimations of the care with which Dickens worked ; and there is no instance in his novels, ex- cepting this, of a deliberate and planned departure from the carc with method of treatment which had been pre-eminently the source of SSns his popularity as a novelist To rely less upon character than upon incident, and to resolve that his actors should be expressed by the story more than they should express themselves by dialogue, was for him a hazardous, and can hardly be called an entirely successful, experiment. With singular dramatic vivacity, much constructive art, and with descriptive passages of a high VOL. II. A A The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book ix. order everywhere (the dawn of the terrible outbreak in the journey of the marquis from Paris to his country seat, and the London crowd at the funeral of the spy, may be instanced for their power), there was probably never a book by a great humourist, and an artist so prolific in the conception of character, with so little humour and so few rememberable figures. Its merits lie else- where. Though there are excellent traits and touches all through the revolutionary scenes, the only full-length that stands out prominently is the picture of the wasted life saved at last by heroic sacrifice. Dickens speaks of his design to make impressive the dignity of Carton's death, and in this he succeeded perhaps even beyond his expectation. Carton suffers himself to be mis- taken for another, and gives his life that the girl he loves may be happy with that other ; the secf et being known only to a poor little girl in the tumbril that takes them to the scaffold, who at the moment has discovered it, and whom it strengthens also to die. The incident is beautifully told j and it is at least only fair to set against verdicts not very favourable as to this effort of his invention, what was said of the particular character and scene, and of the book generally, by an American critic whose literary studies had most familiarized him with the rarest forms of imagi- native writing.* * Its pourtrayal of the noble-natured castaway * makes it almost a peerless book in modem literature, and gives * it a place among the highest examples of literary art . . The * conception of this character shows in its author an ideal of * magnanimity and of charity unsurpassed. There is not a * grander, lovelier figure than the self-wrecked, self-devoted * Sydney Carton, in literature or history ; and the story itself is so < noble in its spirit, so grand and graphic in its style, and filled * with a pathos so profound and simple, that it deserves and will * surely take a place among the great serious works of imagination.' I should myself prefer to say that its distinctive merit is less in any of its conceptions of character, even Carton's, than as a specimen of Dickens's power in imaginative story-telling. There is no piece of fiction known to me, in which the domestic life of * Mr. Grant White, whose edition of Shakespeare has been received with much respect in England. § ni.] Great Expectations. 355 a few simple private people is in such a manner knitted and inter. g^*^ * woven with the outbreak of a terrible public event, that the one ~ seems but part of the other. When made conscious of the first sultry drops of a thunderstorra that fall upon a little group sitting in an obscure EngUsh lodging, we are witness to the actual begin- ning of a tempest which is preparing to sweep away everything in France. And, to the end, the book in this respect is really remarkable. III. GREAT EXPECTATIONS. The Tale of Two Cities was published in 1859 ; the series of papers collected as the Uncommercial Traveller were occupying Dickens in i860 ; and it was while engaged in these, and throwing off in the course of them capital * samples ' of fun and enjoy- ment, he thus replied to a suggestion that he should let himself loose upon some single humorous conception, in the vein of his youthful achievements in that way. *For a little piece I have Germ of , new tale. ' been writmg — or am wntmg ; for I hope to finish it to-day — * such a very fine, new, and grotesque idea has opened upon me, * that I begin to doubt whether I had not better cancel the little * paper, and reserve the notion for a new book. You shall judge * as soon as I get it printed. But it so opens out before me that * I can see the whole of a serial revolving on it, in a most singular * and comic manner.' This was the germ of Pip and Magwitch, which at first he intended to make the groundwork of a tale in the old twenty-number form, but for reasons perhaps fortunate intended for 20 brought afterwards within the limits of a less elaborate novel. Mumbers. * Last week,' he wrote on the 4th of October i860, * I got to work * on the new story. I had previously very carefully considered * the state and prospects of All the Year Round, and, the more I * considered them, the less hope I saw of being able to get back, * now, to the profit of a separate publication in the old 20 * numbers.' (A tale, which at the time was appearing in his serial, had disappointed expectation.) * However, I worked on, * knowing that what I was doing would run into anoth er groove ; 356 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. London : ' and I Called a council of war at the office on Tuesday. It was i860. . ^ — — ' perfectly clear that the one thing to be done was, for me to Judicious change. * Strike in. I have therefore decided to begin the story as of the * length of the Tale of Two Cities on the first of December — * begin publishing, that is. I must make the most I can out of * the book. You shall have the first two or three weekly parts * to-morrow. The name is Great Expectations. I think a * good name ? ' Two days later he wrote : * The sacrifice of * Great Expectations is really and truly made for myself. The * property of All the Year Round is far too valuable, in every way, ' to be much endangered. Our fall is not large, but we have a ' considerable advance in hand of the story we are now publishing, * and there is no vitality in it, and no chance whatever of stopping ' the fall ; which on the contrary would be certain to increase. Stropping ' Now, if I went into a twenty-number serial, I should cut off my * power of doing anything serial here for two good years — and * that would be a most perilous thing. On the other hand, by * dashing in now, I come in when most wanted ; and if Reade * and Wilkie follow me, our course will be shaped out handsomely ' and hopefully for between two and three years. A thousand ' pounds are to be paid for early proofs of the story to America.' A few more days brought the first instalment of the tale, and explanatory mention of it. * The book will be witten in the first * person throughout, and during these first three weekly numbers bo"y child ' ^^^^ ^ boy-child, like David. Then he for hero. < an apprentice. You will not have to complain of the * want of humour as in the Tale of Two Cities. I have made the * opening, I hope, in its general effect exceedingly drolL I have ' put a child and a good-natured foolish man, in relations that ' seem to me very funny. Of course I have got in the pivot on * which the story will turn too — and which indeed, as you re- ' member, was the grotesque tragi-comic conception that first * encouraged me. To be quite sure I had fallen into no uncon- * scious repetitions, I read David Copperfield again the other day, * and was affected by it to a degree you would hardly believe.' It may be doubted if Dickens could better have established his right to th^ front rank ainon^ novelists claimed for him, than by § in.] Great Expectations. 357 the ease and mastery with which, in these two books of Copperfield London : 1861. and Great Expectations^ he kept perfectly distinct the two stories of a bo/s childhood, both told in the form of autobiography. A subtle penetration into character marks the unlikeness in the likeness ; there is enough at once of resemblance and of differ- unniceness ence in the position and surroundings of each to account for the iJ^ss'^^" divergences of character that arise ; both children are good- SS'pip. hearted, and both have the advantage of association with models of tender simplicity and oddity, perfect in their truth and quite distinct from each other; but a sudden tumble into distress steadies Peggotty's little friend, and as unexpected a stroke of good fortune turns the head of the small protege of Joe Gargery. ^fj^p^ What a deal of spoiling nevertheless, a nature that is really good so"y' at the bottom of it will stand without permanent damage, is nicely shown in Pip ; and the way he reconciles his determination to act very shabbily to his early friends, with a conceited notion that he is setting them a moral example, is part of the shading of a character drawn with extraordinary skill. His greatest trial comes out of his good luck; and the foundations of both are laid at the opening of the tale, in a churchyard down by the Thames, as it winds past desolate marshes twenty miles to the sea, of which a masterly picture in half a dozen lines will give only average example of the descriptive writing that is everywhere one of the charms of the book. It is strange, as I transcribe the words, with what wonderful vividness they bring back the very spot on which we stood when he said he meant to make it the scene of the opening of his story — Cooling Castle ruins and the desolate Church, lying out among the marshes seven miles from Gadshill ! * My first most vivid and broad impression . . on a memorable * raw afternoon towards evening . . was . . that this bleak place, * overgrown with nettles, was the churchyard, and that the dark ' flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dykes * and mounds and gales, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was ' the marshes ; and that the low leaden line beyond, was the * river ; and that the distant savage lair from which the wind was ' rushing, was the sea . . . On the edge of the river . . only two ' black things in all the prospect setmed to be standing upright 358 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book iX. London : « . . one, the beacon by which the sailors steered, like an un- i86i •' ' * hooped cask upon a pole, an ugly thing when you were near it ; So?k otthe ' Other, a gibbet with some chains hanging to it which hjid •torv. < once held a pirate/ Here Magwitch, an escaped convict from Chatham, terrifies the child Pip into stealing for him food and a file ; and though recaptured and transported, he carries with him to Australia such a grateful heart for the small creature's service, that on making a fortune there he resolves to make his little friend a gentleman. This requires circumspection ; and is so done, through the Old-Bailey attorney who has defended Mag- witch at his trial (a character of surprising novelty and truth), that Pip imagines his present gifts and ^ great expectations ' to have come from the supposed rich lady of the story (whose eccentricities are the unattractive part of it, and have yet a weird character that somehow fits in with the kind of wrong she has suffered). When therefore the closing scenes bring back Magwitch himself, who risks his life to gratify his longing to see the gentleman he has made, it is an unspeakable horror to the draShigV y^^^^ discover his benefactor in the convicted felon. If an) character. doubts Dickeus's power of so drawing a character as to get to the heart of it, seeing beyond surface peculiarities into the moving springs of the human being himself, let him narrowly examine those scenes. There is not a grain of substitution of mere sentiment, or circumstance, for the inner and absolute reality of the position in which these two creatures find them- selves. Pip's loathing of what had built up his fortune, and his horror of the uncouth architect, are apparent in even his most generous efforts to protect him from exposure and sentence. Magwitch's convict habits strangely blend themselves with his wild pride in, and love for, the youth whom his money has turned into a gentleman. He has a craving for his good opinion ; dreads to offend him by his * heavy grubbing,' or by the oaths he lets fall now and then ; and pathetically hopes his Pip, his dear boy, won't think him *low*: but, upon a chum of Pip's appearing unexpectedly while they are together, he pulls out a jack-knife by way of hint he can defend himself, and produces after- wards a greasy little clasped black Testament on which th<" § III.] Great Expectations, 359 startled new-comer, being found to have no hostile intention, is London : 1861. sworn to secrecy. At the opening of the story there had been an exciting scene of the wretched man's chase and recapture chase and ... recapture. among the marshes, and this has its parallel at the close m his chase and recapture on the river while poor Pip is helping to get him off. To make himself sure of the actual course of a boat in such circumstances, and what possible incidents the adventure might have, Dickens hired a steamer for the day from Blackwall to Southend. Eight or nine friends and three or four members of his family were on board, and he seemed to have no care, the whole of that summer day (22nd of May 1861), except to enjoy their enjoyment and entertain them with his own in shape of a thousand whims and fancies ; but his sleepless observation was at work all the time, and nothing had escaped his keen vision on either side of the river. The fifteenth chapter of the third volume is a masterpiece. The characters generally afford the same evidence as those two Minor people. that Dickens's humour, not less than his creative power, was at its best in this book. The Old-Bailey attorney Jaggers, and his clerk Wemmick (both excellent, and the last one of the oddities that live in everybody's liking for the goodheartedness of its comic surprises), are as good as his earliest efforts in that line ; the Pumblechooks and Wopsles are as perfect as bits of Nickleby fresh from the mint ; and the scene in which Pip, and Pip's chum Herbert, make up their accounts and schedule their debts and obligations, is original and delightful as Micawber himself. It is the art of living upon nothing and making the best of it, in its most pleasing form. Herbert's intentions to trade east and west, and get himself into business transactions of a magnificent extent and variety, are as perfecdy warranted to us, in his way of putting them, by merely *■ being in a counting- * house and looking about you,' as Pip's means of paying his debts are lightened and made easy by his method of simply adding them up with a margin. ' The time comes,' says Herbert, Margins and opeo- * when you see your opening. And you go in, and you swoop i^gs. * upon it, and you make your capital, and then there you are ! * When you have once made your capital you have nothing to do 36o The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. London : 1861. Homely and shrewd satire. Incident objected to : ' but employ it' In like manner Pip tells us, * Suppose your ' debts to be one hundred and sixty four pounds four and two- * pence, I would say, leave a margin and put them down at two * hundred ; or suppose them to be four times as much, leave a ' margin and put them down at seven hundred.' He is sufficiently candid to add, that, while he has the highest opinion of the wisdom and prudence of the margin, its dangers are that in the sense of freedom and solvency it imparts there is a tendency to run into new debt. But the satire that thus enforces the old warning against living upon vague hopes, and paying ancient debts by contracting new ones, never presented itself in more amusing or kindly shape. A word should be added of the father of the girl that Herbert marries. Bill Barley, ex-ship's purser, a gouty, bed-ridden, drunken old rascal, who lies on his back in an upper floor on Mill Pond Bank by Chinks's Basin, where he keeps, weighs, and serves out the family stores or provisions, according to old professional practice, with one eye at a telescope which is fitted on his bed for the convenience of sweeping the river. This is one of those sketches, slight in itself but made rich with a wealth of comic observation, in which Dickens's humour took especial delight ; and to all this part of the story there is a quaint riverside flavour that gives it amusing reality and relish. Sending the chapters that contain it, which open the third division of the tale, he wrote thus : * It is a pity that the third ' portion cannot be read all at once, because its purpose would ' be much more apparent ; and the pity is the greater, because * the general turn and tone of the working out and winding up, * will be away from all such things as they conventionally go. * But what must be, must be. As to the planning out from week * to week, nobody can imagine what the difficulty is, without * trying. But, as in all such cases, when it is overcome the * pleasure is proportionate. Two months more will see me * through it, I trust. All the iron is in the fire, and I have ' " only " to beat it out.' One other letter throws light upon an objection taken not unfairly to the too great speed with which the heroine, after being married, reclaimed, and widowed, is in a page or two again made love to, and remarried by the hero. § ni.] Great Expectations. This summary proceeding was not originally intended. But, over ^° gg®^ ' and above its popular acceptance, the book had interested some whose opinions Dickens specially valued (Carlyle among them,* I remember) ; and upon Bulwer Lytton objecting to a close that should leave Pip a solitary man, Dickens substituted what now stands. * You will be surprised,' he wrote, * to hear that I have * changed the end of Great Expectations from and after Pip's * return to Joe's, and finding his little likeness there. Bulwer, * who has been, as I think you know, extraordinarily taken by * the book, so strongly urged it upon me, after reading the proofs, * and supported his view with such good reasons, that I resolved ' to make the change. You shall have it when you come back to * town. I have put in as pretty a little piece of writing as I could, * and I have no doubt the story will be more acceptable through ' the alteration.' This turned out to be the case ; but the first ending nevertheless seems to be more consistent with the drift, as well as natural working out, of the tale, and for this reason it is preserved in a note.t * A dear friend now gone would laughingly relate what outcry there used to be, on the night of the week when a number was due, for ' that Pip * nonsense ! * and what roars of laugh- ter followed, though at first it was entirely put aside as not on any ac- count to have time wasted over it. t There was no Chapter xx. as now ; but the sentence which opens it (' For * eleven years ' in the original, altered to ' eight years ') followed the para- graph about his business partnership with Herbert, and led to Biddy's question whether he is sure he does not fret for Estella (* I am sure and * certain, Biddy' as originally written, altered to ' Ono— I think not, Biddy ') : from which point here was the close. * It was two years more, before I saw * herself I had heard of her as lead- * ing a most unhappy life, and as * being separated from her husband * who had used her with great cruelty, * and who had become quite renowned as a compound of pride, brutality, and meanness. I had heard of the death of her husband (from an acci- dent consequent on ill-treating a horse), and of her being married again to a Shropshire doctor, who, against his interest, had once very manfully interposed, on an occasion when he was in professional attend- ance on Mr. Drummle, and had wit- nessed some outrageous treatment of Original her. I had heard that the Shropshire Great Ex- doctor was not rich, and that P'ctations, lived on her own personal fortune. I was in England again — in London, and walking along Piccadilly with little Pip — when a servant came running after me to ask would I step back to a lady in a carriage who wished to speak to me. It was a little pony carriage, which the lady was driving ; and the lady and I looked sadly enough on one another, '* I am greatly changed, I know ; " but I thought you would like to 362 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. London 1861. IV. CHRISTMAS SKETCHES. Between that fine novel, which was issued in three volumes in the autumn of 1861, and the completion of his next serial story, were interposed three sketches in his happiest vein at which 1862-3-4. everyone laughed and cried in the Christmas times of 1862, '3, and '4. Of the waiter in Somebody's Luggage Dickens has himself spoken ; and if any theme is well treated, when, from the point of view taken, nothing more is left to say about it, that bit of fun is perfect. Call it exaggeration, grotesqueness, or by what hard name you will, laughter will always intercept any graver criticism. Writing from Paris of what he was himself responsible for in the Somebody's articles left by Somebody with his wonderful Waiter, he said that Luggage. in one of them he had made the story a camera obscura of certam French places and styles of people ; having founded it on some- thing he had noticed in a French soldier. This was the tale of Little Bebelle, which had a small French corporal for its hero, and became highly popular. But the triumph of the Christmas achievements in these days was Mrs. Lirriper. She took her place at once among people known to everybody ; and all the Mrs. Lirri- world talked of Major Jemmy Jackman, and his friend the poor ^isand^' elderly lodging-house keeper of the Strand, with her miserable Legacy. ^arcs and rivalries and worries, as if they had both been as long in London and as well known as Norfolk-street itself. A dozen volumes could not have told more than those dozen pages did. The Legacy followed the Lodgings in 1864, and there was no falling off in the fun and laughter. **' shake hands with Estella too, Pip. * her voice, and in her touch, she ' •* Lift up that pretty child and let * gave me the assurance, that suffering * '* me kiss it ! " (She supposed the * had been stronger than Miss Havis- * child, I think, to be my child.) I * ham's teaching, and had given her a • was very glad afterwards to have had ' heart to understand what my heart • the interview j for, in her face and in ' used to be.' Our Mutual Friend. 363 London : 1864-s. OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. The publication of Our Mutual Friend, in the form of the earliest stories, extended from May 1864 to November 1865. Four years earlier he had chosen this title as a good one, and he held to it through much objection. Between that time and his actual commencement there is mention, in his letters, of the three leading notions on which he founded the story. In his waterside wanderings during his last book, the many handbills he saw posted up, with dreary description of persons drowned in First no- tion. the river, suggested the 'long shore men and their ghastly calling whom he sketched in Hexam and Riderhood. * I think,' he had written, *a man, young and perhaps eccentric, feigning to be * dead, and being dead to all intents and purposes external to * himself, and for years retaining the singular view of life and * character so imparted, would be a good leading incident for a * story ; ' and this he partly did in Rokesmith. For other actors in the tale, he had thought of ^ a poor impostor of a man marrying Germ of * a woman for her money ; she marrying him for his money ; ' after marriage both finding out their mistake, and entering into * a league and covenant against folks in general : ' with whom he had proposed to connect some Perfectly New people. * Every- * thing new about them. If they presented a father and mother, * it seemed as if they must be bran new, like the furniture and * the carriages — shining with varnish, and just home from the * manufacturers.' These groups took shape in the Lammles and the Veneerings. * I must use somehow,* is the remark of another letter, * the uneducated father in fustian and the educated boy in spectacles whom Leech and I saw at Chatham ; ' of which a hint is in Charley Hexam and his father. The benevolent old Jew whom he makes the unconscious agent of a rascal, was meant to wipe out a reproach against his Jew in Oliver Twist as bringing dislike upon the religion of the race he belonged to.* * On this reproach, from a Jewish ten two years before. * Fagin, in lady whom he esteemed, he had writ- * Oliver Twisty is a Jew, because it 3^4 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book IX. London: Having got his title in 1861 it was his hope to have begun in '62. 1864-5. * Alas ! ' he wrote in the April of that year, * I have hit upon * nothing for a story. Again and again I have tried. But this * odious little house ' (he had at this time for a few weeks ex- Deiays in changed GadsliiU for a friend's house near Kensington) * seems to j^mning. ^ ^^^^ stifled and darkened my invention.* It was not until the autumn of the following year he saw his way to a beginning. * The Christmas number has come round again ' (30th of August 1863) — *it seems only yesterday that I did the last — but I am full * of notions besides for the new twenty numbers. When I can * clear the Christmas stone out of the road, I think I can dash * into it on the grander journey.' He persevered through much difficulty ; which he described six weeks later, with characteristic glance at his own ways when writing, in a letter from the office ot his journal. * I came here last night, to evade my usual day in * the week — in fact to shirk it — and get back to Gads for five or * six consecutive days. My reason is, that I am exceedingly * anxious to begin my book. I am bent upon getting to work at * it I want to prepare it for the spring ; but I am determined Writing in * not to begin to publish with less than five numbers done. I see advance. * my openmg perfectly, with the one main Ime on which the story ' is to turn ; and if I don't strike while the iron (meaning myself) * is hot, I shall drift off again, and have to go through all this * uneasiness once more.* He had written, after four months, very nearly three numbers, when upon a necessary rearrangement of his chapters he had to hit upon a new subject for one of them. * While I was con- New iiius- ' sidering' (25th of February) *what it should be, Marcus,* who Irator. * has done an excellent cover, came to tell me of an extraordinary * unfortunately was true, of the time * of his race.* * to which that story refers, that that * Mr. Marcus Stone had, upon the •class of criminal almost invariably separate issue of the 7i2!/ t \. cslX^ and kindness may be relied on. — X guineas a-year, tender age of the Heald's Library, Fulham-roadL 'dear' ones, maternal care, and no 38o The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX London i855-6S- Uncle Sam. Various forms of the selfish Two lighter figures are very pleasantly touched. * Set of cir- * cumstances which suddenly bring an easy, airy fellow into near * relations with people he knows nothing about, and has never * even seen. This, through his being thrown in the way of the * innocent young personage of the story. ** Then there is Uncle * " Sam to be considered," says she. " Aye to be sure," says he, * " so there is ! By Jupiter, I forgot Uncle Sam. He's a rock * ahead, is Uncle Sam. He must be considered, of course ; he * "must be smoothed down ; he must be cleared out of the way. * " To be sure. I never thought of Uncle Sam. — By the bye, * "Who is Uncle Sam?"' There are several such sketches as that, to set against the groups of women ; and some have Dickens's favourite vein of satire in them. ' The man whose vista is always stopped up by * the image of Himself. Looks down a long walk, and can't see ' round himself, or over himself, or beyond himself. Is always * blocking up his own way. Would be such a good thing for * him, if he could knock himself down.' Another picture of selfishness is touched with greater delicacy. * " Too good " to be * grateful to, or dutiful to, or anything else that ought to be. " I * won't thank you : you are too good." — " Don't ask me to * " marry you : you are too good." — In short, I don't particularly * mind ill-using you, and being selfish with you : for you are so ' good. Virtue its own reward ! ' A third, which seems to reverse the dial, is but another face of it : frankly avowing faults, which are virtues. ' In effect — I admit I am generous, amiable, ' gentle, magnanimous. Reproach me — I deserve it — I know my ' faults — I have striven in vain to get the better of them.' Dickens would have made much, too, of the working out of the the grateful : ncxt. ' The knowiug man in distress, who borrows a round sum * of a generous friend. Comes, in depression and tears, dines, ' gets the money, and gradually cheers up over his wine, as he * obviously entertains himself with the reflection that his friend is * an egregious fool to have lent it to him, and that he would * have known better.' And so of this other. * The man who * invariably says apposite things (in the way of reproof or sar- * casm) THAT HE don't mean. Astonished when they are ex- * plained to him.' and the sarcastic. § VII.] Hints for Books, 381 Here is a fancy that I remember him to have been more than London : once bent upon making use of : but the opportunity never came. ^^^^ * The two men to be guarded against, as to their revenge. One, * whom I openly hold in some serious animosity, whom I am at On the * the pains to wound and defy, and whom I estimate as worth beneath. ' wounding and defying ; — the other, whom I treat as a sort of * insect, and contemptuously and pleasantly flick aside with my * glove. But, it turns out to be the latter who is the really dan- * gerous man ; and, when I expect the blow from the other, it * comes from him.^ We have the master hand in the following bit of dialogue, which takes wider application than that for which it appears to have been intended. ' " There is some virtue in him too." ' " Virtue ! Yes. So there is in any grain of seed in a seeds- How to . . get good " man's shop — but you must put it m the ground, before you can out of a man. * "get any good out of it." * " Do you mean that he must be put in the ground before any ' "good comes of him ? " * " Indeed I do. You may call it burying him, or you may call * " it sowing him, as you like. You must set him in the earth, * "before you get any good of him." ' One of the entries is a list of persons and places meant to have been made subjects for special description, and it will awaken regret that only as to one of them (the Mugby Refreshments) his intention was fulfilled. * A Vestryman. A Briber. A Station f^^J^jJ^^^ ' Waiting-Room. Refreshments at Mugby. A Physician's Wait- * ing-Room. The Royal Academy. An Antiquary's house. A ' Sale Room. A Picture Gallery (for sale). A Waste-paper ' Shop. A Post- Office. A Theatre.' All will have been given that have particular interest or value, from this remarkable volume, when the thoughts and fancies I proceed to transcribe have been put before the reader. * The man who is incapable of his own happiness. Or who is * always in pursuit of happiness. Result, Where is happiness to 382 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. * be found then ? Surely not Everywhere ? Can that be so, ' after all ? Is this my experience ? ' * The people who persist in defining and analysing their (and * everybody else's) moral qualities, motives and what not, at once * in the narrowest spirit and the most lumbering manner ; — as if * one should put up an enormous scaffolding for the building of a * pigstye.' * The house-full of Toadies and Humbugs. They all know * and despise one another ; but — partly to keep their hands in, * and partly to make out their own individual cases — pretend not * to detect one another.' * People realising immense sums of money, imaginatively — * speculatively — counting their chickens before hatched. Inflaming * each other's imaginations about great gains of money, and * entering into a sort of intangible, impossible, competition as to * who is the richer.' * The advertising sage, philosopher, and friend : who educates * *' for the bar, the pulpit, or the stage." ' * The character of the real refugee — not the conventional j * the real.' *■ The mysterious character, or characters, interchanging confi- * dences. " Necessary to be very careful in that direction." — "In ' " what direction ?" — " B " — " You don't say so. What, do you * mean that C ? "— " Is aware of D. Exactly." ' < The father and boy, as I dramatically see them. Opening ' with the wild dance I have in my mind.' * The old child. That is to say, born of parents advanced in ^ life, and observing the parents of other children to be young. * Taking an old tone accordingly.' London : 1855-65. Characters and tlioughts unused. § VII.] Hints for Books. 383 * A thoroughly sulky character — perverting everything. Making London : 1855-65. * the good, bad — and the bad, good.' Fancies not worked * The people who lay all their sins negligences and ignorances, "p°°- * on Providence.' * The man who marries his cook at last, after being so despe- * lately knowing about the sex.' * The swell establishment, frightfully mean and miserable in all * but the " reception rooms." Those very showy.' * B. tells M. what my opinion is of his work, &c. Quoting the * man you have once spoken to, as if he had talked a life's talk in * two minutes.' ' A misplaced and mis-married man ; always, as it were, playing * hide and seek with the world ; and never finding what Fortune * seems to have hidden when he was born.' * Certain women in Africa who have lost children, carry little ' wooden images of children on their heads, and always put * their food to the lips of those images, before tasting it them- * selves. This is in a part of Africa where the mortality among * children (judging from the number of these little memorials) is * very great.' Two more entries are the last which he made. * Available Available * NAMES ' introduces a wonderful list in the exact following classes and order ; as to which the reader may be left to his own memory for selection of such as found their way into the several stories from Little Dorrit to the end. The rest, not lifted into that higher notice by such favour of their creator, must remain like any other undistinguished crowd. But among them may perhaps be detected, by those who have special insight for the physiognomy of a name, some few with so great promise in them of fun and character as will make the ' mute in- * glorious ' fate which has befallen them a subject for special 3^4 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book ix. London : 1855-65. Titles for books. regret ; and much ingenious speculation will probably wait upon all. Dickens has generally been thought, by the curious, to dis- play not a few of his most characteristic traits in this particular field of invention. First there are titles for books ; and from the list subjoined were taken two for Christmas numbers and two for stories, though Nobody's Fault had ultimately to give way to Little Dorrit, ' the lumber room. * somebody's luggage. * to be left till called for. * something wanted. * extremes meet. ' nobody's fault. * THE grindstone. ' rokesmith's forge. * our mutual friend. * the cinder heap. TWO GENERATIONS. BROKEN CROCKERY. DUST. THE HOME DEPARTMENT. THE YOUNG PERSON. NOW OR NEVER. MY NEIGHBOURS. THE CHILDREN OF THE FATHERS. NO THOROUGHFARE.' Christian names. 'I'hen comes a batch of * Christian names ' : Girls and Boys : which stand thus, with mention of the source from which he ob- tained them. These therefore can hardly be called pure inven- tion. Some would have been reckoned too extravagant for anything but reality. * Girls from Privy Council Education lists. ' LELIA. ' MENELLA. * RUBINA. ' IRIS. * REBECCA. * DOCTOR. ' HOMER. * ODEN. * BRADLEY. ETTY. REBINAH. SEBA. PERSIA. ARAM AN DA. DORIS. BALZINA. PLEASANT. GENTILLA. Boys from Privy Cou7icil Education lists. ZERUBBABEL. MAXIMILIAN. URBIN. SAMILIAS. PICKLES. ORANGE. FEATHER. * Girls and Boys from Ditto. * AMANDA, ETHLYNIDA ; BOETIUS, BOLTIUS.* To which he adds supplementary lists that appear to be his own. § VII.] Hints for Books, 385 More Boys. ' ROBERT LADLE. *JOLY STICK. ' BILL MARIGOLD. ' STEPHEN MARQUICK. 'JONATHAN KNOTWELL. ' PHILIP BROWNDRESS. ' HENRY GHOST. GEORGE MUZZLE. WALTER ASHES. ZEPHANIAH FERRY (or FURY). WILLIAM WHY. ROBERT GOSPEL. THOMAS FATHERLY. ROBIN SCRUBBAM. London : 1855-65- Christian and sur- names. More Girls. * SARAH GOLDSACKS. ' ROSETTA DUST. * SUSAN GOLDRING. * CATHERINE TWO. * MATILDA RAINBIRD. * MIRIAM DENIAL. ' SOPHIA DOOMSDAY. ALICE THORNEYWORK. SALLY GIMBLET. VERITY HAWKYARD. BIRDIE NASH. AMBROSINA EVENTS. APAULINA VERNON. NELTIE ASHFORD,' And then come the mass of his ' available names,' which stand, thus, without other introduction or comment : • TOWNDLING. SLYANT. PEDSEY. • MOOD. QUEEDY. DUNCALF. * GUFF. BESSELTHUR. TRICKLEBANK. ' TREBLE. MUSTY. SAPSEA. * CHILBY. GROUT. READYHUFF. ' SPESSIFER. TERTIUS JOBBER. DUFTY. * WODDER. AMON HEADSTON. FOGGY. * WHELPFORD. STRAYS HOTT. TWINN. ' FENNERCK. HIGDEN. BROWNSWORD. * GANNERSON. MORFIT. PEARTREE. * CHINKERBLE. GOLDSTRAW. SUDDS. • BINTREY. BARREL. SILVERMAN. ' FLEDSON. INGE. KIMBER. ' HIRLL. JUMP. LAUGHLEY. * BRAYLE. JIGGINS. LESSOCK. * MULLENDER. BONES. TlPriNS. * TRESLINGHAM. COY. MINNITT. * BRANKLE. DAWN. RAD LOWE. ' SITTERN. TATKIN. PRATCHET. * DOSTONE. DROWVEY. MAWDETT. * CAY-LON. PUDSEY. WOZENHAM. ♦ SNOWELL. WARBLER. STILTWALK. ' LOTTRUM. PEEX— SPEEX. STILTINGSTALK. ' LAMMLE. GANNAWAY. STILTSTALKING. FROSER. MRS. FLINKS. ^.VENDER. you n- AvailabUt for use. 386 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book IX. London : 1855-65- Available for use. * HOLBLACK. * MULLEY. ' RED WORTH. * REDFOOT. ' TARBOX (B). * TINKLING. * DUDDLE. ' JEBUS. ' POWDERHILL. * GRIMMER, * SKUSE. ' TITCOOMBE. ' GRABBLE. * SWANNOCK. * TUZZEN. * TWEMLOW. * SQUAB. * JACKMAN. * SUGG. * BREMMIDGE. * SILAS BLODGET. * MELVIN BEAL. * BUTTRICK. * EDSON. * SANLORN. * LIGHTWORD. ' TITBULL. * BANGHAM. * KYLE — NYLE. ' PEMBLE. ' MAXEY. * ROKESMITH. ' CHIVERY. The last of the Memoranda, and the last words written by Dickens in the blank paper book containing them, are these. * " Then I'll give up snuff." Brobity. — An alarming sacrifice. Mr. Brobi- * Mr. Brobity's snuff-box. The Pawnbroker's account of it ? ' ty's snuff- box. What was proposed by this must be left to conjecture ; but * Brobity ' is the name of one of the people in his unfinished story, and the suggestion may have been meant for some incident in it. If so, it is the only passage in the volume which can be in any way connected with the piece of writing on which he was last engaged. Some names were taken for it from the lists, but there is otherwise nothing to recall Edwin Drood, FLINKS. STILTINGTON. JEE. PODS NAP. HARDEN. CLARRIKER. MERDLE. COMPERY. MURDEN. STRIVER— STRYVER. TOPWASH. PUMBLECHOOK. PORDAGE. WANGLER. DORRET — DORRIT. BOFFIN. CARTON. BANTINCK. MINIFIE. DIBTON. SLINGO. WILFER. JOAD. GLIBBERY. KINCH. MULVEY. MAG. HORLICK. CHELLYSON. DOOLGE. BLENNAM— CL. GANNERY. BARDOCK. GARGERY. SNIGSWORTH. WILLSHARD. SWENTON. RIDERHOOD. CASBY— BEACH. PRATTERSTONE. LOWLEIGH — LOW ELY. CHINKIBLE. PIGRIN. WOPSELL. YERBURY. WOPSLE. PLORNISH. WHELPINGTON. MAROON. GAYVERY. BANDY-NANDY. WEGG. STONEBURY. HUBBLE. MAGWITCH. URRY. MEAGLES. KIBBLE. PANCKS. SKIFFINS. HAGGAGE. ETSER. PROVIS. AKERSHEM.' § VIII.] Dickens as a Novelist. 387 London 1836-70 VIII. CLOSING WORD. The year after America, as the reader knows, saw the com- mencement of the work which death interrupted. The fragment will hereafter be described ; and here meanwhile may close my criticism — itself a fragment left for worthier completion by a stronger hand than mine. It suffices for the present to have attempted to clear the ground from those distinctions and com- parisons never safely to be applied to an original writer, and which always more or less intercept his fair appreciation. It was long the fashion, with critics of authority, to set up wide Needless divergences between novels of incident and manners, and novels tions. of character; the narrower range being left to Fielding and Smollett, and the larger to Richardson \ yet there are not many now who will accept such classification. Nor is there more truth in other like distinctions alleged between novehsts who are assumed to be real, or ideal, in their methods of treatment. To any original novelist of the higher grade there is no meaning in these contrasted phrases. Neither mode can exist at all perfectly without the other. No matter how sensitive the mind to external impressions, or how keen the observation to whatever can be seen, without the rarer seeing of imagination nothing will be arrived at that is real in any genuine artist-sense. Reverse the proposition, and the result is expressed in an excellent remark of Lord Lytton's, that the happiest effort of imagination, however lofty it may be, is that which enables it to be cheerfully at home with the real. I have said that Dickens felt criticism, of whatever kind, with too sharp a relish for the indifference he assumed to it; but the secret was that he believed himself to be entitled to a failing higher tribute than he was always in the habit of receiving. It to men of was the feeling which suggested a memorable saying of Words- worth. * I am not at all desirous that any one should write a * critique on my poems. If they be from above, they will do c c 2 388 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. London ; 1836-70. Purity of Dickens's writings. Alleged deficiency. Siifficient substitute. * their own work in course of time ; if not, they will perish as * they ought' The something ' from above ' never seems to me absent from Dickens, even at his worst. When the strain upon his invention became apparent, and he could only work freely in a more con- fined space than of old, it was still able to assert itself triumph- antly ; and his influence over his readers was continued by it to the last day of his life. Looking back over the series of his writings, the first reflection that rises to the mind of any thought- ful person, is one of thankfulness that the most popular of writers, who had carried into the lowest scenes and conditions an amount of observation, fun, and humour not approached by any of his contemporaries, should never have sullied that world-wide influ- ence by a hint of impurity or a possibility of harm. Nor is there anything more surprising than the freshness and variety of character which those writings include, within the range of the not numerous types of character that were the limit of their author's genius. For, this also appears, upon any review of them collectively, that the teeming life which is in them is that of the time in which his own life was passed ; and that with the purpose of showing vividly its form and pressure, was joined the hope and design to leave it better than he found it. It has been objected that humanity receives from him no addition to its best types j that the burlesque humourist is always stronger in him than the reflective moralist ; that the light thrown by his genius into out of the way comers of life never steadily shines in its higher beaten ways; and that beside his pictures of what man is or does, there is no attempt to show, by delineation of an exalted purpose or a great career, what man is able to be or to do. In the charge abstractedly there is truth ; but the fair remark upon it is that whatever can be regarded as essential in the want implied by it will be found in other forms in his writings, that the perfect innocence of their laughter and tears has been itself a prodigious blessing, and that it is otherwise incident to so great a humourist to work after the fashion most natural to the genius of humour. What kind of work it has been in his case, the attempt is made in preceding pages to show; and on the whole it can be said with some § VIII.] Dickens as a Novelist. 389 certainty that the best ideals in this sense are obtained, not by ^f^^^?^^^ presenting with added comeliness or grace the figures which life is ever eager to present as of its best, but by connecting the singularities and eccentricities which ordinary life is apt to reject or overlook, with the appreciation that is deepest and the laws of insight that are most universal. It is thus that everything human is happily brought within human sympathy. It was at the heart of what- ever Dickens wrote, making him the intimate of every English household, and a familiar friend wherever the language is spoken whose stores of harmless pleasure he has so largely increased. Above all it was the secret of the hope he had that his books might help to make people better; and it so guarded them from evil, that there is scarcely a page of the thousands he has written which might not be put into the hands of a little child. I borrow that expression from the Bishop of Manchester, who, on the third day after Dickens's death, in the Abbey where he was so soon to be laid, closed a plea for the toleration of differences of opinion where the foundations of religious truth are accepted, with these words. * It will not be out of harmony with the line of * thought we have been pursuing — certainly it will be in keeping * with the associations of this place, dear to Englishmen, not only * as one of the proudest Christian temples, but as containing the * memorials of so many who by their genius in arts, or arms, or * statesmanship, or literature, have made England what she is — if 9th Jun*. 1870. * in the simplest and briefest words I allude to that sad and un- * expected death which has robbed English literature of one of * its highest living ornaments, and the news of which, two morn- * ings ago, must have made every household in England feel as * though they had lost a personal fi-iend. He has been called in * one notice an apostle of the people. I suppose it is meant that * he had a mission, but in a style and fashion of his own ; a * gospel, a cheery, joyous, gladsome message, which the people * understood, and by which they could hardly help being bet- * tered ; for it was the gospel of kindliness, of brotherly love, of * sympathy in the widest sense of the word. I am sure I have ' felt in myself the healthful spirit of his teaching. Possibly we 390 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book IX. London : * might not have been able to subscribe to the same creed in rela- x836-7a . •• * tion to God, but I think we should have subscribed to the same Praise hTvSg * creed in relation to man. He who has taught us our duty to ' our fellow men better than we knew it before, who knew so * well to weep with them that wept, and to rejoice with them * that rejoiced, who has shown forth in all his knowledge of the *■ dark comers of the earth how much sunshine may rest upon the ' lowliest lot, who had such evident sympathy with suffering, and ' such a natural instinct of purity that there is scarcely a page of * the thousands he has written which might not be put into the * hands of a little child, must be regarded by those who recognise ' the diversity of the gifts of the spirit as a teacher sent from * God. He would have been welcomed as a fellow-labourer in * the common interests of humanity by Him who asked the * question " If a man love not his brother whom he hath seen, ^ " how can he love God whom he hath not seen ? " ' * The loss of no single man during the present generation, if we *■ except Abraham Lincoln alone,* said Mr. Horace Greeley, describing the profound and universal grief of America at his death, * has carried mourning into so many families, and been so ' unaffectedly lamented through all the ranks of society.' * The Grief in < terrible news from England,' wrote Longfellow to me (Cam- Amenca. o ^ o v bridge, Mass. 12th of June 1870), * fills us all with inexpressible * sadness. Dickens was so full of life that it did not seem possible ^ he could die, and yet he has gone before us, and we are sorrow- ' ing for him .... I never knew an author's death cause such * general mourning. It is no exaggeration to say that this whole * country is stricken with grief . . . .' Nor was evidence then wanting, that far beyond the limits of society on that vast conti- nent the English writer's influence had penetrated. Of this, very ». M3-4- touching illustration was given on a former page ; and proof even more striking has since been afforded to me, that not merely in wild or rude communities, but in life the most savage and solitary, his genius had helped to while time away. * Like all Americans who read,' writes an American gentleman, ' and that takes in nearly all our people, I am an admirer and student * of Dickens. ... Its perusal ' (that of niy second volume) ' has § VIII.] Dickens as a Novelist. 391 * recalled an incident which may interest you. Twelve or thirteen London : ^ ^ . 1836-70. * years ago I crossed the Sierra Nevada mountains as a Govern- ~ * ment surveyor under a famous frontiersman and civil engineer — * Colonel Lander. We were too early by a month, and became * snow-bound just on the very summit. Under these circum- * stances it was necessary to abandon the wagons for a time, and * drive the stock (mules) down the mountains to the valleys * where there was pasturage and running water. This was a long * and difficult task, occupying several days. On the second day, * in a spot where we expected to find nothing more human than a ' grizzly bear or an elk, we found a little hut, built of pine boughs * and a few rough boards clumsily hewn out of small trees with an * axe. The hut was covered with snow many feet deep, excepting * only the hole in the roof which served for a chimney, and a * small pit-like place in front to permit egress. The occupant * came forth to hail us and solicit whisky and tobacco. He was * dressed in a suit made entirely of flour-sacks, and was curiously * labelled on various parts of his person Best Family Flour. * Extra, His head was covered by a wolf's skin drawn from the * brute's head — with the ears standing erect in a fierce alert * manner. He was a most extraordinary object, and told us he * had not seen a human being in four months. He lived on bear * and elk meat and flour, laid in during his short summer. * Emigrants in the season paid him a kind of ferry-toll. I asked * him how he passed his time, and he went to a barrel and pro- * duced Nicholas Nickleby and Pickwick. I found he knew them Companions m solitude. * almost by heart He did not know, or seem to care, about the * author ; but he gloried in Sam Weller, despised Squeers, and * would probably have taken the latter's scalp with great skill and * cheerfulness. For Mr. Winkle he had no feeling but contempt, * and in fact regarded a fowling-piece as only a toy for a squaw. * He had no Bible ; and perhaps if he practised in his rude savage * way all Dickens taught, he might less have felt the want even of * that companion.* BOOK TENTH. AMERICA REVISITED. 1867— 1868. JEt. 55—56. I. November and December, 1867. II. January to April, 1868. L AMERICA: NOVEMBER AND DECEMBER, 1867. 1867. It is the intention of this and the following chapter to narrate America : the incidents of the visit to America in Dickens's own language, ■ and in that only. They will consist almost exclusively of extracts from his letters written home, to members of his family and to myself. On the night of Tuesday the 19th of November he arrived at Boston, where he took up his residence at the Parker House hotel; and his first letter (21st) stated that the tickets for the first four Readings, all to that time issued, had been sold immediately on their becoming saleable. * An immense train of people waited * in the freezing street for twelve hours, and passed into the office * in their turns, as at a French theatre. The receipts already * taken for these nights exceed our calculation by more than * ;£25o.' Up to the last moment, he had not been able to clear off wholly a shade of misgiving that some of the old grudges might make themselves felt ; but from the instant of his setting foot in Boston not a vestige of such fear remained. The greeting was to the full as extraordinary as that of twenty-five years before, warmth and was given now, as then, to the man who had made himself greeting, the most popular writer in the country. His novels and tales were crowding the shelves of all the dealers in books in all the cities of the Union. In every house, in every car, on every steam-boat, in every theatre of America, the characters, the fancies, the phraseology of Dickens were become familiar beyond those of any other writer of books. * Even in England,' said one of the New Same causo York journals, * Dickens is less known than here ; and of the as in 184a. * millions here who treasure every word he has written, there are * tens of thousands who would make a large sacrifice to see and * hear the man who has made happy so many hours. Whatever The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X, * sensitiveness there once was to adverse or sneering criticism, the * lapse of a quarter of a century, and the profound significance of * a great war, have modified or removed.' The point was more pithily, and as truly, put by Mr. Horace Greeley in the Tribune, * The fame as a novelist which Mr. Dickens had already created * in America, and which, at the best, has never yielded him any- * thing particularly munificent or substantial, is become his capital * stock in the present enterprise.' The first Reading was appointed for the second of December, and in the interval he saw some old friends and made some new ones.* Boston he was fond of comparing to Edinburgh as Edin- burgh was in the days when several dear friends of his own still lived there. Twenty-five years had changed much in the American city ; some genial faces were gone, and on ground which he had left a swamp he found now the most princely streets ; but there was no abatement of the old warmth of kindness, and, with every attention and consideration shown to him, there was no intrusion. He was not at first completely conscious of the change in this respect, or of the prodigious increase in the size of Boston. But the latter grew upon him from day to day, and then there was im- pressed along with it a contrast to which it was difficult to recon- * Among these I think he was most delighted with the great naturalist and philosopher, Agassiz, whose death is unhappily announced while I write, and as to whom it will no longer be unbecoming to quote his allusion. * Agassiz, who married the last Mrs. * Felton's sister, is not only one of the * most accomplished but the most * natural and jovial of men.' Again he says : * I cannot tell you how ' pleased I was by Agassiz, a most * charming fellow, or how I have re- ' gretted his seclusion for a while by ' reason of his mother's death.' A valued correspondent, Mr. Grant Wil- son, sends me a list of famous Ameri- cans who greeted Dickens at his first visit, and in the interval had passed away. * It is melancholy to contem- * plate the large number of American * authors w^ho had, between the first ' and second visits of Mr. Dickens, * " gone hence, to be no more seen." * The sturdy Cooper, the gentle Irving, * his friend and kinsman Paulding, * Prescott the historian and Percival * the poet, the eloquent Everett, Na- * thaniel Hawthorne, Edgar A. Poe, ' N. P. Willis, the genial Halleck, * and many lesser lights, including * Prof. Felton and Geo. P. Morris, * had died during the quarter of a cen- ' tury that elapsed between Dickens's * visits to this country, leaving a new * generation of writers to extend the ' hand of friendship to him on his * second coming.' — Let me add to this that Dickens was pleased, at this second visit, to see his old secretary who had travelled so agreeably with him through his first tour of triumph. § I.] America: November and December, 1867. 397 cile himself. Nothing enchanted him so much as what he again ^'^^l^^^ ' saw of the delightful domestic life of Cambridge, simple, self- Cambridge respectful, cordial, and affectionate ; and it seemed impossible to Boston, believe that within half an hour's distance of it should be found what might at any time be witnessed in such hotels as that which he was staying at : crowds of swaggerers, loafers, bar-loungers, and dram-drinkers, that seemed to be making up, from day to day, not the least important part of the human life of the city. But no great mercantile resort in the States, such as Boston had now be- come, could be without that drawback ; and fortunate should we account any place to be, though even so plague-afflicted, that has yet so near it the healthier influence of the other life which our older world has well-nigh lost altogether. * The city has increased prodigiously in twenty-five years,' he wrote to his daughter Mary. * It has grown more mercantile. It * is like Leeds mixed with Preston, and flavoured with New ' Brighton. Only, instead of smoke and fog, there is an ex- Changes . . . . since 1842. * quisitely bright light air.' * Cambndge is exactly as I left it,' he wrote to me. * Boston more mercantile, and much larger. The * hotel I formerly stayed at, and thought a very big one, is now ' regarded as a very small affair. I do not yet notice — but a day, ' you know, is not a long time for observation ! — any marked * change in character or habits. In this immense hotel I live very ' high up, and have a hot and cold bath in my bed room, with ' other comforts not in existence in my former day. The cost of ' living is enormous.' ' Two of the staff are at New York,' he ^vrote to his sister-in-law on the 25th of November, 'where we *■ are at our wits' end how to keep tickets out of the hands of * speculators. We have communications from all parts of the * country, but we take no offer whatever. The young under- ' graduates of Cambridge have made a representation to Long- ' fellow that they are 500 strong and cannot get one ticket I * don't know what is to be done, but I suppose I must read there, * somehow. We are all in the clouds until I shall have broken * ground in New York.' The sale of tickets, there, had begun Sale of . • tickets in two days before the first readmg m Boston. * At the New York New York. * barriers/ he wrote to his daughter on the first of December, 398 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X. America: * where the ticlccts were on sale and the people ranged as at the • *■ Paris theatres, speculators went up and down offering twenty * dollars for any body's place. The money was in no case * accepted. But one man sold two tickets for the second, third, * and fourth nights ; his payment in exchange being one ticket for 'the first night, fifty dollars (about f^i los.), and a "brandy ' " cock-tail.'" First On Monday the second of December he read for the first time reading. in Boston, his subjects being the Carol and the Trial from Pickwick; and his reception, from an audience than which perhaps none more remarkable could have been brought together, went beyond all expectations formed. * It is really impossible,' he wTote to me next morning, to exaggerate the magnificence of * the reception or the effect of the reading. The whole city will * talk of nothing else and hear of nothing else to-day. Every *■ ticket for those announced here, and in New York, is sold. All ' are sold at the highest price, for which in our calculation we made no allowance ; and it is impossible to keep out speculators who immediately sell at a premium. At the decreased rate of money even, we had above ;£"45o English in the house last night ; and the New York hall holds 500 people more. Every- '■ thing looks brilliant beyond the most sanguine hopes, and I was * quite as cool last night as though I were reading at Chatham.' The next night he read again ; and also on Thursday and Friday; on Wednesday he had rested; and on Saturday he travelled to New York. He had written, the day before he left, that he was making a clear profit of thirteen hundred pounds English a week, even allowing seven dollars to the pound ; but words were added having no good omen in them, that the weather was taking a turn of even unusual severity, and that he found the climate, in the suddenness of its changes, 'and the wide leaps they take,' excessively trying. * The work is of course rather trying too ; * but the sound position that everything must be subservient to it ' enables me to keep aloof from invitations. To-morrow,' ran the close of the letter, ' we move to New York. We cannot beat the * speculators in our tickets. We sell no more than six to any § I.] America: November and December, 1867. 399 ' one person for the course of four readings ; but these specu- America: ' lators, who sell at greatly increased prices and make large profits, * will employ any number of men to buy. One of the chief of lators. * them — now living in this house, in order that he may move as * we move ! — can put on 50 people in any place we go to ; and ' thus he gets 300 tickets into his own hands.' Almost while Dickens was writing these words an eye-witness was describing to a Philadelphia paper the sale of the New York tickets. The pay place was to open at nine on a Wednesday morning, and at mid- night of Tuesday a long line of speculators were assembled in queue; at two in the morning a few honest buyers had begun to arrive ; at five there were, of all classes, two lines of not less than 800 each ; at eight there were at least 5000 persons in the two lines; at nine each line was more than three-quarters of a mile in length, and neither became sensibly shorter during the whole morning. * The tickets for the course were all sold before noon, strange ... . . scene at * Members of families relieved each other in the queues ; waiters New York. * flew across the streets and squares from the neighbouring * restaurant, to serve parties who were taking their breakfast in * the open December air ; while excited men offered five and ten * dollars for the mere permission to exchange places with other ' persons standing nearer the head of the line ! ' The effect of the reading in New York corresponded with this marvellous preparation, and Dickens characterised his audience as an unexpected support to him ; in its appreciation quick and unfailing, and highly demonstrative in its satisfactions. On the nth of December he wrote to his daughter: 'Amazing success. First New * A very fine audience, far better than at Boston. Carol and ing. * Trial on first night, great : still greater, Copperfield and Bob * Sawyer on second. For the tickets of the four readings of next * week there were, at nine o'clock this morning, 3000 people in * waiting, and they had begun to assemble in the bitter cold as * early as two o'clock in the morning.' To myself he wrote on the 15 th, adding touches to the curious picture. * Dolby has got * into trouble about the manner of issuing the tickets for next * week's series. He cannot get four thousand people into a * room holding only two thousand, he cannot induce people to 400 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X. America : ' pay at the Ordinary price for themselves instead of giving thrice 1867. * as much to speculators, and he is attacked in all directions. . . . * I don't much like my hall, for it has two large balconies far * removed from the platform ; but no one ever waylays me as I go ' into it or come out of it, and it is kept as rigidly quiet as the * Frangais at a rehearsal. We have not yet had in it less than ^ £iA2>^ per night, allowing for the depreciated currency ! I send ' ;^3ooo to England by this packet. From all parts of the States, * applications and offers continually come in. We go to Boston ' next Saturday for two more readings, and come back here on ' Christmas Day for four more. I am not yet bound to go else- * where, except three times, each time for two nights, to Phila- ' delphia ; thinking it wisest to keep free for the largest places. I ' have had an action brought against me by a man who considered ' himself injured (and really may have been) in the matter of his ' tickets. Personal service being necessary, I was politely waited 'on by a marshal for that purpose ; whom I received with the ' greatest courtesy, apparently very much to his amazement. The * action was handsomely withdrawn next day, and the plaintiff ' paid his own costs. . . Dolby hopes you are satisfied with the * figures so far ; the profit each night exceeding the estimated '■ profit by ;£i3o odd. He is anxious I should also tell you that ' he is the most unpopular and best-abused man in America.' Next day a letter to his sister-in-law related an incident too common in American cities to disconcert any but strangers. He had lodged himself, I should have said, at the Westminster Hotel in Irving Place. 'Last night I was getting into bed just at ' 12 o'clock, when Dolby came to my door to inform me that the Fire in his ' house was on fire. I got Scott up directly; told him first to ' pack the books and clothes for the Readings ; dressed, and * pocketed my jewels and papers ; while the manager stuffed him- ' self out with money. Meanwhile the police and firemen were in * the house tracing the mischief to its source in a certain fire- ' grate. By this time the hose was laid all through from a great ' tank on the roof, and everybody turned out to help. It was the * oddest sight, and people had put the strangest things on ! ' After chopping and cutting with axes through stairs, and much § I.] America: November and December^ 1867. 401 handing about of water, the fire was confined to a dining-room America: 1867. * in which it had originated ; and then everybody talked to every * body else, the ladies being particularly loquacious and cheerful. ' I may remark that the second landlord (from both, but especially * the first, I have had untiring attention) no sooner saw me on * this agitating occasion, than, with his property blazing, he *■ insisted on taking me down into a room full of hot smoke, to * drink brandy and water with him ! And so we got to bed again * about two.' Dickens had been a week in New York before he was able to increase of • • N'cw Yorlc identify the great city which a lapse of twenty-five years had so city, prodigiously increased. * The only portion that has even now ' come back to me,' he wrote, * is the part of Broadway in which * the Carlton Hotel (long since destroyed) used to stand. There * is a very fine new park in the outskirts, and the number of grand * houses and splendid equipages is quite surprising. There are * hotels close here with 500 bedrooms and I don't know how * many boarders ; but this hotel is quite as quiet as, and not * much larger than, Mivart's in Brook Street. My rooms are all * en suite, and I come and go by a private door and private stair- * case communicating with my bed-room. The waiters are French, * and one might be living in Paris. One of the two proprietors is * also proprietor of Niblo's Theatre, and the greatest care is taken * of me. Niblo's great attraction, the Black Crook, has now been * played every night for 16 months (!), and is the most preposterous * peg to hang ballets on that was ever seen. The people who act * in it have not the slightest idea of what it is about, and never * had ; but, after taxing my intellectual powers to the utmost, I * fancy that I have discovered Black Crook to be a malignant Popular * hunchback leagued with the Powers of Darkness to separate enteJta*iS! * two lovers ; and that the Powers of Lightness coming (in no ^^^^ ' * skirts whatever) to the rescue, he is defeated. I am quite * serious in saying that I do not suppose there are two pages of * All the Year Round in the whole piece (which acts all night) ; ' the whole of the rest of it being ballets of all sorts, perfectly * unaccountable processions, and the Donkey out of last year's * Covent Garden pantomime ! At the other theatres, comic VOL. II. D D The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X. America: ' operas, mclodramas, and domestic dramas prevail all over the — city, and my stories play no inconsiderable part in them. I go *■ nowhere, having laid down the rule that to combine visiting with * my work would be absolutely impossible. . . . The Fenian * explosion at Clerkenwell was telegraphed here in a few hours. * I do not think there is any sympathy whatever with the Fenians * on the part of the American people, though political adventurers * may make capital out of a show of it. But no doubt large * sections of the Irish population of this State are themselves Private and < Fcuian ; and the local politics of the place are in a most Public. ^ tr r ' depraved condition, if half of what is said to me be true. I ' prefer not to talk of these things, but at odd intervals I look * round for myself. Great social improvements in respect of * manners and forbearance have come to pass since I was here * before, but in public life 1 see as yet but little change.' He had got through half of his first New York readings when a winter storm came on, and from this time until very near his return the severity of the weather was exceptional even for America. When the first snow fell, the railways were closed for some days ; and he described New York crowded with sleighs, and the snow piled up in enormous walls the whole length of the streets. ' I turned out in a rather gorgeous sleigh yesterday with ' any quantity of buffalo robes, and made an imposing appearance.' * If you were to behold me driving out,' he wrote to his daughter, * furred up to the moustache, with an immense white red-and- * yellow-striped rug for a covering, you would suppose me to be * of Hungarian or Polish nationality.' These protections never- theless availed him little; and when the time came for getting back to Boston, he found himself at the close of his journey with a cold and cough that never again left him until he had quitted the country, and of which the effects became more and more disastrous. For the present there was little allusion to this, his belief at the first being strong that he should overmaster it ; but it soon forced itself into all his letters. SavdhJg. His railway journey otherwise had not been agreeable. *The >. 237-8. < railways are truly alarming. Much worse (because more worn I ' suppose) than when \ wa§ here before. We were beaten about § I.] America: November and December^ 1867. 403 * yesterday, as if we had been aboard the Cuba. Two rivers America : * have to be crossed, and each time the whole train is banged * aboard a big steamer. The steamer rises and falls with the * river, which the railroad don't do ; and the train is either banged * up hill or banged down hill. In coming off the steamer at one * of these crossings yesterday, we were banged up such a height * that the rope broke, and one carriage rushed back with a run < down-hill into the boat again. I whisked out in a moment, and ' two or three others after me ; but nobody else seemed to care * about it. The treatment of the luggage is perfectly outrageous. * Nearly every case I have is already broken. When we started * from Boston yesterday, I beheld, to my unspeakable amazement, * Scott, my dresser, leaning a flushed countenance against the * wall of the car, and weeping bitterly. It was over my smashed * writing-desk. Yet the arrangements for luggage are excellent, * if the porters would not be beyond description reckless.' The same excellence of provision, and flinging away of its advantages, are observed in connection with another subject in the same letter. ' The halls are excellent. Imagine one holding two thousand * people, seated with exact equality for every one of them, and ' every one seated separately. I have nowhere, at home or * abroad, seen so fine a police as the police of New York ; and police of * their bearing in the streets is above all praise. On the other ' * hand, the laws for regulation of public vehicles, clearing of ' streets, and removal of obstructions, are wildly outraged by the * people for whose benefit they are intended. Yet there is un- * doubtedly improvement in every direction, and I am taking time ' to make up my mind on things in general. Let me add that I * have been tempted out at three in the morning to visit one of * the large police station-houses, and was so fascinated by the * study of a horrible photograph-book of thieves' portraits that I ' couldn't shut it up.* A letter of the same date (22nd) to his sister-in-law told of Again in Boston. personal attentions awaitmg him on his return to Boston by which he was greatly touched. He found his rooms garnished with flowers and holly, with real red berries, and with festoons of moss ; and the homely Christmas look of the place quite affected him, D D 2 404 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X. Ai«erica: ' There is a certain Captain DoUiver belonging to the Boston * custom-house, who came off in the Httle steamer that brought me * ashore from the Cuba ; and he took it into his head that he fSm Eng ' would havc a piece of English mistletoe brought out in this land. < week's Cunard, which should be laid upon my breakfast table. * And there it was this morning. In such affectionate touches as * this, these New England people are especially amiable. . . As a * general rule you may lay it down that whatever you see about * me in the papers is not true ; but you may generally lend a more *■ believing ear to the Philadelphia correspondent of the Times^ a * well-informed gentleman. Our hotel in New York was on fire ' again the other night. But fires in this country are quite * matters of course. There was a large one in Boston at four * this morning ; and I don't think a single night has passed, since * I have been under the protection of the Eagle, that I have not * heard the Fire Bells dolefully clanging all over both cities.' The violent abuse of his manager by portions of the press is the subject of the rest of the letter, and receives farther illustration in Commou One of the same date to me. * A good specimen of the sort of countries. * newspapcr you and I know something of, came out in Boston * here this morning. The editor had applied for our advertise- * ments, saying that it was at Mr. D's disposal for paragraphs." * The advertisements were not sent ; Dolby did not enrich its * columns paragraphically ; and among its news to-day is the item * that " this chap calling himself Dolby got dnmk down town last * " night, and was taken to the police station for fighting an * " Irishman ! " I am sorry to say that I don't find anybody to * be much shocked by this liveliness.' It is right to add what was said to me a few days later. * The Tribune is an excellent Newspapers * paper. Horacc Greeley is editor in chief, and a considerable (jenerally. * shareholder too. All the people connected with it whom I have * seen are of the best class. It is also a very fine property — but * here the New York Herald beats it hollow, hollow, hollow ! * Another able and well edited paper is the New York Times. A * most respectable journal too is Bryant's Evening Post, excellently * written. There is generally a much more responsible and * respectable tone than prevailed formerly, however small may be § I.J America: November and December ^ 1867. 405 * the literary merit, among papers pointed out to me as of large America : * circulation. In much of the writing there is certainly improve- * ment, but it might be more widely spread/ The time had now come when the course his Readings were to Settling the Tour. take independently of the two leading cities must be settled, and the general tour made out His agent's original plan was that they should be in New York every week. * But I say No. By * the loth of January I shall have read to 35,000 people in that * city alone. Put the readings out of the reach of all the people ' behind them, for the time. It is that one of the popular pecu- * liarities which I most particularly notice, that they must not * have a thing too easily. Nothing in the country lasts long ; and Noting * a thing is prized the more, the less easy it is made. Reflecting f^^^^^J^^^ * therefore that I shall want to close, in April, with farewell read- * ings here and in New York, I am convinced that the crush and * pressure upon these necessary to their adequate success is only * to be got by absence ; and that the best thing I can do is not to * give either city as much reading as it wants now, but to be inde- * pendent of both while both are most enthusiastic. I have therefore * resolved presently to announce in New York so many readings * (I mean a certain number) as the last that can be given there, * before I travel to promised places ; and that we select the best Cities * places, with the largest halls, on our Hst. This will include, East Readings. * here — the two or three best New England towns ; South — Balti- * more and Washington ; West — Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Chicago, * and St. Louis ; and towards Niagara — Cleveland and Buffalo. * Philadelphia we are already pledged to, for six nights ; and the * scheme will pretty easily bring us here again twice before the * farewells. I feel convinced that this is the sound policy.' (It was afterwards a little modified, as will be seen, by public occur- rences and his own condition of health ; the West, as well as a promise to Canada, having to be abandoned ; but otherwise it was carried out.) 'I read here to-morrow and Tuesday; all * tickets being sold to the end of the series, even for subjects not * announced. I have not read a single time at a lower clear 'profit per night (all deductions made) than ^£"315. But rely ' upon it I shall take great care not to read oftener than four 4o6 The Life of Charles Dickens. [BookX. America: * timcs a Week — after this next week, when I stand committed to 1867. • *■ five. The inevitable tendency of the staff, when these great * houses excite them, is, in the words of an old friend of ours, to * " hurge the hartist hon ; " and a night or two ago I had to cut * away five readings from their list' An incident at Boston should have mention before he resumes his readings in New York. In the interval since he was first in America, the Harvard professor of chemistry, Dr. Webster, whom he had at that visit met among the honoured men who held chairs The murder in their Cambridge University, had been hanged for the murder, Profesor^ committed in his laboratory in the college, of a friend who had Webster. . . lent him money, portions of whose body lay concealed under the lid of the lecture-room table where the murderer continued to meet his students. * Being in Cambridge,* Dickens wrote to Lord Lytton, * I thought I would go over the Medical School, and see * the exact localities where Professor Webster did that amazing * murder, and worked so hard to rid himself of the body of the * murdered man. (I find there is of course no rational doubt * that the Professor was always a secretly cruel man.) They were ' horribly grim, private, cold, and quiet ; the identical furnace * smelling fearfully (some anatomical broth in it I suppose) as if * the body were still there ; jars of pieces of sour mortality stand- ' ing about, like the forty robbers in Ali Baba after being scalded * to death ; and bodies near us ready to be carried in to next ' morning's lecture. At the house where I afterwards dined I * heard an amazing and fearful story ; told by one who had been * at a dinner-party of ten or a dozen, at Webster's, less than a A dinner * year beforc the murder. They began rather uncomfortably, in be'fo^r'^ ' consequence of one of the guests (the victim of an instinctive * antipathy) starting up with the sweat pouring down his face, and * crying out, " O Heaven ! There's a cat somewhere in the * " room ! " The cat was found and ejected, but they didn't get * on very well. Left with their wine, they were getting on a little * better ; when Webster suddenly told the servants to turn the * gas off and bring in that bowl of burning minerals which he had * prepared, in order that the company might see how ghastly they * looked by its weird light Ali this was done, and every man § I.] America: November and December, 1867. 407 * was looking, horror-stricken, at his neighbour ; when Webster America ; 1867. * was seen bending over the bowl with a rope round his neck, * holding up the end of the rope, with his head on one side and his * tongue lolled out, to represent a hanged man ! ' Dickens read at Boston on the 23rd and the 24th of December, and on Christmas day travelled back to New York where he was to read on the 26th. The last words written before he left were of illness. * The low action of the heart, or whatever it is, has ' inconvenienced me greatly this last week. On Monday night, * after the reading, I was laid upon a bed, in a very faint and * shady state ; and on the Tuesday I did not get up till the after- * noon.' But what in reality was less grave took outwardly the I'^n^"* form of a greater distress ; and the effects of the cold which had struck him in travelling to Boston, as yet not known to his English friends, appear most to have alarmed those about him. I depart from my rule in this narrative, otherwise strictly observed, in singling out one of those friends for mention by name : but a business connection with the Readings, as well as untiring offices of personal kindness and sympathy, threw Mr. Fields into closer relations with Dickens from arrival to departure, than any other person had ; and his description of the condition of health in which Dickens now quitted Boston and went through the rest of the labour he had undertaken, will be a sad though fit prelude to what the following chapter has to tell. * He went from Boston to * New York carrying with him a severe catarrh contracted in our * climate. He was quite ill from the effects of the disease ; but * he fought courageously against them. . . . His spirit was won- * derful, and, although he lost all appetite and could partake of * very little food, he was always cheerful and ready for his work * when the evening came round. A dinner was tendered to him by Mode 01 * some of his literary friends in Boston ; but he was so ill the day whuf in ' before that the banquet had to be given up. The strain upon * his strength and nerves was very great during all the months he * remained, and only a man of iron will could have accomplished * what he did. He was accustomed to talk and write a good deal * about eating and drinking, but I have rarely seen a man eat * and drink less. He liked to dilate in imagination over the 4o8 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X. America: * brewing of a bowl of punch, but when the punch was ready he 1867. * drank less of it than any one who might be present It was * the sentiment of the thing and not the thing itself that engaged * his attention. I scarcely saw him eat a hearty meal during his ' whole stay. Both at Parker's hotel in Boston, and at the West- * minster in New York, everything was arranged by the proprietors ' for his comfort, and tempting dishes to pique his invalid appe- * tite were sent up at different hours of the day ; but the influenza ' had seized him with masterful power, and held the strong man * down till he left the country.' At New When he arrived in New York on the evening of Christmas York on Christmas Day he found a letter from his daughter. Answering her next day Day. he told her : * I wanted it much, for I had a frightful cold (English * colds are nothing to those of this country) and was very miserable. ' .... It is a bad country to be unwell and travelling in. You * are one of, say, a hundred people in a heated car with a great Misery of * stove in it, all the little windows being closed ; and the bumping J ourneys. ' and banging about are indescribable, the atmosphere detestable, ' the ordinary motion all but intolerable.' The following day this addition was made to the letter. * I managed to read last night, ' but it was as much as I could do. To-day I am so very unwell * that I have sent for a doctor. He has just been, and is in doubt ' whether I shall not have to stop reading for a while.* His stronger will prevailed, and he went on without stopping. On the last day of the year he announced to us that though he had been very low he was getting right again ; that in a couple of days he should have accomplished a fourth of the entire Readings ; and that the first month of the new year would see him through Phi- ladelphia and Baltimore, as well as through two more nights in Boston. He also prepared his English friends for the startling intelligence they might shortly expect, of four readings coming off in a church, before an audience of two thousand people accom- modated in pews, and with himself emerging from a vestry. § ii.j Afuerica: January to Aprils 1868. 409 America : 1868. II. " JANUARY TO APRIL. 1868. The Reading on the third of January closed a fourth of the entire series, and on that day Dickens wrote of the trouble brought on them by the * speculators/ which to some extent had affected unfavourably the three previous nights in New York. When adventurers bought up the best places, the public resented it by refusing the worst j to prevent it by first helping themselves, being the last thing they ever thought of doing. * We try to withhold the Speculators * best seats from the speculators, but the unaccountable thing is public. ' that the great mass of the public buy of them (prefer it), and the * rest of the public are injured if we have not got those very seats * to sell them. We have now a travelling staff of six men, in * spite of which Dolby, who is leaving me to-day to sell tickets in *■ Philadelphia to-morrow morning, will no doubt get into a * tempest of difficulties. Of course also, in such a matter, as * many obstacles as possible are thrown in an Englishman's way ; * and he may himself be a little injudicious into the bargain. * Last night, for instance, he met one of the " ushers " (who show * people to their seats) coming in with one of our men. It is * against orders that any one employed in front should go * out during the reading, and he took this man to task in the * British manner. Instantly, the free and independent usher put * on his hat and walked off. Seeing which, all the other free and * independent ushers (some 20 in number) put on their hats and * walked off; leaving us absolutely devoid and destitute of a staff * for to-night. One has since been improvised : but it was a ' small matter to raise a stir and ill-will about, especially as one of * our men was equally in fault ; and really there is little to be done * at night American people are so accustomed to take care of Repubiic;ji * themselves, that one of these immense audiences will fall into ' their places with an ease amazing to a frequenter of St. James's * Hall ; and the certainty with which they are all in, before I go The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book X. America: * Oil, is a very acceptable mark of respect. Our great labour is * outside ; and we have been obliged to bring our staff up to six, * besides a boy or two, by employment of a regular additional * clerk, a Bostonian. The speculators buying the front-seats (we * have found instances of this being done by merchants in good * position), the public won't have the back seats ; return their * tickets ; write and print volumes on the subject ; and deter * others from coming. You are not to suppose that this prevails * to any great extent, as our lowest house here has been ^300 ; Sos"^''^ ' ^^^s hit us. There is no doubt about it. Fortunately I * saw the danger when the trouble began, and changed the list at * the right time. . . . You may get an idea of the staff's work, * by what is in hand now. They are preparing, numbering, and * stamping, 6000 tickets for Philadelphia, and 8000 tickets for * Brooklyn. The moment those are done, another 8000 tickets * will be wanted for Baltimore, and probably another 6000 for * Washington ; and all this in addition to the correspondence, * advertisements, accounts, travelling, and the nightly business of * the Readings four times a week. ... I cannot get rid of this * intolerable cold ! My landlord invented for me a drink of ' brandy, rum, and snow, called it a " Rocky Mountain Sneezer," ' and said it was to put down all less effectual sneezing ; but it has * not yet had the effect. Did I tell you that the favourite drink ' before you get up is an Eye-Opener ? There has been another * fall of snow, succeeded by a heavy thaw.' Again at The day after (the 4th) he went back to Boston, and next Boston : sth Jan. day wrote to me : * I am to read here on Monday and Tuesday, ' return to New York on Wednesday, and finish there (except the ' farewells in April) on Thursday and Friday. The New York ' reading of Doctor Marigold made really a tremendous hit. The * people doubted at first, having evidently not the least idea what ' could be done with it, and broke out at last into a perfect chorus ' of delight. At the end they made a great shout, and gave a rush * towards the platform as if they were going to carry me off. It * puts a strong additional arrow into my quiver. Another extra- * ordinary success has been Nickleby and Boots at the Holly Tree * (appreciated here in Boston, by the bye, even more than Copper- J II.] America: yanuary to April, 1868. 411 Afield)) and think of our last New York night bringing £^oo America: * English into the house, after making more than the necessary * deduction for the present price of gold ! The manager is always ' going about with an immense bundle that looks like a sofa- * cushion, but is in reality paper-money, and it had risen to the ' proportions of a sofa on the morning he left for Philadelphia. * Well, the work is hard, the climate is hard, the life is hard : but The labour * so far the gain is enormous. My cold steadily refuses to stir an gain. * inch. It distresses me greatly at times, though it is always good ' enough to leave me for the needful two hours. I have tried * allopathy, homoeopathy, cold things, warm things, sweet things, * bitter things, stimulants, narcotics, all with the same result * Nothing will touch it.' In the same letter, light was thrown on the ecclesiastical mystery. * At Brooklyn I am going to read in Mr. Ward Beecher's * chapel : the only building there available for the purpose; You chapd * must understand that Brooklyn is a kind of sleeping-place for '^^^'^'"s*. * New York, and is supposed to be a great place in the money * way. We let the seats pew by pew ! the pulpit is taken down * for my screen and gas ! and I appear out of the vestry in * canonical form ! These ecclesiastical entertainments come off * on the evenings of the i6th, 17th, 20th, and 21st, of the present * month.' His first letter after returning to New York (9th of January) made additions to the Brooklyn picture. * Each evening * an enormous ferry-boat will convey me and my state-carriage * (not to mention half a dozen wagons and any number of people * and a few score of horses) across the river to Brooklyn, and will * bring me back again. The sale of tickets there was an amazing * scene. The noble army of speculators are now furnished (this Scene at * IS literally true, and I am quite serious) each man with a straw * mattress, a httle bag of bread and meat, two blankets, and a * bottle of whiskey. With this outfit, they lie down in line on the pave- ' mmt the whole of the night before the tickets are sold ; generally * taking up their position at about 10. It being severely cold at * Brooklyn, they made an immense bonfire in the street — a narrow * street of wooden houses — which the police turned out to ex- * tuiguish. A general fight then took place \ from which the 412 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book X. America: * people farthest off in the line rushed bleediner when they saw 1868. ^ ^ _ ° ' any chance of ousting others nearer the door, put their mattresses * in the spots so gained, and held on by the iron rails. At 8 in * the morning Dolby appeared with the tickets in a portmanteau. * He was immediately saluted with a roar of Halloa ! Dolby ! * So Charley has let you have the carriage, has he, Dolby ? How * is he, Dolby ? Don't drop the tickets, Dolby ! Look alive, * Dolby ! &c. &c. &c. in the midst of which he proceeded to * business, and concluded (as usual) by giving universal dissatis- * faction. He is now going off upon a little journey to look over ' the ground and cut back again. This little journey (to Chicago) j^umij^ * is twelve hundred miles on end, by railway, besides the back * again ! * It might tax the Englishman, but was nothing to the native American. It was part of his New York landlord's ordinary life in a week, Dickens told me, to go to Chicago and look at his theatre there on a Monday j to pelt back to Boston and look at his theatre there on a Thursday ; and to come rushing to New York on a Friday, to apostrophize his enormous ballet. Three days later, still at New York, he wrote to his sister-in- law. * I am off to Philadelphia this evening for the first of three * visits of two nights each, tickets for all being sold. My cold * steadily refuses to leave me, but otherwise I am as well as I can * hope to be under this heavy work. My New York readings * are over (except the farewell nights), and I look forward to the * relief of being out of my hardest hall. On Friday I was again * dead beat at the end, and was once more laid upon a sofa. * But the faintness went off after a little while. We have now * cold bright frosty weather, without snow ; the best weather for * me.' Next day from Philadelphia he wrote to his daughter that he was lodged in The Continental, one of the most immense of American hotels, but that he found himself just as quiet as deiphia*" elsewherc. * Everything is very good, my waiter is German, and * the greater part of the servants seem to be coloured people. * The town is very clean, and the day as blue and bright as a * fine Italian day. But it freezes very very hard, and my cold is * not improved ; for the cars were so intolerably hot that I was * often obliged to stand upon the brake outside, and then the §11.] America: yanuary to April, 1868. 413 * frosty air bit me indeed. I find it necessary (so oppressed am America: 1868. * I with this American catarrh as they call it) to dme at three * o'clock instead of four, that I may have more time to get voice ; * £0 that the days are cut short and letter-writing not easy.' He nevertheless found time in this city to write to me (14th of January) the most interesting mention he had yet made of such opinions as he had been able to form during his present visit, apart from the pursuit that absorbed him. Of such of those opinions as were given on a former page, it is only necessary to ». 308. repeat that while the tone of party politics still impressed him unfavourably, he had thus far seen everywhere great changes for the better socially. I will add other points from the same letter. That he was unfortunate in his time of visiting New York, as far irUh element in as its politics were concerned, what has since happened con- New York, clusively shows. * The Irish element is acquiring such enormous * influence in New York city, that when I think of it, and see * the large Roman Catholic cathedral rising there, it seems unfair * to stigmatise as " American " other monstrous things that one * also sees. But the general corruption in respect of the local * funds appears to be stupendous, and there is an alarming thing * as to some of the courts of law which I am afraid is native- * bom. A case came under my notice the other day in which it * was perfectly plain, from what was said to me by a person * interested in resisting an injunction, that his first proceeding * had been to "look up the Judge."' Of such occasional pro- 1 Looki^? vincial oddity, harmless in itself but strange in large cities, as he judges, noticed in the sort of half disappointment at the small fuss made by himself about the Readings, and in the newspaper references to * Mr. Dickens's extraordinary composure ' on the platform, he gives an illustration. * Last night here in Philadelphia (my first * night), a very impressible and responsive audience were so * astounded by my simply walking in and opening my book that * I wondered what was the matter. They evidently thought that ' there ought to have been a flourish, and Dolby sent in to pre- * pare for me. With them it is the simplicity of the operation * that raises wonder. With the newspapers " Mr. Dickens's extra- * " ordinary composure " is not reasoned out as being necessary 414 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book x. America : * to the art of the thing, but is sensitively watched with a lurking * doubt whether it may not imply disparagement of the audience. ' Both these things strike me as drolly expressive.' . . rmprov«5d His testimony as to improved social habits and ways was wayi expressed very decidedly. * I think it reasonable to expect that * as I go westward, I shall find the old manners going on before ' me, and may tread upon their skirts mayhap. But so far, I * have had no more intrusion or boredom than I have when * I lead the same life in England. I write this in an immense * hotel, but I am as much at peace in my own rooms, and am * left as wholly undisturbed, as if I were at the Station Hotel ' in York. I have now read in New York city to 40,000 people, * and am quite as well known in the streets there as I am in * London. People will turn back, turn again and face me, and * have a look at me, or will say to one another " Look here ! * " Dickens coming ! " But no one ever stops me or addresses * me. Sitting reading in the carriage outside the New York ' post-office while one of the staff was stamping the letters inside, * I became conscious that a few people who had been looking at * the turn-out had discovered me within. On my peeping out ' good-humouredly, one of them (I should say a merchant's book- * keeper) stepped up to the door, took off his hat, and said * in a frank way : " Mr. Dickens, I should very much like to * " have the honour of shaking hands with you " — and, that done, * presented two others. Nothing could be more quiet or less ' intrusive. In the railway cars, if I see anybody who clearly * wants to speak to me, I usually anticipate the wish by speaking *■ myself. If I am standing on the brake outside (to avoid the * intolerable stove), people getting down will say with a smile : * As I am taking my departure, Mr. Dickens, and can't trouble * " you for more than a moment, I should like to take you by * " the hand sir." And so we shake hands and go our ways. . . In the * Of course many of my impressions come through the readings. * Thus I find the people lighter and more humorous than formerly ; * and there must be a great deal of innocent imagination among * every class, or they never could pet with such extraordinary * pleasure as they do, the Boots's story of the elopement of the § II.] America: yanuary to April, 1868. 415 * two little children. They seem to see the children ; and the America : ^ 1868. * women set up a shrill undercurrent of half-pity and half-pleasure — * that is quite affecting. To-night's reading is my 26th ; but as * all the Philadelphia tickets for four more are sold, as well as * four at Brooklyn, you must assume that I am at — say — my 35th * reading. I have remitted to Coutts's in English gold 10,000 Result of . .34 Read- * odd ; and I roughly calculate that on this number Dolby will mgs. * have another thousand pounds profit to pay me. These figures * are of course between ourselves, at present ; but are they not * magnificent ? The expenses, always recollect, are enormous. ' On the other hand we never have occasion to print a bill of * any sort (bill-printing and posting are great charges at home) ; * and have just now sold off £,^0 worth of bill-paper, provided ' beforehand, as a wholly useless incumbrance.' Then came, as ever, the constant shadow that still attended Shadow to him, the slave in the chariot of his triumph. * The work is very shine. * severe. There is now no chance of my being rid of this ' American catarrh until I embark for England. It is very dis- * tressing. It likewise happens, not seldom, that I am so dead * beat when I come off that they lay me down on a sofa after ' I have been washed and dressed, and I lie there, extremely * faint, for a quarter of an hour. In that time I rally and come * right.' One week later from New' York, where he had become due on the i6th for the first of his four Brooklyn readings, he wrote to his sister-in-law. * My cold sticks tu me, and I can * scarcely exaggerate what I undergo from sleeplessness. I rarely Faintnes* ' take any breakfast but an egg and a cup of tea — not even toast fe'lsness.'* * or bread and butter. My small dinner at 3, and a little quail * or some such light thing when I come home at night, is my * daily fare \ and at the hall I have established the custom of * taking an egg beaten up in sherry before going in, and another * between the parts, which I think pulls me up. . . . It is * snowing hard now, and I begin to move to-morrow. There is ' so much floating ice in the river, that we are obliged to have a * pretty wide margin of time for getting over the ferry to read.' The last of the readings over the ferry was on the day when this letter was writtea ' I finished at my church to-night. It is The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X. * Mrs. Stowe's brother's, and a most wonderful place to speak in. * We had it enormously full last night {Marigold and Trial) ^ but * it scarcely required an effort. Mr. Ward Beecher being present * in his pew, I sent to invite him to come round before he left * I found him to be an unostentatious, evidently able, straight- * forward, and agreeable man ; extremely well-informed, and with ' a good knowledge of art.' Baltimore and Washington were the cities in which he was now, on quitting New York, to read for the first time ; and as to the latter some doubts arose. The exceptional course had been taken in regard to it, of selecting a hall with space for not more than 700 and charging everybody five dollars ; to which Dickens, at first greatly opposed, had yielded upon use of the argument, * you have more people at New York, shanks to the speculators, ' paying more than five dollars every night.' But now other sug- gestions came. * Horace Greeley dined with me last Saturday,' he wrote on the 20th, * and didn't like my going to Washington, * now full of the greatest rowdies and worst kind of people in * the States. Last night at eleven came B. expressing like ' doubts ; and though they may be absurd I thought them worth * attention, B. coming so close on Greeley.' Mr. Dolby was in consequence sent express to Washington with power to with- draw or go on, as enquiry on the spot might dictate ; and Dickens took the additional resolve so far to modify the last arrangements of his tour as to avoid the distances of Chicago, St. Louis, and Cincinnati, to content himself with smaller places and profits, and thereby to get home nearly a month earlier. He was at Philadelphia on the 23rd of January, when he announced this intention. ' The worst of it is, that every- * body one advises with has a monomania respecting Chicago. * *'Good heavens sir," the great Philadelphia authority said * to me this morning, *' if you don't read in Chicago the people * " will go into fits ! " Well, I answered, I would rather they * went into fits than I did. But he didn't seem to see it ' at all.' From Baltimore he wrote to his sister-in-law on the 29th, in the hour's interval he had to spare before going back to Phila- America: January to April, 1868. 4.17 delphia. * It has been snowing hard for four and twenty hours A"^^'g<^^ * ' — though this place is as far south as Valentia in Spain ; and ^J^^J^j * my manager, being on his way to New York, has a good chance * of being snowed up somewhere. This is one of the places * where Butler carried it with a high hand during the war, and * where the ladies used to spit when they passed a Northern * soldier. They are very handsome women, with an Eastern * touch in them, and dress brilliantly. I have rarely seen so ' many fine faces in an audience. They are a bright responsive * people likewise, and very pleasant to read to. My hall is a * charming little opera house built by a society of Germans : ' quite a delightful place for the purpose. I stand on the stage, * with the drop curtain down, and my screen before it. The * whole scene is very pretty and complete, and the audience * have a " ring " in them that sounds deeper than the ear. I go * from here to Philadelphia, to read to-morrow night and Friday ; ' come through here again on Saturday on my way back to Wash- Movenients * ington ; come back here on Saturday week for two finishing * nights ; then go to Philadelphia for two farewells — and so turn * my back on the southern part of the country. Our new plan * will give 82 readings in all.' (The real number was 76, six having been dropped on subsequent political excitements.) * Of * course I afterwards discovered that we had finally settled the ' list on a Friday. I shall be halfway through it at Washington ; * of course on a Friday also, and my birthday.' To myself he wrote on the following day from Philadelphia, beginning with a thank Heaven that he had struck off Canada and the West, for he found the wear and tear * enormous.' ' Dolby decided that * the croakers were wrong about Washington, and went on ; the ' rather as his raised prices, which he put finally at three dollars ' each, gave satisfaction. Fields is so confident about Boston, * that my remaining list includes, in all, 14 more readings there. * I don't know how many more we might not have had here * (where I have had attentions otherwise that have been very huccess ;n r , X -r , 1 , rr.- , Philadcl- * grateful to me), if we had chosen. Tickets are now being phia. ' resold at ten dollars each. At Baltimore I had a charming * little theatre, and a very apprehensive impulsive audience. It VOL. II. K X The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X. *■ is remarkable to see how the Ghost of Slavery haunts the * town ; and how the shambling, untidy, evasive, and postponing * Irrepressible proceeds about his free work, going round and * round it, instead of at it. The melancholy absurdity of giving * these people votes, at any rate at present, would glare at one * out of every roll of their eyes, chuckle in their mouths, and * bump in their heads, if one did not see (as one cannot help * seeing in the country) that their enfranchisement is a mere * party trick to get votes. Being at the Penitentiary the other * day (this, while we mention votes), and looking over the * books, I noticed that almost every man had been " pardoned " * a day or two before his time was up. Why ? Because, if he * had served his time out, he would have been ipso facto disfran- * chised. So, this form of pardon is gone through to save his * vote ; and as every officer of the prison holds his place only in ' right of his party, of course bis hopeful clients vote for the * party that has let them out ! When I read in Mr. Beecher's *■ church at Brooklyn, we found the trustees had suppressed the * fact that a certain upper gallery holding 150 was " the Coloured ' " Gallery." On the first night not a soul could be induced to * enter it ; and it was not until it became known next day that I * was certainly not going to read there more than four times, that ' we managed to fill it. One night at New York, on our second * or third row, there were two well-dressed women with a tinge * of colour — I should say, not even quadroons. But the holder * of one ticket who found his seat to be next them, demanded of * Dolby " What he meant by fixing him next to those two Gord ' " darmed cusses of niggers ? " and insisted on being supplied ' with another good place. Dolby firmly replied that he was ' perfectly certain Mr. Dickens would not recognise such an ob- * jection on any account, but he could have his money back if he * chose. Which, after some squabbling, he had. In a comic ' scene in the New York Circus one night, when I was looking * on, four white people sat down upon a form in a barber's shop * to be shaved. A coloured man came as the fifth customer, and * the four immediately ran away. This was much laughed at and * applauded. In the Baltimore Penitentiary, the white prisoners §11.] America: January to April, 1868. *■ dine on one side of the room, the coloured prisoners on the America : 1860. * other ; and no one has the slightest idea of mixing them. But But in * It is indubitably the fact that exhalations not the most agreeable ivfute^ dor- mitories is * arise from a number of coloured people got together, and I was "^^^^ *■ obliged to beat a quick retreat from their dormitory. I strongly * believe that they will die out of this country fast. It seems, * looking at them, so manifestly absurd to suppose it possible that * they can ever hold their own against a restless, shifty, striving, * stronger race.' On the fourth of February he wrote from Washington. * You * may like to have a line to let you know that it is all right here, *■ and that the croakers were simply ridiculous. I began last * night. A charming audience, no dissatisfaction whatever at the * raised prices, nothing missed or lost, cheers at the end of the * Carols and rounds upon rounds of applause all through. All * the foremost men and their families had taken tickets for the ' series of four. A small place to read in. ^300 in it' It will At Wash- be no violation of the rule of avoiding private detail if the very interesting close of this letter is given. Its anecdote of President Lincoln was repeatedly told by Dickens after his return, and I am under no necessity to withhold from it the authority of Mr. Sumner's name. * I am going to-morrow to see the President, * who has sent to me twice. I dined with Charles Sumner last * Sunday, against my rule ; and as I had stipulated for no party, ' Mr. Secretary Stanton was the only other guest, besides his * own secretary. Stanton is a man with a very remarkable * memory, and extraordinarily familiar with my books. . . . He ' and Sumner having been the first two public men at the dying with s.un- ' President's bedside, and having remained with him until he stlnton. ' breathed his last, we fell into a very interesting conversation after ' dinner, when, each of them giving his own narrative separately, ' rhe usual discrepancies about details of time were observable. * Then Mr. Stanton told me a curious little story which will form ' the remainder of this short letter. * On the afternoon of the day on which the President was shot, * there was a cabinet council at which he presided. Mr. Stanton, ' Heing at the time commander-iii-qhief of the Northern troops S E 9 420 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X. America : * that wcre Concentrated about here, arrived rather late. Indeed 1868. ' ' they were waiting for him, and on his entering the room, the Lincoln's . , Jast^cabinet * President broke off in something he was saying, and remarked : * " Let us proceed to business, gentlemen." Mr. Stanton then ' noticed, with great surprise, that the President sat with an air of ' dignity in his chair instead of lolling about it in the most un- * gainly attitudes, as his invariable custom was ; and that instead * of telling irrelevant or questionable stories, he was grave and * calm, and quite a different man. Mr. Stanton, on leaving the * council with the Attorney-General, said to him, " That is the * most satisfactory cabinet meeting I have attended for many a * " long day ! What an extraordinary change in Mr. Lincoln ! " * The Attorney-General replied, " We all saw it, before you came * "in. While we were waiting for you, he said, with his chin * " down on his breast, * Gentlemen, something very extraordi- ' " * nary is going to happen, and that very soon.' " To which * the Attorney-General had observed, " Something good, sir, I ' " hope ? " when the President answered very gravely : " I don't * " know J I don't know. But it will happen, and shortly too ! " * As they were all impressed by his manner, the Attorney-General * took him up again : " Have you received any information, sir, Lincoln's * " not yet discloscd to us?'' "No," answered the President: dream the day < " but I havc had a dream. And I have now had the same before death. < « dream three times. Once, on the night preceding the Battle * " of Bull Run. Once, on the night preceding " such another ' (naming a battle also not favourable to the North). His chin * sank on his breast again, and he sat reflecting. " Might one * "ask the nature of this dream, sir?" said the Attorney- * General. "Well," replied the President, without lifting his * head or changing his attitude, " I am on a great broad rolling < « river — and I am in a boat — and I drift — and I drift ! — but * " this is not business — " suddenly raising his face and looking * round the table as Mr. Stanton entered, " let us proceed to busi- * " ness, gentlemen." Mr. Stanton and the Attorney-General * said, as they walked on together, it would be curious to notice ' whether anything ensued on this ; and they agreed to notice, * He was shot that night.' §11.] America: January to Aprils 1868. 42 On his birthday, the seventh of February, Dickens had his America interview with President Andrew Johnson. * This scrambling Interview scribblement is resumed this mommg, because I have just seen with President * the President : who had sent to me very courteously asking me Johnson. * to make my own appointment He is a man with a remarkable * face, indicating courage, watchfulness, and certainly strength of * purpose. It is a face of the Webster type, but without the * " bounce *' of Webster's face. I would have picked him out * anywhere as a character of mark. Figure, rather stoutish for an * American ; a trifle under the middle size ; hands clasped in * front of him ; manner, suppressed, guarded, anxious. Each of * us looked at the other very hard. ... It was in his own * cabinet that I saw him. As I came away, Thornton drove up * in a sleigh — turned out for a state occasion — to deliver his cre- * dentials. There was to be a cabinet council at 12. The room * was very like a London club's ante-drawing room. On the * walls, two engravings only : one, of his own portrait ; one, of * Lincoln's. ... In the outer room was sitting a certain sunburnt An old * General Blair, with many evidences of the war upon him. He ance. * got up to shake hands with me, and then I found that he had * been out on the Prairie with me five-and-twenty years ago. . . . ' The papers having referred to my birthday's falling to-day, my * room is filled with most exquisite flowers.* They came pouring * in from all sorts of people at breakfast time. The audiences * here are really very fine. So ready to laugh or cry, and doing * both so freely, that you would suppose them to be Manchester * shillings rather than Washington half-sovereigns. Alas ! alas ! * my cold worse than ever.' So he had written too at the opening of his letter. * A few days later he described it * handsome silver travelling bottle, a to his daughter. ' I couldn't help * set of gold shirt studs, and a set of * laughing at myself on my birthday ' gold sleeve links, were on the dinner ' at Washington ; it was observed so ' table. Also, by hands unknown, the * much as though I were a little boy. ' hall at night was decorated ; and * Flowers and garlands of the most ' after Boots at the Holly Tree, the ' exquisite kind, arranged in all manner 'whole audience rose and remained, ' of green baskets, bloomed over the * great people and all, standing and * room : letters radiant with good * cheering, until I went back to the •wishes poured in; a shirt pin, a ' table and made them a little speech.' 422 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X America : One of his Washington audience : at second reading also: and brings friend to third. The first reading had been four days earlier, and was described to his daughter in a letter on the 4th, with a comical incident that occurred in the course of it. * The gas was very defective ' indeed last night, and I began with a small speech to the effect * that I must trust to the brightness of their faces for the illumina- * tion of mine. This was taken greatly. In the Carol a most ' ridiculous incident occurred. All of a sudden, I saw a dog leap * out from among the seats in the centre aisle, and look very * intently at me. The general attention being fixed on me, I * don't think anybody saw this dog ; but I felt so sure of his * turning up again and barking, that I kept my eye wandering * about in search of him. He was a very comic dog, and it was * well for me that I was reading a comic part of the book. But * when he bounced out into the centre aisle again, in an entirely * new place, and (still looking intently at me) tried the effect of a * bark upon my proceedings, I was seized with such a paroxysm * of laughter that it communicated itself to the audience, and we * roared at one another, loud and long.' Three days later the sequel came, in a letter to his sister-in-law. * I mentioned the ' dog on the first night here ? Next night, I thought I heard (in * Copperjield) a suddenly-suppressed bark. It happened in this * wise : One of our people, standing just within the door, felt *■ his leg touched, and looking down beheld the dog, staring * intently at me, and evidently just about to bark. In a transport * of presence of mind and fury, he instantly caught him up in * both hands, and threw him over his own head, out into the * entry, where the check-takers received him like a game at ball. * Last night he came again, with another aog ; but our people were ' so sharply on the look-out for him that he didn't get in. He ' had evidently promised to pass the other dog, free.' What is expressed in these letters, of a still active, hopeful, en- joying, energetic spirit, able to assert itself against illness of the body and in some sort to overmaster it, was also so strongly impressed upon those who were with him, that, seeing his suffer- ings as they did, they yet found it difficult to understand the extent of them. The sadness thus ever underlying his triumph makes if all very tragical. * That afternoon of my birthday,' he America: yanuary to April, 1868. 423 wrote from Baltimore on the nth, 'my catarrh was in such a America: loOo. ' state that Charles Sumner, coming in at five o'clock, and finding * me covered with mustard poultice, and apparently voiceless, * turned to Dolby and said : " Surely, Mr. Dolby, it is impossible ' " that he can read to-night ! " Says Dolby : " Sir, I have told * " Mr. Dickens so, four times to-day, and I have been very * '* anxious. But you have no idea how he will change, when he ' " gets to the Httle table." After five minutes of the little table * I was not (for the time) even hoarse. The frequent expe- * rience of this return of force when it is wanted, saves me a * vast amount of anxiety ; but I am not at times without the * nervous dread that I may some day sink altogether.' To the same effect in another letter he adds : * Dolby and Osgood/ the latter represented the publishing firm of Mr. Fields and was one of the travelling staff, *who do the most ridiculous things to * keep me in spirits * (I am often very heavy, and rarely sleep ' much), are determined to have a walking match at Boston * on the last day of February to celebrate the arrival of the day * when I can say " next month ! " for home.' The match ended On the in the Englishman's defeat \ which Dickens doubly commemo- FebruLy. rated, by a narrative of the American victory in sporting-news- paper style, and by a dinner in Boston to a party of dear friends there. After Baltimore he was reading again at Philadelphia, from which he wrote to his sister-in-law on the 13th as to a charac- teristic trait observed in both places. * Nothing will induce the people to beheve in the farewells. At Baltimore on Tuesday * night (a very brilliant night indeed), they asked as they came * out : " When will Mr. Dickens read here again ? " " Never." « Never. * " Nonsense ! Not come back, after such houses as these ? ' " Come. Say when he'll read again." Just the same here. We ' could as soon persuade them that I am the President, as that * Mr. Dolby unconsciously contri- * two minutes, and the audience are buted at this time to the same happy * earnestly entreated to be seated ten result by sending out some advertise- * hours before its commencement.' ments in these exact words : ' The He had transposed the minutes and * Reading will be comprised within the hours. 424 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X. America: < to-morrow night I am going to read here for the last time. . . . 1868. • — — — - ' There is a child in this house — a little girl — to whom I pre- In his hotel ° ^ at Phiia- < sented a black doll when I was here last ; and as I have just (lelphia. ' * seen her eye at the keyhole since I began writing this, I think * she and the doll must be outside still. " When you sent it up * "to me by the coloured boy," she said after receiving it * (coloured boy is the term for black waiter), " I gave such a * cream that Ma come running in and; creamed too, 'cos she * fort I'd hurt myself. But I creamed a cream of joy." She had * a friend to play with her that day, and brought the friend with ' her — to my infinite confusion. A friend all stockings and much ' too tall, who sat on the sofa very far back with her stockings * sticking stiffly out in front of her, and glared at me, and never * spake a word. Dolby found us confronted in a sort of fascina- * tion, like serpent and bird.' On the 15th he was again at New York, in the thick of more troubles with the speculators. They involved even charges of fraud in ticket-sales at Newhaven and Providence ; indignation meetings having been held by the Mayors, and unavailing at- tempts made by his manager to turn the wTath aside. * I expect * him back here presently half bereft of his senses, and I should * be wholly bereft of mine if the situation were not comical as well ' as disagreeable. We can sell at our own box-office to any ^ extent ; but we cannot buy back of the speculators, because we ' have informed the public that all the tickets are gone ; and ' even if we made the sacrifice of buying at their price and * selling at ours, we should be accused of treating with them and ProvKience ' of making money by it.' It ended in Providence by his going haven, himself to the place and making a speech ; and in Newhaven it ended by his sending back the money taken, with intimation that he would not read until there had been a new distribution of the tickets approved by all the town. Fresh disturbance broke out upon this ; but he stuck to his determination to delay the reading until the heats had cooled down, and what should have been given in the middle of February he did not give until the close oi March. The Readings he had promised at the smaller outlying places § II.] America: jfanuary to April, 1868. 425 by the Canadian frontier and Niagara district, including Syracuse, America: 1868. Rochester, and Buffalo, were appointed for that same March month which was to be the interval between the close of the ordi- nary readings and the farewells in the two leading cities. All g^l'oJ *° that had been promised in New York were closed when he re- turned to Boston on the 23rd of February, ready for the increase he had promised there ; but the check of a sudden political excitement came. It was the month when the vote was taken for impeachment of President Johnson. * It is well* (25th of February) * that the money has flowed in hitherto so fast, for I ' have a misgiving that the great excitement about the President's ' impeachment will damage our receipts. . . . The vote was taken * at 5 last night At 7 the three large theatres here, all in a rush * of good business, were stricken with paralysis. At 8 our long * line of outsiders waiting for unoccupied places, was nowhere. * To-day you hear all the people in the streets talking of only one ' thing. I shall suppress my next week's promised readings (by ' good fortune, not yet announced), and watch the course of 'events. Nothing in this country, as I before said, lasts lo^^g ; I'^^jf /jj "f . * and I think it likely that the public may be heartily tired of the * President's name by the 9th of March, when I read at a con- * siderable distance from here. So behold me with a whole ' week's holiday in view ! ' Two days later he wrote pleasantly to his sister-in-law of his audiences. ' They have come to regard * the Readings and the Reader as their peculiar property; and * you would be both amused and pleased if you could see the ' curious way in which they show this increased interest in both. ' Whenever they laugh or cry, they have taken to applauding as Boston ... . audiences^ * well ; and the result is very inspiritmg. I shall remain here ' until Saturday the 7th ; but after to-morrow night shall not read * here until the 1st of April, when I begin my farewells — six in * number.' On the 28th he wrote: 'To-morrow fortnight M'e * purpose being at the Falls of Niagara, and then we shall come * back and really begin to wind up. I have got to know the * Carol so well that I can't remember it, and occasionally go ' dodging about in the wildest manner, to pick up lost pieces. ' They took it so tremendously last night that I was stopped The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X. * every five minutes. One poor young girl in mourning burst into ' a passion of grief about Tiny Tim, and was taken out. We had a * fine house, and, in the interval while I was out, they covered the little table with flowers. The cough has taken a fresh start * as if it were a novelty, and is even worse than ever to-day. * There is a lull in the excitement about the President : but the * articles of impeachment are to be produced this afternoon, and * then it may set in again. Osgood came into camp last night * from selling in remote places, and reports that at Rochester and * Buffalo (both places near the frontier), tickets were bought by ' Canada people, who had struggled across the frozen river and * clambered over all sorts of obstructions to get them. Some of * those distant halls turn out to be smaller than represented ; but * I have no doubt — to use an American expression — that we shall * " get along." The second half of the receipts cannot reasonably ' be expected to come up to the first ; political circumstances, and * all other surroundings, considered.' His old ill luck in travel pursued him. On the day his letter was written a snow-storm began, with a heavy gale of wind ; and ^ after all the hard weather gone through,* he wrote on the 2nd of March, ' this is the worst day we have seen. It is telegraphed * that the storm prevails over an immense extent of country, and * is just the same at Chicago as here. I hope it may prove a wind * up. We are getting sick of the very sound of sleigh-bells even.' The roads were so bad and the trains so much out of time, that he had to start a day earlier ; and on the 6th of March his tour north-west began, with the gale still blowing and the snow falling heavily. On the 13th he wrote to me from Buffalo. ' We go to the Falls of Niagara to-morrow for our own pleasure ; ' and I take all the men, as a treat. We found Rochester last * Tuesday in a very curious state. Perhaps you know that the * Great Falls of the Genessee River (really very fine, even so near * Niagara) are at that place. In the height of a sudden thaw, an * immense bank of ice above the rapids refused to yield ; so that * the town was threatened (for the second time in four years) with * submersion. Boats were ready in the streets, all the people * were up all night, and none but the children slept. In the dead §11.] America: January to April, 1868. 427 * of the night a thundering noise was heard, the ice gave way, the ^^^^^^^ * swollen river came raging and roaring down the Falls, and the * town was safe. Very picturesque ! but " not very good for * " business," as the manager says. Especially as the hall stands * in the centre of danger, and had ten feet of water in it on the * last occasion of flood. But I think we had above ^£'200 English. * On the previous night at Syracuse — a most out of the way and -^^^^g^^j^^J * unintelligible-looking place, with apparently no people in it — Buffalo. * we had ;£"375 odd. Here we had, last night, and shall have to- * night, whatever we can cram into the hall. * This Buffalo has become a large and important town, with * numbers of German and Irish in it. But it is very curious to * notice, as we touch the frontier, that the American female beauty ' dies out ; and a woman's face clumsily compounded of German, * Irish, Western America, and Canadian, not yet fused together, * and not yet moulded, obtains instead. Our show of Beauty at * night is, generally, remarkable ; but we had not a dozen pretty * women in the whole throng last night, and the faces were all * blunt. I have just been walking about, and observing the same * thing in the streets. . . The winter has been so severe, that the * hotel on the English side at Niagara (which has the best view of * the Falls, and is for that reason very preferable) is not yet open. * So we go, perforce, to the American : which telegraphs back to * our telegram : " all Mr. Dickens's requirements perfectly under * " stood." I have not yet been in more than two very bad inns. * I have been in some, where a good deal of what is popularly * called *' slopping round " has prevailed : but have been able ' slopping 'round.' ' to get on very well. " Slopping round," so used, means untidy- * ness and disorder. It is a comically expressive phrase, and has * many meanings. Fields was asking the price of a quarter-cask * of sherry the other day. " Wa'al Mussr Fields," the merchant * replies, " that varies according to quality, as is but nay'tral. If * " yer wa'ant a sherry just to slop round with it, I can fix you ' " some at a very low figger." ' His letter was resumed at Rochester on the i8th. * After two * most brilliant days at the Falls of Niagara, we got back here last * night. To-morrow morning we turn out at 6 for a long railway 428 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X. Suspension bridge at Niagara. Final im- pression of the Falls. Prospects of travel. i8th Feb. * journey back to Albany. But it is nearly all back " now, * thank God ! I don't know how long, though, before turning, ' we might have gone on at Buffalo. . . We went everywhere at ' the Falls, and saw them in every aspect. There is a suspension *■ bridge across, now, some two miles or more from the Horse ' Shoe ; and another, half a mile nearer, is to be opened in July. ' They are very fine but very ticklish, hanging aloft there, in the * continual vibration of the thundering water : nor is one greatly ' reassured by the printed notice that troops must not cross them ' at step, that bands of music must not play in crossing, and the ' like. I shall never forget the last aspect in which we saw ' Niagara yesterday. We had been everywhere, when I thought ' of struggling (in an open carriage) up some very difficult ground * for a good distance, and getting where we could stand above the * river, and see it, as it rushes forward to its tremendous leap, ' coming for miles and miles. All away to the horizon on our * right was a wonderful confusion of bright green and white water. * As we stood watching it with our faces to the top of the Falls, * our backs were towards the sun. The majestic valley below the * Falls, so seen through the vast cloud of spray, was made of * rainbow. The high banks, the riven rocks, the forests, the * bridge, the buildings, the air, the sky, were all made of rainbow. ' Nothing in Turner's finest water-colour drawings, done in his * greatest day, is so ethereal, so imaginative, so gorgeous in ' colour, as what I then beheld. I seemed to be lifted from the * earth and to be looking into Heaven. What I once said to you, ' as I witnessed the scene five and twenty years ago, all came ' back at this most affecting and sublime sight. The muddy ' " vesture ot our clay " falls from us as we look. ... I chartered ' a separate carriage for our men, so that they might see all in * their own way, and at their own time. * There is a great deal of water out between Rochester and ' New York, and travelling is very uncertain, as I fear we may * find to-morrow. There is again some little alarm here on ' account of the river rising too fast. But our to-night's house is * far ahead of the first. Most charming halls in these places ; * excellent for sight and sound. Almost invariably built as § II.] America: JamLary to April, 1868. 429 * theatres, with stage, scenery, and good dressing-rooms. Audience America : 1868. * seated to perfection (every seat always separate), excellent door * ways and passages, and brilliant light. My screen and gas are * set up in front of the drop-curtain, and the most delicate touches * will tell anywhere. No creature but my own men ever near me.' His anticipation of the uncertainty that might beset his travel back had dismal fulfilment. It is described in a letter written on the 2ist from Springfield to his valued friend, Mr. Frederic Ouvry, having much interest of its own, and making lively addition to the picture which these chapters give. The unflagging spirit that bears up under all disadvantages is again marvellously shown. * You can hardly imagine what my life is with its present con- * ditions — how hard the work is, and how little time I seem to * have at my disposal. It is necessary to the daily recovery of my Way of life. * voice that I should dine at 3 when not travelling ; I begin to * prepare for the evening at 6 ; and i get back to my hotel, pretty * well knocked up, at half-past 10. Add to all this, perpetual * railway travelling in one of the severest winters ever known ; * and you will descry a reason or two for my being an indifferent * correspondent. Last Sunday evening I left the Falls of Niagara ' for this and two intervening places. As there was a great thaw, * and the melted snow was swelling all the rivers, the whole * country for three hundred miles was flooded. On the Tuesday * afternoon (I had read on the Monday) the train gave in, as under circumstances utterly hopeless, and stopped at a place * called Utica ; the greater part of which was under water, while At utica. ' the high and dry part could produce nothing particular to eat. * Here, some of the wretched passengers passed the night in the * train, while others stormed the hotel. I was fortunate enough * to get a bed-room, and garnished it with an enormous jug of * gin-punch ; over which I and the manager played a double- * dummy rubber. At six in the morning we were knocked up : * " to come aboard and try it." At half-past six we were knocked * up again with the tidings " that it was of no use coming aboard * " or trying it." At eight all the bells in the town were set * agoing, to summon us to " come aboard " instantly. And so * we started, through the water, at four or five miles an hour ; 430 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X, America : * Seeing nothing but drowned farms, barns adrift like Noah's arks, *■ deserted villages, broken bridges, and all manner of ruin. I was * to read at Albany that night, and all the tickets were sold. A *■ very active superintendent of works assured me that if I could Getting < be " got along," he was the man to get me along : and that if I * couldn't be got along, I might conclude that it couldn't possibly * be fixed. He then turned on a hundred men in seven-league * boots, who went ahead of the train, each armed with a long pole ' and pushing the blocks of ice away. Following this cavalcade, * we got to land at last, and arrived in time for me to read the ' Carol and Trial triumphantly. My people (I had five of the * staff with me) turned to at their work with a will, and did a day's At Albany. <■ labour in a couple of hours. If we had not come in as we did, ' I should have lost ^£350, and Albany would have gone dis- ' tracted. You may conceive what the flood was, when I hint at * the two most notable incidents of our journey : — i, We took the ' passengers out of two trains, who had been in the water, im- ' movable all night and all the previous day. 2, We released a ' large quantity of sheep and cattle from trucks that had been in ' the water I don't know how long, but so long that the creatures in them had begun to eat each other, and presented a most * horrible spectacle.' * New Eng. Besidc Springfield, he had engagements at Portland, New gagtments. Bedford, and other places in Massachusetts, before the Boston farewells began ; and there wanted but two days to bring him to that time, when he thus described to his daughter the labour which was to occupy them. His letter was from Portland on the 29th of March, and it will be observed that he no longer com- promises or glozes over what he was and had been suffering. During his terrible travel to Albany his cough had somewhat spared him, but the old illness had broken out in his foot ; and, * What follows is from the close of * had the second officer's cabin on the letter. ' On my return, I have ' deck when I came out ; and I am to For ever.' * arranged with Chappell to take my * have the chief steward's going home. ' leave of reading for good and all, in * Cunard was so considerate as to re- * a hundred autumnal and winter * member that it will be on the sunny ' Farewells for ever. I return by the ' side of the vessel.' * Cunard steam-ship "Russia." I § II.] America: January to April, 1868. 431 though he persisted in ascribing it to the former supposed origin America : ('having been lately again wet, from walking in melted snow, — ■ r ' • • 1 Again at- * which I suppose to be the occasion of its swelling m the old tacked by lameness. * way '), it troubled him sorely, extended now at intervals to the right foot also, and lamed him for all the time he remained in the States. * I should have written to you by the last mail, but I * really was too unwell to do it. The writing day was last Friday, * when I ought to have left Boston for New Bedford (55 miles) * before eleven in the morning. But I was so exhausted that I ' could not be got up, and had to take my chance of an evening * train's producing me in time to read — which it just did. With *■ the return of snow, nine days ago, my cough became as bad as * ever. I have coughed every morning from two or three till five ' or six, and have been absolutely sleepless. I have had no ' appetite besides, and no taste.* Last night here, I took some ' laudanum ; and it is the only thing that has done me good, ' though it made me sick this morning. But the life, in this ' climate, is so very hard ! When I did manage to get to New ' Bedford, I read with my utmost force and vigour. Next ' morning, well or ill, I must turn out at seven, to get back to ' Boston on my way here. I dined at Boston at three, and at five ' had to come on here (a hundred and thirty miles or so) for to- *■ morrow night : there being no Sunday train. To-morrow night * I read here in a very large place ; and Tuesday morning at six * I must again start, to get back to Boston once more. But after * to-morrow night I have only the farewells, thank God ! Even as * it is, however, I have had to write to Dolby (who is in New York) to see my doctor there, and ask him to send me some ' composing medicine that I can take at night, inasmuch as with- * Here was his account of his mode of living for his last ten weeks in America. ' I cannot eat (to anything ' like the necessary extent) and have * established this system. At 7 in the * morning, in bed, a tumbler of new « cream and two tablespoonfuls of rum. 'At 12, a sherry cobbler and a biscuit. * At 3 (dinner time) a pint of cham' * pagne. At five minutes to 8, an egg * beaten up with a glass of sherry. * Between the parts, the strongest beef ' tea that can be made, drunk hot. * At a quarter past 10, soup, and any * little thing to drink that I can fancy. ' I do not eat more than half a pound * of solid food in the whole four-and« * twenty hours, if so much,' 432 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book X. America: * out slecp I Cannot get through. However sympathetic and * devoted the people are about one, they can not be got to com- Sleepless- ness. ' prehend, seeing me able to do the two hours when the time * comes round, that it may also involve much misery.* To myself on the 30th he wrote from the same place, making like confession. No comment could deepen the sadness of the story of suffering, revealed in his own simple language. * I write in a town three * parts of which were burnt down in a tremendous fire three years * ago. The people lived in tents while their city was rebuilding. * The charred trunks of the trees with which the streets of the old ' city were planted, yet stand here and there in the new thorough- ' fares like black spectres. The rebuilding is still in progress ' everywhere. Yet such is the astonishing energy of the people ' that the large hall in which I am to read to-night (its predecessor * was burnt) would compare very favourably with the Free Trade • iled% ' * at Manchester ! ... I am nearly used up. Climate, dis- * tance, catarrh, travelling, and hard work, have begun (I may say ' so, now they are nearly all over) to tell heavily upon me. * Sleeplessness besets me ; and if I had engaged to go on into * May, I think I must have broken down. It was well that I cut * off the Far West and Canada when I did. There would else * have been a sad complication. It is impossible to make the * people about one understand, however zealous and devoted (it * is impossible even to make Dolby understand until the pinch * comes), that the power of coming up to the mark every night, ' with spirits and spirit, may coexist with the nearest approach to ' sinking under it. When I got back to Boston on Thursday, * after a very hard three weeks, I saw that Fields was very grave ' about my going on to New Bedford (55 miles) next day, and 'then coming on here (180 miles) next d.2.y. But the stress is ' over, and so I can afford to look back upon it, and think about ' it, and write about it* On the 31st he closed his letter at Boston, and he was at home when I heard of him again. * The * latest intelligence, my dear old fellow, is, that I have arrived here Sv over * safely, and that I am certainly better. I consider my work * virtually over, now. My impression is, that the political crisis ' will damage the farewells by about one half. I cannot yet speak §11.] America: January to April, 1868. 433 * by the card; but my predictions here, as to our proceedings, America: 1868. * have thus far been invariably right We took last night at — * Portland, ;^36o English ; where a costly Italian troupe, using * the same hall to-night, had not booked ! It is the same ' all over the country, and the worst is not seen yet. Everything * is becoming absorbed in the Presidential impeachment, helped * by the next Presidential election. Connecticut is particularly * excited. The night after I read at Hartford this last week, * there were two political meetings in the town ; meetings of two * parties ; and the hotel was full of speakers coming in from * outlying places. So at Newhaven : the moment I had finished, * carpenters came in to prepare for next night's politics. So at * Buffalo. So everywhere very soon.' In the same tone he wrote his last letter to his sister-in-law Boston from Boston. ' My notion of the farewells is pretty certain now * to turn out right. We had ;£"3oo English here last night. To- ' day is a Fast Day, and to-night we shall probably take much less. Then it is likely that we shall pull up again, and strike a * good reasonable average ; but it is not at all probable that we * shall do anything enormous. Every pulpit in Massachusetts * will resound with violent poHtics to-day and to-night.' That was on the second of April, and a postscript was added. * Friday ' afternoon the 3rd. Catarrh worse than ever ! and we don't * know (at four o'clock) whether I can read to-night or must stop. * Otherwise, all well.' Dickens's last letter from America was written to his daughter Last Mary from Boston on the 9th of April, the day before his sixth itltl"*^'* and last farewell night. * I not only read last Friday when I was ' doubtful of being able to do so, but read as I never did before, ' and astonished the audience quite as much as myself. You * never saw or heard such a scene of excitement. Longfellow * and all the Cambridge men have urged me to give in. I have * been very near doing so, but feel stronger to-day. I cannot tell * whether the catarrh may have done me any lasting injury in the * lungs or other breathing organs, until I shall have rested and got * home. I hope and believe not. Consider the weather ! There * have been two snow storms since I wrote last, and to-day the »rOL. II. F F 434 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book X. America : * to\vn is blotted out in a ceaseless whirl of snow and wind. 1868. — ' Dolby is as tender as a woman, and as watchful as a doctor. He * never leaves me during the reading, now, but sits at the side of * the platform, and keeps his eye upon me all the time. Ditto * George the gasman, steadiest and most reliable man I ever * employed. I have Dombey to do to-night, and must go through * it carefully ; so here ends my report. The personal affection of * the people in this place is charming to the last. Did I tell you ' that the New York Press are going to give me a public dinner * on Saturday the i8th ? ' New York 111 Ncw York, where there were five farewell nights, three farewells, t^QUsand two hundred and ninety-eight dollars were the receipts of the last, on the 20th of April ; those of the last at Boston, on the 8th, having been three thousand four hundred and fifty-six dollars. But, on earlier nights in the same cities respectively, these sums also had been reached ; and indeed, making allowance for an exceptional night here and there, the receipts varied so wonderfully little, that a mention of the highest average returns from other places will give no exaggerated impression of the Receipts Ordinary receipts throughout. Excluding fractions of dollars, the lowest were New Bedford ($1640), Rochester ($1906), Springfield ($1970), and Providence ($2140). Albany and Wor- cester averaged something less than $2400 ; while Hartford, Buffalo, Baltimore, Syracuse, Newhaven, and Portland rose to $2600. Washington's last night was $2610, no night there having less than $2500. Philadelphia exceeded Washington by $300, and Brooklyn went ahead of Philadelphia by $200. The amount taken at the four Brooklyn readings was 11,128 dollars. The New York public dinner was given at Delmonico's, the Public hosts were more than two hundred, and the chair was taken by Mr. Horace Greely. Dickens attended with great difficulty,* and * Here is the newspaper account : * announced Mr. Dickens's intention * At about five o'clock on Saturday * to attend the dinner at all hazards. * the hosts began to assemble, but at * At a little after six, having been as- * 5.30 the news was received that the ' sisted up the stairs, he was joined by * expected guest had succumbed to a ' Mr. Greeley, and the hosts forming * painful affection of the foot. In a 'in two lines silently permitted the * short time, however, another bulletin ' distinguished gentlemen to pass dinner. §11.] America: January to April, 1868. 435 spoke 7n pain. But he used the occasion to bear his testimony to Ame^ca : the changes of twenty-five years ; the rise of vast new cities ; growth in the graces and amenities of life ; much improvement in the press, essential to every other advance ; and changes in himselt leading to opinions more deliberately formed. He promised his kindly entertainers that no copy of his Notes, or his Chuzzlewif, should in future be issued by him without accompanying mention of the changes to which he had referred that night ; of the polite- ness, delicacy, sweet temper, hospitality, and consideration in all ways for which he had to thank them ; and of his gratitude for the respect shown, during all his visit, to the privacy enforced upon him by the nature of his work and the condition of his health. He had to leave the room before the proceedings were over. On the following Monday he read to his last American audience, telling them at the close that he hoped often to recall them, equally by his winter fire and in the green summer weather, and Adieu, never as a mere public audience but as a host of personal friends. He sailed two days later in the 'Russia,' and reached England in the first week of May 1868. * through. Mr. Dickens limped per- * Mr. Greeley. He evidently suffered * ceptibly ; his right foot was swathed, * great pain.' * and he leaned heavily on the arm of r p a BOOK ELEVENTH. SUMMING UP. 1868—1870. ^T. 56—58. I. Last Readings. II. Last Book. III. Personal Characteristics. 1. LAST READINGS. 1868— 1870. Favourable weather helped Dickens pleasantly home. He London t had profited greatly by the sea voyage, perhaps greatly more by — - — '—- its repose; and on the 25th of May he described himself to his Boston friends as brown beyond belief, and causing the greatest disappointment in all quarters by looking so well. * My doctor * was quite broken down in spirits on seeing me for the first time * last Saturday. Goo^ lord! seven years younger I said the doctor, * recoiHng.' That he gave all the credit to * those fine days at * sea,' and none to the rest from such labours as he had passed through, the close of the letter too sadly showed. *We are * already settling — think of this ! the details of my farewell course * of readings.' Even on his way out to America that enterprise was in hand. Project for last From Halifax he had written to me. ' I told the Chappells that readings. * when I got back to England, I would have a series of farewell * readings in town and country ; and then read No More. They * at once offer in writing to pay all expenses whatever, to pay the ' ten per cent, for management, and to pay me, for a series of 75, * six thousand pounds.' The terms were raised and settled before the first Boston readings closed. The number was to be a hundred : and the payment, over and above expenses and per centage, eight thousand pounds. Such a temptation undoubtedly was great ; and though it was a fatal mistake which Dickens com- mitted in yielding to it, it was not an ignoble one. He did it under no excitement from the American gains, of which he knew nothing when he pledged himself to the enterprise. No man could care essentially less for mere money than he did. But the necessary provision for many sons was a constant anxiety ; he was Yielding proud of what the Readings had done to abridge this care ; and tatS^ the very strain of them under which it seems that his health haa 440 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book XI. London: first given. Way, and which he always steadily refused to connect 1868. especially with them, had also broken the old confidence of being at all times available for his higher pursuit What affected his health only he would not regard as part of the question either way. That was to be borne as the lot more or less of all men ; and the more thorough he could make his feeling of independence, and of ability to rest, by what was now in hand, the better his final chances of a perfect recovery would be. That was the spirit in which he entered on this last engagement. It was an opportunity offered for making a particular work really complete before he should abandon it for ever. Something of it will not be indis- cernible even in the summary of his past acquisitions, which with a pardonable exultation he now sent me. * We had great difficulty in getting our American accounts * squared to the point of ascertaining what Dolby's commission * amounted to in English money. After all, we were obliged to * call in the aid of a money-changer, to determine what he should * pay as his share of the average loss of conversion into gold. * With this deduction made, I think his commission (I have not ' the figures at hand) was ;£"2,888 j Ticknor and Fields had a * commission of 1,000, besides 5 per cent, on all Boston pilfses^and ' Tcceipts. The expcnscs in America to the day of our sailing Readings. * ^^^^ z'^^>^^^ dollars; — roughly 39,000 dollars, or 13,000. The * preliminary expenses were ;£6i4. The average price of gold * was nearly 40 per cent, and yet my profit was within a hundred * or so of 20,000. Supposing me to have got through the * present engagement in good health, I shall have made by the * Readings, in two years, 33,000 : that is to say : 13,000 ' received from the Chappells, and 2 0,000 from America. What * I had made by them before, I could only ascertain by a long * examination of Coutts's books. I should say, certainly not less * than 10,000 : for I remember that I made half that money in * the first town and country campaign with poor Arthur Smith. * These figures are of course between ourselves; but don't you * think them rather remarkable ? The Chappell bargain began * with;£'5o a night and everything paid ; then became^ 60 ; and * now rises tO;^8o.' Last Readings. 441 The last readings were appointed to begin with October ; and London : 186& at the request of an old friend, Chauncy Hare Townshend, who died during his absence in the States, he had accepted the trust, which occupied him some part of the summer, of examining and selecting for publication a bequest of some papers on matters of religious belief, which were issued in a small volume the following year. There came also in June a visit from Longfellow and his daughters, with later summer visits from the Eliot Nortons ; and at the arrival of friends whom he loved and honoured as he did these, from the great country to which he owed so much, infinite were the rejoicings of Gadshill. Nothing could quench his old spirit in this way. But, in the intervals of my official work, I saw him frequently that summer, and never without the impression that America had told heavily upon him. There was manifest abatement of his natural force, the elasticity of bearinsr was im- Noticeable , , changes la paired, and the wonderful brightness of eye was dimmed at times i>ickens. One day, too, as he walked from his office with Miss Hogarth to dine at our house, he could read only the halves of the letters over the shop doors that were on his right as he looked. He attributed it to medicine. It was an additional unfavourable symptom that his right foot had become affected as well as the left, though not to anything like the same extent, during the journey from the Canada frontier to Boston. But all this dis- appeared upon any special cause for exertion ; and he was never unprepared to lavish freely for others the reserved strength that should have been kept for himself. This indeed was the great danger, for it dulled the apprehension of us all to the fact that absolute and pressing danger did positively exist. He had scarcely begun these last readings than he was beset by a misgiving, that, for a success large enough to repay Messrs. Chappell's liberality, the enterprise would require a new excite- ment to carry him over the old ground ; and it was while engaged in Manchester and Liverpool at the outset of October that this announcement came. ' I have made a short reading of the * murder in Oliver Twist. I cannot make up my mind, however, ' whether to do it or not. I have no doubt that I could perfectly * petrify an audience by carrying out the notion I have of the The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. * way of rendering it. But whether the impression would not be * so horrible as to keep them away another time, is what I cannot ' satisfy myself upon. What do you think ? It is in three short parts : i, Where Fagin sets Noah Claypole on to watch Nancy* ' 2, The scene on London Bridge. 3, Where Fagin rouses Clay- ' pole from his sleep, to tell his perverted story to Sikes : and the * Murder, and the Murderer's sense of being haunted. I have * adapted and cut about the text with great care, and it is very * powerful. I have to-day referred the book and the question to * the Chappells as so largely interested.' I had a strong dislike to this proposal, less perhaps on the ground which ought to have been taken of the physical exertion it would involve, than because such a subject seemed to be altogether out of the province of reading ; and it was resolved, that, before doing it, trial should be made to a limited private audience in St James's Hall. The note announcing this, from Liverpool on the 25 th of October, is for other reasons worth printing. * I give you earliest notice that the * Chappells suggest to me the i8th of November' (the 14th was chosen) * for trial of the Oliver Twist murder, when everything in * use for the previous da/s reading can be made available. I ' hope this may suit you ? We have been doing well here ; and ' how it was arranged, nobody knows, but we had ^410 at * St. James's Hall last Tuesday, having advanced from our ' previous ;£^36o. The expenses are such, however, on the ' princely scale of the Chappells, that we never begin at a * smaller, often at a larger, cost than ;^i8o. . . I have not been ' well, and have been heavily tired. However, I have little to ^ complain of — nothing, nothing ; though, hke Mariana, I am * aweary. But, think of this. If all go well and (like Mr. Dennis) * I "work off" this series triumphantly, I shall have made of these * readings;^ 28,000 in a year and a half.' This did not better reconcile me to what had been too clearly forced upon him by the supposed necessity of some new excitement to ensure a triumph- ant result ; and even the private rehearsal only led to a painful correspondence between us, of which a few words are all that need now be preserved. * We might have agreed,' he wrote, * to differ * about ii very well, because we only wanted to find out the truth Last Readings. 443 * if we could, and because it was quite understood that I wanted London: 1868. * to leave behind me the recollection of something very passionate * and dramatic, done with simple means, if the art would jus- * tify the theme/ Apart from mere personal considerations, the whole question lay in these last words. It was impossible for me to admit that the effect to be produced was legitimate, or such as it was desirable to associate with the recollection of his readings. Mention should not be omitted of two sorrows which affected Parting from him at this time. At the close of the month before the readings youngest ° son. began, his youngest son went forth from home to join an elder brother in Australia. ' These partings are hard hard things ' (26th of September), ' but they are the lot of us all, and might * have to be done without means or influence, and then would be * far harder. God bless him ! ' Hardly a month later, the last of his surviving brothers, Frederick, the next to himself, died at Death of his brother Darlington. * He had been tended ' (24th of October), * with the Frederick. * greatest care and affection by some local friends. It was a * wasted life, but God forbid that one should be hard upon it, or * upon anything in this world that is not deliberately and coldly * wrong.' Before October closed the renewal of his labour had begun to tell upon him. He wrote to his sister-in-law on the 29th of sickness and sleepless nights, and of its having become necessary, when he had to read, that he should lie on the sofa all day. After arrival at Edinburgh in December, he had been making a calcula- tion that the railway travelling over such a distance involved something more than thirty thousand shocks to the nerves ; but he went on to Christmas, alternating these far-off places with nights regularly intervening in London, without much more com- plaint than of an inability to sleep. Trade reverses at Glasgow Effect ot had checked the success there,* but Edinburgh made compensa- work^and travel. * ' I think I shall be pretty correct * shady and the charges very great, it * in both places as to the run being on •will be the most we can do, I fancy, * the Final readings. We had an im- ' on these first Scotch readings, to * mense house here' (Edinburgh, 12th ' bring the Chappells safely home (as of December) 'last night, and a very * to them) without loss.' * large tumaway. But Glasgow being 444 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI- London ; i8C8. Sikes and Nancy reading. A reading stopped by illness. tion. * The affectionate regard of the people exceeds all bounds ^ and is shown in every way. The audiences do everything but * embrace me, and take as much pains with the readings as I do * . . . The keeper of the Edinburgh hall, a fine old soldier, pre- * sented me on Friday night with the most superb red camellia for * my button-hole that ever was seen. Nobody can imagine how ' he came by it, as the florists had had a considerable demand * for that colour, from ladies in the stalls, and could get no such * thing.' The second portion of the enterprise opened with the New Year ; and the Sikes and Nancy scenes, everywhere his prominent subject, exacted the most terrible physical exertion from him. In January he was at Clifton, where he had given, he told his sister- in-law, * by far the best Murder yet done ; ' while at the same date he wrote to his daughter : * At Clifton on Monday night we had * a contagion of fainting ; and yet the place was not hot. I ' should think we had from a dozen to twenty ladies taken out ' stiff and rigid, at various times I It became quite ridiculous.' He was afterwards at Cheltenham. ' Macready is of opinion that * the Murder is two Macbeths. He declares that he heard every * word of the reading, but I doubt it. Alas ! he is sadly infirm.* On the 27th he wrote to his daughter from Torquay that the place into which they had put him to read, and where a pantomime had been played the night before, was something between a Methodist chapel, a theatre, a circus, a riding-school, and a cow-house. That day he wrote to me from Bath : * Landor's ghost goes along * the silent streets here before me . . . The place looks to me like * a cemetery which the Dead have succeeded in rising and taking. * Having built streets of their old gravestones, they wander about * scantly trying to "look alive." A dead failure.' In the second week of February he was in London, under engagement to return to Scotland (which he had just left) after the usual weekly reading at St. James's Hall, when there was a sudden interruption. * My foot has turned lame again ! ' was his announcement to me on the 15th, followed next day by this letter. * Henry Thompson will not let me read to-night, and will ' not let me go to Scotland to-morrow. Tremendous house here, Last Readings. 445 * and also in Edinburgh. Here is the certificate he drew up for London ; * himself and Beard to sign. " We the undersigned hereby * " certify that Mr. C. D. is suffering from inflammation of the * " foot (caused by over-exertion), and that we have forbidden his * " appearance on the platform this evening, as he must keep his * room for a day or two." I have sent up to the Great Western * Hotel for apartments, and, if I can get them, shall move there * this evening. Heaven knows what engagements this may * involve in April ! It throws us all back, and will cost me some * five hundred pounds.' A few days' rest again brought so much relief, that, against the urgent entreaties of members of his family as well as other friends, he was in the railway carriage bound for Edinburgh on the Again morning of the 20th of February, accompanied by Mr. Chappell himself * I came down lazily on a sofa,' he wrote to me from Edinburgh next day, ' hardly changing my position the whole * way. The railway authorities had done all sorts of things, and * I was more comfortable than on the sofa at the hotel. The * foot gave me no uneasiness, and has been quiet and steady all * night.' * He was nevertheless under the necessity, two days later, of consulting Mr. Syme ; and he told his daughter that this great authority had warned him against over-fatigue in the readings, and given him some slight remedies, but otherwise reported him in * just perfectly splendid condition.' With care he thought the pain might be got rid of * What made * Thompson think it was gout ? he said often, and seemed to * The close of the letter has an * ing his health ; and immediately, amusing picture which I may be ex- * and with overflowing amiability, ' cused for printing in a note. * The * began returning thanks. The spec- ' only news that will interest you is * tacle was then presented to the ' that the good-natured Reverdy John- 'astonished company, of the Ame- * son, being at an Art Dinner in Glas- * rican Eagle being restrained by the * gow the other night, and falling * coat tails from swooping at the * asleep over the post-prandial speeches 'moon, while the smaller birds en- ' (only too naturally), woke suddenly * deavoured to explain to it how the * on hearing the name of " Johnson " * case stood, and the cock robin in pos- * in a list of Scotch painters which * session of the chairman's eye twit- * one of the orators was enumerating; * tered away as hard as he could split. * at once plunged up, under the im- * I am told that it was wonderfully * pression that somebody was drink- ' droll,' 446 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. Edin- burgh 1869. Mr. Svm? as to the lameness. Emerson Tennent s funeral. At Black- pool. * take that opinion extremely ill' Again before leaving Scotland he saw Mr. Syme, and wrote to me on the second of March of the indignation with which he again treated the gout diagnosis^ declaring the disorder to be an affection of the delicate nerves and muscles originating in cold. * I told him that it had shewn * itself in America in the other foot as well. " Now I'll just * " swear," said he, that beyond the fatigue of the readings ' " you'd been tramping in the snow within two or three days." ' I certainly had. "Well," said he triumphantly, "and how did * "it first begin? In the snow. Gout? Bah! — Thompson ' " knew no other name for it, and just called it gout. Bah ! " ' Yet the famous pupil, Sir Henry Thompson, went certainly nearer the mark than the distinguished master, Mr. Syme, in giving to this distressing trouble a more than local character. The whole of that March month he went on with the scenes from Oliver Twist. * The foot goes famously,* he wrote to his daughter. * I feel the fatigue in it (four Murders in one week *) ' but not overmuch. It merely aches at night ; and so does the ' other, sympathetically I suppose.' At Hull on the 8th he heard of the death of the old and dear friend, Emerson Tennent, to whom he had inscribed his last book ; and on the morning of the 1 2th I met him at the funeral. He had read the Oliver Twist scenes the night before at York ; had just been able to get to the express train, after shortening the pauses in the reading, by a violent rush when it was over; and had travelled through the night. He appeared to me ' dazed ' and worn. No man could well look more so than he did, that sorrowful morning. The end was near. A public dinner, which will have mention on a later page, had been given him in Liverpool on the loth of April, with Lord Dufferin in the chair, and a reading was due from him in Preston on the 22nd of that month. But on Sunday the 1 8th we had ill report of him from Chester, and on the 21st he wrote from Blackpool to his sister-in-law. * I have come to * I take from the letter a mention * Murder. Every vestige of colour left of the effect on a friend. * The night * his face when I came off, and he sat * before last, unable to get in, B. had ' staring over a glass of champagne in * a seat behind the screen, and M^as ' the wildest vi'ay. ' * nearly frightened off it, by the Last Readings. 447 * this Sea-Beach Hotel (charming) for a day's rest. I am much Preston: 1869. * better than I was on Sunday ; but shall want careful looking to, - * to get through the readings. My weakness and deadness are * all on the left side ; and if I don't look at anything I try to * touch with my left hand, I don't know where it is. I am in Alarming * (secret) consultation with Frank Beard, who says that I have given ^^'"p'"'"^" * him indisputable evidences of overwork which he could wish to * treat immediately ; and so I have telegraphed for him. I have * had a delicious walk by the sea to-day, and I sleep soundly, and * have picked up amazingly in appetite. My foot is greatly better * too, and I wear my own boot' Next day was appointed for the reading at Preston ; and from that place he wrote to me, while waiting the arrival of Mr. Beard. * Don't say anything about it, * but the tremendously severe nature of this work is a little * shaking me. At Chester last Sunday I found myself extremely * giddy, and extremely uncertain of my sense of touch, both in * the left leg and the left hand and arms. I had been taking ' some slight medicine of Beard's ; and immediately wrote to him * describing exactly what I felt, and asking him whether those ' feelings could be referable to the medicine ? He promptly * replied : " There can be no mistaking them from your exact ' " account The medicine cannot possibly have caused them. ' " I recognise indisputable symptoms of overwork, and I wish to * " take you in hand without any loss of time." They have ' greatly modified since, but he is coming down here this after- St>il ° ° hoping to * noon. To-morrow night at Warrington I shall have but 25 g° * more nights to work through. If he can coach me up for them, * I do not doubt that I shall get all right again — as I did when I * became free in America. The foot has given me very little 310, * trouble. Yet it is remarkable that it is the left foot too ; and that § 3. * I told Henry Thompson (before I saw his old master Syme) that ' I had an inward conviction that whatever it was, it was not gout ' I also told Beard, a year after the Staplehurst accident, that I ' was certain that my heart had been fluttered, and wanted a little ' helping. This the stethoscope confirmed ; and considering the * immense exertion I am undergoing, and the constant jarring of * express trains, the case seems to me quite intelligible. Don't 448 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XL London : < say anything in the Gad's direction about my being a little out " * of sorts. I have broached the matter of course ; but very * lightly. Indeed there is no reason for broaching it otherwise.' Even to the close of that letter he had buoyed himself up with the hope that he might yet be * coached ' and that the readings need not be discontinued. But Mr. Beard stopped them at Brought to once, and brought his patient to London. On Friday morning town. the 23rd, the same envelope brought me a note from himself to say that he was well enough, but tired ; in perfectly good spirits, not at all uneasy, and writing this himself that I should have it under his own hand ; with a note from his eldest son to say that his father appeared to him to be very ill, and that a consultation had been appointed with Sir Thomas Watson. The statement of that distinguished physician, sent to myself in June 1872, com- pletes for the present the sorrowful narrative. * It was, I think, on the 23rd of April 1869 that I was asked * to see Charles Dickens, in consultation with Mr. Carr Beard. * After I got home I jotted down, from their joint account, what ' follows. Sir Thomas * After unusual irritability, C. D. found himself, last Saturday Watson's . , ' ^ note of <■ or Sunday, giddy, with a tendency to go backwards, and to turn * round. Afterwards, desiring to put something on a small table, * he pushed it and the table forwards, undesignedly. He had * some odd feeling of insecurity about his left leg, as if there was * something unnatural about his heel ; but he could lift, and he * did not drag, his leg. Also he spoke of some strangeness of his * left hand and arm ; missed the spot on which he wished to lay * that hand, unless he carefully looked at it ; felt an unreadiness * to lift his hands towards his head, especially his left hand — * when, for instance, he was brushing his hair. * He had written thus to Mr. Carr Beard. * " Is it possible that anything in my medicine can have * " made me extremely giddy, extremely uncertain of my footing, ' " especially on the left side, and extremely indisposed to * " raise my hands to my head. These symptoms made me very ' "uncomfortable on Saturday (qy. Sunday?) night, and all * "yesterday, &c." Last Readings, 449 * The state thus described showed plainly that C. D. had London: 1869. * been on the brink of an attack of paralysis of his left side, g.^ Thomas ' and possibly of apoplexy. It was, no doubt, the result of * extreme hurry, overwork, and excitement, incidental to his * Readings. ' On hearing from him Mr. Carr Beard had gone at once to ' Preston, or Blackburn (I am not sure which), had forbidden ' his reading that same evening, and had brought him to * London. * When I saw him he appeared to be well. His mind was un- * clouded, his pulse quiet. His heart was beating with some ' slight excess of the natural impulse. He told me he had of * late sometimes, but rarely, lost or misused a word ; that he * forgot names, and numbers, but had always done that ; and he * promised implicit obedience to our injunctions. * We gave him the following certificate. * The undersigned certify that Mr. Charles Dickens has been ' " seriously unwell, through great exhaustion and fatigue of body ' " and mind consequent upon his public Readings and long and * "frequent railway journeys. In our judgment Mr. Dickens will * " not be able with safety to himself to resume his Readings for * " several months to come. <"Thos. Watson, M.D. *"F. Carr Beard." * However, after some weeks, he expressed a wish for my * sanction to his endeavours to redeem, in a careful and moderate * way, some of the reading engagements to which he had been ' pledged before those threatnings of brain-mischief in the North * of England. ' As he had continued uniformly to seem and to feel perfectly ings pro- * well, I did not think myself warranted to refuse that sanction : * and in writing to enforce great caution in the trials, I expressed * some apprehension that he might fancy we had been too per- * emptory in our injunctions of mental and bodily repose in April; * and I quoted the following remark, which occurs somewhere in * one of Captain Cook's Voyages. " Preventive measures are VOL. \\. Q G The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book xi. * "always invidious, for when most successful, the necessity for ' "them is the least apparent." ' I mention this to explain the letter which I send herewith,* * and which I must beg you to return to me, as a precious remem- * brance of the writer with whom I had long enjoyed very friendly * and much valued relations. * I scarcely need say that if what I have now written, can, * in any way^ be of use to you, it is entirely at your service *■ and disposal — nor need I say with how much interest I ' have read the first volume of your late friend's Life. I cannot ' help regretting that a great pressure of professional work at ' the time, prevented my making a fuller record of a case so * interesting.' The twelve readings to which Sir Thomas Watson consented, with the condition that railway travel was not to accompany them, were farther to be delayed until the opening months of 1870. They were an offering from Dickens by way of small compensa- tion to Messrs. Chappell for the breakdown of the enterprise on which they had staked so much. But here practically he finished his career as a public reader, and what remains will come with the sad winding-up of the story. One effort only intervened, by which he hoped to get happily back to his old pursuits ; but to this, as to that which preceded it, sterner Fate said also No, and his Last Book, like his Last Readings, prematurely closed. * In this letter Dickens wrote : * I * thank you heartily * {23rd of June 1869) *for your great kindness and in- * terest. It would really pain me if I * thought you could seriously doubt * my implicit reliance on your profes- ' sional skill and advice. I feel as * certain now as I felt when you came * to see me on my breaking down * through over fatigue, that the injunc- ' tion you laid upon me to stop in ' my course of Readings was necessary ' and wise. And to its finnness I refer * (humanly speaking) my speedy re- ' CO very from that moment. I would ' on no account have resumed, even ' on the turn of this year, without your * sanction. Your friendly aid will * never be forgotten by me ; and again ' I thank you for it with all my heart. ' §11.] Last Book. 451 Lokdon 1869-70. II. LAST BOOK. 1869 — 1870. The last book undertaken by Dickens was to be published in illustrated monthly numbers, of the old form, but to close with the twelfth.* It closed, unfinished, with the sixth number, which was itself underwritten by two pages. His first fancy for the tale was expressed in a letter in the , , ^ thought of middle of July. * What should you think of the idea of a story * beginning in this way ? — Two people, boy and girl, or very * yoimg, going apart from one another, pledged to be married * after many years — at the end of the book. The interest to * arise out of the tracing of their separate ways, and the impos- * sibility of telling what will be done with that impending fate. ' * In drawing the agreement for the publication, Mr. Ouvry had, by Dickens's wish, inserted a clause thought to be altogether needless, but found to be sadly pertinent. It was the first time such a clause had been inserted in one of his agreements. * That if the said Charles Dickens * shall die during the composition of ' the said work of the Mystery of * Edwin Drood, or shall otherwise be- * come incapable of completing the ' said work for publication in twelve ' monthly numbers as agreed, it shall * be referred to John Forster, Esq, ' one of Her Majesty's Commissioners ' m Lunacy, or in the case of his ' death, incapacity, or refusal to act, * then to such person as shall be named * by Her Majesty's Attorney-General * for the time being, to determine the * amount which shaU be repaid by the * said Charles Dickens, his executors * or administrators, to the said Frederic * Chapman as a fair compensation for * so much of the said work as shall not * have been completed for publication. ' The sum to be paid at once for 25,(X)0 copies was £tSoo ; publisher and author sharin^i equally in the profit of Agreement „ , , , , . . , for Edivin all sales beyond that impression ; and Brood. the number reached, while the author yet lived, was 50,000. The sum paid for early sheets to America was ;^iooo ; and Baron Tauchnitz paid liberally, as he always did, for his Leipzig reprint. * All Mr. Dickens's works,' M. Tauch- nitz writes to me, * have been published * under agreement by me. My inter- * course with him lasted nearly twenty - * seven years. The first of his letters * dates in October 1843, his last * at the close of March 1870. Our * long relations were not only never * troubled by the least disagreement, * but were the occasion of most hearty ' personal feeling ; and I shall never * lose the sense of his kind and * friendly nature. On my asking him * his terms for Edwin Drood, he re- ' plied " Your terms shall be mine." ' 452 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. London : 1869-70. Tale of Edwtn Drood as lanned in mind. Kla is This was laid aside ; but it left a marked trace on the story as afterwards designed, in the position of Edwin Drood and his betrothed. I first heard of the later design in a letter dated ' Friday the * 6th of August 1869/ in which after speaking, with the usual unstinted praise he bestowed always on what moved him in others, of a little tale he had received for his journal,* he spoke of the change that had occurred to him for the new tale by him- self. * I laid aside the fancy I told you of, and have a very curious * and new idea for my new story. Not a communicable idea * (or the interest of the book would be gone), but a very strong * one, though difficult to work.' The story, I learnt immediately afterward, was to be that of the murder of a nephew by his uncle ; the originality of which was to consist in the review of the murderer's career by himself at the close, when its temptations were to be dwelt upon as if, not he the culprit, but some other man, were the tempted. The last chapters were to be written in the condemned cell, to which his wickedness, all elaborately elicited from him as if told of another, had brought him. Dis- covery by the murderer of the utter needlessness of the murder for its object, was to follow hard upon commission of the deed ; but all discovery of the murderer .was to be baffled till towards the close, when, by means of a gold ring which had resisted the corrosive effects of the lime into which he had thrown the body, not only the person murdered was to be identified but the locality of the crime and the man who committed itf So much was told to me before any of the book was written ; and it will be re- * * I have a very remarkable story * indeed for you to read. It is in only * two chapters. A thing never to melt * into other stories in the mind, but ' always to keep itself apart.' The story was published in the 37th number of the New Series of All the Year Jxoundy with the title of * An Experi- ' ence.' The ' New Series ' had been started to break up the too great length of volumes in sequence, and the only change it announced was the discon- tinuance of Christmas Numbers. He had tired of them himself ; and, ob- serving the extent to which they were now copied in all directions (as usual with other examples set by him), he supposed them likely to become tire- some to the public. + The reader curious in such matters will be helped to the clue for mueh of this portion of the plot by reference to pp. 90, 103, and 109, in Chapters XII, XIII, and XIV, Last Book. 453 collected that the ring, taken by Drood to be given to his London: 1869-70. betrothed only if their engagement went on, was brought away with him from their last interview. Rosa was to marry Tartar, and Crisparkle the sister of Landless, who was himself, I think, to have perished in assisting Tartar finally to unmask and seize the murderer. Nothing had been written, however, of the main parts of the design excepting what is found in the published numbers ; there was no hint or preparation for the sequel in any notes of chapters in advance ; and there remained not even what he had himself so sadly written of the book by Thackeray also interrupted by death. The evidence of matured designs never to be accom- plished, intentions planned never to be executed, roads of thought marked out never to be traversed, goals shining in the distance never to be reached, was wanting here. It was all a blank. Enough had been completed nevertheless to give promise of a much greater book than its immediate predecessor. ' I hope his ' book is finished,' wrote Longfellow when the news of his death Opinion of Long- was flashed to America. ' It is certainly one of his most beau- fellow. ' tiful works, if not the most beautiful of all. It would be too * sad to think the pen had fallen from his hand, and left it in- * complete.' Some of its characters are touched with subtlety, and in its descriptions his imaginative power was at its best. Not a line was wanting to the reaUty, in die most minute local detail, of places the most widely contrasted ; and we saw with equal vividness the lazy cathedral town and the lurid opium-eater's den.* Something like the old lightness and buoyancy of animal spirits gave a new freshness to the humour ; the scenes of the * I subjoin what has been written ' and ready for sliipment to New York, to me by an American correspondent. * Another American bought a pipe. * I went lately with the same inspector * So you see we have heartily forgiven * who accompanied Dickens to see the * the novelist his pleasantries at our * room of the opium-smokers, old Eliza 'expense. Many military men who * and her Lascar or Bengalee friend. * come to England from America refuse * There a fancy seized me to buy the * to register their titles, especially if * bedstead which figures so accurately * they be Colonels ; all the result of * in Edwin Drood^ in narrative and ' the basting we got on that score in * picture. I gave the old woman a ' Martin Chuzzlewit. ' pound for it, and have it now packed 454 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. London : child-heroine and her luckless betrothed had both novelty and 1869-70. , nicety of character in them ; and Mr. Grewgious in chambers the frag. with his clcrk and the two waiters, the conceited fool Sapsea, and the blustering philanthropist Honeythunder, were first-rate comedy. Miss Twinkleton was of the family of Miss La Creevy ; and the lodging-house keeper, Miss Billickin, though she gave Miss Twinkleton but a sorry account of her blood, had that of Mrs. Todgers in her veins. ' I was put in early life to a very genteel * boarding-school, the mistress being no less a lady than yourself, * of about your own age, or it may be some years younger, and * a poorness of blood flowed from the table which has run through * my life.' Was ever anything better said of a school-fare of starved gentility ? Last page The last page of Edwin Drood was written in the Chalet in of Edwin Drood. the afternoon of his last day of consciousness ; and I have thought there might be some interest in a facsimile of the greater part of this final page of manuscript that ever came from his hand, at which he had worked unusually late in order to finish the chapter. It has very much the character, in its excessive care of correc- tion and interlineation, of all his later manuscripts ; and in order that comparison may be made with his earlier and easier method, I place beside it a portion of a page of the original of Oliver Twist. His greater pains and elaboration of writing, it may be mentioned, become first very obvious in the later parts of Martin Chuzzlewit ; but not the least remarkable feature in all his manuscripts, is the accuracy with which the portions of each representing the several numbers are exactly adjusted to the space the printer has to fill. Whether without erasure or so interlined as to be illegible, nothing is wanting, and there is nothing in excess. So assured had the habit become, that we have seen him remarking upon an instance the other way, in Our Mutual Friend, as not having happened to him for thirty years. Certainly the exceptions had been few and unimportant; but Edwin Drood more startlingly showed him how unsettled the habit he most prized had become, in the clashing of old and new pursuits. * When I had written' (22nd of December 1869) 'and, as I * thought, disposed of the first two Numbers of my sto^y, Clowes §11.] Last Book. 455 * informed me to my horror that thev were, together, twelve London : •' J ^ 1869-70. ^ printed pages too short It! Consequently I had to transpose a ■ chapter from number two to number one, and remodel number * two altogether ! This was the more unlucky, that it came upon * me at the time when I was obliged to leave the book, in order * to get up the Readings ' (the additional twelve for which Sir Thomas Watson's consent had been obtained) ; * quite gone * out of my mind since I left them otf. However, I turned to * it and got it done, and both numbers are now in type. * Charles Collins has designed an excellent cover.' It was his wish that his son-in-law should have illustrated the story ; but, this not being practicable, upon an opinion expressed by Mr. Millais which the result thoroughly justified, choice was made of Mr. S. L. Fildes. This reference to the last effort of Dickens's genius had been written as it thus stands, when a discovery of some interest was made by the writer. Within the leaves of one of Dickens's other Discovery manuscripts were found some detached slips of his writing, on ushid^"^" paper only half the size of that used for the tale, so cramped, ' interlined, and blotted as to be nearly illegible, which on close inspection proved to be a scene in which Sapsea the auctioneer is introduced as the principal figure, among a group of characters new to the story. The explanation of it perhaps is, that, having become a little nervous about the course of the tale, from a fear that he might have plunged too soon into the incidents leading on to the catastrophe, such as the Datchery assumption in the fifth number (a misgiving he had certainly expressed to his sister-in- law), it had occurred to him to open some fresh veins of character Probable incidental to the interest, though not directly part of it, and so to writing it in advance handle them m connection with Sapsea as a little to suspend the final development even while assisting to strengthen it Before beginning any number of a serial, he used, as we have seen in former instances, to plan briefly what he intended to put into it chapter by chapter ; and his first number-plan of Drood had the following : ' Mr. Sapsea. Old Tory jackass. Connect Jasper * with him. (He will want a solemn donkey by and by) : ' which 45^ The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. London : 1869-70* From Edwin Drood: the last page written by Dickens. 8th June 1870. Last Book. 457 458 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. London : was effected by bringing together both Durdles and Jasper, tor connection with Sapsea, in the matter of the epitaph for Mrs. Sapsea's tomb. The scene now discovered might in this view have been designed to strengthen and carry forward that element in the tale ; and otherwise it very sufficiently expresses itself. It would supply an answer, if such were needed, to those who have asserted that the hopeless decadence of Dickens as a writer had set in before his death. Among the lines last written by him, these are the very last we can ever hope to receive ; and they seem to me a delightful specimen of the power possessed by him in his prime, and the rarest which any novelist can have, of re- vealing a character by a touch. Here are a couple of people, Kimber and Peartree, not known to us before, whom we read off thoroughly in a dozen words ; and as to Sapsea himself, auctioneer and mayor of Cloisterham, we are face to face with what before we only dimly realised, and we see the solemn jackass, in his business pulpit, playing off the airs of Mr. Dean in his Cathedral pulpit, with Cloisterham laughing at the impostor. • HOW MR. SAPSEA CEASED TO BE A MEMBER OF 'THE EIGHT CLUB. * TOLD BY HIMSELF. * Wishing to take the air, I proceeded by a circuitous route to * the Club, it being our weekly night of meeting. I found that we * mustered our full strength. We were enrolled under the de- * nomination of the Eight Club. We were eight in number ; we * met at eight o'clock during eight months of the year ; we played Unpub- * eight games of four-handed cribbage, at eightpence the game ; lished scene , ^ j <- • i n • i for Edwin * our frugal supper was composed of eight rolls, eight mutton Dvood, * chops, eight pork sausages, eight baked potatoes, eight marrow- * bones, with eight toasts, and eight bottles of ale. There may, or * may not, be a certain harmony of colour in the ruling idea of * this (to adopt a phrase of our lively neighbours) reunion. It * was a little idea of mine. • A somewhat popular member of the Eight Club, was a member * by the name ot Kimber. By profession, a dancing-master. A §11.] Last Book, 459 * commonplace, hopeful sort of man, wholly destitute of dignity London : ^ ^ 1869-70. * or knowledge of the world. ~ * As I entered the Club-room, Kimber was making the re- * mark : " And he still half-believes him to be very high in the * " Church." * In the act of hanging up my hat on the eighth peg by the Unpub- lished scene * door, I caught Kimber's visual ray. He lowered it, and passed for Edwipi Drood. * a remark on the next change of the moon. I did not take par- * ticular notice of this at the moment, because the world was often * pleased to be a little shy of ecclesiastical topics in my presence. * For I felt that I was picked out (though perhaps only through a * coincidence) to a certain extent to represent what I call our ' glorious constitution in Church and State. The phrase may be ' objected to by captious minds ; but I own to it as mine. I * threw it off in argument some little time back. I said : " Our * Glorious Constitution in Church and State." * Another member of the Eight Club was Peartree ; also * member of the Royal College of Surgeons. Mr. Peartree is * not accountable to me for his opinions, and I say no more of * them here than that he attends the poor gratis whenever they * want him, and is not the parish doctor. Mr. Peartree may * justify it to the grasp of his mind thus to do his republican ' utmost to bring an appointed officer into contempt. Suffice * it that Mr. Peartree can never justify it to the grasp of * mine. * Between Peartree and Kimber there was a sickly sort of * feeble-minded alliance. It came under my particular notice * when I sold off Kimber by auction. (Goods taken in execu- * tion.) He was a widower in a white under-waistcoat, and * slight shoes with bows, and had two daughters not ill-looking. * Indeed the reverse. Both daughters taught dancing in scholastic * establishments for Young Ladies — had done so at Mrs. Sap- * sea's ; nay, Twinkleton's — and both, in giving lessons, presented * the unwomanly spectacle of having little fiddles tucked under * their chins. In spite of which, the younger one might, if I am * correctly informed — I will raise the veil so far as to say I know * she might — have soared for life from this degrading taint, but 460 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. London : * for having the class of mind allotted to what I call the common 1869-70. * herd, and being so incredibly devoid of veneration as to become * painfully ludicrous. Unpub- <■ When I sold off Kimber without reserve, Peartree (as poor as ashed scene ' ^ ^ ^Drfof""' * together) had several prime household lots knocked * down to him. I am not to be blinded ; and of course it was as ' plain to me what he was going to do with them, as it was that * he was a brown hulking sort of revolutionary subject who had * been in India with the soldiers, and ought (for the sake of * society) to have his neck broke. I saw the lots shortly after- * wards in Kimber's lodgings — through the window — and I easily * made out that there had been a sneaking pretence of lending * them till better times. A man with a smaller knowledge of * the world than myself might have been led to suspect that ' Kimber had held back money from his creditors, and fraudu- * lently bought the goods. But, besides that I knew for certain * he had no money, I knew that this would involve a species * of forethought not to be made compatible with the frivolity ' of a caperer, inoculating other people with capering, for his * bread. * As it was the first time I had seen either of those two since * the sale, I kept myself in what I call Abeyance. When selling * him up, I had delivered a few remarks — shall I say a little * homily ? — concerning Kimber, which the world did regard as * more than usually worth notice. I had come up into my pulpit, * it was said, uncommonly like — and a murmur of recognition had * repeated his (I will not name whose) title, before I spoke. I * had then gone on to say that all present would find, in the first * page of the catalogue that was lying before them, in the last * paragraph before the first lot, the following words : " Sold in * pursuance of a writ of execution issued by a creditor." I had * then proceeded to remind my friends, that however frivolous, * not to say contemptible, the business by which a man got his * goods together, still his goods were as dear to him, and as cheap * to society (if sold without reserve), as though his pursuits had * been of a character that would bear serious contemplation. I * had then divided my text (if I may be allowed so to call it) into §11.] Last Book. 461 * three heads : firstly, Sold ; secondly, In pursuance of a writ of : * execution ; thirdly, Issued by a creditor; with a few moral re- ' flections on each, and winding up with, " Now to the first lot " * in a manner that was complimented when I afterwards mingled * with my hearers. ' So, not being certain on what terms I and Kimber stood, I Unpub- lished scene * was grave, I was chilling. Kimber, however, moving to me, I for Edwin _ Dfood. * moved to Kimber. (I was the creditor who had issued the writ. * Not that it matters.) * " I was alluding, Mr. Sapsea," said Kimber, " to a stranger * " who entered into conversation with me in the street as I came ' " to the Club. He had been speaking to you just before, it * " seemed, by the churchyard ; and though you had told him who * " you were, I could hardly persuade him that you were not high * "in the Church." * " Idiot ! " said Peartree. * "Ass! "said Kimber. * " Idiot and Ass ! " said the other five members. * " Idiot and Ass, gentlemen," I remonstrated, looking around * me, "are strong expressions to apply to a young man of good * " appearance and address." My generosity was roused ; I * own it. * " You'll admit that he must be a Fool," said Peartree. * " You can't deny that he must be a Blockhead," said * Kimber. 'Their tone of disgust amounted to Being offensive. Why * should the young man be so calumniated ? What had he done ? ' He had only made an innocent and natural mistake. I con- * trolled my generous indignation, and said so. ' " Natural ? " repeated Kimber. " H^s a Natural ! " ' The remaining six members of the Eight Club laughed unani- * mously. It stung me. It was a scornful laugh. My anger was * roused in behalf of an absent, friendless stranger. I rose (for I * had been sitting down). * " Gentlemen," I said with dignity, " I will not remain one of ' " this Club allowing opprobrium to be cast on an unoffending * " person in his absence. I will not so violate what I call the 462 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book xi. * " sacred rites of hospitality. Gentlemen, until you know how to * " behave yourselves better, I leave you. Gentlemen, until then * "I withdraw, from this place of meeting, whatever personal * qualifications I may have brought into it. Gentlemen, until * " then you cease to be the Eight Club, and must make the best * " you can of becoming the Seven." * I put on my hat and retired. As I went down stairs I dis- * tinctly heard them give a suppressed cheer. Such is the power * of demeanour and knowledge of mankind. I had forced it out * of them. ' II. * Whom should I meet in the street, within a few yards of the * door of the inn where the Club was held, but the self-same ' young man whose cause I had felt it my duty so warmly — and I * will add so disinterestedly — to take up. * " Is it Mr. Sapsea," he said doubtfully, " or is it " ' " It is Mr. Sapsea," I replied. * " Pardon me, Mr. Sapsea ; you appear warm, sir." * " I have been warm." I said, "and on your account." Having * stated the circumstances at some length (my generosity almost ' overpowered him), I asked him his name. ' "Mr. Sapsea," he answered, looking down, "your penetration * " is so acute, your glance into the souls of your fellow men is so * " penetrating, that if I was hardy enough to deny that my name * " is Poker, what would it avail me ? " ' I don't know that I had quite exactly made out to a fraction ' that his name was Poker, but I daresay I had been pretty near * doing it. ' " Well, well," said I, trying to put him at his ease by nodding * my head in a soothing way. "Your name is Poker, and there * " is no harm in being named Poker." * " Oh Mr. Sapsea ! " cried the young man, in a very well- * behaved manner. " Bless you for those words ! " He then, as * if ashamed of having given way to his feelings, looked down * again. ' " Come, Poker," said I, " let me hear more about you. Tell London : 1869-70. Unputv- Ushed scene for Edwin Drood. § III.] Personal Characteristics. 463 * "me. Where are you going to, Poker ? and where do you come London: 1869-70. '"from?" * " Ah Mr. Sapsea ! " exclaimed the young man. " Disguise ^J^J^^.^^^ * " from you is impossible. You know already that I come from * " somewhere, and am going somewhere else. If I was to deny ' " it, what would it avail me ? " ' " Then don't deny it," was my remark. ' " Or," pursued Poker, in a kind of despondent rapture, ' " or if I was to deny that I came to this town to see and * " hear you sir, what would it avail me ? Or if I was to ' " deny " ' The fragment ends there, and the hand that could alone have completed it is at rest for ever. Some personal characteristics remain for illustration before the end is briefly told. III. PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. 1836— 1870. Objection has been taken to this biography as likely to dis- appoint its readers in not making them ' talk to Dickens as * Boswell makes them talk to Johnson.' But where will the blame lie if a man takes up Pickwick and is disappointed to find that he is not reading Rasselas ? A book must be judged for what it aims to be, and not for what it cannot by possibility be. I suppose so remarkable an author as Dickens hardly ever lived Dickens no: • T Tir T . a bookish who earned so little of authorship into ordinary social intercourse. ^^"^ Potent as the sway of his writings was over him, it expressed itself in other ways. Traces or triumphs of literary labour, dis- plays of conversational or other personal predominance, were no 464 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book XI. London ! 1836-70. What de- termines a book's place. Dickens made to tell his 01 itory. part of the influence he exerted over friends. To them he was - only the pleasantest of companions, with whom they forgot that he had ever written anything, and felt only the charm which a nature of such capacity for supreme enjoyment causes every one around it to enjoy. His talk was unaffected and natural, never bookish in the smallest degree. He was quite up to the average of well read men ; but as there was no ostentation of it in his writing, so neither was there in his conversation. This was so attractive because so keenly observant, and lighted up with so many touches of humorous fancy; but, with every possible thing to give relish to it, there were not many things to bring away. Of course a book must stand or fall by its contents. Macaulay said very truly that the place of books in the public estimation is fixed, not by what is written about them, but by what is written in them. I offer no complaint of any remark made upon these volumes, but there have been some misapprehensions. Though Dickens bore outwardly so little of the impress of his wiitings, they formed the whole of that inner life which essentially con- stituted the man ; and as in this respect he was actually, I have thought that his biography should endeavour to present him. The story of his books, therefore, at all stages of their progress, and of the hopes or designs connected with them, was my first care. With that view, and to give also to the memoir what was attainable of the value of autobiography, letters to myself, such as were never addressed to any other of his correspondents, and covering all the important incidents in the life to be retraced, were used with few exceptions exclusively ; and though the exceptions are much more numerous in the later sections, this general plan has guided me to the end. Such were my limits indeed, that half even of those letters had to be put aside ; and to have added all such others as were open to me would have doubled the size of my book, not contributed to it a new fact of life or character, and altered materially its design. It would have been so much lively illustration added to the subject, but out of place here. The purpose here was to make Dickens the sole central figure in the scenes revived, narrator as well as principal actor ; and only by § III.] Personal Characteristics. 465 the means employed could consistency or unity be given to the London . 1836-70. self-revelation, and the picture made definite and clear. It is the peculiarity of few men to be to their most intimate friend neither more nor less than they are to themselves, but this was true of Dickens ; and what kind or quality of nature such intercourse expressed in him, of what strength, tenderness, and delicacy sus- ceptible, of what steady level warmth, of what daily unresting activity of intellect, of what unbroken continuity of kindly im- pulse through the change and vicissitude of three-and-thirty years, the letters to myself given in these volumes could alone express. Gathered from various and differing sources, their interest could not have been as the interest of these ; in which everything com- prised in the successive stages of a most attractive career is written with unexampled candour and truthfulness, and set forth in definite pictures of what he saw and stood in the midst of, un- blurred by vagueness or reserve. Of the charge of obtruding a fault not consciously myself to which their publication has exposed me, I can only committed, say that I studied nothing so hard as to suppress my own per- sonality, and have to regret my ill success where I supposed I had even too perfectly succeeded. But we have all of us fre- quent occasion to say, parodying Mrs. Peachem's remark, that we are bitter bad judges of ourselves. The other properties of these letters are quite subordinate to this main fact that the man who wrote them is thus perfectly seen in them. But they do not lessen the estimate of his genius. Admiration rises higher at the writer's mental forces, who, putting so much of himself into his work for the public, had still so much overflowing for such private intercourse. The sunny health of nature in them is manifest ; its largeness, spontaneity, and manli- ness ; but they have also that which highest intellects appreciate best. * I have read them,' Lord Russell wrote to me, ' with Lord * delight and pain. His heart, his imagination, his qualities of DickensT * painting what is noble, and finding diamonds hidden far away, * are greater here than even his works convey to me. How I * lament he was not spared to us longer. I shall have a fresh * grief when he dies in your volumes.' Shallower people are more apt to find other things. If the bonhommie of a man's VOL. n. H H 466 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. London: genius is obvious to all the world, there are plenty of knowing ones ready to take the shine out of the genius, to discover that after all it is not so wonderful, that what is grave in it wants depth, and the humour has something mechanical. But it will be difficult even for these to look over letters so marvellous in the art of reproducing to the sight what has once been seen, so natural and unstudied in their wit and fun, and with such a con- stant well-spring of sprightly runnings of speech in them, point of epigram, ingenuity of quaint expression, absolute freedom from every touch of affectation, and to believe that the source of this man's humour, or of whatever gave wealth to his genius, was other than habitual, unbounded, and resistless. There is another consideration of some importance. Sterne did not more incessantly fall back from his works upon himself than Dickens did, and undoubtedly one of the impressions left by the letters is that of the intensity and tenacity with which he recognized, realized, contemplated, cultivated, and thoroughly enjoyed, his own individuality in even its most trivial manifestations. But if any one is led to ascribe this to self-esteem, to a narrow exclusiveness, or to any other invidious form of egotism, let him correct the im- pression by observing how Dickens bore himself amid the How universal blazing-up of America, at the beginning and at the end Dickens . , . , . , underwent of his carccr. Of his hearty, undisguised, and unmistakeable popularity. , , enjoyment of his astonishing and indeed quite bewildering popu- larity, there can be as little doubt as that there is not a particle of vanity in it, any more than of false modesty or grimace.* While realizing fully the fact of it, and the worth of the fact, there is not In 1842. * Mr, Grant Wilson has sent me an ' fellow, with nothing of the author extract from a letter by Fitz-Greene * about him but the reputation, and Halleck (author of one of the most * goes through his task as Lion with delightful poems ever written about ' exemplary grace, patience, and good Burns) which exactly expresses Dickens * nature. He has the brilliant face of as he was, not only in 1842, but, as ' a man of genius . . . His writings far as the sense of authorship went, all * you know. I wish you had listened his life. It was addressed to Mrs. ' to his eloquence at the dinner here. Rush of Philadelphia, and is dated the * It was the only real specimen of elo- 8th of March 1842. * You ask me * quence I have ever witnessed. Its * about Mr, Boz. 1 am quite delighted * charm was not in its words, but in ' with him. He is a thorough good * the manner of saying them.' Perso7tal Characteristics. 467 in his whole being a fibre that answers falsely to the charmer's • voice. Few men in the world, one fancies, could have gone through such grand displays of fireworks, not merely with so marvellous an absence of what the French call pose^ but unsoiled by the smoke of a cracker. No man's strong individuality was ever so free from conceit. Other personal incidents and habits, and especially some matters of opinion of grave importance, will help to make his character better known. Much questioning followed a brief former reference to his religion, but, inconsistent or illogical as the conduct described may be, there is nothing to correct in my statement of it ; * and to any doubt there still may be in regard to the essentials of his faith, answer will be afforded by a letter written on the occasion of his youngest boy leaving home in September 1868 to join his brother in Australia, than which none worthier appears in his story. * I write this note to-day because your going away is much Letter * upon my mind, and because I want you to have a few parting youngest * words from me, to think of now and then at quiet times. I need * not tell you that I love you dearly, and am very, very sorry in ' my heart to part with you. But this life is half made up of part- * ings, and these pains must be borne. It is my comfort and my * sincere conviction that you are going to try the life for which you * are best fitted. I think its freedom and wildness more suited to ' you than any experiment in a study or office would have been ; * and without that training, you could have followed no other suit- * able occupation. What you have always wanted until now, has ' been a set, steady, constant purpose. I therefore exhort you to ' persevere in a thorough determination to do whatever you have ' to do as well as you can do it. I was not so old as you are now, his own ' when I first had to win my food, and to do it out of this determi- ^''^"'p'"" ' nation ; and I have never slackened in it since. Never take a ' mean advantage of any one in any transaction, and never be ' hard upon people who are in your power. Try to do to others ' as you would have them do to you, and do not be discouraged if * In a volume called Home and on matters alluded to in the text, held Abroady by Mr. David Macrae, is in 1 86 1, which will be found to confirm printed a correspondencewith Dickens all that is here said. H H 2 468 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. London 1868. Ante, i. 457- Personal prayer. ' they fail sometimes. It is much better for you that they should * fail in obeying the greatest rule laid down by Our Saviour than * that you should. I put a New Testament among your books for * the very same reasons, and with the very same hopes, that made * me write an easy account of it for you, when you were a little * child. Because it is the best book that ever was, or will be, * known in the world ; and because it teaches you the best lessons * by which any human creature, who tries to be truthful and faith- * ful to duty, can possibly be guided. As your brothers have gone ' away, one by one, I have written to each such words as I am ' now writing to you, and have entreated them all to guide them- ' selves by this Book, putting aside the interpretations and inven- ' tions of Man. You will remember that you have never at home * been harassed about religious observances, or mere formalities. * I have always been anxious not to weary my children with such * things, before they are old enough to form opinions respecting ' them. You will therefore understand the better that I now most ' solemnly impress upon you the truth and beauty of the Christian ' Religion, as it came from Christ Himself, and the impossibility of * your going far wrong if you humbly but heartily respect it Only ' one thing more on this head. The more we are in earnest as to * feeling it, the less we are disposed to hold forth about it Never ^ abandon the wholesome practice of saying your own private ' prayers, night and morning. I have never abandoned it myself, ' and I know the comfort of it. I hope you will always be able to <■ say in after life, that you had a kind father. You cannot show '■ your affection for him so well, or make him so happy, as by doing ' your duty.' They who most intimately knew Dickens will know best that every word there is written from his heart, and is radiant with the truth of his nature. To the same effect, in the leading matter, he expressed himself twelve years before, and again the day before his death ; replying in both cases to correspondents who had addressed him as a public writer. A clergyman, the Rev. R. H. Davies, had been struck by the hymn in the Christmas tale of the Wreck of the Golden Mary (^Household Words, 1856). ' I beg to thank you' Dickens answered (Christmas Eve, 1856) 'for your very acceptable letter — not the § 1 1 I.J Personal Characteristics, 469 * less gratifying to me because I am myself the writer you refer London ; * to. . . There cannot be many men, I believe, who have a more i868. * humble veneration for the New Testament, or a more profound * conviction of its all- sufficiency, than I have. If I am ever (as Letter to a * you tell me I am) mistaken on this subject, it is because I dis- ^JfifsS*^" * countenance all obtrusive professions of and tradings in religion, * as one of the main causes why real Christianity has been retarded * in this world ; and because my observation of life induces me to * hold in unspeakable dread and horror, those unseemly squabbles * about the letter which drive the spirit out of hundreds of thou- * sands.' In precisely similar tone, to a reader of Edwin Drood (Mr. J. M. Makeham), who had pointed out to him that his employment as a figure of speech of a line from Holy Writ in his tenth chapter might be subject to misconstruction, he wrote from Gadshill on Wednesday the eighth of June, 1870. *It would be xoaiayman, * quite inconceivable to me, but for your letter, that any reasonable 187a * * reader could possibly attach a scriptural reference to that pas- * sage. . . I am truly shocked to find that any reader can make * the mistake. I have always striven in my writings to express * veneration for the life and lessons of our Saviour ; because I feel * it ; and because I re-wrote that history for my children — every * one of whom knew it, from having it repeated to them, long * before they could read, and almost as soon as they could speak. * But I have never made proclamation of this from the house * tops.' * A dislike of all display was rooted in him ; and his objection to posthumous honours, illustrated by the instructions in his will, was very strikingly expressed two years before his death, when Mr. Thomas Fairbairn asked his help to a proposed recognition of Rajah Brooke's services by a memorial in Westminster Abbey. Lg^^^^tQ * I am very strongly impelled' (24th of June 1868) *to comply J^J;/"*"^* * with any request of yours. But these posthumous honours of * committee, subscriptions, and Westminster Abbey are so pro- * foundly unsatisfactory in my eyes that — plainly — I would rather * This letter is facsimile'd in A Ode to his Memory written with feeling Christmas Memorial of Charles Dickens and spirit. by A, B. I/ujne ii2>']o), containing an 470 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. London : ' havc nothing to do with them in any case. My daughter and 1836-70. * her aunt unite with me in kindest regards to Mrs. Fairbaim, and * I hope you will believe in the possession of mine until I am * quietly buried without any memorial but such as I have set up in ' my lifetime.* Asked a year later (August 1869) to say something on the inauguration of Leigh Hunt's bust at his grave in Kensal- green, he told the committee that he had a very strong objection to speech-making beside graves. ' I do not expect or wish my ' feelings in this wise to guide other men \ still, it is so serious * with me, and the idea of ever being the subject of such a * ceremony myself is so repugnant to my soul, that I must decline * to officiate.' His aversion to every form of what is called patronage of lite- rature * was part of the same feeling. A few months earlier he had received an application for support to such a scheme from a person assuming a title to which he had no pretension, but which appeared to sanction the request. ' I beg to be excused,' was his reply, * from complying with the request you do me the honour to ' prefer, simply because I hold the opinion that there is a great ' deal too much patronage in England. The better the design, * the less (as I think) should it seek such adventitious aid, and the ' more composedly should it rest on its own merits.' This was View as to the belief Southey held; it extended to the support by way of 'patronage' . . . of literature, patrouage givcu by such societies as the Literary Fund, which Southey also strongly resisted ; and it survived the failure of the Guild whereby it was hoped to establish a system of self-help, under which men engaged in literary pursuits might be as proud to receive as to give. Though there was no project of his life into which he flung himself with greater eagerness than the Guild, it was not taken up by the class it was meant to benefit, and every * I may quote here from a letter ' allow it to be patronized, or tole- (Newcastle-on-Tyne, 5th Sept. 1858) * rated, or treated like a good or a bad sent me by the editor of the Northern ' child. I am always animated by tlie Express. * The view you take of the ' hope of leaving it a little better * literary character in the abstract, or * understood by the thoughtless than I * of what it might and ought to be, * found it. ' — To James B. Manson, * expresses what I have striven for all Esq. * ihreugh my literary life — never to § ni.] Personal Characteristics. 471 renewed exertion more largely added to the failure. There is no ^3^^"°^ - room in these pages for the story, which will add its chapter some ^^gj^j^^g day to the vanity of human wishes ; but a passage from a letter to ^^^^l Bulwer Lytton at its outset will be some measure of the height from which the writer fell, when all hope for what he had so set his heart upon ceased. * I do devoutly believe that this plan, ' carried by the support which I trust will be given to it, will * change the status of the literary man in England, and make JJ^peJ^rom * a revolution in his position which no government, no power on ^^^o. * earth but his own, could ever effect. I have impUcit confidence * in the scheme — so splendidly begun — if we carry it out with a * stedfast energy. I have a strong conviction that we hold in our * hands the peace and honour of men of letters for centuries to ' come, and that you are destined to be their best and most Vanity of human ' enduring benefactor . . . Oh what a procession of new years may '^^p^^^ g * walk out of all this for the class we belong to, after we are dust.' These views about patronage did not make him more indulgent to the clamour with which it is so often invoked for the ridi- culously small. ' You read that life of Clare?' he wrote (15th of August 1865). ' Did you ever see such preposterous exaggeration ' of small claims ? And isn't it expressive, the perpetual prating ' of him in the book as the Poet ? So another Incompetent used ' to write to the Literary Fund when I was on the committee : * " This leaves the Poet at his divine mission in a corner of the ' " single room. The Poet's father is wiping his spectacles. * " The Poet's mother is weaving." — Yah ! ' He was equally in- tolerant of every magnificent proposal that should render the literary man independent of the bookseller, and he sharply criticized even a compromise to replace the half-profit system by one of royalties on copies sold. ' What does it come to ? ' he remarked of an ably written pamphlet in which this was urged (loth of November 1866): 'what is the worth of the remedy * after all ? You and I know very well that in nine cases out of * ten the author is at a disadvantage with the publisher because ^ * the publisher has capital and the author has not. We know per- J'g^'g''^"''"' * fectly well that in nine cases out of ten money is advanced by * the pubUsher before the book is Droducible — often, long before. 472 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XL London : 1836-70. As to payment by ' royalties.' Conduct of periodicals. * No young or unsuccessful author (unless he were an amateur * and an independent gentleman) would make a bargain for ' having that royalty, to-morrow, if he could have a certain sum ' of money, or an advance of money. The author who could ' command that bargain, could command it to-morrow, or com- * mand anything else. For the less fortunate or the less able, I ' make bold to say — with some knowledge of the subject, as a * writer who made a publisher's fortune long before he began to * share in the real profits of his books — that if the publishers met ' next week, and resolved henceforth to make this royalty bargain * and no other, it would be an enormous hardship and misfortune * because the authors could not live while they wrote. The ' pamphlet seems to me just another example of the old philo- * sophical chess-playing, with human beings for pieces. " Don't * " want money." Be careful to be born with means, and have * " a banker's account." " Your publisher will settle with you, at * " such and such long periods according to the custom of his * " trade, and you will settle with your butcher and baker weekly, * " in the meantime, by drawing cheques as I do." " You must ' " b J sure not to want money, and then I have worked it out for ' " you splendidly." ' Less has been said in this work than might perhaps have been wished, of the way in which his editorship of Household Words and of All the Year Round was discharged. It was distinguished above all by liberality ; and a scrupulous consideration and deli- cacy, evinced by him to all his contributors, was part of the esteem in which he held literature itself. It was said in a newspaper after his death, evidently by one of his contributors, that he always brought the best out of a man by encouragement and appreciation ; that he liked his writers to feel unfettered ; and that his last reply to a proposition for a series of articles had been : ' Whatever you see your way to, I will see mine to, and we know * and understand each other well enough to make the best of * these conditions.' Yet the strong feeling of personal responsi- bility was always present in his conduct of both journals ; and varied as the contents of a number might be, and widely apart the writers, a certain individuality of his own was never absent. He § ni.] Personal Characteristics. 473 took immense pains (as indeed was his habit about everything) Lo^ndon : with numbers in which he had written nothing; would often Treatment accept a paper from a young or unhandy contributor, because of some single notion in it which he thought it worth rewriting for ; and in this way, or by helping generally to give strength and attractiveness to the work of others, he grudged no trouble.* * I * have had a story ' he wrote (22nd of June 1856) * to hack and ' hew into some form for Household Words this morning, which * By way of instance I subjoin an amusing insertion made by him in an otherwise indifferently written paper descriptive of the typical Englishman on the foreign stage, which gives in more comic detail experiences of his own already partly submitted to the reader (i. 372-3). * In a pretty piece * at the Gymnase in Paris, where the * prime minister of England unfortu- ' nately ruined himself by speculating * in railway shares, a thorough-going * English servant appeared under that * thorough-going English name Tom * Bob — the honest fellow having been * christened Tom, and bom the lawful * son of Mr. and Mrs. Bob. In an * Italian adaptation of Dumas' pre- * posterous play of Kean, which we * once saw at the great theatre of * Genoa, the curtain rose upon that * celebrated tragedian, drunk and fast * asleep in a chair, attired in a dark * blue blouse fastened round the waist * with a broad belt and a most pro- ' digious buckle, and wearing a dark * red hat of the sugar-loaf shape, nearly * three feet high. He bore in his hand * a champagne-bottle, with the label * Rhum, in large capital letters, care- * fully turned towards the audience ; * and two or three dozen of the same * popular liquor, which we are nation- ' ally accustomed to drink neat as * imported, by the half gallon, orna- ' mented the floor of the apartment. * Every frequenter of the Coal Hole ' Tavern in the Strand, on that occa- I * Every English lady, presented on the ' stage in Italy, wears a green veil ; * and almost every such specimen of * our fair countrywomen carries a * bright red reticule, made in the form * of a monstrous heart. "We do not * remember to have ever seen an Eng- * lishman on the Italian stage, or in ' the Italian circus, without a stomach * like Daniel Lambert, an immense ' shirt-frill, and a bunch of watch- * seals each several times larger than * his watch, though the watch itself * was an impossible engine. And we Foreign * have rarely beheld this mimic Eng- picture of * lishman, without seeing present, then people.' * and there, a score of real Englishmen ' sufficiently characteristic and unlike * the rest of the audience, to whom he * bore no shadow of resemblance.' These views as to English people and society, of which Count d'Orsay used always to say that an average French- man knew about as much as he knew of the inhabitants of the moon, mayf receive amusing addition from one o Dickens's letters during his last visit to France ; which enclosed a cleverly written Paris journal containing essays on English manners. In one of these the writer remarked that he had heard of the venality of English politicians, but could not have supposed it to be so shameless as it is, for, when he went to the House of Commons, he heard them call out * Places ! Places !' ' Give us Places I ' when the Minister entered 1 474 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. London : * has taken itie four hours of close attention. And I am perfectly 1836-70. * addled by its horrible want of continuity after all, and the * dreadful spectacle I have made of the proofs — which look like an * inky fishing-net.' A few lines from another letter will show the difficulties in which he was often involved by the plan he adopted Editorial for Christmas numbers, of putting within a framework by himself a number of stories by separate writers to whom the leading notion had before been severally sent. 'As yet' (25th of No- vember 1859), 'not a story has come to me in the least belonging ' to the idea (the simplest in the world ; which I myself described ' in writing, in the most elaborate manner) \ and every one of them ' turns, by a strange fatality, on a criminal trial ! ' It had all to be set right by him, and editorship on such terms was not a sinecure, and It had its pleasures as well as pains, however, and the greatest pleasures. when hc fancicd he could descry unusual merit in any writer. A letter will give one instance for illustration of many ; the lady to whom it was addressed, admired under her assumed name of Holme Lee, having placed it at my disposal. (Folkestone : 14th of August 1855.) 'I read your tale with the strongest emotion, ' and with a very exalted admiration of the great power displayed ' in it. Both in severity and tenderness I thought it masterly. It ' moved me more than I can express to you. I wrote to Mr. ' Wills that it had completely unsettled me for the day, and that * by whomsoever it was written, I felt the highest respect for the ' mind that had produced it. It so happened that I had been ' for some days at work upon a character externally like the Aunt. ' And it was very strange to me indeed to observe how the two *■ people seemed to be near to one another at first, and then * turned off on their own ways so wide asunder. I told Mr. Wills * that I was not sure whether I could have prevailed upon myself * to present to a large audience the terrible consideration of here- ' ditary madness, when it was reasonably probable that there must * be many — or some — among them whom it would awfully, be- * cause personally, address. But I was not obliged to ask myself * the question, inasmuch as the length of the story rendered it ' unavailable for Household Words. I speak of its length in * reference to that publication only ; relatively to what is told in § ni.] Personal Characteristics. 475 * it, I would not spare a page of your manuscript. Experience London: 1836-70. * shows me that a story in four portions is best suited to the J ^ ^ Rule in * peculiar requirements of such a journal, and I assure you it will Household Words : * be an uncommon satisfaction to me if this correspondence should ' lead to your enrolment among its contributors. But my strong * and sincere conviction of the vigour and pathos of this beautiful ' tale, is quite apart from, and not to be influenced by, any ulterior * results. You had no existence to me when I read it. The * actions and sufferings of the characters affected me by their own * force and truth, and left a profound impression on me.'* The experience there mentioned did not prevent him from admitting into his later periodical, All the Year Rounds longer serial stories, ^^fpf^ published with the names of known writers : and to his own inter- ^^"^^ , ^ ^ ' Routid. ference with these he properly placed limits. * When one of my * literary brothers does me the honour to undertake such a task, I * hold that he executes it on his own personal responsibility/-, and * for the sustainment of his own reputation ; and 1 do not con- ' sider myself at liberty to exercise that control over his text which * I claim as to other contributions.' Nor had he any greater pleasure, even in these cases, than to help younger novelists to popularity. * You asked me about new writers last night. If you * will read Kissing the Rod^ a book I have read to-day, you will * not find it hard to take an interest in the author of such a book.' That was Mr. Edmund Yates, in whose literary successes he took ^^^'^ the greatest interest himself, and with whom he continued to the ^ '^^^eraid last an intimate personal intercourse which had dated from kind- ness shown at a very trying time. * I think,' he wrote of another of his contributors, Mr. Percy Fitzgerald, for whom he had also much personal liking, and of whose powers he thought highly, * you will find Fatal Zero a very curious bit of mental development, * deepening as the story goes on into a picture not more startling * than true' My mention of these pleasures of editorship shall close with what I think to him was the greatest. He gave to the world, while yet the name of the writer was unknown to him, the pure and pathetic verse of Adelaide Procter. * In the spring of * The letter is addressed to Miss Harriet Parr, whose book called Gilbert M^scngei- is the tale referred to. 476 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. London < the year 1853 I observed a short poem among the proffered 1836- 70. ; * contributions, very different, as I thought, from the shoal of Procter's * verses perpetually setting through the office of such a periodical.'* The contributions had been large and frequent under an assumed name, when at Christmas 1854 he discovered that Miss Mary Berwick was the daughter of his old and dear friend, Barry Cornwall. But periodical writing is not without its drawbacks, and its effect on Dickens, who engaged in it largely from time to time, was observable in the increased impatience of allusion to national institutions and conventional distinctions to be found in his later books. Party divisions he cared for less and less as life moved on ; but the decisive, peremptory, dogmatic style, into which a habit of rapid remark on topics of the day will betray the most candid and considerate commentator, displayed its influence, perhaps not always consciously to himself, in the underlying tone of bitterness that runs through the books which followed Copper- Tone in field. The resentment against remediable wrongs is as praiseworthy later books, m them as in the earlier tales ; but the exposure of Chancery abuses, administrative incompetence, politico-economic short- comings, and social flunkeyism, in Bltak House^ Little Dorrit, Hard Times^ and Our Mutual Friend^ would not have been made less odious by the cheerier tone that had struck with much sharper effect at prison abuses, parish wrongs, Yorkshire schools, and hypocritical humbug, in Pickwick^ Oliver Twisty Nicklebyy and Chuzzlewit. It will be remembered of him always that he desired to set right what was wrong, that he held no abuse to be unim- provable, that he left none of the evils named exactly as he found them, and that to influences drawn from his writings were due not a few of the salutary changes which marked the age in which he lived ; but anger does not improve satire, and it gave latterly, from the causes named, too aggressive a form to what, after all, was but a very wholesome hatred of the cant that everything English is perfect, and that to call a thing ««English is to doom it to abhorred extinction. * See the introductory memoir from of the popular and delightful Legends his pen now prefixed to every edition and Lyrics. § III.] Personal Characteristics. 477 * I have got an idea for occasional papers in Household Words London : * called the Member for Nowhere. They will contain an account ~~ — ; — ~ Member ' of his views, votes, and speeches ; and I think of starting with \ * his speeches on the Sunday question. He is a member of the * Government of course. The moment they found such a member * in the House, they felt that he must be dragged (by force, if * necessary) into the Cabinet.* * I give it up reluctantly,' he wrote afterwards, *and with it my hope to have made every man in ' England feel something of the contempt for the House of *■ Commons that I have. We shall never begin to do anything ' until the sentiment is universal.' That was in x\ugust 1854 ; and the break-down in the Crimea that winter much embittered his radicalism. * I am hourly strengthened in my old beUef,' he wrote (3rd of February 1855), * that our political aristocracy and our tuft- * hunting are the death of England. In all this business I don't ' see a gleam of hope. As to the popular spirit, it has come to be * so entirely separated from the Parliament and Government, and * so perfectly apathetic about them both, that I seriously think it a * most portentous sign.' A couple of months later : * I have rather * a bright idea, I think, for Household Words this morning : a fine * little bit of satire : an account of an Arabic MS. lately discovered ' Thousand * and One ' very like the Arabian Nights — called the Thousand and One * Hum- ' Humbugs. With new versions of the best known stories.' This also had to be given up, and is only mentioned as another illustra- tion of his political discontents and of their connection with his journal- work. The influence from his early hfe which uncon- sciously strengthened them in certain social directions has been hinted at, and of his absolute sincerity in the matter there can be no doubt The mistakes of Dickens were never such as to cast a shade on his integrity. What he said with too much bitterness, in his heart he beUeved ; and had, alas ! too much ground for be- lieving. *A country' he wrote (27th of April 1855) 'which is ' discovered to be in this tremendous condition as to its war ' affairs ; with an enormous black cloud of poverty in every town Grave * which is spreading and deepening every hour, and not one man d°scon^ * in two thousand knowing anything about, or even believing in, * its existence ; with a non-working aristocracy, and a silent par- The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book XI. ^^1869^" * everybody for himself and nobody for the rest; * this is the prospect, and I think it a very deplorable one/ Admirably did he say, of a notorious enquiry at that time : ' O * what a fine aspect of political economy it is, that the noble pro- * fessors of the science on the adulteration committee should have * tried to make Adulteration a question of Supply and Demand 1 * We shall never get to the Millennium, sir, by the rounds of that * ladder ; and I, for one, won't hold by the skirts of that Great ' Mogul of impostors, Master M'CuUoch ! ' Again he wrote (30th of September 1855) : 'I really am serious in thinking — and I ' have given as painful consideration to the subject as a man with ' children to live and suffer after him can honestly give to it — that ' representative government is become altogether a failure with us, * that the English gentilities and subserviences render the people * unfit for it, and that the whole thing has broken down since that ' great seventeenth-century time, and has no hope in it.' No thought With the good sense that still overruled all his farthest extremes of parha- himsefr Opinion he yet never thought of parliament for himself. He could not mend matters, and for him it would have been a false position. The people of the town of Reading and others applied to him during the first half of his life, and in the last half some of the Metropolitan constituencies. To one of the latter a reply is before me in which he says : * I declare that as to all matters on the ' face of this teeming earth, it appears to me that the House of ' Commons and Parliament altogether is become just the dreariest * failure and nuisance that ever bothered this much-bothered world.' To a private enquiry of apparently about the same date he replied : * I have thoroughly satisfied myself, having often had occasion to * consider the question, that I can be far more usefully and inde- * pendently employed in my chosen sphere of action than 1 could * hope to be in the House of Commons ; and I believe that no * consideration would induce me to become a member of that * extraordinary assembly.' Finally, upon a reported discussion in Finsbury whether or not he should be invited to sit for that borough, he promptly wrote (November 1861) : * It may save some ' trouble if you will kindly confirm a sensible gentleman who * doubted at that meeting whether I was quite the man for Fins- § Ill.j Personal Characteristics, 479 * bury. I am not at all the sort of man ; for I believe nothing London : 1869. * would induce me to offer myself as a parliamentary representative ~ * of that place, or of any other under the sun.* The only direct attempt to join a political agitation was his speech at Drury-lane for administrative reform, and he never repeated it. But every movement for practical social reforms, to obtain more efficient sanitary legislation, to get the best compulsory education practi- cable for the poor, and to better the condition of labouring people, he assisted earnestly to his last hour : and the readiness with which Reforms he •' took most he took the chair at meetings having such objects in view, the interest in. help he gave to important societies working in beneficent ways for themselves or the community, and the power and attractiveness of his oratory, made him one of the forces of the time. His speeches derived singular charm from the buoyancy of his perfect self-possession, and to this he added the advantages of a person and manner which had become as familiar and as popular as his books. The most miscellaneous assemblages listened to him as to a personal friend. Two incidents at the close of his life will show what upon these matters his latest opinions were. At the great Liverpool dinner after his country readings in i860, over which Lord Dufferin Liverpoo\ dinner in eloquently presided, he replied to a remonstrance from Lord ^^^9- Houghton against his objection to entering public life,* that when he took literature for his profession he intended it to be his sole profession ; that at that time it did not appear to him to be so well understood in England, as in some other countries, that * On this remonstrance and * be said in favour of this view, but we Dickens's reply the Titnes had a lead- ' are inclined to doubt if Mr. Dickens ing article of which the closing sentences * himself would gain anything by a find fitting place in his biography. ' If * Life Peerage. Mr. Dickens is pre- * there be anything in Lord Russell's * eminently a writer of the people and * theory that Life Peerages are wanted * for the people. To our thinking, he * specially to represent those forms of * is far better suited for the part of the 'national eminence which cannot '"Great Commoner" of English ' otherwise find fitting representation, * fiction than for even a Life Peerage. * it might be urged, for the reasons we ' To turn Charles Dickens into Lord * have before mentioned, that a Life * Dickens would be much the same * Peerage is due to the most truly * mistake in literature that it was in * national representative of one impor- * politics to turn William Pitt into * tant department of modern English * Lord Chatham.* * literature. Something may no doubt 480 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book XL London ; 1870. Reply to a remon- strance. Tribute to Lord Russell. The people governing and the People governed. literature was a dignified calling by which any man might stand or fall ; and he resolved that in his person at least it should stand * by itself, of itself, and for itself ; ' a bargain which ' no * consideration on earth would now induce him to break.' Here however he probably failed to see the entire meaning of Lord Houghton's regret, which would seem to have been meant to say, in more polite form, that to have taken some part in public affairs might have shown him the difficulty in a free state of providing remedies very swiftly for evils of long growth. A half reproach from the same quarter for alleged unkindly sentiments to the House of Lords, he repelled with vehement warmth ; insisting on his great regard for individual members, and declaring that there was no man in England he respected more in his pubHc capacity, loved more in his private capacity, or from whom he had received more remarkable proofs of his honour and love of literature, than Lord Russell.* In Birmingham shortly after, discoursing on education to the members of the Midland Institute, he told them they should value self-improvement, not because it led to fortune but because it was good and right in itself ; counselled them in regard to it that Genius was not worth half so much as Attention, or the art of taking an immense deal of pains, which he declared to be, in every study and pursuit, the one sole, safe, certain, remunerative quality ; and summed up briefly his political belief. * My faith in the people governing is, on the whole, infinitesimal; my * faith in the People governed is, on the whole, illimitable.' This he afterwards (January 1870) explained to mean that he had very litde confidence in the people who govern us with a small p '), and very great confidence in the People whom they govern ('with a ' large P ') ' My confession being shortly and elliptically stated, was, * with no evil intention I am absolutely sure, in some quarters public allusions, Dickens described him as a statesman of whom opponents and friends alike felt sure that he would rise to the level of every occa- sion, however exalted ; and compared him to the seal of Solomon in the old Arabian story inclosing in a not very large casket the soul of a giant * One of the many repetitions of the same opinion in his letters may be given. * Lord John's note ' (Septem- ber 1853) 'confirms me in an old ' impression that he is worth a score ' of official men ; and has more gene- ' rosity in his little finger than a ' Government usually has in its whole ' corporation.' In another of his § III.] Personal Characteristics. * inversely explained' He added that his political opinions had London: already been not obscurely stated in an * idle book or two ' j and ^ he reminded his hearers that he was the inventor ' of a certain * fiction called the Circumlocution Office, said to be very extrava- * gant, but which I do see rather frequently quoted as if there * were grains of truth at the bottom of it.' It may nevertheless be suspected, with some confidence, that the construction of his real meaning was not far wrong which assumed it as the condition precedent to his illimitable faith, that the people, even with the big P, should be 'governed.' It was his constant complaint that, being much in want of government, they had only sham governors : and he had returned from his second American visit, Last and ° ' ' first Ame- as he came back from his first, indisposed to believe that the rjcan exp^ nence. political problem had been solved in the land of the free. From the pages of his last book, the bitterness of allusion so frequent in the books just named was absent altogether ; and his old un- altered wish to better what was bad in English institutions, carried with it no desire to replace them by new ones. In a memoir published shortly after his death^ there appeared this statement * For many years past Her Majesty the Queen * has taken the liveliest interest in Mr. Dickens's literary labours, * and has frequently expressed a desire for an interview with * him. . . This interview took place on the 9th of April, when * he received her commands to attend her at Buckingham Palace, * and was introduced by his friend Mr. Arthur Helps, the clerk of * the Privy Council. . . Since our author's decease the journal * with which he was formerly connected has said : " The Queen Alleged * was ready to confer any distinction which Mr. Dickens's th^QueeU! * " known views and tastes would permit him to accept, and after * " more than one title of honour had been declined, Her Majesty * " desired that he would, at least, accept a place in her Privy Council." ' As nothing is too absurd * for belief, it will not * In a memoir by Dr. Shelton will be strictly accurate to say, that, McKenzie which has had circulation excepting the part of its closing aver- in America, there is given the follow- ment which describes Dickens sending ing statement, taken doubtless from a copy of his works to her Majesty by publications at the time, of which it her own desire, there is in it not a VOL. II. \ \ 482 7 he Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. London ; 1870. be superfluous to say that Dickens knew of no such desire on her Majesty's part ; and though all the probabilities are on the side of his unwillingness to accept any title or place of honour, cer- tainly none was offered to him. It had been hoped to obtain her Majesty's name for the Jerrold performances in 1857, but, being a public effort in behalf of an individual, assent would have involved * either perpetual com- ' pliance or the giving of perpetual offence.' Her Majesty how- Stion wkh ^'^^^ ^^^^ through Colonel Phipps, a request to Dickens that in 185^"^ ''^^^ he would select a room in the palace, do what he would with it, and let her see the play there. * I said to Col. Phipps thereupon ' (21st of June 1857) 'that the idea was not quite new to me; * that I did not feel easy as to the social position of my Rigmarole, single word of truth. ' Early in 1 870 ' the Queen presented a copy of her * book upon the Highlands to Mr. * Dickens, with the modest autogra- ' phic inscription, from the humblest ' " to the most distinguished author * ** of England." This was meant to * be complimentary, and was accepted * as such by Mr. Dickens, who ac- * knowledged it in a manly, courteous * letter. Soon after, Queen Victoria wrote to him, requesting that he * would do her the favour of paying ' her a visit at Windsor. He accepted, * and passed a day, very pleasantly, in ' his Sovereign's society. It is said * that they were mutually pleased, that * Mr. Dickens caught the royal lady's * particular humour, that they chatted ' together in a very friendly manner, * that the Queen was never tired of ' asking questions about certain cha- * racters in his books, that they had ' almost a tete-a-tete luncheon, and ' that, ere he departed, the Queen ' pressed him to accept a baronetcy (a ' title which descends to the eldest * son), and that, on his declining, she * said, ** At least, Mr. Dickens, let me * " have the gratification of making ' " you one of my Privy Council.'* * This, which gives the personal title ' of *' Right Honorable," he also de- ' clined — nor, indeed, did Charles * Dickens require a title to give him * celebrity. The Queen and the author ' parted, well pleased with each other. ' The newspapers reported that a * peerage had been offered and de- * clined — but even newspapers are not ^ invariably correct. Mr. Dickens pre- ' sented his Royal Mistress with a ' handsome set of all his works, and, ' on the very morning of his death, a ' letter reached Gad's Hill, written by ' Mr. Arthur Helps, by her desire, * acknowledging the present, and de- ' scribing the exact position the books ' occupied at Balmoral — so placed that ' she could see them before her when ' occupying the usual seat in her sit- ' ting-room. When this letter arrived, * Mr. Dickens was still alive, but ' wholly unconscious. What to him, ' at that time, was the courtesy of an * earthly sovereign ?' I repeat that the only morsel of truth in all this rigmarole is that the books were sent by Dickens, and acknowledged by Mr. Helps at the Queen's desire. The letter did not arrive on the day of his death, the 9th of June, but was dated from Balmoral on that day. § in.] Personal Cliaracteristics. 483 * daughters, &c at a Court under those circumstances ; and that London : 1870. * I would beg her Majesty to excuse me, if any other way of her * seeing the play could be devised. To this Phipps said he had * not thought of the objection, but had not the slightest doubt I * was right. I then proposed that the Queen should come to the * Gallery of Illustration a week before the subscription night, and * should have the room entirely at her own disposal, and should ' invite her own company. This, with the good sense that seems * to accompany her good nature on all occasions, she resolved ' within a few hours to do.' The effect of the performance was a great gratification. * My gracious sovereign' (5th of July 1857) * was so pleased that she sent round begging me to go and see * her and accept her thanks. I replied that I was in my Farce * dress, and must beg to be excused. Whereupon she sent again, * saying that the dress " could not be so ridiculous as that," and * repeating the request. I sent my duty in reply, but again hoped * her Majesty would have the kindness to excuse my presenting * myself in a costume and appearance that were not my own. I * was mighty glad to think, when I woke this morning, that I had * carried the point.' The opportunity of presenting himself in his own costume did not arrive till the year of his death, another effort meanwhile made having proved also unsuccessful. ' I was put into a state ' of much perplexity on Sunday' (30th of March 1858). * I don't * know who had spoken to my informant, but it seems that the * Queen is bent upon hearing the Carol read, and has expressed Queen's * her desire to bring it about without offence ; hesitating about * the manner of it, in consequence of my having begged to be reld. ' * excused from going to her when she sent for me after the ^^^^ * Frozen Deep. I parried the thing as well as I could ; but being * asked to be prepared with a considerate and obliging answer, as * it was known the request would be preferred, I said, " Well ! I * " supposed Col. Phipps would speak to me about it, and if it ' " were he who did so, I should assure him of my desire to meet ' " any wish of her Majesty's, and should express my hope that ' " she would indulge me by making one of some audience or ' " other — for I thought an audience necessary to the effect" I 1 2 484 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. London: * Thus it Stands: but it bothers me.* The difficulty remained, — ^— — but her Majesty's continued interest in the Carol was alleged to have been shown by her purchase of it with Dickens's autograph at Thackeray's sale ; * and at last there came, in the year of his death, the interview with the author whose popularity dated from her accession, whose books had entertained larger numbers of her subjects than those of any other contemporary writer, and whose genius will be counted among the glories of her reign. An in- Accident led to it. Dickens had brought with him from tcrvicw with her America some large and striking photographs of the Battle Fields Majesty. ... of the Civil War, which the Queen, having heard of them through Mr. Helps, expressed a wish to look at. Dickens sent them at once ; and went afterwards to Buckingham Palace with Mr. Helps, at her Majesty's request, that she might see and thank him in person. It was in the middle of March, not April. * Come now sir, * this is an interesting matter, do favour us with it/ was the cry of Johnson's friends after his conversation with George the Third ; and again and again the story was told to listeners ready to make marvels of its commonplaces. But the romance even of the eighteenth century in such a matter is clean gone out of the nineteenth. Suffice it that the Queen's kindness left a strong im- pression on Dickens. Upon her Majesty's regret not to have heard his Readings, Dickens intimated that they were become now a thing of the past, while he acknowledged gratefully her Majesty's compliment in regard to them. She spoke to him of the impression made upon her by his acting in the Frozen Deep ; and on his stating, in reply to her enquiry, that the litde play had not been very successful on the pubHc stage, said this did not * The book was entered in the ' lished price was ^s. It became Her catalogue as inscribed ^W. M. Thackc- * Majesty's property for ^^2^ los. and * ray, from Charles Dickens {whom he * was at once taken to the palace. ' — * made very happy once a long way Since this note first appeared Mr. ^ from home).'' Some pleasant verses Bumpus the bookseller has written to by his friend had affected him much me to correct Mr. Hotten's statement, while abroad. What follows is from * Commissioned by a private gentle- the Life of Dickens published by Mr. ' man,' Mr. Bumpus bought the book Hotten. * Her Majesty expressed the himself for the sum named, and it is * strongest desire to possess this pre- now in Aineric^, * sentation copy. The original pub- § HI.] Personal Characteristics, 485 surprise her, since it no longer had the advantage of his perform- London : ance in it. Then arose a mention of some alleged discourtesy — shown to Prince Arthur in New York, and he begged her Majesty what not to confound the true Americans of that city with the Fenian inter- view. portion of its Irish population ; on which she made the quiet comment that she was convinced the people about the Prince had made too much of the affair. He related to her the story of Pre- sident Lincoln's dream on the night before his murder. She asked him to give her his writings, and could she have them that after- noon ? but he begged to be allowed to send a bound copy. Her Majesty then took from a table her own book upon the High- lands, with an autograph inscription ' to Charles Dickens ' ; and, saying that ' the humblest ' of writers would be ashamed to offer it to * one of the greatest ' but that Mr. Helps, being asked to give it, had remarked that it would be valued most from herself, closed the interview by placing it in his hands. * Sir,' said Johnson, ' they may say what they like of the young King, but * Louis the Fourteenth could not have shown a more refined * courtliness ' ; and Dickens was not disposed to say less of the young King's granddaughter. That the grateful impression sufficed to carry him into new ways, I had immediate proof, coupled with intimation of the still surviving strength of old memories. * As * my sovereign desires ' (26th of March 1870) ' that I should attend * the next levee, don't faint with amazement if you see my name * in that unwonted connexion. I have scrupulously kept myself * free for the second of April, in case you should be accessible.' The name appeared at the levee accordingly, his daughter was at the drawing-room that followed, and Lady Houghton writes to me * I never saw Mr. Dickens more agreeable than at a dinner at our * house about a fortnight before his death, when he met the King * of the Belgians and the Prince of Wales at the special desire of JJ^pjlJ*^^ * the latter.' Up to nearly the hour of dinner, it was doubtful if ^^'"^ he could go. He was suffering from the distress in his foot ; and on arrival at the house, being unable to ascend the stairs, had to be assisted at once into the dining-room.* • Lord Houghton tells me that though unable to return to tlie drawing-room he went there on arrival. 486 The Life of Charles Dickens [Book XL London : 1870. A probable hope at the close of life. Mr. Layard at Gadshill, 1866-7. The friend who had accompanied Dickens to Buckingham Palace, writing of him after his death, briefly but with admirable knowledge and taste, said that he ardently desired, and confidently looked forward to, a time when there would be a more intimate union than exists at present between the different classes in the state, a union that should embrace alike the highest and the lowest. This perhaps expresses, as well as a few words could, what certainly was always at his heart ; and he might have come to think it, when his life was closing, more possible of realisation some day than he ever thought it before. The hope of it was on his friend Talfourd*s lips when he died, and his own most jarring opinions might at last have joined in the effort to bring about such reconcilement. More on this head it needs not to say. Whatever may be the objection to special views held by him, he would, wanting even the most objectionable, have been less him- self. It was by something of the despot seldom separable from genius, joined to a truthfulness of nature belonging to the highest characters, that men themselves of a rare faculty were attracted to find in Dickens what Sir Arthur Helps has described, * a man to * confide in, and look up to as a leader, in the midst of any great ' peril.' Mr. Layard also held that opinion of him. He was at Gadshill during the Christmas before Dickens went for the last time to America, and witnessed one of those scenes, not infrequent there, in which the master of the house was pre-eminently at home. They took generally the form of cricket matches ; but this was, to use the phrase of his friend Bobadil, more popular and diffused ; and of course he rose with the occasion. ' The more you want * of the master, the more you'll find in him,' said the gasman employed about his readings. * Footraces for the villagers,' he wrote on Christmas Day, ' come off in my field to-morrow. We * have been all hard at work all day, building a course, making * countless flags, and I don't know what else. Layard is chiet * commissioner of the domestic police. The country police pre- * diet an immense crowd.' There were between two and three thousand people ; and somehow, by a magical kind of influence, said Layard, Dickens seemed to have bound every creature pre- § III.] Personal Characteristics. 487 sent, upon what honour the creature had, to keep order. What Gadshill: was the special means used, or the art employed, it might have been difficult to say ; but this was the result. Writing on New Year's Day, Dickens himself described it to me. * We had made * a very pretty course, and taken great pains. Encouraged by * the cricket matches experience, I allowed the landlord of the * Falstaff to have a drinking-booth on the ground. Not to seem * to dictate or distrust, I gave all the prizes (about ten pounds in the * aggregate) in money. The great mass of the crowd were labour- Games * ing men of all kinds, soldiers, sailors, and navvies. They did Siilgers. * not, between half-past ten, when we began, and sunset, displace * a rope or a stake ; and they left every barrier and flag as neat as * they found it. There was not a dispute, and there was no * drunkenness whatever. I made them a little speech from the * lawn, at the end of the games, saying that please God we would * do it again next year. They cheered most lustily and dispersed. ' The road between this and Chatham was like a Fair all day ; * and surely it is a fine thing to get such perfect behaviour out of * a reckless seaport town. Among other oddities we had A * Hurdle Race for Strangers. One man (he came in second) ran * 120 yards and leaped over ten hurdles, in twenty seconds, with ' a pipe in his mouth , and smoking it all the time. If it hadn't been * " for your pipe," I said to him at the winning-post, *'you would a winner. * " have been first." " I beg your pardon, sir," he answered, *■ but if it hadn't been for my pipe, I should have been no- * " where." ' The close of the letter had this rather memorable announcement. * The sale of the Christmas number was, yes- * terday evening, 255,380.' Would it be absurd to say that there is something in such a vast popularity in itself electrical, and, though founded on books, felt where books never reach ? It is also very noticeable that what would have constituted the strength of Dickens if he had entered pubHc life, the attractive as well as the commanding side of his nature, was that which kept him most within the circle of home pursuits and enjoyments. Home This ' better part ' of him had now long survived that sorrowful ments. period of 1857-8, when, for reasons which I have not thought uiyself free to suppress, a vaguely disturbed feeling for the time 488 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XI. ^'^1867''''' possession of him, and occurrences led to his adoption of other pursuits than 'those to which till then he had given him- self exclusively. It was a sad interval in his life ; but, though changes incident to the new occupation then taken up remained, and with them many adverse influences which brought his life prematurely to a close, it was, with any reference to that feeling, Same in an interval only ; and the dominant impression of the later years, early years, as of the earlier, takes the marvellously domestic home-loving shape in which also the strength of his genius is found It will not do to draw round any part of such a man too hard a line, and the writer must not be charged with inconsistency who says that Dickens's childish sufferings,* and the sense they burnt into Hunger- ford-mar- ket : 1833. * An entry, under the date of July 1833, from a printed but unpublished Diary by Mr. Payne Collier, appeared lately in the Athenatwt^ having refer- ence to Dickens at the time when he first obtained employment as a re- porter, and connecting itself with what my opening volume had related of those childish sufferings. * We ' walked together through Hungevforcl * Market, where we followed a coal- * heaver, who carried his little rosy * but grimy child looking over his * shoulder ; and C. D. bought a half- * penny-worth of cherries, and as we ' went along he gave them one by one * to the little fellow without the know- ' ledge of the father ... He informed * me as he walked through it that he * knew HungerioxA Market well . . . * He did not affect to conceal the dif- * ficulties he and his family had had to * contend against.* I take the oppor- tunity of this recurrence to the earlier days to introduce another recollection of Dickens when at school with which I have been favoured by another of ante, i. 43-9. his schoolfellows, Mr. Walsh, the Medical Superintendent of the Lincoln Lunatic Hospital. It is an evidently truthful picture, with points that re- mained still noticeable in later life. * I * did not know until your Life ap- Another sketch of Dickens at school ' peared that the little Charley Dickens ' who went to school with me at old ' Jones's in the Hampstead Road was ' the famous writer. He lived near to • me, as I Hved at 5 George Street, ' and he in Gower Place. We had ' only to cross the New Road, and I used to walk home from school with ' him nearly every evening in company with two other boys — Dan Tobin and Fred Theede. My recollection of him is that he was not very tall of his age, which was between thirteen and fourteen. He had a fresh rosy complexion, rather light brown hair and good eyes, a wide forehead but not very high. He walked very up- right, almost more than upright, like leaning back a little. He had then rather a full lower lip. He was very fond of theatricals. I have some recollection of his getting up a play at Dan Tobin's house, in the back kitchen— but not a written play. We made a plot, and each had his part ; but the speeches every one was to make for himself. When we had finished, we were quite sure that if there had only been an audience they would all have cried, so deep we made the Tragedy. Dickens always struck me as being a sharp boy rather than a thoughtful one. He had no* § III.] Personal Characteristics, 489 him of the misery of loneliness and a craving for joys of home, London; 1836-70. though they led to what was weakest in him, led also to what was greatest. It was his defect as well as his merit in maturer life not to be able to live alone. When the fancies of his novels were upon him and he was under their restless influence, though he often talked of shutting himself up in out of the way solitary places, he never went anywhere unaccompanied by members of his family. His habits of daily livinsf he carried with him wherever Habits he went. In Albaro and Genoa, at Lausanne and Geneva, in every- where. Paris and Boulogne, his ways were as entirely those of home as in London and Broadstairs. If it is the property of a domestic nature to be personally interested in every detail, the smallest as the greatest, of the four walls within which one lives, then no man had it so essentially as Dickens. No man was so inclined naturally to derive his happiness from home concerns. Even the kind of interest in a house which is commonly confined to women, he was full of. Not to speak of changes of importance, there was not an additional hook put up wherever he inhabited, without his knowledge, or otherwise than as part of some small ingenuity of his own. Nothing was too minute for his personal superintendence. Whatever might be in hand, theatricals for the little children, entertainments for those of larger growth, cricket matches, dinners, field sports, from the first new year's eve dance in Doughty Street to the last musical party in Hyde Park Place, he was the centre and soul of it. He did not care to take q^^^^^ measure of its greater or less importance. It was enough that a of 1,1°"' thing was to do, to be worth his while to do it as if there was ^°""'* nothing else to be done in the world. The cry of Laud and Wentworth was his, alike in small and great things ; and to no man was more applicable the German ' Echt,' which expresses reality as well as thoroughness. The usual result followed, in all his homes, of an absolute reliance on him for everything. Under ' thing heavy or dreamy, about him at ' thought that he had been employed * that time. He was very particular * at humble work. He appeared al- * with his clothes — which consisted of * ways like a gentleman's son, rather *a blue sailor's costume and blue * aristocratic than otherwise.' ' cloth cap ; and 1 never should have 490 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XL London : every difficulty, and in every emergency, his was the encouraging influence, the bright and ready help. In illness, whether of the children or any of the servants, he was better than a doctor. He was so full of resource, for which every one eagerly turned to him, that his mere presence in the sick-room was a healing influence, as if nothing could fail if he were only there. So that at last, when, all through the awful night which preceded his departure. Night of he lay senseless in the room where he had fallen, the stricken the 8th ^ ; oyune, and bewildered ones who tended him found it impossible to believe that what they saw before them alone was left, or to shut out wholly the strange wild hope that he might again be suddenly among them like himself, and revive what they could not connect, even then, with death's despairing helplessness. It was not a feeling confined to the relatives whom he had thus taught to have such exclusive dependence on him. Among the consolations addressed to those mourners came words from one whom in life he had most honoured, and who also found it difficult to connect him with death, or to think that he should never see that blithe face any more. * It is almost thirty years,' ^^870°^ Mr. Carlyle wrote, ^ since my acquaintance with him began ; and * on my side, I may say, every new meeting ripened it into more * and more clear discernment of his rare and great worth as a * brother man : a most cordial, sincere, clear-sighted, quietly ' decisive, just and loving man : till at length he had grown to ' such a recognition with me as I have rarely had for any man of ' my time. This I can tell you three, for it is true and will be ' welcome to you : to others less concerned I had as soon not ' speak on such a subject,' * I am profoundly sorry for you, nth of Mr. Carlyle at the same time wrote to me ; * and indeed for my- june 1870. ^ event world-wide ; a unique of * talents suddenly extinct ; and has *' eclipsed," we too may say, ' "the harmless gaiety of nations." No death since 1866 has * fallen on me w^ith such a stroke. No literary man's hitherto * ever did. The good, the gentle, high-gifted, ever-friendly, noble * Dickens, — every inch of him an Honest Man.' Of his ordinary habits of activity I have spoken, and they were doubtless carried too far. In youth it was all well, but he did § ni.] Personal Characteristics. 491 not make allowance for years. This has had abundant illus- London: 1836-70. tration, but will admit of a few words more. To all men who do Active much, rule and order are essential ; method m everythmg was habits. Dickens's peculiarity ; and between breakfast and luncheon, with rare exceptions, was his time of work. But his daily walks were less of rule than of enjoyment and necessity. In the midst of his writing they were indispensable, and especially, as it has often been shown, at night. Mr. Sala is an authority on London streets, and, in the eloquent and generous tribute he was among the first to offer to his memory, has described himself encountering Dickens in the oddest places and most inclement weather, in Ratcliffe-highway, on Haverstock-hill, on Camberwell-green, in Gray's-inn-lane, in the Wandsworth-road, at Hammersmith Broad- way, in Norton Folgate, and at Kensal New Town. * A hansom * whirled you by the Bell and Horns at Brompton, and there he * was striding, as with seven-league boots, seemingly in the * direction of North-end, Fulham. The Metropolitan Railway * sent you forth at Lisson-grove, and you met him plodding * speedily towards the Yorkshire Stingo. He was to be met * rapidly skirting the grim brick wall of the prison in Coldbath- * fields, or trudging along the Seven Sisters-road at Holloway, or * bearing, under a steady press of sail, underneath Highgate * Archway, or pursuing the even tenor of his way up the Vauxhall- * bridge-road.' But he was equally at home in the intricate byways of narrow streets as in the lengthy thoroughfares. Wherever there was ^matter to be heard and learned,' in back ' streets behind Holbom, in Borough courts and passages, in City London wharfs or alleys, about the poorer lodging-houses, in prisons, workhouses, ragged-schools, police-courts, rag-shops, chandlers' shops, and all sorts of markets for the poor, he carried his keen observation and untiring study. * I was among the Italian Boys * from 12 to 2 this morning,' says one of his letters. * I am going * out to-night in their boat with the Thames Police,' says another. It was the same when he was in Italy or Switzerland, as we have seen ; and when, in later life, he was in French provincial places. * I walk miles away into the country, and you can scarcely imagine * by what deserted ramparts and silent little cathedral closes, or 492 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book XI. London 1865. Christmas Eves and Days. First attack ef lameness, 1865. How It came on. * how I pass over rusty drawbridges and stagnant ditches out of * and into the decaying town.' For several consecutive years I accompanied him every Christmas Eve to see the marketings for Christmas down the road from Aldgate to Bow ; and he had a surprising fondness for wandering about in poor neighbourhoods on Christmas-day, past the areas of shabby genteel houses in Somers or Kentish Towns, and watching the dinners preparing or coming in. But the temptations of his country life led him on to excesses in walking. * Coming in just now,' he wrote in his third year at Gadshill, ' after twelve miles in the rain, I was so wet that * I have had to change and get my feet into warm water before I * could do anything.' Again, two years later : * A south-easter ' blowing, enough to cut one's throat. I am keeping the house 'for my cold, as I did yesterday. But the remedy is so new to ' me, that I doubt if it does me half the good of a dozen miles in ' the snow. So, if this mode of treatment fails to-day, I shall try ' that to-morrow.' He tried it perhaps too often. In the winter of 1865 he first had the attack in his left foot which materially disabled his walking-power for the rest of his life. He supposed its cause to be overwalking in the snow, and that this had aggravated the suffering is very likely ; but, read by the light of what followed, it may now be presumed to have had more serious origin. It recurred at intervals, before America, without any such provocation ; in America it came back, not when he had most been walking in the snow, but when nervous exhaustion was at its worst with him ; after America, it became prominent on the eve of the occurrence at Preston which first revealed the progress that disease had been making in the vessels of the brain ; and in the last year of his life, as will immediately be seen, it was a constant trouble and most intense suffering, extending then gravely to his left hand also, which had before been only slightly affected. It was from a letter of the 21st of February 1865 I first learnt that he was suffering tortures from a * frost-bitten ' foot, and ten days later brought more detailed account. * I got frost-bitten by ' walking continually in the snow, and getting wet in the feet * daily. My boots hardened and softened, hardened and softened, ' my left foot swelled, and I still forced the boot on ; sat in it to § ni.] Personal Characteristics. 493 * write, half the day ; walked in it through the snow, the other London : 1836-70, * half ; forced the boot on again next morning ; sat and walked * again j and being accustomed to all sorts of changes in my feet, * took no heed. At length, going out as usual, I fell lame on the * walk, and had to limp home dead lame, through the snow, for * the last three miles — to the remarkable terror, by-the-bye, of the Ante^ 267-8. * two big dogs.' The dogs were Turk and Linda, Boisterous companions as they always were, the sudden change in him brought them to a stand-still; and for the rest of the journey they crept by the side of their master as slowly as he did, never turning from him. He was greatly moved by the circumstance, and often referred to it. Turk's look upward to his face was one of sym- pathy as well as fear, he said; but Linda was wholly struck down. The saying in his letter to his youngest son that he was to do to a rule of life. Others what he would that they should do to him, without being discouraged if they did not do it ; and his saying to the Birmingham people that they were to attend to self-improvement not because it led to fortune, but because it was right ; express a principle that at all times guided himself. Capable of strong attachments, he was not what is called an effusive man ; but he had no half- heartedness in any of his likings. The one thing entirely hateful to him, was indifference. * I give my heart to very few people ; * but I would sooner love the most implacable man in the world ' than a careless one, who, if my place were empty to-morrow, * would rub on and never miss me.' There was nothing he more repeatedly told his children than that they were not to let indifference in others appear to justify it in themselves. *A11 * kind things,' he wrote, * must be done on their own account, and * for their own sake, and without the least reference to any grati- * tude.' Again he laid it down, while he was making some exertion for the sake of a dead friend that did not seem likely to win proper appreciation fram those it was to serve. * As to grati- * tude from the family — as I have often remarked to you, one does * a generous thing because it is right and pleasant, and not for * any response it is to awaken in others.' The rule in another form frequently appears in his letters ; and it was enforced in 494 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book XI. London : 1836-70. One of his heroes. Another. At social meetings. many ways upon all who were dear to him. It is worth while to add his comment on a regret of a member of his family at an act of self-devotion supposed to have been thrown away : * Nothing * of what is nobly done can ever be lost' It is also to be noted as in the same spirit, that it was not the loud but the silent heroisms he most admired. Of Sir John Richardson, one of the few who have lived in our days entitled to the name of a hero, he wrote from Paris in 1856. * Lady Franklin sent me the whole ' of that Richardson memoir ; and I think Richardson's manly * friendship, and love of Franklin, one of the noblest things I ' ever knew in my life. It makes one's heart beat high, with a * sort of sacred joy.' (It is the feeling as strongly awakened by the earlier exploits of the same gallant man to be found at the end of Franklin's first voyage, and never to be read without the most exalted emotion.) It was for something higher than mere literature he valued the most original writer and powerful teacher of the age. * I would go at all times farther to see Carlyle than * any man alive.* Of his attractive points in society and conversation I have particularized little, because in truth they were himself. Such as they were, they were never absent from him. His acute sense of enjoyment gave such relish to his social qualities that probably no man, not a great wit or a professed talker, ever left, in leaving any social gathering, a blank so impossible to fill up. In quick and varied sympathy, in ready adaptation to every whim or humour, in help to any mirth or game, he stood for a dozen men. If one may say such a thing, he seemed to be always the more himself for being somebody else, for continually putting off his personality. His versatility made him unique. What he said once of his own love of acting, applied to him equally when at his happiest among friends he loved; sketching a character, telling a story, acting a charade, taking part in a game ; turning into comedy an incident of the day, describing the last good or bad thing he had seen, reproducing in quaint, tragical, or humorous form and figure, some part of the passionate life with which all his being overflowed. * Assumption has charms for me * so delightful — I hardly know for how many wild reasons — th^t § ni.] Personal Characteristics, 495 * I feel a loss of Oh I can't say what exquisite foolery, when I London : J 836-70. * lose a chance of being some one not in the remotest degree * like myself.' How it was, that, from one of such boundless in ' as- resource in contributing to the pleasure of his friends, there was * yet, as I have said, so comparatively little to bring away, may be thus explained. But it has been also seen that no one at times said better things, and to happy examples formerly given I will add one or two of a kind he more rarely indulged. * He is below *■ par on the Exchange,' a friend remarked of a notorious puffing actor ; * he doesn't stand well at Lloyd's.' * Yet no one stands so * well with the underwriters,' said Dickens ; a pun that Swift would have envied. * I call him an Incubus ! ' said a non- literary friend, at a loss to express the boredom inflicted on him by a popular author. * Pen-and-ink-ubus, you mean,' interposed Puns and pleasan- Dickens. So, when Stanfield said of his midshipman son, then t"es. absent on his first cruise, * your boy has got his sea-legs on by this * time ! ' * I don't know,' remarked Dickens, * about his getting * his sea-legs on ; but if I may judge from his writing, he cer- * tainly has not got his A B C legs on.' Other agreeable pleasantries might be largely cited from his letters. 'An old priest ' (he wrote from France in 1862), 'the * express image of Frederic Lemaitre got up for the part, and very ' cross with the toothache, told me in a railway carriage the other * day, that we had no antiquities in heretical England. " None * **at all ? " I said. " You have some ships however." " Yes ; a *"few." "Are they strong?" "Well," said I, "your trade is * " spiritual, my father : ask the ghost of Nelson." A French * captain who was in the carriage, was immensely delighted with * this small joke. I met him at Calais yesterday going some- ' where with a detachment; and he said — Pardon ! But he had * been so limited as to suppose an Englishman incapable of that * bonhommie !' In humouring a joke he was excellent, both in Humouring , jokes. letters and talk; and for this kind of enjoyment his least im- portant little notes are often worth preserving. Take one small instance. So freely had he admired a tale told by his friend and solicitor Mr. Frederic Ouvry, that he had to reply to a humorous proposal for publication of it, in his own manner, in his own 496 The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book xi. London : periodical. * Youi modcsty is equal to your merit ... I think * your way of describing that rustic courtship in middle life, quite * matchless A cheque for ;^iooo is lying with the * publisher. We would willingly make it more, but that we find Two * our law charges so exceedingly heavy.' His letters have also Y^&f^"^ examples now and then of what he called his conversational triumphs. *I have distinguished myself * (28th of April 1861) * in two respects lately. I took a young lady, unknown, down ' to dinner, and, talking to her about the Bishop of Durham's ' nepotism in the matter of Mr. Cheese, I found she was '■ Mrs. Cheese. And I expatiated to the member for Marylebone, ' Lord Fermoy, generally conceiving him to be an Irish member, ' on the contemptible character of the Marylebone constituency * and Marylebone representation.' Ghost Among his good things should not be omitted his telling of a ghost story. He had something of a hankering after them, as the readers of his briefer pieces will know ; and such was his interest generally in things supernatural, that, but for the strong restraining power of his common sense, he might have fallen into the follies of spiritualism. As it was, no man was readier to apply sharp tests to such a ghost narrative as will be found, for example, in the 125th number of All the Year Round^ which before its pub- lication both Mr. Layard and myself saw at Gadshill, and identified as one related by Lord Lytton. It was published in September, and a day or two afterwards Dickens wrote to Lytton : * The artist himself who is the hero of that story has sent me * in black and white his own account of the whole experience, so * very original, so very extraordinary, so very far beyond the ver- * sion I have published, that all other like stories turn pale before * it.' The ghost thus reinforced came out in the number pub- lished on the 5th of October ; and the reader who cares to turn to it, and compare what Dickens in the interval (17th of Sep- tember) wrote to myself, will have some measure of his readiness to believe in such things. * Upon the publication of the ghost * story, up has started the portrait-painter who saw the phantoms ! * He had been, it seems, engaged to write his adventure elsewhere * as a story for Christmas, and not unnaturally supposed, when he § in.] Personal Characteristics. 497 * saw himself anticipated by us, that there had been treachery at London : 1870. * his printer's. " In particular," says he, how else was it possible Marvels * " that the date, the 13th of September, could have been got at? of coinci- dence. * " For I never told the date, until I wrote it." Now, my story * had NO DATE ; but seeing, when I looked over the proof, the * great importance of having a date, I (C. D.) wrote in, uncon- * sciously, the exact date on the margin of the proof ! ' The reader will remember the Doncaster race story; and to other like Ante, 237. illustrations of the subject already given, may be added this dream. * Here is a curious case at first-hand * (30th of May 1863). * On Thursday night in last week, being at the office * here, I dreamed that I saw a lady in a red shawl with her back * towards me (whom I supposed to be E.). On her turning round * I found that I didn't know her, and she said " I am Miss * " Napier." All the time I was dressing next morning, I thought * — What a preposterous thing to have so very distinct a dream * about nothing ! and why Miss Napier ? for I never heard of any * Miss Napier. That same Friday night, I read. After the * reading, came into my retiring-room, Mary Boyle and her * brother, and the Lady in the red shawl whom they present as " Miss Napier ! " These are all the circumstances, exactly ' told.' Another kind of dream has had previous record, with no super- i. 76-7, 287, stition to build itself upon but the loving devotion to one tender ^' memory. With longer or shorter intervals this was with him all his days. Never from his waking thoughts was the recollection alto- gether absent ; and though the dream would leave him for a time, it unfailingly came back. It was the feeling of his life that always had a mastery over him. What he said on the sixth anniversary of the death of his sister-in-law, that friend of his youth whom he had made his ideal of all moral excellence, he might have said as truly after twenty-six years more ; for in the very year before he died, the Predomi- influence was potently upon him. * She is so much in my thoughts pression of his life. * at all times, especially when I am successful, and have greatly * prospered in anything, that the recollection of her is an essential * part of my being, and is as inseparable from my existence as the * beating of my heart is.' Through later troubled years, whatever The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book x was worthiest in him found in this an ark of safety ; and it was the nobler part of his being which had thus become also the essential. It gave to success what success by itself had no power to give 'y and nothing could consist with it, for any length of time, that was not of good report and pure. What more could I say that was not better said from the pulpit of the Abbey where he rests ? * He whom we mourn was the friend of mankind, a philan- * thropist in the true sense ; the friend of youth, the friend of the * poor, the enemy of every form of meanness and oppression. I * am not going to attempt to draw a portrait of him. Men of ' genius are different from what we suppose them to be. They * have greater pleasures and greater pains, greater affections and ' greater temptations, than the generality of mankind, and they * can never be altogether understood by their fellow men * But we feel that a light has gone out, that the world is darker to ' us, when they depart. There are so very few of them that we cannot afford to lose them one by one, and we look vainly round ' for others who may supply their places. He whose loss we now ' mourn occupied a greater space than any other vvTiter in the minds '■ of Englishmen during the last thirty-three years. We read him, *■ talked about him, acted him ; we laughed with him ; we were roused ' by him to a consciousness of the misery of others, and to a pathetic ' interest in human life. Works of fiction, indirectly, are great ' instructors of this world ; and we can hardly exaggerate the debt * of gratitude which is due to a writer who has led us to sympa- ' thize with these good, true, sincere; honest English characters of ' ordinary life, and to laugh at the egotism, the hypocrisy, the ' false respectability of religious professors and others. To ' another great humourist who lies in this Church the words have * been applied that his death eclipsed the gaiety of nations. But * of him who has been recently taken I would rather say, in ' humbler language, that no one was ever so much beloved or so * much mourned.' BOOK TWELFTH. THE CLOSE. 1870. ^T. 58. I. Last Days. II. Westminster Abbey. LAST DAYS. 1869 — 1870. The summer and autumn of 1869 were passed quietly at gadsmih. 1869. Gadshill. He received there, in June, the American friends to whom he had been most indebted for unwearying domestic kind- Mrs.\ieitis. ness at his most trying time in the States. In August, he was at the dinner of the International boat-race ; and, in a speech that might have gone far to reconcile the victors to changing places with the vanquished, gave the healths of the Harvard and the Oxford crews. He went to Birmingham, in September, to fulfil a promise that he would open the session of the Institute; and there, after telling his audience that his invention, such as it was, never would have served him as it had done, but for the habit of commonplace, patient, drudging attention, he declared his political At Bir- - . , . mingham. creed to be infinitesimal faith in the people governing and illimit- Ante 480. able faith in the People governed. In such engagements as these, with nothing of the kind of strain he had most to dread, there was hardly more movement or change than was necessary to his enjoy- ment of rest. He had been able to show Mr. Fields something of the interest of London as well as of his Kentish home. He went over its general post-office with him, took him among its cheap theatres and poor lodging-houses, and piloted him by night through its most notorious thieves' quarter. Its localities that are pleasantest to a lover of books, such as Johnson's Bolt-court and Goldsmith's Temple-chambers, he explored with him; and, at his visitor's special request, mounted a staircase he had not ascended for visitor more than thirty years, to show the chamber in Furnival's Inn wher" where the first page of Pickwick was written. One more book, was begun, unfinished, was to close what that famous book began ; and the original of the scene of its opening chapter, the opium-eater's den, was the last place visited. ' In a miserable court at night,' 502 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XII. London: Say s Mr. Fields, 'we found a haggard old woman blowing at a — — * kind of pipe made of an old ink-bottle ; and the words that * Dickens puts into the mouth of this wretched creature in Edwin ' Drood^ we heard her croon as we leaned over the tattered bed in ' which she was lying.' Before beginning his novel he had written his last paper for his weekly pubHcation. It was a notice of my Life of Landor, and contained some interesting recollections of that remarkable man. Last paper His mcmory at this time dwelt much, as was only natural, m All the , ^ , ' ' R^'^'' d ^^^^ P^^^ pleasant time, as he saw familiar faces leaving us or likely to leave ; and, on the death of one of the comedians asso- ciated with the old bright days of Covent Garden, I had intima- tion of a fancy that had never quitted him since the Cheltenham reading. * I see in the paper to-day that Meadows is dead. I ' had a talk with him at Coutts's a week or two ago, when he * said he was seventy-five, and very weak. Except for having a ' tearful eye, he looked just the same as ever. My mind still * constantly misgives me concerning Macready. Curiously, I don't ' think he has been ever, for ten minutes together, out of my ' thoughts since I talked with Meadows last. Well, the year that * brings trouble brings comfort too : I have a great success in the * boy-line to announce to you. Harry has won the second Son * scholarship at Trinity Hall, which gives him ^£50 a year as long scholar- ' as he stays there ; and I begin to hope that he will get a fellow- ' ship.' I doubt if anything ever more truly pleased him than this little success of his son Henry at Cambridge. Henry missed the fellowship, but was twenty-ninth wrangler in a fair year, when the wranglers were over forty. He finished his first number of Edwin Drood in the third week of October, and on the 26th read it at my house with great spirit. A few nights before we had seen together at the Olympic a little drama taken from his Copperfield, which he sat out with more than patience, even with something of enjoyment ; and another ■j/leasure was given him that night by its author, Mr. Halliday, who brought into the box another dramatist, Mr. Robertson, to whom Dickens, who then first saw him, said that to himself the cnarm of his little comedies was ' their unassuming form,' which §1.] Last Days. 503 had so happily shown that ' real wit could afford to put off any London : 1869-70. * airs of pretension to it' He was at Gadshill till the close of the year ; coming up for a few special occasions, such as Procter's eighty-second birthday ; and at my house on new-year's eve he read to us a fresh number of his Edwin Drood. Yet these very last days of December had not been without a reminder of the grave warnings of April. The pains in somewhat modified form had returned in both his left hand and his left foot a few days before we met ; and they were troubling him still on that day. But he made so light of them himself ; so little thought of connecting them with the uncertainties of touch and tread of which they were really part : and read with such an overflow of ^ private reading of humour Mr. Honeythunder's boisterous philanthropy ; that there ^^^'l was no room, then, for anything but enjoyment. His only allusion to an effect from his illness was his mention of a now invincible dislike which he had to railway travel. This had decided him to take a London house for the twelve last readings in the early months of 1870, and he had become Mr. Milner Gibson's tenant at 5, Hyde Park Place. St. James's Hall was to be the scene of these Readings, and they were to occupy the interval from the nth of January to the 15th of March; two being given in each week to the close of January, and the remaining eight on each of the eight Tuesdays following. Nothing was said of any kind of apprehension as the Additional time approached; but, with a curious absence of the sense of fe" dings: danger, there was certainly both distrust and fear. Sufficient ^49-^5;. precaution was supposed to have been taken * by arrangement * I desire to guard myself against any possible supposition that I think these Readings might have been stopped by the exercise of medical authority. I am convinced of the contrary. Dickens had pledged him- self to them ; and the fact that others' interests were engaged rather than his own supplied him with an overpower- ing motive for being determinedly set on going through with them. At the sorrowful time in the preceding year, when, yielding to the stern sentence passed by Sir Thomas Watson, he had dismissed finally the staff employed on his country readings, he had thus written to me. * I do believe ' (3rd of May 1869) ' that such people as the * Chappells are very rarely to be found ' in human affairs. To say nothing of ' their noble and munificent manner of * sweeping away into space all the * charges incurred uselessly, and all * the inunense inconvenience and pro- 504 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XII. London: for the presence, at each reading, of his friend and medical attendant, Mr. F. C. Beard; but this resolved itself, not into any measure of safety, the case admitting of none short of stopping the reading altogether, but simply into ascertainment of the exact amount of strain and pressure, which, with every fresh exertion, he was placing on those vessels of the brain where the Preston trouble too surely had revealed that danger lay. No supposed force in reserve, no dominant strength of will, can turn aside the SregSd-^ penalties sternly exacted for disregard of such laws of life as were iaws.^^'^ here plainly overlooked j and though no one may say that it was not already too late for any but the fatal issue, there will be no presumption in believing that life might yet have been for some time prolonged if these readings could have been stopped. * I am a little shaken,' he wrote on the 9th of January, ' by my * journey to Birmingham to give away the Institution's prizes on ' Twelfth Night, but I am in good heart ; and, notwithstanding ' Lowe's worrying scheme for collecting a year's taxes in a lump, ' which they tell me is damaging books, pictures, music, and 'theatres beyond precedent, our "let" at St James's Hall is ' enormous.' He opened with Copperfield and the Pickwick Trial ; and I may briefly mention, from the notes taken by Mr. Beard and placed at my disposal, at what cost of exertion to himself he gratified the crowded audiences that then and to the close made these evenings memorable. His ordinary pulse on the first night was at 72 j but never on any subsequent night was lower than 82, and had risen on the later nights to more than a Excitement loo. After Copperfield on the first night it went up to 96, and incident . to readings, after Marigold on the second to 99 ; but on the first night of the Sikes and Nancy scenes (Friday the 21st of January) it went from 80 to 112, and on the second night (the ist of February) to ' fitless work thrown upon their esta- ' bhshment, comes a note this morning * from the senior partner, to the efifect ' that they feel that my overwork has ' been *' indirectly caused by them, * *' and by my great and kind exertions * " to make their venture successful to * ** the extreme. " There is something * so delicate and fine in this, that I ' feel it deeply.' That feeling led to his resolve to make the additional exertion of these twelve last readings, and nothing would have turned him from it as long as he could stand at the desk. § !•] Last Days. 505 118. From this, through the six remaining nights, it never was London: 1870. lower than no after the first piece read; and after the third and fourth readings of the Oliver Twist scenes it rose, from 90 to 124 on the 15th of February, and from 94 to 120 on the 8th of March ; on the former occasion, after twenty minutes' rest, falling to 98, and on the latter, after fifteen minutes' rest, falling to 82. His ordinary pulse on entering the room, during these last six nights, was more than once over 100, and never lower than 84 ; from which it rose, after Nickleby on the 22nd of February, to 112. On the 8th of February, when he read Dombey^ it had risen from 91 to 114; on the ist of March, after Copperfield, it rose from 100 to 124 ; and when he entered the room on the last night it was at 108, having risen only two beats more when the reading was done. The pieces on this occasion were the Christmas Carols followed by the Pickwick Trial ; and probably ^^st ,ught in all his life he never read so well. On his return from the States, where he had to address his effects to audiences composed of immense numbers of people, a certain loss of refinement had been observable ; but the old delicacy was now again delightfully manifest, and a subdued tone, as well in the humorous as the serious portions, gave something to all the reading as of a quiet sadness of farewell. The charm of this was at its height when he shut the volume of Pickwick and spoke in his own person. He said that for fifteen years he had been reading his own books to audiences whose sensitive and kindly recognition of them had given him instruction and enjoyment in his art such as few men could have had ; but that he nevertheless thought it well now to retire upon older associations, and in future to devote himself exclusively to the calling which had first made him known. * In * but two short weeks from this time I hope that you may enter, ' in your own homes, on a new series of readings at which my * assistance will be indispensable ; but from these garish lights I * vanish now for evermore, with a heartfelt, grateful, respectful, * affectionate farewell.' The brief hush of silence as he moved from the platform ; and the prolonged tumult of sound that fol- lowed suddenly, stayed him, and again for another moment brought him back ; will not be forgotten by any present. 5o6 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book xil. London : Little remains to be told that has not in it almost unmixed pain 1870. and sorrow. Hardly a day passed, while the readings went on or after they closed, unvisited by some effect or other of the disas- trous excitement shown by the notes of Mr. Beard. On the 23rd Results of of January, when for the last time he met Carlyle, he came to us over-excite- ment, with his left hand in a sling ; on the 7th of February, when he passed with us his last birthday, and on the 25th, when he read the third number of his novel, the hand was still swollen and painful; and on the 21st of March, when he read admirably his fourth number, he told us that as he came along, walking up the length of Oxford-street, the same incident had recurred as on the day of a former dinner with us, and he had not been able to read, all the way, more than the right-hand half of the names over the shops. Yet he had the old fixed persuasion that this was rather the effect of a medicine he had been taking than of any grave cause, and he still strongly believed his other troubles to be ex- clusively local. Eight days later he wrote : * My uneasiness and *■ hemorrhage, after having quite left me, as I supposed, has come * back with an aggravated irritability that it has not yet displayed. Ante, i. 198. You havc no idea what a state I am in to-day from a sudden ' violent rush of it ; and yet it has not the slightest effect on my ' general health that I know of.' This was a disorder which troubled him in his earlier life ; and during the last five years, in his intervals of suffering from other causes, it had from time to time taken aggravated form. Lastap- jjis last Dublic appearances were in April. On the sth he pen ranees a x x j. sj in public. the chair for the newsvendors, whom he helped with a genial address in which even his apology for little speaking over- flowed with irrepressible humour. He would try, he said, like Falstaff, ' but with a modification almost as large as himself,' less to speak himself than to be the cause of speaking in others. ' Much in this manner they exhibit at the door of a snuff-shop ' the efhgy of a Highlander with an empty mull in his hand, who, * apparently having taken all the snuff he can carry, and discharged * all the sneezes of which he is capable, politely invites his friends * and patrons to step in and try what they can do in the same * line.' On the 30th of the same month he returned thanks for §1.] Last Days, 507 * Literature ' at the Royal Academy dinner, and I may preface my London allusion to what he then said with what he had written to me the — day before. Three days earlier Daniel Maclise had passed away. * Like you at Ely, so I at Higham, had the shock of first reading * at a railway station of the death of our old dear friend and * companion. What the shock would be, you know too well. It * has been only after great difficulty, and after hardening and * steeling myself to the subject by at once thinking of it and * avoiding it in a strange way, that I have been able to get any * command over it or over myself. If I feel at the time that I Maciise. * can be sure of the necessary composure, I shall make a little * reference to it at the Academy to-morrow. I suppose you won't * be there.' * The reference made was most touching and manly. He told those who listened that since he first entered the public lists, a very young man indeed, it had been his constant fortune to number among his nearest and dearest friends members of that Academy who had been its pride ; and who had now, one by one, so dropped from his side that he was grown to believe, with the Spanish monk of whom Wilkie spoke, that the only realities around him were the pictures which he loved, and all the moving life but a shadow and a dream. * For many years I was one of * the two most intimate friends and most constant companions of * Mr. Maclise, to whose death the Prince of Wales has made * allusion, and the President has referred with the eloquence of ' genuine feeling. Of his genius in his chosen art, I will venture * to say nothing here ; but of his fertility of mind and wealth of *■ intellect I may confidently assert that they would have made ' him, if he had been so minded, at least as great a writer as he * I preserve also the closing words nected with the public work on which of the letter. *It is very strange — you he was engaged in those later years, * remember I suppose ? — that the last and to which he sacrificed every private * time we spoke of him together, you interest of^ his own. His was only the * said that we should one day hear that common fate of Englishmen, so en- * the wayward life into which he had gaged, who do this ; and when the * fallen was over, and there an end of story of the ' Fresco-painting for the * our knowledge of it.' The way- ' Houses of Parliament' comes to be ^"j.y"'* wardness, which was merely the having written, it will be another chapter added lately withdrawn himself too much to our national misadventures and re- from old friendly intercourse, had its proaches in everything connected with real origin in disappointments con- 'high' Art and its hapless cultivators. 5o8 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book XII. London: < was a painter. The gentlest and most modest of men, the * freshest as to his generous appreciation of young aspirants and * the frankest and largest hearted as to his peers, incapable of a * sordid or ignoble thought, gallantly sustaining the true dignity * of his vocation, without one grain of self-ambition, wholesomely Dickens's ' natural at the last as at the first, "in wit a man, simplicity a last public words. ' " child," — no artist of whatsoever denomination, I make bold * to say, ever went to his rest leaving a golden memory more ' pure from dross, or having devoted himself with a truer ' chivalry to the art-goddess whom he worshipped.* These were the last public words of Dickens, and he could not have spoken any worthier of himself, or better deserved than by him of whom they were spoken. Upon his appearance at the dinner of the Academy had followed some invitations he was led to accept ; greatly to his own regret, he told me on the night (7th of May) when he read to us the fifth number oi Edwin Drood ; for he was now very eager to get back to the quiet of Gadshill. He dined with Mr. Motley, then American minister; had met Mr. Disraeli at a dinner at Lord Stanhope's j had breakfasted with Mr. Gladstone ; and on the 17th was to attend the Queen's ball with his daughter. But she had to go there without him ; for on the i6th I had intimation of a sudden disablement. * I am sorry to report, that, in the old ' preposterous endeavour to dine at preposterous hours and pre- Another * postcrous places, I have been pulled up by a sharp attack in my attack in the toot. * foot. And serve me right. I hope to get the better of it soon, * but I fear I must not think of dining with you on Friday. I ' have cancelled everything in the dining way for this week, and ' that is a very small precaution after the horrible pain I have had * and the remedies I have taken.' He had to excuse himself also from the General Theatrical Fund dinner, where the Prince of Wales was to preside ; but at another dinner a week later, where the King of the Belgians and the Prince were to be present, so much pressure was put upon him that he went, still suffering as he was, to dine with Lord Houghton. We met for the last time on Sunday the 22nd of May, when I dined with him in Hyde Park Place. The death of Mr. Lemon, § I.] Last Days, 509 of which he heard that day, had led his thoughts to the crowd of London : 1870. friendly companions in letters and art who had so fallen from the ranks since we played Ben Jonson together that we were left meeting, almost alone. ' And none beyond his sixtieth year/ he said, * very few even fifty.' It is no good to talk of it, I suggested. ' We shall not think of it the less ' was his reply ; and an illus- tration much to the point was before us, afforded by an incident deserving remembrance in his story. Not many weeks before, a correspondent had written to him from Liverpool describing him- self as a self-raised man, attributing his prosperous career to what Dickens's writings had taught him at its outset of the wisdom of kindness, and sympathy for others; and asking pardon for the Note- liberty he took in hoping that he might be permitted to offer incident, some acknowledgment of what not only had cheered and stimu- lated him through all his life, but had contributed so much to the success of it. The letter enclosed ;^5oo. Dickens was greatly touched by this ; and told the writer, in sending back his cheque, that he would certainly have taken it if he had not been, though not a man of fortune, a prosperous man himself ; but that the letter, and the spirit of its offer, had so gratified him, that if the writer pleased to send him any small memorial of it in another form he would gladly receive it. The memorial soon came. A richly worked basket of silver, inscribed ' from one who has been * cheered and stimulated by Mr. Dickens's writings, and held the * author among his first remembrances when he became pros- ' perous,' was accompanied by an extremely handsome silver centrepiece for the table, of which the design was for figures representing the Seasons. But the kindly donor shrank from sending Winter to one whom he would fain connect with none save the brighter and milder days, and he had struck the fourth figure from the design. ' I never look at it,' said Dickens, ' that * I don't think most of the Winter.' The gift had yet too surely foreshadowed the truth, for the winter was never to come to him. A matter discussed that day with Mr. Ouvry was briefly resumed in a note of the 29th of May, the last I ever received from him ; which followed me to Exeter, and closed thus. ' You and I can Last letter * speak of it at Gads by and by. Foot no worse. But no better.' ^'"^ The Life of Charles Dickens, [Book XI I. Gadshill: The old trouble was upon him when we parted, and this must have been nearly the last note written before he quitted London. He was at Gadshill on the 30th of May ; and I heard no more until the telegram reached me at Launceston on the night of the 9th of June, which told me that the * by and by ' was not to come in this world. The few days at Gadshill had been given wholly to work on his novel. He had been easier in his foot and hand ; and, though he was suffering severely from the local hemorrhage before named, he made no complaint of illness. But there was observed in him a very unusual appearance of fatigue. * He Last days. <■ seemed very weary.' He was out with his dogs for the last time on Monday the 6th of June, when he walked with his letters into Rochester. On Tuesday the 7th, after his daughter Mary had left on a visit to her sister Kate, not finding himself equal to much fatigue, he drove to Cobham-wood with his sister-in-law there dismissed the carriage, and walked round the park and back. He returned in time to put up in his new conservatory some Chinese lanterns sent from London that afternoon ; and, the whole of the evening, he sat with Miss Hogarth in the dining- room that he might see their effect when lighted. More than once he then expressed his satisfaction at having finally abandoned all intention of exchanging Gadshill for London ; and this he had done more impressively some days before. While he lived, he said, he should wish his name to be more and more associated with the place ; and he had a notion that when he died he should like to lie in the little graveyard belonging to the Cathedral at the foot of the Castle wall. On the 8th of June he passed all the day writing in the Chalet. He came over for luncheon ; and, much against his usual custom, returned to his desk. Of the sentences he was then writing, the last of his long Hfe of literature, a portion has been given in facsimile on a previous page ; and the reader will observe with a painful interest, not alone its evidence of minute labour at this Thoughts fast-closing hour of time with him, but the direction his thoughts day of con- had taken. He imagines such a brilliant morning as had risen scioustjess. with that eighth of June shinmg on the old city of Rochester. § I.] Last Days. 5 1 1 Ke sees in surpassing beauty, with the lusty ivy gleaming in the Gadshill: 1870. sun, and the rich trees waving in the balmy air, its antiquities and its ruins ; its Cathedral and Castle. But his fancy, then, is not with the stern dead forms of either ; but with that which makes warm the cold stone tombs of centuries, and hghts them up with flecks of brightness, * fluttering there like wings.' To him, on that sunny summer morning, the changes of glorious light from moving boughs, the songs of birds, the scents from garden, woods, and fields, have penetrated into the Cathedral, have subdued its earthy odour, and are preaching the Resurrection and the Life. He was late in leaving the Chalet ; but before dinner, which Wednesday evening, was ordered at six o'clock with the intention of walking after- sth cf ° June. wards in the lanes, he wrote some letters, among them one to his friend Mr. Charles Kent appointing to see him in London next day ; and dinner was begun before Miss Hogarth saw, with alarm, a singular expression of trouble and pain in his face. * For an * hour,' he then told her, * he had been very ill ; ' but he wished dinner to go on. These were the only really coherent words uttered by him. They were followed by some, that fell from him disconnectedly, of quite other matters ; of an approaching sale at a neighbour's house, of whether Macready's son was with his father at Cheltenham, and of his own intention to go immediately to London ; but at these latter he had risen, and his sister-in-law's help alone prevented him from falling where he stood. Her effort then was to get him on the sofa, but after a slight struggle he sank heavily on his left side. * On the ground ' were the last The close, words he spoke. It was now a little over ten minutes past six o'clock. His two daughters came that night with Mr. F. Beard, who had also been telegraphed for, and whom they met at the station. His eldest son arrived early next morning, and was joined in the evening (too late) by his younger son from Cam- bridge. All possible medical aid had been summoned. The surgeon of the neighbourhood was there from the first, and a physician from London was in attendance as well as Mr. Beard. But human help was unavailing. There was effusion on the brain ; and though stertorous breathing continued all night, and 512 The Life of Charles Dickens. [BookXII. ^adshill: until ten minutes past six o'clock on the evening of Thursday the 9th of June, there had never been a gleam of hope during the Ante, 490. ° 10 twenty-four hours. He had lived four months beyond his 58th year. II. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. The excitement and sorrow at his death are within the memory of all. Before the news of it even reached the remoter parts of England, it had been flashed across Europe ; was known in the distant continents of India, Australia, and America ; and not in English-speaking communities only, but in every country of the civilised earth, had awakened grief and sympathy. In his own land it was as if a personal bereavement had befallen every one. Her Majesty the Queen telegraphed from Balmoral ' her deepest * regret at the sad news of Charles Dickens's death ; ' and this was the sentiment alike of all classes of her people. There was not an English journal that did not give it touching and noble utterance ; and the Times took the lead in suggesting * that the only fit resting-place for the remains of a man so dear to England was the Abbey in which the most illustrious Englishmen are said. * It is a duty to quote these eloquent words. * Statesmen, men of science, * philanthropists, the acknowledged * benefactors of their race, might pass iothandi3th ' ^way, and yet not leave the void of June. ' which will be caused by the death of * Dickens. They may have earned * the esteem of mankind ; their days * may have been passed in power, * honour, and prosperity ; they may * have been surrounded by troops of * friends ; but, however pre-eminent * in station, ability, or public services, ' they will not have been, like our ' great and genial novelist, the inti- ' mate of every household. Indeed, ' such a position is attained not even ' by one man in an age. It needs an * extraordinary combination of intel- * lectual and moral qualities . . before ' the world will thus consent to en- * throne a man as their unassailable * and enduring favourite. This is the * position which Mr. Dickens has occu- * pied vdth the English and also with * the American public for the third of * a century. . . Westminster Abbey * is the peculiar resting-place of Eng- * lish literary genius ; and among those ' whose sacred dust lies there, or ' whose names are recorded on the * walls, very few are more worthy than ' Charles Dickens of such a home. * Fewer still, we believe, will be re- ' garded with more honour as time passes and his greatness grows upon ♦us.' THE GRAVE. :.u]II)f>'; . ■ 1 AP.!/rA.TT ,S;HAL1. Westminster Abbey. 513 own wish. With the expression thus given to a general wish, the Dean of London : 1870 Westminster lost no time in showing ready compliance : and on ^ ^ Wish to the morning of the day when it appeared was in communication ^^jy^^'™ with the family and the executors. The public homage of a Abbey, burial in the Abbey had to be reconciled with his own instruc- tions to be privately buried without previous announcement of time or place, and without monument or memorial. He would himself have preferred to lie in the small graveyard under ^is Rochester Castle wall, or in the little churches of Cobham or Shorne ; but all these were found to be closed ; and the desire of the Dean and Chapter of Rochester to lay him in their Cathedral had been entertained, when the Dean of Westminster's request, and the considerate kindness of his generous assurance that there should be only such ceremonial as would strictly obey all injunc- tions of privacy, made it a grateful duty to accept that offer. The spot already had been chosen by the Dean ; and before midday '.rhe Burial, on the following morning, Tuesday the 14th of June, with know- ledge of those only who took part in the burial, all was done. The solemnity had not lost by the simplicity. Nothing so grand or so touching could have accompanied it, as the stillness and the silence of the vast Cathedral. Then, later in the day and all the following day, came unbidden mourners in such crowds, that the Dean had to request permission to keep open the grave until Thursday ; but after it was closed they did not cease to come, and unbidden ' all day long,' Doctor Stanley wrote on the 17th, ' there was a * constant pressure to the spot, and many flowers were strewn ' upon it by unknown hands, many tears shed from unknown eyes.* He alluded to this in the impressive funeral discourse delivered by him in the Abbey on the morning of Sunday the 19th, pointing to the fresh flowers that then had been newly thrown (as they still are thrown, in this fourth year after the death), and saying that ' the spot would thenceforward be a sacred one with both ' the New World and the Old, as that of the representative of the * literature, not of this island only, but of all who speak our * English tongue.' The stone placed upon it is inscribed Charles Dickens. Born February the Seventh 1812. Died June the Ninth 1870. VOL. II, L L mourners. 514 The Life of Charles Dickens. [Book xil. London: The highest associations of both the arts he loved surround him 187a ^ where he hes. Next to him is Richard Cumberland. Mrs. The Grave. Pritchard*s monument looks down upon him, and immediately behind is David Garrick's. Nor is the actor's delightful art more worthily represented than the nobler genius of the author. Facing the grave, and on its left and right, are the monuments of Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Dryden, the three immortals who did most to create and settle the language to which Charles Dickens has given another undying name. APPENDIX. 1. THE WRITINGS OF CHARLES DICKENS, PUBLISHED DURING THE PERIOD COMPRISED IN THIS SECOND VOLUME. 1847. Dealings with the Firm of Dombey and Son. (Twelve numbers published monthly durhig the year.) Bradbury & Evans. First Cheap Issue of the Works of Charles Dickens. An Edition, printed in double columns, and issued in weekly three- halfpenny numbers. The first number, being the first of Pickivick^ was issued in April 1847 ; and the volume containing that book, with preface dated September 1847, was published in October. New prefaces were for the most part prefixed to each story, and each volume had a frontispiece. The first series (issued by Messrs. Chapman and Hall, and closing in September 1852) comprised Pickwick, Nickleby, Curiosity Shop, Bamaby Rudge, Chuzzle- wit, Oliver Twist, American Notes, Sketches by Boz, and Christmas Books. The second (issued by Messrs. Bradbury & Evans, and closing in 1 861) contained Dombey and Son, David Copperfield, Bleak House, and Little Dorrit. The third, issued by Messrs. Chapman & Hall, has since included Great Expectations (1863), Tale of Two Cities (1864), Hard Times and Pictures from Italy (1865), Uncommercial Traveller (1865), and Our Mutual Friend (1867). Among the Illustrators employed for the Frontispieces were Leslie, R.A. , Webster R. A., Stanfield R.A., George Cattermole, George Cruikshank, Frank Stone A.R.A., John Leech, Marcus Stone, and Hablot Browne. See i. 517. ii. 18. 1848. Dealings with the Firm of Dombey and Son : Wholesale, Retail, and for Exportation. (Five numbers issued monthly, the last being a double number, from January to April ; in which latter month the complete work was published with dedication to Lady Normanby and preface dated Devonshire-terrace, 24th of March.) Bradbury & Evans, i- 355 ; 358 ; 449 ; 457 ; 473 ; 482 ; 484-5 J 523-4. 23-46 ; 344- The Haunted Man and the Ghost's Bargain. A Fancy for Christmas L L 2 5i6 Appendix. Time. By Charles Dickens. Illustrated by Stanfield R. A., John Tenniel, Frank Stone A.R.A., and John Leech. Bradbuiy & Evans, i. 484. ii. 18-19 ; 58 ; 73-76 ; 99. i349- The Personal History of David Copperfield. By Charles Dickens. With Illustrations by Hablot Browne. (Eight parts issued monthly from May to December.) Bradbury & Evans. 1850. The Personal History of David Copperfield, By Charles Dickens. Illustrated by Hablot Browne. (Twelve numbers issued monthly, the last being a double number, from January to November ; in which latter month the completed work was published, with inscription to Mr. and Mrs. Watson of Rockingham, and preface dated October.) Bradbury & Evans, i. 355. ii. 60; 68-9; 76; 95-7; IIO-12 ; 117; 120-34; 346-7. Household Words. On Saturday the 30th of March in this year the weekly serial of HOUSEHOLD Words was begun, and was carried on uninter- ruptedly to the 28th of May 1859, when, its place having been meanwhile taken by the serial in the same form still existing. Household Words was discontinued, i. 429-31. ii. 78-83 ; 281 ; 472-8. Christmas Number of Household Words. Christmas. To this Dickens contributed A Christmas Tree. 1851. Christmas Number of Household Words. What Christmas is. To this Dickens contributed What Christmas is as we grow older. 1852. Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. With Illustrations by Hablot Browne. (Ten numbers, issued monthly, from March to December.) Bradbury & Evans. Christmas Number of Household Words. Stories for Christmas. To this Dickens contributed The Poor Relation's Story and The Child's Story. 1853. Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. Illustrated by Hablot Browne. (Ten numbers issued monthly, the last being a double number, from January to September, in which latter month, with dedication to his * Com- 'panions in the Guild of Literature and Art,' and preface dated in August, the completed book was published.) Bradbury & Evans, ii. 26 j 123-5 ; 137-44 ; 153-4; 344- The Writings of Charles Dickens, 517 A Child's History of England. By Charles Dickens. Three vols. With frontispieces from designs by F. W. Topham. (Reprinted from Household Words, where it appeared between the dates of the 25th of January 185 1 and the loth of December 1853. It was published first in a complete form with dedication to his own children, in 1854.) Bradbury & Evans, ii. 153. Christmas Number of Household Words. Christmas Stories. To this Dickens contributed The School Boy's Story, and Nobody's Story. 1854. Hard Times. For these Times. By Charles Dickens. (This tale appeared in weekly portions in Household Words, between the dates of the 1st of April and the 12th of August 1854 ; in which latter month it was published complete, with inscription to Thomas Carlyle.) Brad- bury & Evans, ii. 145-8. Christmas Number of Household Words. The Seven Poor Travellers. To this Dickens contributed three chapters. I. In the Old City of Rochester ; II. The Story of Richard Doubledick ; III. Thk Road. ii. 221. 1855. Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. Illustrated by Hablot Browne, The first number published in December. Bradbury & Evans. Christmas Number of Household Words, The Holly-Tree. To this Dickens contributed three branches. I. Myself ; II. The Boots ; III. The Bill. iL 221. 1856. Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. Illustrated by Hablot Browne, (Twelve numbers issued monthly, between January and December.) Bradbury & Evans. Christmas Number of Household Words. The Wreck of the Golden Mary. To this Dickens contributed the leading chapter : The Wreck. ii. 468. 1857. Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. Illustrated by Hablot Browne. (Seven numbers issued monthly, the last being a double number, from January to June, in which latter month the tale was published complete, with preface, and dedication to Clarkson Stanfield. ) Bradbury & Evans, ii. 160-1 ; 177; 190; 221-9; 371-3- The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices, in Household Words for October. To the first part of these papers Dickens contributed all up to the top of the second column of page 316 ; to the second part, all up to the white line in the second column of page 340 ; to the third pari, A pp^ndix. all except the reflections of Mr. Idle (363-5) ; and the whole of the fourth part. All the rest was by Mr. Wilkie Collins, ii. 233-7 » 348' Christmas Number of Household Words. The Perils of Certain English Prisoners. To this Dickens contributed the chapters entitled The Island of Silver-Store, and The Rafts on the River. The First Library Edition of the Works of Charles Dickens. The first volume, with dedication to John Forster, was issued in De- cember 1857, and the volumes appeared monthly up to the 24th, issued in November 1859. The later books and writings have been added in subsequent volumes, and an edition has also been issued wdth the illus- trations. To the second volume of the Old Curiosity Shop, as issued in this edition, were added 31 * Reprinted Pieces' taken from Dickens's papers in Household Words ; which have since appeared also in other collected editions. Chapman & Hall. ii. 279. Authorized French Translation of the Works of Dickens. Trans- lations of Dickens exist in every European language ; but the only version of his writings in a foreign tongue authorized by him, or for which he received anything, was undertaken in Paris. Nickleby was the first story published, and to it was prefixed an address from Dickens to the French public dated from Tavistock -house the 17th January 1857. Hachette. ii. 194; 197; 215 note. 1858. Christmas Number of Household Words. A House to Let. To this Dickens contributed the chapter entitled * Going into Society.' ii, 290; 296. 1859. All the Year Round, the weekly serial which took the place of House- hold Words. Began on the 30th of April in this year, went on un- interruptedly until Dickens's death, and is continued under the manage- ment of his son. ii. 281-292 ; 452 ; 472-8. A Tale of Two Cities. By Charles Dickens. Illustrated by Hablot Browne. This tale was printed in weekly portions in All the Year Round between the dates of the 30th of April and the 26th of November 1859 ; appearing also concurrently in monthly numbers with illustrations, from June to December ; when it was published complete with dedication to Lord John Russell, ii. 284 ; 350-5 ; 373. Christmas Number oi All the Year Round. The Haunted House. To which Dickens contributed two chapters. I. The Mortals in the House ; II. The Ghost in Master B's Room. ii. 287. i860. Hunted Down. A Story in two Portions. (Written for an American newspaper, and reprinted in the numbers of All ike Year Round for the 4th and the iith of August.) ii. 291 ; 373. The Writings of Charles Dickens, 519 The Uncommercial Traveller. By Charles Dickens. Seventeen papers, which had appeared under this title between the dates of 28th of January and 13th of October i860 in All the Year Round., were published at the close of the year, in a volume, with preface dated December. A later impression was issued in 1868, as a volume of what was called the Charles Dickens Edition ; when eleven fresh papers, written in the interval, were added ; and promise was given, in a preface dated December 1868, of the Uncommercial Traveller's intention •to take to the road again before another winter sets in.' Between that date and the autumn of 1869, when the last of his detached papers were written, All the Year Round published seven * New Uncommercial * Samples ' which have not yet been collected. Their titles were, i. Aboard Ship (which opened, on the 5th of December 1868, the New Series of All the Year Round) ; ii. A Small Star in the East ; iii. A Little Dinner in an Hour ; iv. Mr. Barlow ; v. On an Amateur Beat ; vi. A Fly-leaf in a Life ; vii. A Plea for Total Abstinence. The date of the last was the 5th of June 1869 ; and on the 24th of July appeared his last piece of writing for the serial he had so long conducted, a paper entitled Landor's Life. ii. 287-91. Christmas Number of All the Year Round, A Message from the Sea. To which Dickens contributed nearly all the first, and the whole of the second and the last chapter : The Village, The Money, and The Restitution ; the two intervening chapters, though also wdth insertions from his hand, not being his. Great Expectations. By Charles Dickens. Begun in All the Year Round on the ist of December, and continued weekly to the close of that year. 1861. Great Expectations. By Charles Dickens. Resumed on the 5th of January and issued in weekly portions, closing on the 3rd of August, when the complete story was published in three volumes and inscribed to Chauncy Hare Townshend. In the following year it was published in a single volume, illustrated by Mr. Marcus Stone. Chapman & Hall. ii. 286 ; 295 ; 296 (the words there used * on Great Expectations * closing in June 1861 * refer to the time when the Writing of it was closed : it did not close in the Publication until August, as above stated), ii. 355-61. Christmas Number of All the Year Round. Tom Tiddler's Ground. To which Dickens contributed three of the seven chapters. 1. Picking up Soot and Cinders ; IL Picking up Miss Kimmeens ; lU. Picking up the Tinker, ii. 286. 1862. Christmas Number of All the Year Round. Somebody's Luggage. To which Dickens contributed four chapters. I. His Leaving it till CALLED for; IL His BooTS ; III. His Brown-paper Parcel; IV. His Wonderful End. To the chapter of His Umbrella he also contributed a portion, ii 348 ; 362. 520 A ppendix. Christmas Number of All the Year Round. Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings. To which Dickens contributed the first and the last chapter. I. How Mrs. Lirriper carried on the Business ; II. How the Parlouks ADDED A few WoRDS. ii. 362. 1864. Our Mutual Friend. By Charles Dickens. With Illustrations by Marcus Stone. Eight numbers issued monthly between May and December. Chapman & Hall. Christmas Number of All the Year Round. Mrs. Lirriper's Legacy : to which Dickens contributed the first and the last chapter. I. Mrs. Lirriper relates how she went on, and went over ; II. Mrs. Lirriper relates now Jemmy topped up. ii. 362. 1865. Our Mutual Friend. By Charles Dickens. With Illustrations by Marcus Stone. In Two Volumes. (Two more numbers issued in January and February, when the first volume was published, with dedica- tion to Sir James Emerson Tennent. The remaining ten numbers, the last being a double number, were issued between March and November, when the complete work was published in two volumes.) Chapman & Hall. ii. 304 ; 363-8 ; 374. Christmas Number of All the Year Round. Doctor Marigold's Pre- scriptions. To this Dickens contributed three portions. I. To be Taken Immediately ; II. To be taken for Life ; III. The portion with the title of To be Taken with a Grain of Salt, describing a Trial for Murder, was also his. ii. 369. 1866. Christmas Number of All the Year Round. Mugby Junction. To this Dickens contributed four papers. I. Barbox Brothers ; II. Barbox Brothers and Co. ; III. Main Line — The Boy at Mugby ; IV. No. I. Branch Line— The Signal-man. ii. 369. 1867. The Charles Dickens Edition. This collected edition, which had ori- ginated with the American publishing firm of Ticknor and Fields, was issued here between the dates of 1868 and 1870, with dedication to John Forster, beginning with Pickwick in May 1867, and closing with the Child's History in July 1870. The Reprinted Pieces were with the volume of American Notes, and the Pictures from Italy closed the volume containing Hard Times. Chapman & Flail. The Writings of Charles Dickens. 5 2 i Christmas Number of All the Year Round. No Thoroughfare. To this Dickens contributed, with Mr, Wilkie Collins, in nearly equal por- tions. With the new series of All the Year Round, which began on the 5th of December 1868, Dickens discontinued the issue of Christmas Numbers, ii. 369. 1868. A Holiday Romance. George Silverman's Explanation. Written respectively for a Child's Magazine, and for the Atlantic Monthly, pub- lished in America by Messrs. Ticknor and Fields. Republished in All the Year Round on the 25th of January and the 1st and 8th of February 1868. ii. 323 ; 370. 1870. The Mystery of Edwin Drood. By Charles Dickens, with twelve illus- trations by S. L. Fildes. (Meant to have comprised twelve monthly numbers, but prematurely closed by the writer's death in June.) Issued in six monthly numbers, between April and September. Chapman & Hall. ii. 451-63. 1871-1872-1873. The Present Life of Charles Dickens appeared originally in three volumes, of which the first was published in November 1871, the second in November 1872, and the third in December 1873, Appendix. II. THE WILL OF CHARLES DICKENS. * I, Charles Dickens, of Gadshill Place, Higham in the county of Kent, * hereby revoke all my former Wills and Codicils and declare this to be my * last Will and Testament. I give the sum of £\ooo free of legacy duty to * Miss Ellen Lawless Teman, late of Houghton Place, Ampthill Square, in ' the county of Middlesex. I give the sum of £\f) 19 o to my faithful servant ' Mrs. Anne Cornelius. I give the sum of 19 o to the daughter and * only chUd of the said Mrs. Anne Cornelius. I GIVE the sum of £\<^ 19 o * to each and every domestic servant, male and female, who shall be in my * employment at the time of my decease, and shall have been in my employ- * ment for a not less period of time than one year. I GIVE the sum of ;^icxx> * free of legacy duty to my daughter Mary Dickens. I also give to my said * daughter an annuity of ^300 a year, during her life, if she shall so long con- * tinue unmarried ; such annuity to be considered as accruing from day to day, ' but to be payable half yearly, the first of such half-yearly payments to be ' made at the expiration of six months next after my decease. If my said * daughter Mary shall marry, such annuity shall cease ; and in that case, but * in that case only, my said daughter shall share with my other children in the ' provision hereinafter made for them, I give to my dear sister-in law * Georgina Hogarth the sum of ;^8ooo free of legacy duty. I also give to the ' said Georgina Hogarth all my personal jewellery not hereinafter mentioned, * and all the little familiar objects from my writing-table and my room, and * she will know what to do with those things. I also give to the said * Georgina Hogarth all my private papers whatsoever and wheresoever, and I * leave her my grateful blessing as the best and truest friend man ever had, I * give to my eldest son Charles my library of printed books, and my engrav- * ings and prints j and I also give to my son Charles the silver salver pre- * sented to me at Birmingham, and the silver cup presented to me at Edin- ' burgh, and my shirt studs, shirt pins, and sleeve buttons. And I bequeath * unto my said son Charles and my son Henry Fielding Dickens, the sum of * ;^8ooo upon trust to invest the same, and from time to time to vary the in- * vestments thereof, and to pay the annual income thereof to my wife during * her life, and after her decease the said sum of ;^8ooo and the investments * thereof shall be in trust for my children (but subject as to my daughter Mary * to the proviso hereinbefore contained) wiio being a son or sons shail have * attained or shall attain the age of twenty-one years,' or being a daughter or * daughters shall have attained or shall attain that age or be previously married, * in equal shares if more than one. I GIVE my watch (the gold repeater pre- * sented to me at Coventry), and I give the chains and seals and all appendages * I have worn with it, to my dear and trusty friend John Forster, of Palace Gate * House, Kensington, in the county of Middlesex aforesaid ; and I also give to The Will of Charles Dickens. 523 * the said John Forstersuch manuscripts of my published works as maybe in my * possession at the time of my decease. And I devise and bequeath all my ' real and personal estate (except such as is vested in me as a trustee or mort- ' gagee) unto the said Georgina Hogarth and the said John Forster, their * heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns respectively, upon trust that they * the said Georgina Hogarth and John Forster, or the survivor of them or the * executors or administrators of such survivor, do and shall, at their, his, or her * uncontrolled and irresponsible direction, either proceed to an immediate sale * or conversion into money of the said real and personal estate (including my ' copyrights), or defer and postpone any sale or conversion into money, till ' such time or times as they, he, or she shall think fit, and in the meantime * may manage and let the said real and personal estate (including my copy- ' rights), in such manner in all respects as I myself could do, if I vv^ere living * and acting therein ; it being my intention that the trustees or trustee for the ' time being of this my Will shall have the fullest power over the said real and * personal estate which I can give to them, him, or her. And I declare * that, until the said real and personal estate shall be sold and converted into * money, the rents and annual income thereof respectively shall be paid and ' applied to the person or persons in the manner and for the purposes to whom ' and for which the annual income of the monies to arise from the sale or con- * version thereof into money would be payable or applicable under this my ' Will in case the same were sold or converted into money. And I declare * that my real estate shall for the purposes of this my Will be considered as ' converted into personalty upon my decease. And I declare that the said * trustees or trustee for the time being, do and shall, with and out of the * monies which shall come to their, his, or her hands, under or by virtue of * this my Will and the trusts thereof, pay my just debts, funeral and testa- * mentary expenses, and legacies. And I declare that the said trust funds ' or so much thereof as shall remain after answering the purposes aforesaid, and * the annual income thereof, shall be in trust for all my children (but subject as ' to my daughter Mary to the proviso hereinbefore contained), who being a son * or sons shall have attained or shall attain the age of twenty-one years, and * being a daughter or daughters shall have attained or shall attain that age or * be previously married, in equal shares if more than one. Provided ' ALWAYS, that, as regards my copyrights and the produce and profits thereof, ' my said daughter Mary, notwithstanding the pi^oviso hereinbefore contained * with reference to her, shall share with my other children therein whether she ' be married or not. And I devise the estates vested in me at my decease as * a trustee or mortgagee unto the use of the said Georgina Hogarth and John * Forster, their heirs and assigns, upon the trusts and subject to the equities * affecting the same respectively. And I appoint the said Georgina ' Hogarth and John Forster executrix and executor of this my Will, and ' Guardians of the persons of my children during their respective minorities. ' And lastly, as I have now set down the form of words which my legal ad- ' vLsers assure me are necessary to the plain objects of this my Will, T solemnly * enjoin my dear children always to remember how much they owe to the said * Georgina Hogarth, and never to be wanting in a grateful and affectionate 524 Appendix. ' attachment to her, for they know well that she has been, through all the ' stages of their growth and progress, their ever useful self-denying and ' devoted friend. And I desire here simply to record the fact that my wife, * since our separation by consent, has been in the receipt from me of an * annual income of /^6oo, while all the great charges of a numerous and ex- * pensive family have devolved wholly upon myself. I emphatically direct ' that I be buried in an inexpensive, unostentatious, and strictly private manner ; ' that no public announcement be made of the time or place of my burial ; that * at the utmost not more than three plain mourning coaches be employed ; and * that those who attend my funeral wear no scarf, cloak, black bow, long hat- ' band, or other such revolting absurdity. I direct that my name be in- ' scribed in plain English letters on my tomb, without the addition of '* Mr." * or Esquire." I conjure my friends on no account to make me the subject ol * any monument, memorial, or testimonial whatever. I rest my claims to the * remembrance of my country upon my published works, and to the remem- * brance of my friends upon their experience of me in addition thereto. I * commit my soul to the mercy of God through our Lord and Saviour Jesus * Christ, and I exhort my dear children humbly to try to guide themselves by * the teaching of the New Testament in its broad spirit, and to put no faith in * any man's narrow construction of its letter here or there. In witness * whereof I the said Charles Dickens, the testator, have to this my last Will ' and Testament set my hand this I2th day of May in the year of our Lord * 1869. * Charles Dickens. * Signed published and declared by the above-named ^ ' Charles Dickens the testator as and for his last Will * and Testament in the presence of us (present together ' at the same time) who in his presence at his request ) ' and in the presence of each other have hereunto sub- * scribed our names as witnesses. ^ ' G. HOLSWORTH, • 26 Wellington Street, Strand. ' Henry Walker, * 26 Wellington Street, Strand. ' I, Charles Dickens of Gadshill Place near Rochester in the county of * Kent Esquire declare this to be a Codicil to my last Will and Testament * which Will bears date the 12th day of May 1869. I give to my son Charles ' Dickens the younger all my share and interest in the weekly journal called * *' All the Year Round," which is now conducted under Articles of Partner- * ship made between me and William Henry Wills and the said Charles ' Dickens the younger, and all my share and interest in the stereotypes stock * and other effects belonging to the said partnership, he defraying my share of * all debts and liabilities of the said partnership which may be outstanding at * the time of my decease, and in all other respects I confirm my said WilL In The Will of Charles Dickens. 525 ' WITNESS whereof I have hereunto set my hand the 2nd day of June in the * year of our Lord 1870. ' Charles Dickens. ' Signed and declared by the said Charles * Dickens, the testator as and for a Codicil to his * Will in the presence of us present at the same * time who at his request in his presence and in the * presence of each other hereunto subscribe our names * as witnesses. ' G. HOLSWORTH, * 26 Wellington Street, Strand. ' H. Walker, * 26 Wellington Street, Strand.' The real and personal estate, — taking the property bequeathed by the last codicil at a valuation of something less than two years* purchase ; and of course before payment of the legacies, the (in considerable) debts, and the testamentary and other expenses,— amounted, as nearly as may be calculated, tO;^93,ooo. INDEX. A'Beckett (Gilbert), at Miss Kelly's theatre, i. 434 ; death of, ii. 193. Aberdeen, reading at, ii. 278. Absolon (John), ii. 87. Actors and acting, i. 1 14-15, 173, 293-6, 350, 372-3, 408 ; at Miss Kelly's theatre, i. 433-7 ; French, ii. 195- 206. Adams (John Quincey), i. 247. Adams (Mr.), i. 221. Adelphi theatre, Carol dramatized at the, i. 350. Africa, memorials of dead children in, ii. 383. Agassiz (M.), ii. 396 note. Agreements, literary, i. 345, ii. 282. Ainsworth (Harrison), i. 75, 93, 119, ii. 94 ; editor of Bentleyl's Miscellany, L 107. Alamode beef-house (Johnson's), i 27. Albany (U. S.), reading at, ii. 430 (and see 434). Albaro, Villa Bagnerello at, i. 362-80 ; the sirocco, i. 363 ; Angus Fletcher's sketch of the villa, i. 368 ; English servants, i. 369; tradespeople, i. 370; dinner at French consul's, i. 374-6 ; reception at the Marquis di Negri's, i 376-7. Albert (Prince), i. 227 note ; at Bou- logne, ii. 184-5. Alexander (Mr.), i. 206, Alison (Dr.), i. 172, 173. Alison (Sheriff), ii. 19-20. All the Year Round, titles suggested for, ii. 283-4 ; first number, ii. 285 (see 518); success of, ii. 285; distinction between Household Words and, ii. 286 ; tales by eminent writers, ib. 296 ; sale of Christmas numbers, ii. 287; Dickens's detached papers, ii. 287- 91 ; Bulwer Lytton's Strange Story written for, ii. 296 ; Charies Collins's papers, ii 293 ; projected story for, ii. 315 ; new series, ii. 452 note ; long serial stories accepted, ii. 475 j Dickens's last paper in, ii. 502 ; Christmas numbers, ii. 519-21. See codicil to will, ii. 524. Allan (Sir William), i. 168, 170, 173-4; iL 103. Allonby (Cumberland), ii. 235 ; land- lady of inn, ii. 236. Allston (Washington), i. 234. Amateur theatricals, i. 293-4, ii. 109, 156-9. Arabigu (Paris), Paradise Lost at the, ii, 200-1. America, visit to, contemplated by Dickens, i. 129 ; wide-spread know- ledge of Dickens's writings in, i. 143- 4, ii. 390 ; eve of visit, i. 195-200 ; visit decided, i. 196 ; proposed book about, ib. ; arrangements for journey, i. 197 ; rough passage, L 200-205 J first impressions, i. 205-218 ; hotels, 209, 244, ii. 395, 397, 400, 408; inns, i. 243, 258 note, 278, 283-5 > Dickens's popularity in, i. 211, ii. 398 ; second impressions, i. 219-36 ; levees, i. 221, 245, 258, 264, 273, 282 ; outcry against Dickens, i. 225 ; 5^8 Index. slavery, i, 231, 250, 274-6, 356 ; international copyright agitation, i. 219, 225, 228, 234-6, 254, 289-90; railway travelling, i. 237-8, 260, iL 402-3, 412, 429 ; trying climate, i. 246 (see ii. 408) ; * located ' Eng- lishmen, i. 248 ; Dickens's dislike of, lb. ; canal-boat journeys, i. 253- 69 ; Dickens's real compliment to, i. 255 ; deference paid to ladies in, i. 1231; duelling, i 280; Dickens's opinion of country and people in 1842, i. 248, 284, 306 : in 1868, i. 308, ii. 413-14 ; effect of Martin Chuzzlewity in, i. 336-7 ; desire to hear Dickens read, i. 321 ; Mr. Dolby sent to, ii. 322; result of Dolby's visit, ii. 324-5 note ; revisited by Dickens, ii. 393-435 J old and new friends, ii. 396 ; profits of readings, ii. 398 ; Fenianism in, ii. 402 ; news- papers, ii. 404 ; planning the read- ings, ii. 405-6 ; nothing lasts long in, ii. 405, 425 ; work of Dickens's staff in, ii. 409 ; the result of 34 readings, ii. 415 ; Dickens's way of life, ii. 415, 429, 43 1 note ; value of a vote, ii . 4 1 8 ; objection to coloured people, ib. ; female beauty, ii. 427 ; total expenses of reading tour, and profits from read- ings, ii. 434 ; Dickens's departure from, ii. 435 ; effect of Dickens's death, ii. 390. Americanisms, i. 231, 262, 274, 290, ii. 410, 427. American Notes, choicest passages of, i. 256 ; less satisfactory than Dickens's letters, i. 253-4 ; in preparation, i. 298 (see 527) ; proposed dedication, i. 301 ; rejected motto for, i, 303 j suppressed introductory chapter, i. 304-7 ; Jeffrey's opinion of, i. 307-8 ; large sale, i. 307. Americans, friendly, i. 409 ; deaths of famous, since 1842, ii. 396 note; homage to Dickens by, ii. 453 note ; French contrasted with, ii. 231, 283. Andersen (Hans), ii. 231, 283. Animals in Italy, cruel treatment of, i. 415 note. Anniversary, a birthday, i. 70, 99, 264, ii. 313 ; a fatal, ii. 311, 366-7. Archdale (Mr. and Mrs.), ii. 102. Arnold (Dr.), Dickens's reverence for, i. 389. Arras (France), a religious Richardson's show at, ii. 305-6. Art, conventionalities of, i. 403 ; limi- tations of, in England, ii. 334 ; in- feriority of English to French, ii. 212-3. Artists' Benevolent Fund dinner, appeal by Dickens at, ii. 279. Ashburton (Lord), i. 232, 274. Ashley (Lord) and ragged schools, i. 192, ii. 1 16-17. See Shaftesbury, Lord. Astley's, a visit from, ii. 229-30. As you Like It^ a French version of, ii. 201. Auber and Queen Victoria, ii. 203-4. Austin (Henry), i. 119, ii. 285; secre- tary to the Sanitary Commission, ii. 15 ; death of, ii. 297. Australia, idea of settling in, entertained by Dickens, ii. 243 ; scheme for read- ings in, ii. 303 note (idea abandoned, ii- 305)- Austrian police, ii. 1 75-6. Authors, American, i. 234. Authorship, disquietudes of, i. 489. Babbage (Charles), ii. 99. Backwoods doctor, ii. 311 note. Bagot (Sir Charles), i. 292-4. Balloon Club at Twickenham, i. 120 note. Baltimore (U.S.), women of, ii. 417; readings at, ii. 417, 423 (and see 434) ; white and coloured prisoners in Penitentiary, ii. 419. Bancroft (George), i. 209, ii. 98. Banquets, Emile de Girardin's superb. ii. 207-9. Bantams, reduced, ii. 290. Barbox Brother^, ii. 369. Index. 529 Barthelemy (M.), leaves his card, i. 516. Barham (Rev. Mr.), i. 407, u. 104. Barnaby Rudge, agreement to write, i. 87 (and see 97, 105-6, 527) j Dickens atworkon,i. 122, 155, 160-3; agreement for, transferred to Chap- man and Hall, i. 149 (see 107) ; the raven in, i. 1 56-8, 166; constraints of weekly publication, i. 162 ; close of, i. 163 ; characterised, i. 163-66 ; Lord Lytton's opinion of, i. 164. Barrow, Elizabeth (Dickens's mother), i. 3- Barrow (Mary), i. 11. Barrow (Charles), i. ii. Barrow (Thomas), i. 3 ; accident to, i. 18. Bartlett (Dr.) on slavery in America, i. 275-6. Bartley (Mr.), of Covent-garden, i. 58 (see 120). Bath, a fancy about, ii. 444. Bathing, sea, Dickens's love of, i. 301, 322, 380. Battle of Life, i. 528; title suggested for, i. 463 (and see 494) ; contemplated abandonment of, i. 493 ; writing re- sumed, i. 493 ; points in the story, i. 494; Jeffrey's opinion of, i. 500; sketch of, ib. ; Dickens's own comments on, i. 502 ; date of the story, ib. ; reply to criticism, i. 503 ; doubts as to third part, i. 504 ; dedication, i. 505 ; illustrated by Stanfield and Leech, ib. ; grave mistake made by Leech, ib. ; dramatized, i. 515. Bayham-street, Camden town, Dickens's early life in, i. 14-19. Beale (Mr.), proposal from, respecting paid readings, ii. 252. Beard (Mr. Carr), on Dickens's lame- ness, ii. 445 ; readings stopped by, ii. 445, 448 ; in constant attendance on Dickens at his last readings, ii, 447, 504. Beard (Thos.), i. 55, 62-3, u8, 120, ii. 99, 293. VOL. II. Beard (Frank), ii, 104. Beaucourt (M.) described by Dickens, ii. 179-82; his 'property,' ii. 180; among the Putney market-gardeners, ii. 181 ; his goodness, ii. 1 93-4. Bedrooms, American, i. 209,221. Beecher (Ward), ii. 416 ; readings in his church at Brooklyn, ii. 411, 415-6. Beer, a dog's fancy for, ii, 267 note. Beggars, Italian, i, 412-13. Begging-letter writers, i. 152-3, 358 ; in Paris, i. 517. Belfast, reading at, ii. 275. Bell (Robert), ii, 99, Benedict (Jules), illness of, ii, 97. Bentley (Mr.), Dickens's early relations with, i. 78, 87-8, 92, 96, 106-7, ii. 282-3 ; friendly feeling of Dickens in after life, ii. 108, 282-3. Bentley' s Miscellany, Dickens editor of, i. 78 ; proposal to write Barnaby Rudge \n, i. 97; editorship transferred to Mr. Ainsworth, i. 107-8 ; short pieces by Dickens in, i. 526. Berwick, Mary (Adelaide Procter), ii. 475-6. Berwick-on-Tweed, readings at, ii. 295 299, 300. Bethnal Green fowls, ii. 290. Betting-men at Doncaster, ii, 236-7. Beverley (William) at Wellington-house academy, i. 48-9. Birmingham, Dickens's promise to read at, ii. 152 ; promise fulfilled (first public readings), ii. 154; other read- ings, ii. 295, 316; silver salver pre- sented to Dickens, ii. 152 (see 522) ; Dickens's speeches at Institute, i. 349, ii. 480 (see 493, 501). Birthday associations, i. 70, 99, 264, ii- 313- Black (Adam), i. 172. Black (Charles), ii. 104. Black (John), i. 61, 356 ; his early ap- preciation of Dickens, i. 65 (see 319) ; dinner to, i, 320. Blacking-warehouse (at Hungerford M M 530 Index. Stairs), Dickens employed at, i. 25 ; described, ib. (and see ii. 488 note) ; associates of Dickens, i. 26 ; removed to Chandos-street, Covent-garden, i. 37 ; Dickens leaves, L 38 ; what be- came of the business, 1. 39. Blackmore (Edward), employs Dickens as clerk, i. 41 ; his recollections of Dickens, ib. Blackpool, Dickens at, ii. 446. Blackwood's Magazine and Little Dorritt ii. 228. Blair (General), ii. 421. Blanchard (Laman), i. 398, 407 ; a Literary Fund dinner described by, i. 227 note. Bleak House begun, ii. 118 (see 516); originals of Boythorn and Skimpole, ii. 123-4 ; inferior to Copperjieldy ii. 128; handling of character in, ii. 137- 144; defects of, ii. 139-40; Dean Ramsay on, ii. 142 ; originais of Chancery abuses, ii. 143 ; proposed titles for, ii. 148 note ; completion, iu 137 ; sale of, ii. 153. Blessington (Lady), lines written for, i. 320 note (and see 348). Blind Institution at Lausanne, inmates of, i. 452-6, ii. 163. Boat-race (International), Dickens's speech at dinner, ii. 501. Bonchurch, Dickens at, iL 62-70 j effect of climate, ii. 66-8 ; conjuring at, ii. 187-8 note. Book friends, ii. 19. Books, written and unwritten, hints for, a. 370-86 ; suggested titles in Memo- randa for new, ii. 384. Bookseller in distress, i. 228. Booksellers, invitation to, i. 353 note. Boots, absurdity of, i. 222. Boots, a gentlemanly, at Calais, i. 88 ; a patriotic Irish, ii. 273. Boots at the Holly -tree Inn, ii. 221 ; success of reading at Boston (U.S.), ii. 410. Bores, American, i. 266, 271-2. Boston (U.S.), first visit to, i. 205-12 : enthusiastic reception, i. 206 ; dinner at, i. 220 ; changes since 1 842, ii. 397 ; first reading, ii. 425 ; a remem- brance of Christmas, ii. 403 ; walking- match, ii. 423 ; audiences, ii. 425 ; last readings, ii. 433. Bottle (Cruikshank's), Dickens's opinion of, ii. 14-15. Boulogne, an imaginary dialogue at, i 518-19 ; Dickens at, ii. 151-4, 176-94; the pier, ii. 190; Dickens's liking for, ii. 1 5 1-2 ; M. Beaucourt's * Property,' ii. 177-82, 190-2; sketch of M. Beaucourt, ii. 179-82; prices of provisions, ii. 180 note ; Shake- spearian performance, ii. 182 ; pig- market, ib. ; Thackeray at, ii. 183 note; camp, ii. 183-4, 191 ; Wilkie Collins and Jerrold at, ii. 190; Prince Albert at, ii. 184-5 J illuminations, ii. 186 ; epidemic, ii 193. Boulogne Jest Book, ii. 158 note. Bouquets, serviceable, ii. 206. Bourse, victims of the, ii. 209. Boxall (William), ii. 104, 109, 198, 213 note. Boaxing-match, a, i. 445. Boyle (Mary), ii. 293. Boys, list of Christian names of, ii. .384-5. Boz, origin of the word, L 64 ; fac- simile of autograph signature, L 185. Bradbury & Evans (Messrs.), i. 138, 330, 357, 418, 463, 489, ii- 76, 99 ; proposal to, i- 329 ; a suggestion by, i. 332 ; Dickens's agreements with, i. 345 (and see 489), iL 152. Bradford, reading at, ii. 155 note. Brainwork, effect of, L 332. Bray (Richard), i. 43, 48. Brighton, Dickens's first visit to, i. 90 ; other visits, ii. 59-60, 153 ; theatre, i. 90 ; readings at, ii. 295, 298. Bride of Lammermoor (Scott's), com- position of the, ii. 339-40- Bridgeman (Laura),i. 210 note (see 453). Brinton (Dr.), consulted by Dickens, u. 312. hidex. 531 British Museum reading room, fre- quented by Dickens, i. 53. Broadstairs, Dickens at, i. 88-9, 135, 149, 186-98, 298-304, 322, 437 note; ii. 8-19, 47-61, 70-72, 117-8; Nickleby completed at, i. 138 ; house occupied by Dickens, i. 136 ; writing American Notesy i. 298; pony-chaise accident, ii. 57. Brobity's (Mr.) snuff-box, il 386. Brooke (Rajah), contemplated memorial to, iL 469-70. Brooklyn (New York), scene at, ii. 41 1- 12 ; readings in Mr. Ward Beecher's chapel, ii. 418, Brougham (Lord), in Paris, i. 510 ; the * Punch people ' and, ii. 99. Bro\vne (H. K.), 1. I2i, 130, ii. 100; chosen to illustrate Pickwick, i. 71 ; accompanies Dickens and his wife to Flanders, i. 88 ; in Yorkshire with Dickens, i. 112; failure of, in a Dombey illustration, ii. 37 (but see 32) ; sketch for Micawber, ii. 69 ; his sketch of Skimpole, ii. 149. Browning (R. B. ), Dickens's opinion of his Blot on the ^Scutcheon, i. 315 ; verse written for Maclise's Serenade, i. 365 note. Bruce (V.-C. Knight), i. 351. Brunei (Isambard), ii. 99. Buckingham Palace, Dickens at, ii. 484-5- Buffalo (U.S.), reading at, ii. 426. Buller (Charles), i. 320. Bumpus (Mr,), correction by, ii. 484 note. Burdett (Sir Francis), advocacy of the poor, i. 167. Burnett (Mr.), i. 119, 512. Bums festival. Prof. Wilson's speech at the, i. 379. Bury, reading at, ii. 279 note. Bury St. Edmunds, reading at, ii. 295. Buss (Mr.), Pickwick illustrations by, i. 71. Byron's (Lord) Ada, ii. 99. IRA, the revolutionary tune, ii. 199. Cambridge, reading at, ii. 320. Cambridge (U.S.) and Boston con- trasted, ii. 397 ; the Webster murder, ii. 406-7. Camden-town, Dickens with Mrs. Roy- lance at, i. 28, 36. Campbell (Lord), i. 227 note ; on the writings of Dickens, ii. 159 and note; death of, ii. 286 note. Canada, emigrants in, i. 301-2. Canaletti, truthfulness of, i. 400. Canal-boat journeys in America, i. 253- 269 ; a day's routine, i. 259 ; dis- agreeables of, i. 260 ; a pretty scene on board, i. 276-8. Cannibalism, an approach to, i. 516. Cannon-row, Westminster, incident at public-house, i. 34. Canterbury, readings at, ii. 295, 299. Car-driver, an Irish, ii. 272. Card-playing on the Atlantic, i. 202-3. Cary, the American bookseller, i. 245. Carlisle (Lord), ii. 88, 99, 116. Carlisle (Bishop of) and Colenso, ii. 288 note. Carlisle, reading at, ii. 295. Carlyle (Thomas), i. 378, 407, ii. 100, 105 ; a strange profane story, i. 84; on international copyright, i. 235-6 ; Dickens's admiration of, i. 236, 396 (and see ii. 494) ; regard for Dickens, i. 360 ; letter on Mazzini, i. 378; a correction for, ii. 72 ; on Dickens's acting, ii. 159; grand teaching of, ii. 256 ; inaugural address of, at Edinburgh University, ii. 314; hint to common men, ii. 329 ; on humour, • ii. 341 ; a hero to Dickens, ii. 494 ; on Dickens's death, ii. 490. Carlyle (Mrs.), i. 398, ii. 100 ; on the expression in Dickens's face, i. 76 ; death of, ii. 313; Dickens's last meet- ing, ii. 314. Carrara, ovation at, i. 411-12. Carriage, an unaccommodating, i. 450-1 ; a wonderful, i. 477. M M 2 532 Index. Carrick Fell (Cumberland), ascent of, ii. 233-4 ; accident to Wilkie Collins, ii. 234. Castellan (Marquis), i. 511. Castle Spectre^ a judicious * tag ' to the, ii. loo-i, Catholicism, Roman, the true objection to, i. 497. Cattermole (George), i. 119, 130 (see 362 note) ; imitation of cabstand water- man, ii. 61 note. Caudle Lectures, a suggestion for the, i. 379 note. Cerjat (Mr.), i. 450-1, 464, 475. Chalk (Kent), Dickens's honeymoon spent at, i. 67 ; revisited, i. 76. Challinor (W.), tract by on Chancery abuses, ii. 144. Chambers, contemplated chapters on, i. 128. Chambers (Miss), ii. 293. Chamounix, Dickens's trip to, i. 465-8 ; revisited, ii. 162 ; narrow escape of Egg, ib. Chancery, Dickens's experience of a suit in, i. 351-2; originals of the abuses exposed in Bleak House, ii. 143-4. Channing (Dr.), i. 209, 234 ; on Dickens, i. 207, 212. Chapman and Hall, i. 196, 330, 333 ; overtures to Dickens by, i. 67 ; ad- vise purchase of the Sketches copyright from Mr. Macrone, i. 80 ; early re- lations of Dickens with, i. 94-5 ; concede share of copyright in Pick- wick, ib. ; payments by, for Pickwick and Nicholas Nickleby, i. 94 ; outline of Master Humphrey' s Clock sub- mitted to, i. 127-131 ; purchase Barnaby Rudge, i. 149 ; rupture with, i. 345 ; Dickens's earliest and latest publishers, ii. 282. Chapman (Edward), i. 118. Chapman (Mr. Thomas), not the original of Mr. Dombey, i. 358 (and see ii. 46). Chapman (Mr.), of the City-theatre, i. Chappell (Messrs.), agreements with, ii. 312-315 ; arrangement with, for course of final readings, ii. 430 note (and see 439-40) J amount received from, on account of readings, ii. 440 ; Dickens's tribute to, ii. 503 note. Charles Dickens as a Reader (Charles Kent's), ii. 279 note. Chateaubriand (M.), i. 520, 521 note. Chatham, Dickens's early impressions of, i. 5, 13 ; day-school in Rome- lane, i. 8 note ; Mr. Giles's school, 1. 12-13. Cheeryble (Brothers) in Nickleby, ori- ginals of, i. 119. Cheese (Mr.), ii. 496. Cheltenham, reading at, ii. 295. Chester, readings at, ii. 295, 317. Chesterton (Mr.), i. 189, 297. Ch icago (U.S.), monomania respecting, ii. 416. Chigwell, inn at, i, 158. Children, powers of observation in, i. 2, 7 ; mortality of young, in London, ii. 248 note ; old, ii. 382. Children-farming, Dickens on, ii. 379 note. Child'' s History finished, ii. 154 (see ii. 517). Child's Hospital reading, ii. 254. Child's night-lights, wonders of, ii. 235. Chillon, Castle of, i. 468. Chimes, a title found for the, i. 384 (see 528) ; design for, i. 385 ; Dickens hard at work on, i. 389 ; first outline, i- 390-3 ; effect on Dickens's health, i' 393"4 J objections to, i. 396 ; finished, i. 397 ; private readings at Lincoln's-inn-fields, i. 39S, 407-8 ; Jeffrey's opinion of the tale, L 397, 410. Chimneys, smoky, i. 147. Chinese Junk, ii. 47-50. Chorley (Henry), ii. 293. Christmas, Dickens's identity with, i. 346. Christmas-eve and day, Dickens's accus- tomed walk on, ii. 492. Index. 533 Christmas Carol, origin of, i 325 (see 528) ; in preparation, i. 333 ; sale and accounts of, i. 343-4 ; Jeffrey and Thackeray on, i. 345 ; message of the, i. 346 ; the story characterized, i. 345-8 ; dramatized at the Adelphi, i. 350; first public reading at Bir- mingham, ii. 154 J reading of, for the Hospital for Sick Children, ii. 254 ; reading in Boston (U.S.), ii. 425-6; Thackeray's copy, ii. 484 note. Christmas Memorial of Charles Dickens y ii. 469 note. Christmas Sketches, Dickens's, iL 362. Christmas sports, i. 316 note. Cicala, the, i. 366. Cincinnati (U. S.), i. 268 ; described, i. 269 ; a temperance festival, i. 271 ; bores at, i. 272. Circumlocution Ofi&ce, ii. 481. Clarke (Mrs. Cowden), ii. 22. Clare (poet), ii. 471. Clay (Henry), i. 247, 248 ; on inter- national copyright, i. 228. Clennam (Mrs.) in Little Dorrit, first sketch of, ii. 371. Cleveland (U.S.), rude reception of mayor of, i. 286. Clifton, reading at, ii. 444. Coachman, a Paris, i. 521 note. Cobden (Mr.), at the Manchester Athenaeum, i. 323. Cobham-park, i. 150, 198 ; Dickens's last walk, ii. 269, 510. Cockburn (Sir Alexander), ii. 198. Coffee-shops frequented by Dickens, i. 29. Coggleswell (Mr. ), i. 249. Cogswell (Mr.), ii. 105. Coincidence, marvels of, ii. 237, 497. Colchester, reading at, ii. 295. Col de Balme pass, i. 465. Colden (David), i. 222, 252, 419 note ; ii. 104. Colenso (Bishop) and the Bishop of Car- lisle, ii. 288 note. Coleridge (Sara) on Little Nell, ii, 343 note ; on Chuzzlewit^ ii. 344 note. Collier (Payne) and Dickens in Hunger- ford Market, ii. 488 note. Collins (Charles Allston), marriage of, to Kate Dickens, ii. 292 ; books by, ii. 293-4; on Dickens's accompani- ments of work, ii. 262 note ; cover designed by, for Edwin Drood, ii. 455 ; death of, ii. 294. Collins (Wilkie), Dickens's great re- gard for, ii. 91 ; holiday trip with Dickens and Egg, ii. 161-76 ; at Boulogne, ii. 183 ; in Paris, ii. 158 ; his Lighthouse produced at Tavistock House, iL 159 ; in Cumberland, ii. 233-6 ; accident to, on Carrick Fell, ii. 234 ; tales by, in All the Year Round, ii. 286 ; at his brother's wed- ding, ii. 293. Colquhoun (Mr.), i. 172. Columbus (U.S.), levee at, i. 282. Commercial Travellers' schools, ad- mired by Dickens, ii. 287. Commons, House of, Dickens's opinion of, i. 63 ; ii. 478. Conjuror, a French, ii. 187-90. Consumption, hops a supposed cure for, ii. 260. Conversion, a wonderful, i. 410 note. Cooke, Mr. (of Astley's), ii. 229. Cooling Castle, ruins of, ii. 259, 269, 357. Cooling churchyard, Dickens's partiality for, ii. 269. Copyright, international, Dickens's views on, i. 219, 225, 228, 234-6, 254, 318 ; Henry Clay on, i. 228 ; petition to American Congress, i. 232, 248 ; Carlyle on, i. 235-6 ; two obstacles to, i. 289-90 (and see 300) ; result of agitation, i. 227-8. Corduroy- road, a, i. 282-3. Cornelius (Anne), ii. 522. Cornwall (Barry), i. 121 note, 416 ; ii. 124, 503- Cornwall, Dickens's trip to, i. 311-13. Costello (Dudley), i. 434 note ; fancy sketch of, ii. 14. 1 Coutts, Miss (Baroness Burdett-Coutts), 534 Index, i. 153, 167, 296, 410 ; great regard for, i. 324 ; true friendship of, i. 514-15 ; generosity of, i. 360 note, 457, ii. 113, 153, 308 (and seei. 410). Covent-garden theatre, Macready at, i. 91, 122 ; farce written by Dickens for, i. 120 ; dinner at the close of Mr. Macready's management, i. 122; the editor of the Satirist hissed from stage, i. 318 ; Dickens applies for an engaf^ement, i. 58 (see 120, 433). Coventry, gold repeater presented to Dickens by watchmakers of, ii. 280 (and see 522) ; reading at, ii. 156 note. Crawford (Sir George), i. 405. Cricket on the Hearth, i. 528 ; origin of the, i. 429-30; Dickens busy on, i. 438 ; first public reading at Bir- mingham, ii. 154 ; a reading in Ary Scheffer's studio, ii. 214. Crimean war unpopular in France, ii. 186, 198. Cruikshank (George), i. 121, 304 ; his illustrations to Sketches, i. 70 ; claim to the origination of Oliver Twist, i. 100-2, ii. 31-34 (and see autograph letter of Dickens, ii. 33-4) ; fancy sketch of, ii. ii, 12-13; Dickens's opinion of his Bottle and Drunkard'' s Children, ii. 14-15, 51-2 (and see ii. 56). Cruize on Wheels (Charles Collins's), ii. 294. Cumberland, Dickens's trip in, ii. ^ 233-6. Cunningham, Peter, character and life, ii. 160-1. Curry (Mr.), i. 371, 395, 405. Curtis (George), ii. 104. Custom-house-officers (continental), i. 405-6, 509. Daily News projected, i. 430 ; mis- giving as to, i. 438-40 ; first number of, i. 441 ; Pictures from Italy begun in, i. 441 ; Dickens's short editor- ship, i. 440-2 ; succeeded by autho of this book, i. 442, 499-500. Dana (R. H.), i. 209. Danby (Mr. ), ii. 65. Danson (Dr. Henry), recollections by, of Dickens at school, i. 47-50 ; letter from Dickens to, i. 50 note. Dansons (the) at work, ii. 230. David Copperfield, ii. 516; identity of Dickens with hero of, i. 24-39, ii. 128-30; characters and incidents in, ii. 120-134 ; the original of Dora, i. 55-6 (see ii. 112) ; name found for, ii. 96 ; dinners in celebration of, ii. 117; sale of, ii. 76; titles proposed for, ii. 95-7 ; progress of, ii. 1 10-12 ; Lord Lytton on, ii. 120 ; popularity of, ib. ; original of Miss Moucher, ii. 121 ; original of Mr. Micawber, ii. 126-7 ; Bleak House inferior to, ii. 128; a proposed opening, ii. 222; fac-simile of plan prepared for first number, ii. 223. David d' Angers, the sculptor, i. 520. Davies (Rev. R. H.), Dickens's letter to, il 468-9. Davison (Henry), i. 122. Dean-street theatre (Soho), i. 433-7, 486. De Foe (Daniel), Dickens's opinion of, ii. 204 note ; his History of the Devil y i. 91. Delane (John), ii. 99, 231. Denman (Lord), i, 359. Devonshire (Duke of), generosity of, i. 472; help rendered to the Guild of Literature and Art, ii. 84-5 ; cha- racter, 85. Devonshire-terrace, Dickens removes from Doughty-street into, i. 122 ; let to Sir J. Duke, i. 443 ; Maclise's sketch of Dickens's house, ii. 119. Dick, a favourite canary, ii. 192. Dickens (John), family of, i. 3 ; his small but good library, i. 9 ; money embarrassments of, i 14, 19 ; cha- racter described by his son, i. 16 ; ar- rested for debt, i. 20 ; legacy to, i. 35 j Index. 535 leaves the Marshalsea, i. 36 ; on the education of his son, i. 53 ; becomes a reporter, L 53 (see 57) ; Devonshire home described, i. 123-26; death of, il 113 ; his grave at Highgate, ib. ; sayings of, ii. 126-7 > respect enter- tained by his son for, ii, 127. Dickens (Mrs. John), death of, iL 308. Dickens (Fanny), i. 3, 27, 28, 58, ii. 83 ; elected a pupil to the Royal Academy of Music, L 16; obtains a prize thereat, i. 36; illness of, i. 512; Elliotson's opinion of, t6. ; death, ii. 93- Dickens (Letitia), i. 3, ii. 92 ; marriage of, ii. 15. Dickens (Frederick), L 3, 82, 119, 174, 198 (and see ii. 104) ; narrow escape from drowning in the bay at Genoa, i. 380 ; death of, ii. 443. Dickens (Alfred Lamert), i. 3, 149, ii. 15 ; death of, ii. 294. Dickens, Augustus (died in America), i. 3, 64, iL 15-16. Dickens, Charles, birth of, at Port- sea, i. 3. sketch of his burthplace, i. 4 (see 5 note). reminiscences of childhood at Chat- ham, i. 5-14. relation of David Copperfield to, i. 9, 24-39, il 128-30. his wish that his biography should be written by the author of this book, i. 17, 18 note (see ii. 38, 91, lOI.) first efforts at description, i. 19. account by himself of his boyhood, i. 22-39, 58-9 (and see ii. 287, 488). school-days and start in life, i. 39-57 (see ii. 488 note), illnesses of, L 32, 163, 198 (see ii. 318,506, 510), i. 377,439,507 note, 315-6, 351, 407, 423, 432, 506. clerk in an attorney's office, i. 51. hopeless love of, L 55-6. Dickens, Charles. newspaper reporting and writing, i. 57-65 (and see ii. 488 note), tries to get upon the stage, i. 58 (see 120, 432). first book, and origin of Pickwick, i. 66-72. marriage, i. 67 ; separation from his wife, ii. 254. writes for the stage, i. 72 (and see 91, 120.) first five years of fame, i. 73-192. predominant impression of his life, i. 76, 94, 198-9, 287, 387-8, 411 note, 507 note, ii. 91, 243, 497. personal description of, i. 75. personal habits, i. 85-6, 266, 283, 457, 515, ii- 265-9, 489. relations with his illustrators, L 100-2, ii. 28-34. portraits of, i. 48, 117 note, ii. 281. curious epithets given to his children, i. 120 note, 461 note, 508-9, ii. 3 note, 179 (and see i. 210, 232, 234, 252, 296). entered at the Middle Temple, i. 121 (see 123). adventures in the Highlands, i. 176- 185. visit to the United States, i. 195- 296 ; re-visits America, ii. 393. domestic griefs, i. 198. an old malady, L 198, ii. 318, 506, 510. an admirable stage manager, i. 436, ii. 4-5, 21 note, 89. his ravens, i. 147, 156-8, 438. his dogs, i. 299 (see ii. 211 note), 378 note, ii. 266-8 (see 493). his birds, ii. 192-3. accompaniments of work, i. 369, 457, ii. 262-3 note. religious views of, i. 324, 387-9, ii. 467-9. turning-point of his career, i. 334. writing in the Chronicle^ i. 356. Carlyle's regard for, i. 360. fancy sketch of his biographer, ii. 14. 536 Index. Dickens, Charles. sea-side holidays, ii. 46-72, 176-94. Italian travels, i. 398-425, ii. 161- 76. craving for crowded streets, i. 384, 482, 484-5, 489, 493. political opinions, i. 386, ii. 477-9 (and see 501). his long walks, i. 395, 507 note, ii. 288-9, 491. first desire to become a public reader, i. 407, 486, ii. 155. edits the Daily News, i. 440-2. home in Switzerland, i. 448-9 ; re- visits the continent, ii. 161-76. residence in Paris, i. 509-24, ii. 194- 218. underwriting numbers, i. 523 note (see ii. 42), ii. 367. overwriting numbers, ii. 26-7, 38. home disappointments, il 238-255 (and see 524). purchases Gadshill-place, ii. 257. first public readings, ii. 154. first paid Readings, ii. 270-81. second series of Readings, ii. 292- 306. third series of Readings, ii. 307- 325. memoranda for stories first jotted down by, ii. 240 (and see 370- 86). favourite walks, ii. 259, 269. first attack of lameness, ii. 310-13 (and see ii. 323, 366, 430, 434 note, 444-7, 492-3, 503, 508 ; Mr. Syme's opinion, ii. 445-6. general review of his literary labours, i. 329-391. complete list of his books, i. 525-8, ii. 515-21 ; French translation of his works, ii. 194, 197, 215 note (see ii. 518). effect in America of his death, ii. 512. last readings of, ii. 437-50. noticeable changes in, ii. 441, 446-7, 506. Dickens, Charles. comparison of early and late MSS., ii. 454, 456-7. personal characteristics, ii. 463-498. interview with the Queen, ii, 484-5. strain and excitement at the final readings at St. James's Hall, ii. 504-5- last days at Gadshill, ii. 501-12. his death, ii. 511-12 (see 490). a tribute of gratitude to, for his books, ii. 509. general mourning for, iL 512. burial in Westminster Abbey, ii. 513, unbidden mourners at grave, ii. 513. tablet in Rochester Cathedral, ii. 221 note. his Will, ii. 469 (see i. 325). Dickens (Mrs.), i. 67, 99, 174, 183, 192, 196-7, 202, 206, 209, 222-4, 230, 237, 243, 245, 263-4, 273, 281, 286, 293-4, 359, 388, 397, 405, 419 note, 443, 465, 491, 512 ; ii. 89, 96, 112, 116,215, 245; pony-chaise ac- cident at Broadstairs, ii. 57 ; silver flower -basket presented to, at Bir- mingham, ii. 1 54 ; reluctance to leave England, i, 197 ; her maid Anne, ib.^ 202, 209, 244, 265, 286, 509; an admirable traveller, L 281 ; Maclise's portrait of, i. 313 ; the separation, ii. 254 (and see 524). Dickens (Charles, jun.), i. 410, ii. 15, 158, 254, 522, 524; birth of, L 76; illness, i. 523; education, i, 514, ii. 1 10; sent to Leipzig, ii. 152; mai- riage, ii. 298. Dickens (Mary), birth of, L 98 (and see ii. loi, 268, 277, 522). Dickens (Kate), ii. 197, 265, 277 ; birth of, i. 122 (and see ii. loi) ; illness of, i. 369 ; marriage, ii. 292. Dickens (Walter Landor), ii. 15 ; christening of, i. 199 ; death of, i. 167 (and see ii. 308). Dickens (Francis Jeffrey), birth of, i« 326 (see 461 note). Index. 537 Dickens (Alfred Tennyson), birth of, i. 438 (see 461 note). Dickens (Sydney Smith Haldimand), birth of, ii. 3 ; Frank Stone's sketch of, ii. 3 note ; death of at sea, ib. (see ii. 495)- Dickens (Henry Fielding), birth of, iL 94 ; acting of, ii. 156-7 ; wins scho- larship at Cambridge, ii. 502 (and see ii. 522). Dickens (Edward Bulwer Lytton), birth of, ii. 149 ; goes to Australia, ii. 443 (see letter to, 467, 493). Dickens (Dora Annie), birth of, ii, 112 ; death, ii. 115 ; her grave at High- gate, ii. 116, 149. Dickens in Camp (Bret Harte's), i. 143-4. Dilke (Charles Wentworth), i. 22-3; death of, ii. 310. Dilke (Sir Charles), ii. 71 ; his Papers of a Critic^ ii. 310 note. Disraeli (Mr. ), ii. 508 ; at the Man- chester Athenaeum, i. 323. Doctors, Dickens's distrust of, ii. 67. Doctors' Commons, Dickens reporting in, i. 55 (and see i. 432 ; ii. 134). Doctor Marigold's Prescriptions^ ii. 369-70 (see 289, 520) ; Dickens's faith in, as a reading, ii. 313 ; success of the reading at New York, ii. 410. Dogs, Dickens's, i. 299 (see 301, 378 note, ii. 211 note), ii, 266-8, 270 ; effect of his sudden lameness upon, ii. 493. Dolby (Miss), ii. 104. Dolby, Mr. (Dickens's manager), ii. 319 ; sent to America, ii. 322 ; troubles of, ii. 409, 412, 418, 424 ; the most unpopular man in America, ii. 404 ; his care and kindness, ii. 423, 434 ; ludicrous mistake, ii. 423 note ; commission received by, ii. 440. Dombey and Son, i. 528, ii. 515 ; original of Mrs. Pipchin in, i. 28, 36, ii. 37 ; begun at Rosemont, i. 457 ; Dickens at work on, i. 462-3, 474, 1 482, 484-5, 488-90 ; general idea for, i. 462 ; hints to artist, i. 463 ; a reading of first number, i. 478, 486 ; large sale, i, 494 (and see ii. 76) ; a number underwritten, i. 523 note (see ii. 42); charwoman's opinion of, i. 524 ; snuff -shop readings of, ib. ; plan of, ii. 24-26 ; progress of, ii. 26-46 ; artist- fancies for Mr. Dom- bey, ii. 29-30 ; passage of original MS. omitted, ii. 28 note ; a reading of second number, ii. 36 (see i. 468, 484) ; finished, i. 508 ; Jeffrey on, ii. 39 and note, 41-2 note, 44 j cha- racters in, and supposed originals, iL 45-6 (and see i, 358) ; profits of, ii. 15; translated into Russian, ii. 77. Doncaster race-week, ii. 236-7 ; a 'groaning phantom,' ii. 237 (see 497). Dora, a real, i. 55 ; changed to Flora in Litt/e Dorrit, i. 56, Dormitories, white and coloured, ii. 419. D'Orsay (Count), i, 418 ; letter con- cerning Roche the courier, i. 431 note; death of, ii. 151. Doughty-street, Dickens removes to, i, 76; incident of, ii. 291. Douro (Lady), ii. 100. Dover, Dickens at, ii. 151 ; readings at, ii. 295, 299 ; storm at, ii. 298-9. Dowling (Vincent), i. 62. Dowton (Mr.), ii. 17. Dramatic College (Royal), Dickens's interest in the, ii. 279-80. Dream, a vision in a, i. 387-9 (and see ii. 496) ; President Lincoln's, ii. 419-20. Drunkards Children (Cruikshank's), Dickens's opinion of, ii. 51-2. DubUn, Dickens's first impressions of, ii, 272 ; humorous colloquies at Morrison's hotel, ii. 273-4 \ readings in, iL 272-4, 320. Duelling in America, i, 280. Duke (Sir James), L 443. Dumas' (Alexandre) tragedy of Kean^ 538 Index. i. 372-3 (and see ii. 473 note) ; his Orestes, ii. 199 ; his Christine, i. 408 ; a supper with, i. 520. Dundee, reading at, ii. 278. Duplessis (Marie), death of, i. 522 (see ii. 16). Dyce (Alexander), i. 407, ii. 102. Eden in Martin Chizzlewit, original of, i. 256, 261 ; a worse swamp than, i. 337. Edinburgh, public dinner to Dickens, i. 168-73 ; presentation of freedom, i. 171 (and see ii. 252) ; wassail-bowl presented after Carol reading, ii. 252 (see 522) ; readings at, ii. 277, 301, 443 note ; the Scott monument, ii. 20. Editorial troubles and pleasures, ii. 474. Editors, American, incursion of, i. 206. Education, two kinds of, i. 53 ; Dickens's speeches on, i. 349, ii. 480 (see 493, 501). Edwin Drood, ii. 521 ; clause inserted in agreement for, ii. 451 note ; sale of, tb. ; amount paid for, ib. ; first fancy for, ii. 451 ; the story as planned in Dickens's mind, ii. 452-3 ; Longfellow on, ii. 453 ; merits of, ii. 453-4 ; facsimile of portion of final page, ii. 455 (and see 510) ; an un- published scene for, ii. 455-63 ; original of the opium eater in, ii. 501-2 ; readings of numbers, ii. 502, 503, 508. Egg (Augustus), ii. 1 59 ; fancy sketch of, ii. 14 ; holiday trip with Dickens and Wilkie Collins, ii. 161-76; his painting of Peter the Great first seeing Catherine, ii. 212 ; narrow escape at Chamounix, ii. 162-3. Electric message, uses for, ii. 375-6. Eliot (George), Dickens's opinion of her first book, i. 316. Elliotson (Dr.), i. 189,360, 495, 507-8. Elton (Mr.), Dickens's exertions for family of, i. 322. El win (Rev. Whitwell), allusion to, ii. 94- Emerson (Ralph Waldo), ii. 105. Emigrants in Canada, i. 301-2. Emigration schemes, Dickens's belief in, i. 471. Emmanuel (Victor), in Paris, ii. 198. Englishmen abroad, i. 444, 464, 474-7. Engravings, Dickens on, i, 401-2 note. Erie (Lake), i. 285. Eugenie (Empress), ii. 87. Evening Chronicle, sketches contributed by Dickens to, i. 65. Evenings of a Working Man (John Overs'), i. 359-60 (see 528). Every Man in his Humour, private performances of, at Miss Kelly's theatre, i. 434-6 (see ii. 21 note) ; Leigh Hunt's criticism of actors, ii. 6 note ; Lord Lytton's prologue, ib. (and see ii. 509) ; performances at Kneb worth-park, ii. 83). Examiner, articles by Dickens in the, i. 121. . Executions, public, Dickens's letter against, ii. 107. Exeter, reading at, ii. 271. Eye-openers, ii. 410. Facsimiles : of letters written in boy- hood by Dickens, i. 46 ; of the auto- graph signature 'Boz,'i. 185 ; of New York invitations to Dickens, i. 213-18 ; of letter to George Cruik- shank, ii. 33-4; of plans prepared for first numbers of Copperfield and Little Dorrit, ii. 223-4 ; of portion of last page of Edwin Drood, ii. 456 (and see 510) ; of Oliver Twist, ii. 457. Fagin (Bob), i. 26, 30, 37, 377 ; ad- venture with, i. 32. Fairbaim (Thomas), letter of Dickens to, on posthumous honours, ii. 469-70. Fatal Zero (Percy Fitzgerald's), ii. 475. Faucit (Helen), ii. 104. I Fechter (Mr.), chalet presented by, to Index. 539 Dickens, ii. 262-4 J Dickens's friendly relations with, ii, 309-10. Feline foes, ii. 192. Felton (Cornelius C. ), i. 209, 222, 226, 311 ; letters to, i. 316 note, 326, 419 note, ii. 153 ; death of, ii. 302 note. Fenianism in Ireland, ii. 319-20 note ; in America, ii. 402 (and see 485). Fermoy (Lord), ii. 496. Fetes at Lausanne, i. 460-1, 468-70. Fiction, realities of, ii. 344, 357. Field (Kate), Pen Photographs by, ii. 279 note. Fielding (Henry), real people in novels of, ii. 121 ; episodes introduced in his novels, ii. 226-7 ; Dr. Johnson on, 345 ; M. Taine's opinion of, ib. Fields (James T.), on Dickens's health in America, ii. 407-8 ; at GadshiU, ii. 265, 292, 501. Fiesole, Landor's villa at, i. 417 note. Fildes (S. L.), chosen to illustrate Edwin Drood, ii. 455 ; sketch by of the vacant chair at Gadshill, ii. 262 note. Finality, a type of, ii. 49-50. Finchley, cottage at, rented by Dickens, i. 319- Fine Old English Gentleman, a poli- tical squib by Dickens, i. 188-9. Fireflies in Italy, i. 422. Fires in America, frequency of, ii. 400-1. Fitzgerald (Percy), ii. 293 ; dog given by to Dickens, ii. 267 ; a contri- butor in All the Year Round, ii. 475 ; personal liking of Dickens for, ib. * Fix,' a useful word in America, i. 262. Flanders, Dickens's trip to, i. 88. Fletcher (Angus), i. 170, 175, 385, 412 ; with Dickens at Broadstairs, i. 153; anecdotes of, i. 176-7, 180, 420 (and see 362, 385, 412) ; his mother, i. 420 note ; pencil sketch by, of the Villa Bagnerello at Albaro, i. 368 ; death of, i. 420 note. Flies, plague at Lausanne, i. 459 note. Fonblanque (Albany), i. 70, 320, 407 ; wit of, i. 407, ii. 98. Footman, a meek, i. 421. Ford (Mr.), on the works of Cruik- shank, ii. 56. Ford (Mrs.), ii. 99. Fortescue (Miss), acting of, i. 350. Fortnightly Review, Mr. Lewes's critical essay in on Dickens, ii. 334-9. Fowls, eccentric, ii. 289-90. Fox (William Johnson), i. 320, 407. Fox-under- the- Hill (Strand), reminis- cence of, i. 33-4. Franklin (Lady), ii. 494. Fraser (Peter), ii. 103. Freemasons' Hall, farewell banquet in to Dickens, ii. 325. Freemasons' secret, a, ii. 72. Free-trade and Lord ' Gobden,* i. 507. French and Americans contrasted, i. 514. French philosophy, ii. 58. Frescoes, perishing, i. 366 ; at the Pa- lazzo Peschiere, i. 381 note, 382 ; Maclise's, for the Houses of Parlia- ment, ii. 507 note. Friday, in connection with important incidents in Dickens's life, ii. 258, 417, &c. Frith (W. P.), picture by at the Paris Art Exposition, ii. 212 ; his portrait of Dickens, ii. 281. Funeral, an English, in Italy, i. 420. Furnival's inn, room where the first page of Pickwick was written, ii. 501. Gadshill Place, a vision of boyhood at, i. 6 (and see ii. 256) ; the canary's tomb at, ii. 192 note; first descrip- tion of, ii. 256 ; sketch of porch, ii. 257 ; purchased, ii. 257 (and see 227) ; antecedents of, ii. 259-60 ; im- provements and additions, ii. 260-5 J sketch of Chalet, ii. 263; nightingales, ii. 264 ; Dickens's daily life at, ii. 265-70; sketch of house and con« 540 Index. servatory, ii, 266 ; the Study, ii, 270; games for the villagers, ii. 486-7 ; Dickens's last days at, ii. 501-12. Gambler's Life^ Lemaitre's acting in the, ii. 195-6 (see 495). Gamp (Mrs.), original of, i. 319; a masterpiece of English humour, i. 341 ; with the Strollers, ii. 7-14. Gaskell (Mrs.), ii. 81, 100, 149. Gasman's compliment to Dickens, ii. 300 and note. Gautier (Theophile), i. 520. Geneva, Dickens at, i. 495 ; revolution at, i. 495-99 ; aristocracy of, i. 495-7. Genoa described, i. 371-4; theatres, i. 372-3 (and see ii. 473 note) ; reli- gious houses, i. 373 ; rooms in the Palazzo Peschiere hired by Dickens, i. 374; dangers of the bay, i. 380; view over, i. 383; Governor's levee, i- 385 > English funeral, i. 420 ; nautical incident, i. 421 ; revisited by Dickens, ii. 164. George Silverman! s Explanation, ii. 370, 521 (and see 291 note and 323). Ghost stories (Dickens's), ii. 496-7. Gibson (Milner), ii. 99 (see 503). Gilbert Massenger (Holme Lee's), re- marks on by Dickens, ii. 474-5- Giles (William), L 5, 205 note ; Dick- ens at the school kept by, i. 12- 13 ; presents snuff-box to ' Boz,' L 12. Gipsy tramps, ii. 289. Girardin (Emile de), banquets given by, in honour of Dickens, ii. 207-9. Girls, American, i. 271-2 note ; Irish, ii. 273 ; list of christian names of, ii. 384-5- Gladstone (Mr.), and Dickens, i. 63, ii. 508. Glasgow, proposed dinner to Dickens at, i. 185 ; readings at, ii. 278, 301, 443 note ; Dickens at meeting of Athenaeum, ii. 19. Glencoe, Pass of, i. 179, 181 ; effect on Dickens, i. 181, 287. Goff (Mr. and Mrs.), i. 450, Goldfinch and his friend, ii. 291. Gondoliers at Venice, habits of, ii. 172. Gordon (Lord George), character of, i. 161. Gordon (Sheriff), i. 172, ii. 103. Gordon (Duff), ii. 104. Gore-house, a party at, i. 522 note. Gore (Mrs.), ii, 99. Gower-street-north, school in, opened by Dickens's mother, i. 19 ; a dreary home, i. 21 (see ii. 287) ; home broken up, i. 27. Graham (Sir James), and letter-opening, i. 359- Graham (Lady), ii. 98. Grant Qames), recollections of Dickens by, i. 61 (and see 66). Grau (Mr.), ii. 321. Graves, town, ii. 143, 149 note; Dickens's dislike to speech-making at, ii. 470. Great Expectations, ii. 519; original o Satis-house in, ii. 269; germ of, ii. 355 ; the story characterized, ii. 356- 61 ; close of, changed at Bulwer Lyt- ton's suggestion, ii. 361. Great Malvern, cold-waterers at, ii. 455. Greek war-ship, a, ii. 166-7. Greeley (Horace), ii. 434 and note ; on the effect in America of Dickens's death, ii. 390 ; on Dickens's fame as a novelist, ii. 396 ; a suggestion from, ii. 416. Green (' Poll'), i. 26, 30. Gregory (Mr.), the great chemist, ii. 20. Grieve (Thos.), ii. 87. Grey (Lord), recollection of, i. 473. Grimaldi, Life of, edited by Dickens, i. 92 (see 526) ; the editor's modest estimate of it, ib. ; criticisms on, ib. Grip, Dickens's raven, i. 147 ; death of^ L 156-58 ; apotheosis by Maclise, i. 159; a second Grip, i 158 (death of, i. 438). Grisi (Madame), i. 408, Gruneisen (Mr.), i. 318 note Index. 54f Guild of Literature and Art, origin of, ii. 83 ; princely help of the Duke of Devonshire, ii. 84-5 (and see ii. 471) ; farce promised by Dickens, ii. 84 ; failure of the scheme, ii. 87 ; card of membership designed for, ii. 88. Hachette (MM. ), agreement with, for French translation of Dickens's works, ii. 215 note. Haghe (Louis), ii. 88, 169. Haldimand (Mr.), i. 452; his seat at Lausanne, i. 450 ; Hallam's visit to, i. 463. Halevy (M.), dinner to, ii. 99. Halifax, the 'Britannia' aground off, i. 204 ; house of assembly at, i. 205. Hall (Mr. and Mrs. S. C), ii. 104. Hall (William), i. 190-1 ; at Furnival's inn, i. 68; premature fears of, i. 328; funeral of, ii. 3. Hallam (Henry), talking power, i. 463 ; his niece, L 464. Halleck (Fitz- Greene), L 234 ; on Dickens, ii. 466 note. Halliday (Andrew), ii. 502. Hamlety a proposed outrageous per- formance, i. 318; an emendation for, ii. 18-19 ; performed at Preston, ii. 148. Hampstead Heath, Dickens's partiality for, i. 86, 138, 354. Hampstead-road, Mr. Jones's school in the, i. 42-9 (see ii. 488-9 note). Hansard (Mr.), letter from, concerning Mr. Macrone, ii. 73 note. Hardwrick (John), ii. 99. Hard Times, proposed names for, ii. 144-5 > chosen, ii. 145 ; written for Household Words, ib. (see ii. 517) ; Ruskin's opinion of, ii. 145-6 ; M, Taine's criticism of, ii. 146 note. Harley (Mr.), the comedian, i. 160, 161 ; ii. 104. Harness (Rev. Wm.), i. 407, ii. 102-3. Harrisburg (U.S.), levee at, i. 258. Harrogate, reading at, ii. 275. Harte(Bret), Dickenson, i. 143; tribute by, to Dickens, i. 143-4. Hartford (U.S.), levee at, i. 221 ; read- ing at, ii. 434. Harvard and Oxford crews, Dickens at dinner to, ii. 501. Hastings, reading at, ii. 295. Hatton-garden, Dickens at, ii. 123. Haunted Man, ii. 515 ; first idea of, i. 484 ; suggested delay of, ii. 18 ; large sale of, ii. 74 ; dramatized, ib. ; teach- ings and moral of the story, ii. 75-6 ; the christening dinner, ii. 99. Hawthorne (Nathaniel), Dickens on, ii. 72. Haydon (B. R.), death of, i. 472. Hayes (Catherine), ii. 98 ; startling compliment by her mother, ib. Hazlitt's hut at Winterslow, ii. 93-4. Headland (Mr.) engaged by Dickens, ii. 297. Heaven, ambition to see into, ii. 105. Helps (Sir Arthur), ii. 286, 484; In Memoriam by, ii. 486. Hewitt (Capt.), i. 201, 205, 21a Hereditary transmission, ii. 239-40 note. Hertzel (M.), i. 453. Highgate, Dora's grave at, ii. 116, 149. Highlands, Dickens's adventures in the i. 176-185. Hillard (Mr.), ii. 104. Hindle (Rev. Mr.), ii. 259. Hogarth, Dickens on, ii. 52-3. Hogarth (George), i. 64 ; Dickens marries eldest daughter of, i. 67. Hogarth (Mrs.), i. 388, 523; death of her mother, i. 198. Hogarth (Georgina), i. 199, 367, 380, 389, 397, 405, 465, 491, 512, ii. 67, 89, 97, 441, 510-11 (see 522-3); Dickens's sketch of, i. 317 (and see ii- 379) > Maclise's portrait of, i. 317, Hogarth (Mary), death of, i. 76; epitaph on her tomb, i. 77 note (and see i. 93) ; Dickens's loving memory of, i. 76, 94, 198-9, 287, 387-8, 411 note, ii. 91, 497. Holiday Romance and George Silver- 542 Index. man's Explanation, high price paid for, ii, 370 (and see 291 note, and 323, 521). Holland (Lord), i. 418. Holland (Lady), a remembrance of, i. 421. Holland (Captain), the Monthly Maga- zine conducted by, i. 64. Holyhead, a Fenian at, ii. 319-20 note. Home and Abroad (Macrae's), ii, 467 note. Hone of the Every Day Book, i. 304. Honesty, Carlyle on, i. 236 ; under a cloud, i. 361-2. Hood (Thomas), i. 322, 417; Up the Rhine reviewed, i. 121 ; interview with a literary pirate, i. 351 note; Tylney Hall, i. 472. Hop-pickers, ii. 260. Home (R. H.), il 104. Hospital for Sick Children, Dickens's exertions on behalf of, ii. 248-54 ; described by Dickens, ii. 250-1 ; Carol reading for, ii. 254. Hotels, American, i. 209, ii. 395, 397, 400, 408 ; extortion at, i. 244. Hotten's Life of Dickens, erroneous statement in, ii. 484 note. Houghton (Lord), ii. loi, 479-80, 508. Houghton (Lady), ii. 485. Household Words in contemplation, i. 510 note, ii. 78-81 ; Mr. Wills ap- pointed assistant editor, ii. 80; title selected for, ii. 81 ; names proposed for, ib. ; first number, ib. (see ii. 516) ; early contributors, ib.-y Mrs. Gaskell's story, ib.', unwise printed statement in, ii. 254 ; discontinued, ii. 282 (and see 152) ; Christmas Nos. ii. 516-18. Hudson (George) in exile, ii. 306. Huflfham (Mr.), i. 18. Hugo (Victor), an evening with, i. 520-1. Hulkes (Mr.), ii. 259 note, 293. Hull, reading at, ii. 277. Hume (A. B. ), Christmas Memorial of Charles Dickens by, ii. 469 note. Humour, Americans destitute of, i. 284 ; a favourite bit of, i. 354 ; the leading | quality of Dickens, ii. 341-2 ; Lord Lytton on the employment of, by novelists, ii. 347 note ; Dickens's en- joyment of his own, ii. 347-50 ; the true province of, ii. 389. Hungerford-market, i. 24-38 (and see ii. 488 note). Hunt (Holman), ii. 293. Hunt (Leigh), saying of, i. 76 ; on Nicholas Nickleby, i. iii ; Civil-list pension given to, iL 4; theatrical benefit for, ii. 4-7 (see 9) ; result of performances, ii. 7 ; a last glimpse, ii. 124 note; letter of Dickens to, in self-defence, ii. 125 ; the original of Harold Skimpole in Bleak House, ii. 123-4; inauguration of bust at Kensal- green, ii. 470. Hunt (John), i. 472. Hunted Down, high price paid for, ii. 291* 370; germ of, ii. 373 (see ii. 518). Hurdle race at Gadshill, ii. 487. Idylls of Tennyson, Dickens on, ii. 352 note. Imaginative life, tenure of, ii. 245. Improprieties of speech, i 475-6. Incurable Hospital, patients in, ii. 379, Indians, i. 284 ; treaties with, i. 258. ' Inimitable, ' as applied to Dickens, origin of the term, i. 12. Inn, a log-house, i. 283-4. Innkeeper, a model, L 258. Inns, American, Miss Martineau on, i. 243 (and see 258 note, 278, 283-5) ; Highland, i. 175, 177, 180, 184; Italian, i. 379, 395, 403-4, 411 ; Swiss, i. 445. International boat-race dinner, Dickens at, ii. 501. Ipswich, readings at, ii. 279 note, 295. Ireland, a timely word on, i. 470. Ireland (Mr. Alexander), ii. 4. Irving (Washington), i 197, 222, 234, 252 ; appointed minister to Spain, i. 249 ; letter from Dickens to, i. 195 ; a bad public speaker, i. zz^y-'j ; at Index. 543 Literary Fund dinner in London, i. | 227 ; at Richmond (U.S.), i. 249 ; his leave-taking, i. 252-3 note. Italians hard at work, i. 423. Italy, art and pictures in, i. 401-3, ii. 173-4 ; private galleries, i. 402 note ; cruelty to brutes, i. 415 note; way- side memorials, i. 416-17 note; best season in, i. 419 ; fire-flies, i. 422 ; Dickens revisits, ii. 161-176 ; the noblest men in exile, ii. 1 75. Jack Straw's-castle yUampstead- heath), i. 86, 138, 354. Jackson (Sir Richard), i. 292-3. Jeffrey (Lord), i. i6o, 173, 190, ii. 103; praise of Little Nell by, i. i68 ; on the American Notesy i. 307-8 ; praise by, of the Carol, i. 345 ; on the Chimes, i. 397, 410 ; his opinion of the Battle of Life, i. 503 ; forecaste of Dombey, ii 39 note ; on Paul's death, ii. 41-2 note ; on the character of Edith in Dombey, ii. 44 ; James Sheridan Knowles and, ii. 20 ; touch- ing letter from, ii. 64; death of, ii. no. Jerrold (Douglas), i. 118, 322, 407, 425, ii. 100, 117, 157 note ; at Miss Kelly's theatre, i. 434; fancy sketch of, ii. 13 ; a suggestion for the Caudle lec- tures, i. 379 note ; last meeting with Dickens, ii. 231 ; death of^ ib. ; pro- posed memorial tribute to, and result, ii. 232. Jesuits at Geneva, rising against, i. 469- 70, 495-7 (and see 400). Johnson (President), interview of Dickens with, ii. 421 ; impeachment of, ii. 425-6. Johnson (Reverdy), at Glasgow art- dinner, ii. 445 note. Joinville (Prince de), ode to, i. 375. Jones (Mr.), of "Wellington-house- academy, i. 42, 44, 47 (see ii. 488-9 note). Jonson (Ben), an experience of, ii. 35. Jowett (Prof) on Dickens, ii. 498. KjVRR (Alphonse), i. 520. Kean (Charles) at Exeter, i. 125. Kean (Dumas'), i. 372-3, ii. 473 note. Keeley (Mrs.), ii. 104; in Nicholas Nickleby, i. 115, 350. Kelly (Fanny), theatre of, in Dean- street, Soho, i. 433-437, 486; her whims and fancies, i. 434. Kemble (Charles) and his daughters, ii. I02. Kemble (John), ii. 103. Kennedy (Mr.), i. 248. Kensal-green, Mary Hogarth's tomb at, i. 77 note, 287. Kent (Charles), ii. 293 ; his Charles Dickens as a Reader, ii. 279 note ; Dickens's last letter to, ii. 511. Kenyon (Mrs.), ii. 100. Kissing the Rod (Edmund Yates'), ii. 475- ICnebworth, private performances at, ii. 83 ; Dickens at, ii. 286. Kjiight (Charles), ii. 88 note, 104. Knowles (James Sheridan), bankruptcy of, ii. 20 ; scheme to benefit, ib. ; civil-list pension granted to, ii. 21. Knowles of Cheetham-hill-road, i. 125. Ladies, beauty of American, i. 231'; eccentric, i. 491-2. Laing (Mr.), of Hatton Garden, ii. 122-3. Lamartine (A. de), i. 376, 520, ii. 204. Lamb (Charles), boyish recollection of, i. II. Lameness, strange remedy for, i. 4. Lamert (Dr.), i. ii. Lamert (George), i. 24, 39. Lamert (James), private theatricals got up by, i. II (see 16); takes young Dickens to the theatre, 1 1 ; employs Dickens at the blacking-warehouse, i. 25 ; quarrel of John Dickens with, L 38 (and see 152). Lamplighter, Dickens's farce of the, i. 120, 122 ; turned into a tale for the 544 Index, benefit of Mrs. Macrone, i. 160-1 (see 527). Lancaster, reading at, ii. 295. Landor (Walter Savage), i. 199, ii. 112 note, 308 ; Dickens's visit to, at Bath, i. 132; mystification of, i. 145 ; Long- fellow visits, i. 298 ; villa at Fiesole, i. 417 note ; the original of Boythom in Bleak House^ ii. 123 ; a fancy re- specting, ii. 444; Forster's Life of, i. 132-3 note, 417, ii. 502. Landport (Portsea), the birthplace of Dickens, i. 3. Landseer (Charles), i. 122, ii. 104. Landseer (Edwin), i. 119, ii. 98, 100, 104, 157 note, 198, 281 ; and Napoleon III., ii. 213 note. Landseer (Tom), i. 122. Land's-end, a sunset at, i. 311. Lankester (Dr.), ii. 65. Lanman (Mr.), letter to, i. 253 note. Lant-street, Borough, Dickens's lodg- ings in, i. 31 ; the landlord's family reproduced in Old Curiosity Shop as the Garlands, i. 32. Lausanne, Dickens's home at, i. 445-6, 448-9 ; booksellers' shops, i. 447 ; the tovm described, ib.\ view of Rose- mont, i. 448 J girl drowned in lake, i. 451 ; fetes at, i. 460-1, 468-70; a marriage, i. 461 ; a revolution, i. 469 ; the prison, i. 452 ; Blind Institution, i. 452-6, ii. 163 ; plague of flies, i. 459 note ; carriage accident, i. 464 ; feminine smoking party, i. 491-2; the town revisited, ii. 163. Lawes (Rev. T. B.), club established by, at Rothamsted, ii. 285. Lawrence (Abbot), ii. 104. Layard (A. H.), ii. 167 ; at Gadshill, ii. 486. Lazy Tour projected, ii. 233 (and see 348, 517). Lazzaroni, what they really are, i. 415. Leech (John), at Miss Kelly's theatre, i. 434; grave mistake by, in Battle of Life illustration, i. 505 ; fancy sketch of, ii. 13; Dickeus on his Rising Generation, ii. 54-7 ; what he will be remembered for, ii. 56; accident to, at Bonchurch, ii. 69-70 ; at Brighton, ii. 59; at Boulogne, ii. 183; death of, ii. 310 (and see 366). Leech (Mrs.), ii. 70, 183. Leeds, reading at, ii. 277. Leeds Mechanics' Society, Dickens at meeting of the, ii. 19. Legends and Lyrics (Adelaide Procter's), ii. 475-6. Legerdemain in perfection, ii. 187-90. Leghorn, Dickens at, ii. 165. Legislatures, local, L 258. Legouvet (M.), ii. 205. Lehmann (Frederic), ii. 267, 293. Leigh (Percival), at Miss Kelly's theatre, i. 434. Lemaitre (Frederic), acting of, ii. 195-6 (and see 495). Lemon (Mark), ii. 116; at Miss Kelly's theatre, i. 434, 435 ; as Falstaff, ii, 22 ; fancy sketch of, ii. 13 ; Haunted Man adapted by, ii. 74 ; farce written for the Guild, ii. 84; acting with chil- dren, ii. 156 ; death of, ii. 508. Leslie (Charles Robert), ii. 198 (see i. 245), ii. 213 note. Letter-opening at the General Post- Office, i. 359. Levees in the United States, i. 221, 245, 258, 264, 273, 282 ; queer customers at, i. 264 ; what they are like, 282. Lever (Charles), 1, 416 ; tale by, in All the Year Round, ii. 286. Lewes (George Henry), Dickens's regard for, iL 104 ; his critical essay on Dickens, in the Fortnightly Review, noticed, ii. 334-39- Library, a gigantic, i. 478-9. Life of Christ, written by Dickens for his children, i. 457 (see ii. 468). Life-preservers, i. 266. Lighthouse, Carlyle on Dickens's acting in the, ii. 159; Stanfield's scene painted for, ib. note, 284. Lincoln (President), curious story re- specting, ii. 419-20 (and see 485). Index. 545 Lincoln's-inn fields, a reading of the Chimes in, i. 398, 407-8. Linda, Dickens's dog, ii. 267, 493 ; burial-place of, ii. 270. Liston (Robert), ii. 104. Literary Fund dinner, i. 227 (and see ii. 470). Literature, a substitute for, i. 290 ; too much * patronage ' of, in England, ii. 470. Litterateur, a fellow, i. 516. Little Dorrit begun, ii. 160 (see 517) ; the title that was first chosen, ii. 221 ; fac-simile of plan prepared for first number, ii. 224; sale of, ii. 225 ; gene- ral design, ii. 222 ; weak points in, ii. 226 ; criticized in Blackwood, ii. 228 ; Von Moltke and, ii. 228-9 ; original of Mrs. Clennam, ii. 371 ; notions for, ii. 371. Little Nell, first thought of, i. 132 ; Florence Dombey and, ii. 42 ; Sara Coleridge on, ii. 343 note, Liverpool, readings at, ii. 272, 302, 315, 317 ; Dickens's speech at Mechanics' Institution, i. 350 ; Leigh Hunt's benefit, ii. 4-7 (see 9) ; public dinner to Dickens, ii. 446, 479-80. Loch-eam-head, postal service at, i. 180. Lockhart (Mr. J.), i. 121, ii. 169. Locock (Dr.), ii. 99. Lodi, Dickens at, i. 401-6. Logan Stone, Stanfield's sketch of, i. 312. London, pictures of, in Dickens's books, i. 112; readings in, ii. 271, 295-6, 303, 313, 442. Longfellow (Henry Wadsworth), i. 209, 234 ; among London thieves and tramps, i. 297 (and see 323) ; at Gads- hill, ii. 266, 441 J on Dickens's death, ii. 390. Longman (Thomas), ii. 99. Louis Philippe, a glimpse of, i. 512 (see ii. 203) ; dethronement of, ii. 46. Lovelace (Lord), ii. 99. Lowther, Mr. (charge d'affaires at VOL. II. Naples), difficulty in finding house of, ii. 167-9. Lumley (Mr.), ii. 99. Lynn (Mr.), ii. 259. Lytton (Lord), i. 416, ii. 496 (and see ii. 286) ; prologue written by, for Ben Jonson's play, ii. 6 note ; Dickens's admiration for, i. 153, ii. 86-7 note, 102, 286 ; performance of his comedy of Not so Bad as we Seem at Devonshire House, ii. 87 ; at Manchester, ii. 90; his opinion of Copperfield, ii. 120 ; St7-ange Story contributed to All the Year Round, ii. 296 ; Dickens's reply to remon- strance from, ii. 341 ; his defence of humourists, ii. 347 note ; suggestion as to close of Great Expectations, ii. 361; letter of Dickens to, from Cam- bridge (U. S. ), concerning the Webster murder, ii. 406-7 ; death of, and cha- racter, ii. 86. Lytton (Robert), ii. 198. M'Ian the actor, i. 170, 173. Mackenzie (Dr. Shelton) and Cruik- shank's illustrations to Oliver Twist, i. loi note ; rigmarole concerning Dickens and Her Majesty, ii. 481-2 note. Maclise (Daniel), i. 120, 150, 174, 200, 296, 320, 397, 407, 425, 434, ii. 16 note, iio-ii note; his portrait of Dickens, i. 117 note; social charm of, i. 118-19 ; his apotheosis of Grip, i. 159 ; his play-scene in Hamlet, i. 251 ; among London tramps, i. 297 ; sketches in Cornwall by, i. 312; letter from, on the Cornwall trip, 312-13; his 'Girl at the Waterfall,' i. 313 ; paints Mrs. Dickens's por- trait, ib.', pencil drawing of Charles Dickens, his wife, and her sister, i. 317 ; Dickens's address to, i. 365-66 ; sketch of the private reading in Lin- coln's-inn-fields, i. 407 ; house in Devonshire terrace sketched by, ii, N N Index. 546 119; death of, ii. 507; tribute of Dickens to, ib. Ma^millarHs Magazine^ paper in, on Dickens's amateur theatricals, ii. 157 note. Macrae (David), Home and Abroad by, ii. 467 note. Macready (William Charles), i. 118, 121, 160, 174, I9S-7, 234, 320; at Covent-garden, i. 91 ; dinner to, on his retirement from management, i. 122 ; dinner prior to American visit, i. 321 ; an apprehended disservice to, i. 321 ; in New Orleans, i. 355 ; in Paris, i. 408, ii. 198 ; anecdote of, ii. 6 note ; Dickens's affection for, i. 396, ii. 98 ; farewell dinner to, ii. 85-6 ; at Sherborne, ii. 243-4 ; his opinion of the Sikes and Nancy scenes, ii. 444 ; misgiving of Dickens respecting, iu 444, 502. Macready (Mrs.), ii. 98 ; death of, ii. 151. Macrone (Mr.) copyright of Sketches by Boz sold to, i. 66 ; scheme to reissue Sketches^ i. 78 ; exorbitant demand by, i. 79, ii. 73 note ; close of dealings with, i. 80 ; a friendly plea for, ii. 73 note. Magnetic experiments, i, 265-6. Makeham (Mr.), Dickens's letter to, ii. 469. Malleson (Mr.), ii. 293. Malthus philosophy, i. 471. Managerial troubles, ii. 21 note, 71, 89-90. Manby (Charles), pleasing trait of, ii. 306. Manchester, Dickens's speech at open- ing of Athenseum, i. 323 (and see ii. 281 ) ; Leigh Hunt's benefit, ii. 4-7 ; readings at, ii. 276, 295, 302, 313, 31S, 318. Manchester (Bishop of), on Dickens's writings, ii. 389. Manin (Daniel), ii. 197. Mannings, execution of the, ii. 106. Manon Lescaut^ Auber's opera of, ii. 205. i Mansion-house dinner to 'literature ' and art,' ii. 105 ; a doubtful com- pliment, ii. io6 ; suppressed letter of Dickens respecting, ib. Manson (Mr.), i. 18. Manson (J. B.), Dickens's letter to, ii. 470 note. Marcet (Mrs.), i. 450, 464, 486. Margate theatre, burlesque of classic tragedy at, i. 299-300 (and see ii. 17). Mario (Signor), i. 408. Marryat (Captain) on the effect in America of the Nickleby dedication, i. 321 ; fondness of, for children, ii. lOI. Marshalsea prison, Dickens's first and last visits to, i. 20-1, ii. 227 ; an incident in, described by Dickens, i. 35-6 (and see ii. 228). Marston's (Mr. Westland) Patrician's Daughter, Dickens's prologue to, i. 315. Martineau (Harriet) on American inns* i. 243, 258 note. Martin Chuzzlewit, agreement for, L 191 (and see 328, 528 ) ; original of Eden, i. 256, 261 j fancy for opening, i, 298, 313 ; first year of, i. 311-27 ; names first given to, i. 313-14 ; Sydney Smith's opinion of first num- ber, i. 314 (see 335) ; original of Mrs. Gamp, i. 319 ; sale less than former books, i. 327 (and see ii. 76) ; unlucky clause in agreement, i. 328 ; Dickens's own opinion of, i. 331 ; the story characterized, i. 335-342; Thackeray's favourite scene, i. 338 ; intended motto for, i. 340 ; M. Taine on, i. 338-340 ; christening diimer, i. 360 ; Sara Coleridge on, ii. 344 note. Master Humphreys Clock projected, i. 127-131 ; first sale of, i. 134 ; first number published, i. 148 (see 527) ; original plan abandoned, L 134 (see ii. 145) ; dinner in celebration of, i. 160 j i Clock discontents, i. 190. Index. 547 Mazeppa at Ramsgate, i. 438 note. Mazzini (Joseph), Dickens's interest in his school, ii. 103. Meadows (Mr.) of Covent Garden, ii. 502. Mediterranean, sunset on the, i. 366. Memoires du Viable, a pretty tag to, iL 202-3. Memoranda, extracts from Dickens's book of, ii. 370-86 ; available names in, ii. 384-6. Mendicity Society, the, i. 358. Mesmerism, Dickens's interest in, i. 189, ii. 70. Mezieres (M. ) on Dickens, ii. 333 note. Micawber (Mr. ), in David Copperfield, original of, ii. 126-7 J comparison between and Harold Skimpole, ii. 128 ; Mr. G. H. Lewes on, ii. 332, 338. Middle Temple, Dickens entered at, i. 121, 123. Midsummer Nighfs Dream at the Opera Comique, Boulogne, ii. 182. Miles (Monckton), ii. loi. Mirror of Parliament^ Dickens report- ing for, i. 57 (see 63). Mississippi, the, i. 273. Mistletoe from England, ii. 404. Mitchell (Mr. ) the comedian, i. 299. Mitton (Thomas), i. 51, 119, 123, ii. 104. Molesworth (Lady), ii. 99. MoUoy (Mr.), i. 51. Moltke (Von) and Little Dorrit, ii. 228-9. Money (Lord Lytton's), a performance of, at Doncaster, ii. 237 note. Monks and painters, i. 403. Mont Blanc, effect of^ on Dickens, i. 465-6. Montreal, private theatricals in, i. 293-4 J fac-simile of play-bill, i. 295. Moore (George), business qualities and benevolence, ii. 287-8. Moore (Thomas), i. 167, 227. Morgue at Paris, i. 513 ; a tenant of the, i. 517. I Morning Chronicle, Dickens a reporter for the, L 58 ; liberality of pro- prietors, i. 60 ; change of editorship, i. 319 (see 65 and 356) ; articles by Dickens in, i. 356. Morning Herald, John Dickens a re- porter for, i. 53. Morris (Mowbray), ii. 99. Morris (General George), i. 223. Motley (Mr.), ii. 508. Moulineaux, Villades, ii. 177-82, 190-2. Mountain travelling, i. 464. Mr. Nightingale's Diary, the Guild farce, ii. 159, Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings, ii. 362, 520. Mugby Junction, The Boy at, ii. 369 ; germ of, in Memoranda, ii. 381. Mule- travelling in Switzerland, i. 4b 5, ii. 162. Mulgrave (Lord), i. 203, 206, 209, 292, 266; ii. 99-100. Mumbo-Jumbo, ii. 72. Murray (Mr.) the manager, i. 171. Murray (Lord), i. 173, ii. 103. Music, its effect on a deaf, dumb, and blind girl, i. 456 ; vagrant, ii. 17, 71. Names, available, ii. 384-6. Naples, burial place at, i. 414-15 note ; filth of, i. 415 (and see ii. 176) ; Dickens's adventure at, ii. 167-9. Napoleon III. at Gore-house, i. 522 note ; at Boulogne, ii. 185 ; at Paris, ib. note, 198 ; Edwin Landseer and, ii. 213 note. Napoleon (Prince), i. 522 note. Nautical incident at Genoa, i. 421. Neaves (Mr.), i. 172. Negri (Marquis di), i. 374-6. Negro in America, objections to, ii.418. New Bedford (U.S.), reading at, ii. 431- Newcastle, readings at, ii. 295, 299, 3 19 ; alarming scene at, ii. 299-300. Newhaven (U.S.). levee at, i. 221 ; reading at, ii. 424. N N 2 548 Index. New Sentimental Journey (Collins's), ii. 294. Newspaper express forty years ago, i. 60. Newspaper-press-fund dinner, Dickens's speech at, i. 60. Newspapers, American, ii. 404, Newsvendors* dinner, Dickens at, ii. 506. New Testament, Dickens's version of, i. 457 (see ii. 468, 524). New-year's day in Paris, ii, 211. New York, fac-similes of invitations to Dickens, i. 213-18; the Carlton hotel, i, 222 (and see ii. 401) ; ball at, i. 223-4 ; life in, i. 229 ; hotel bills, i. 234 (and see 244) ; public institutions ill-managed, i. 239 ; prisons, i. 240-5 ; capital punish- ment, i. 242 ; sale of tickets for the readings, ii. 399 ; first reading in, ib. ; fire at the Westminster hotel, ii. 400, 402 ; prodigious increase since Dickens's former visit, ii. 401 ; Niblo's theatre, ib.\ sleigh- driving, ii. 402 ; police, ii. 403 (and see i. 240) ; the Irish element, ii. 413 ; farewell readings, ii. 434 ; public dinner to Dickens, ib. New York Herald, i. 226. New York Ledger, high price paid for tale by Dickens in, ii. 291. New York Tribune, Dickens's ' violated * letter ' published in the, ii. 255, 276. Niagara Falls, effect of, on Dickens, i. 287 (and see ii. 426-7). Nicholas Nickleby, agreement for, i. 95 ; first number of, i. 98, 108 (see 526) ; sale of, i. 98 ; the Saturday Review on, i. 108; characters in, i. 109-113 (see ii. 391) ; opinions of Sydney Smith and Leigh Hunt on, i. i lo-i i (see 115) ; Dickens at work on, i. 1 1 2-1 6; dinner celebration, i. 117- originals of the Brothers Cheery ble, i. 119; theatrical adaptation of, i. 114; originals of Mr, Micawber and Mrs, Nickleby, ii, 125 ; proclamation on the eve of publication, i, 353 note ; its effect in establishing Dickens, ii. 343. Nicolson (Sir Frederick), i. 421. Nightingales at Gadshill, ii, 264. Nobody's Fault, the title first chosen for Little Dorrit, ii. 221. No-Popery riots, description of the, i. 163. Normanby (Lord), i. 360, 512. Norton (Charles Eliot), ii. 265, 441. Norwich, readings at, ii. 279 note. No Thoroughfare, i. 91, ii. 369, 521. Novels, real people in, ii. 120-1 ; epi- sodes in, ii. 227. Novelists, design for cheap edition of the old, ii. 16. Nugent (Lord), ii. 102. 'Ocean Spectre,' the, ii. 3 note. O'Connell (Daniel), i. 378 (see concern- ing tribute, 450 note). Odeon (Paris), Dickens at the, ii. 199. Ogre and lambs, i, 475-6. Ohio, on the, i. 267. Old Curiosity Shop, original of the Marchioness in, i. 31 ; originals of the Garland family, i. 32; original of the poet in Jarley's waxwork, i. 39 ; the story commenced, i. 132 (see 527) ; disadvantages of weekly publication, i, 135 ; changes in proofs, i. 136 ; Maclise's wish to illustrate, i. 137; Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness, i. 137 ; effect of story upon the writer, i. 138; death of Little Nell, i. 139 ; close of the tale, i. 140 (see 155) ; its success, ib. ; characterized, i. 141-2 ; a tribute by Bret Harte, i. 143-4 J characters in, ii. 343. Old Mojithly Magazine, Dickens's first published piece in, i. 59 ; other sketches, i. 64. Oliver Tzvist, commenced in Bentley's Miscellany, i, 78 (see 526-528) ; cha- racters in, real to Dickens, i. 81, 95 ; Index, 549 the story characterized, i. 95-6, 103-5 ; Dickens at work on, i. 99 ; the last chapter, i. 100 ; the Cruikshank illustrations, i. i-io2, ii. 31-34 ; reputation of, i. 102 ; reply to attacks against, i. 104-5 ; teaching of, i. 105; * adapted ' for the stage, i. 114; noticed in the Quarterly Review, i. 121 ; copyright repurchased, i. 150 ; original of Mr. Fang, ii. 122-3 ; cha- racter-drawing in, ii. 342 ; proposed reading from, ii. 441-2 ; facsimile of portion of MS., ii. 457. Orford (Lord), ii. 286. Osgood (Mr.), ii. 423, 426. Opium-den, an, ii. 501-2 (and see 453 note). Osnaburgh-terrace, family difficulty in, i. 357-9. Our Mutual Friend,\\. 525 ; title chosen for, ii. 363 ; hints for, in Memoranda, ii. 374-5 ; first notion for, ii. 363 ; original of Mr. Venus, ii. 365 ; Mar- cus Stone chosen as illustrator, ii. 364 note ; the story reviewed, ii. 367-8. Ouvry (Frederic), ii. 509 ; clause in- serted by, in agreement for Echuin Drood, ii. 451 note ; humorous letters of Dickens to, ii. 429, 496. Overs (John), Dickens's interest in, i. 359 ; death of, i. 360 note. Owen (Prof.), ii. 105. Oxford the pot-boy traitor, i. 149. Paintings, Dickens on, 1. 401-3, ii. 173-4. Paradise Lost at the Ambigu, Paris, ii. 200-1. Paris, Dickens's first day in, i. 509 ; Sunday in, i. 5^0 i Dickens's houses described, i. 510-11, ii. 196; un- healthy political symptoms, i. 512-13 ; the Morgue, i. 513, 517 ; incident in streets, 1.513; population of, ib. ; hard frost, i. 515; an alarming neighbour, begging-letter writers, i. 517; sight-seeing, i. 519 ; theatres, ib.^ ii. Ill note, 198-9, 200-3; the Praslin tragedy, ii. 16 ; Dickens's life in, ii^ 194-218 ; personal attentions to Dickens, ii, 197 ; regiments in streets, ii. 210 ; illumination of, ii. 211 ; New- year's day, ib. ; results of imperial improvement, ib. note; Art Exposi- tion, ii. 212-3 ; a Duchess murdered, ii. 216; readings at, ii. 295, 305. Parliament, old Houses of, inconve- nience of the, i. 61. Parr (Plarriet), Dickens's letter to, il 474-5. Parry (John), ii. 104. Pawnbrokers, Dickens's early experience of, i. 21-2. Paxton (Sir Joseph), death of, ii. 311 note. Peel (Sir Robert) and his party, i. 186 ; Lord Ashley and Peel, i. 192 ; the Whigs and Peel, i. 471. Peerages (life), ii. 479 note. Pen Photographs (Miss Field's), ii. 279 note. Perth, reading at, ii. 278. Peschiere, Palazzo (Genoa), rooms in, hired by Dickens, i. 374; a fellow- tenant, ib. ; other tenants, i. 420-1 , described, i. 381-3 ; view of the palace, i. 382; revisited, ii. 164; dinner-party at, i. 405 ; owner of the, ii. 164. Petersham, athletic sports at, i. 120. Phelps (Mr.), ii. 104. Philadelphia, Dickens at, i. 237-53 ; penitentiary at, i. 244-5 j levee at, i. 245 ; letters from, ii. 423 (and see i. 308). Pichot (Amed^e), i. 520, ii. 204. Pickwick Papers^ materials for, i. 36 ; first number, i. 67-8 (see 524-5) . origin of, i. 67 ; Seymour's illustra- tions, i. 67 (see 69 note) ; Thackeray's offer to illustrate, i. 71-2 ; suspended for two months, i. 77 (see 152 note) ; the debtors' prison, i. 82-3 ; popu- larity of, i. 83 (and see ii, 390 -1) ; 550 Index, reality of characters, i. 84 ; inferior to later books, i. 85 ; Mr. Pickwick an undying character, i. 85 (and see 69, ii. 391) ; piracies of, i. 89; completion of> i- 93 ; payments for, i. 94 ; a holy brother of St. Bernard and, i. 481 ; characters in, ii. 342 ; where it was begun, ii. 501 ; first popular edition of, ii. 18 ; translated into Russian, ii. 77; Lord Campbell on, ii. 159. Pictures from Jtaly^ original of the courier in, i. 404 ; publication com- menced in the Daily News^ i* 44' (see 528). Pic Nic Papers published, i." 161 (see 80 and 527). Pictures, subjects for, i. 187-8. * Piljians Projiss,' a new, ii. 7-14- Pig-market at Boulogne, ii. 182. Pipchin (Mrs.) in Dofnbey, original of, i. 28, 36, ii, 37 ; various names pro- posed for, ii. 37 note. Pirates, literary, i. 350 ; proceedings in Chancery against, i. 35 1-2 ; warning to, i. 353 note. Pisa, a jaunt to, ii. 165. Pittsburg (U.S.), description of, i. 263 ; levees at, i. 264 ; solitary prison, i. 267. Plessy (M.), acting of, ii. 198. Poets, small, ii. 471. Political squibs by Dickens, i. 187-9. Pollock (Chief Baron) on the death of Dickens, ii. 286 note. Poole (John), aid rendered to, by Dickens, ii. 4 (see 9) ; granted a civil- list pension, ii. 21 ; at Regnier's child's funeral, ii. 65. Poor, Dickens's sympathy with the, i. no, 167, 386, 456. Popularity, distresses of, i. 229. Porte St. Martin theatre (Paris), Dickens at, ii. 200. Portland (U.S.) burnt and rebuilt, ii. 432 ; readings at, ii. 433. Portrait painter, story of a, ii. 496-7. Portsea, birth of Dickens at, i. 3. Potter, a fellow-clerk of Dickens's, i. 52. Power (Major), i. 522-3 note. Power (Miss Marguerite), ii. 293. Prairie, an American, i. 278-80 ; pro- nunciations of the word, i. 281. Praslin tragedy in Paris, ii. 16. Prayer, Dickens on personal, ii. 468. Preston (Mr.), i. 247. Prescott (W. H.), ii. 104. Preston, a strike at, ii. 147-8 ; Hamlet at, ii. 148. Primrose (Mr.), i. 172. Printers' Pension fund dinner, presided over by Dickens, i. 322. Prisons, visits to London, i. 189 ; American, i 239-43, 244-5, 267-8; Lausanne, i. 452 ; comparison of systems pursued in, i. 243. Procter (Bryan Waller), i. I2i note, 416, ii. 124, 503 ; Dickens's affection for, ii. 98. Procter (Mrs.), ii. 98. Procter (Adelaide), Dickens's apprecia- tion of her poems, ii. 475-6. Providence (U.S.), reading at, ii. 424. Publishers, hasty compacts with, i. 78, 87, 107 ; Dickens's agreements with, i. 345, ii. 152 (and see ii. 282- 4). Publishers and authors, i. 328, 333, iU 471-2. Puddings, a choice of, i. 29. ' Punch people ' and Lord Brougham, ii. 99 ; at a Mansion-house dinner, ii. 105. Q, Dickens's secretary in the United States, i. 208, 222, 229, 243, 263, 265, 278, 284 ; described, i. 291-2 (and see ii. 396 note). Quack doctor's proclamation, i. 186- 87. Quarterly Review prophecy not fulfilled, i. 91 note ; notice of Oliver Twisty i. 121. Queen (Her Majesty the) and Auber, ii. 203-4 ; alleged offers to Dickens, ii- 481, and 481-2 note ; desire to see Index. 551 Dickens act, ii. 482 ; Thackeray's copy of the Carols iL 484 note ; Dickens's interview with, ii. 484-5 ; grief at Dickens's death, ii. 512. Quin (Dr.). i. 153 ; 522 note, ii. 98. Rachel (Madame), caprice of, ii. 205. Ragged schools, Dickens's interest in, i. 323 ; results of, ib. note (and see 457) y proposed paper on, by Dickens, declined by Edinburgh Review, i. 324. Railroads, American, ladies' cars on, i. 238. Railway travelling, effect on Dickens, ii. 443 ; in America, i. 237-8, 260, ii. 402-3, 412, 429- Ramsay (Dean) on Bleak House and Jo, ii. 142. Ramsgate, entertainments at, i. 438 note. Raven, death of Dickens's first, i. 156- 8 ; of second, i. 438. Raymond (George), ii. 104. Reade (Charles), Hard Cash contributed by, to All the Year Round, ii. 286. Readings, gratuitous, ii. 155-6 note, private, in Scheffer's atelier, ii. 212 ; in Lincoln's-inn-fields, i. 398, 407- 8. public, Dickens's first thoughts of, i. 407, 486, ii. 155 ; argument against paid, ii. 155, 251 ; idea revived, ii. 246 ; opinions as to, asked and given, ii. 247 note ; dis- advantages of, ii. 247 ; proposal from Mr. Beale respecting, ii. 252 ; first rough notes, ii. 253-4 note ; various managers employed by Dickens, ii. 270 ; hard work in- volved, ii. 271, 312, 439-40 ; study given to, ii. 321. first series, ii. 270-81 ; subjects of, ii. 278-9. second series, ii. 292-306 ; what it comprised, ii. 295 ; new subjects for, ii. 296. Readings given by Dickens : third series, ii. 307-25 ; Messrs. Chappell's connection with, ii. 312- 16. American, ii. 393-435 ; result of, ii. 415. Australian, contemplated, ii. 303 note (but see 305) ; Bulwer's opinion of, ii. 304 note. Provincial tour, ii. 271, 295. last series, ii. 437-50 (and see 430 note). Readings (alphabetical list of) : Aberdeen, ii. 278. Albany (U.S.), ii. 430; receipts at, ii. 434. Baltimore (U.S.), ii. 417, 423; re- ceipts at, ii. 434. Belfast, ii. 275. Berwick-on-Tweed, ii. 295, 299, 300. Birmingham, ii, 154, 295, 316. Boston (U.S.), ii. 425, 433 ; receipts at, ii. 434. Bradford, ii. 155 note. Brighton, ii. 295, 298. Brooklyn (New York), ii. 418; re- ceipts at, ii. 434. Buffalo (U.S.), ii. 426; receipts at, ii. 434. Bury, ii. 279 note. Bury St. Edmunds, ii. 295. Cambridge, ii. 320. Canterbury, ii. 295, 299. Carlisle, ii. 295. Cheltenham, ii, 295. Chester, ii, 295, 317. Clifton, ii. 444, Colchester, ii, 295, Coventry, ii. 1 56 note. Dover, ii. 295, 299. Dublin, ii. 272-4, 320, Dundee, ii. 278. Edinburgh, ii. 277, 301, 443 note. Exeter, ii. 271. Glasgow, ii. 278, 301, 443 note. Harrogate, ii. 275. HariJord (U.S.), ii. 434. Hastings, ii. 295. 552 Index, Readings given by Dickens : Hull, ii. 277. Ipswich, ii. 279 note, 295. Lancaster, ii. 295. Leeds, ii. 277. Liverpool, ii. 272, 302, 315. 3 1 7- London, ii. 271, 295, 296, 303, 313, 442, 503- Manchester, ii. 276, 295, 302, 313, 315, 318. New Bedford (U.S.), ii. 43 1 ; re- ceipts at, ii. 434. Newcastle, ii. 295, 299, 319. Newhaven (U.S.), ii. 424; receipts at, ii. 434. New York, ii. 418, 434; receipts at, ii. 434. Norwich, ii. 279 note, 295. Paris, ii. 295, 305. Perth, ii. 278. Philadelphia, ii. 417 ; receipts at, ii. 434. Plymouth, ii. 295. Portland (U.S.), ii. 433 ; receipts at, ib., 434. Preston, ii. 295. Providence (U.S.), ii. 424; receipts at, ii. 434. Rochester (U.S.), ii. 426; receipts at, ii. 427, 434. Sheffield, ii. 277. Springfield (U.S.), ii. 434. Syracuse (U.S.), ii. 427 ; receipts at, ib., 434. Torquay, ii. 295, 302, 444. Washington (U.S.), ii. 419, 421 note, 422 ; receipts at, ii. 434. Worcester (U.S.), ii. 434. York, ii. 276, 446. Reeves (Sims), ii. 104. Reformers, administrative, ii. 159 note. Regnier (M.) of the Frangais, i. 520, ii. 65, 198, 199 note, 205, 2CD9. Rehearsals, troubles at, ii. 5, 21 note. Religion, what is the true, i. 388. Reporters' gallery, Dickens enters the, i. 57 ; ceases connexion with, i. 72. Reporter's life, Dickens's own expe- rience of a, i. 60-1 (and see i, 473)- Revolution at Geneva, i. 495-99 ; traces left by, i. 498 ; abettors of, ib. Rhine, Dickens on the, i. 443-4 ; travel- ling Englishmen, i. 444. Richard Doubleclick^ Story of^ it 221. Richardson (Sir John), i. 420 note, iL 494. Richardson's show, a religious, ii. 305-6. Richmond (U.S.), levees at, i. 251. Rifle-shooting, Lord Vernon's passion for, i. 476-7 ; at Lausanne, i. 460-1 ; at Geneva, i. 496-7. Rising Generation (Leech's), Dickens on, ii. 54-7. Ristori (Madame) in Medea, ii. 205-6. Roberts (David), ii. 87, 169. Robertson (Peter), i. 169, 172, 378-9, ii. 103 ; sketch of, i. 169. Robertson (T. W.), ii. 502. Robinson Crusoe^ Dickens's opinion of, ii. 204 note (and see i. 176 note). Roche (Louis), employed by Dickens as his courier in Italy, i. 357 ; re- engaged, i. 443 ; resources of, i. 397, 404-5, 422-3, 466, 509, 511; Count d'Orsay and, i. 431 note ; ill- ness of, ii. 59 ; death, i. 466 notCc Rochester, early impressions of, L 8, 198 (and see ii. 511) ; Watts's Charity, ii. 221 note (see 264). Rochester-bridge (old), ii. 264. Rochester Castle, adventure at, i. 297. Rochester Cathedral, brass tablet in, to Dickens's memory, ii. 221 note. Rochester (U.S.), alarming incident at, ii. 426-7. Rockingham-castle, Dickens's visit to, ii. 107-9 ; private theatricals at, ii. 108-9, 167. Rocky Mountain Sneezer, a, ii. 410. Rogers (Samuel), i. 167, 191, ii. 100, 1 12 note ; sudden illness of, ii. 97 ;-his waistcoats, ii. 98. Rome, Dickens's first impressions of, i. 414; Dickens again at, ii. 169-72; a 'scattering' party at Opera, ii. 169- lnaex» 553 70 ; marionetti, ii. 1 70 ; malaria, iL 171. Rosemont (Lausanne), taken by Dickens, i. 445 ; view of, i. 448 (see 473) ; Dickens's neighbours, i. 450-1, 464 ; Dombey ht^xi, i. 457; the landlord of, i. 459-60 note. Rothamsted, Rev. Mr. Lawes's club at, ii. 285. Royal Academy dinner, Dickens's last public words spoken at, ii. 507. * Royalties,' Dickens on payment by, ii. 472. Roy lance (Mrs.), the original of Mrs. Pipchin in Dombey, i. 28, 36. Ruskin (Mr.) on Hard Times, ii. 145-6. Russell (Lord J.), i. 457, 471 ; a friend of letters, ii. 4, 21 ; on Dickens's letters, ii. 465 ; dinner with, ii. 109 ; Dickens's tribute to, il 480, and note. Ryland (Arthur), letter of Dickens to, ii. 152 note, Sala (G. a.), Dickens's opinion of, ii. 82 note ; tribute by, to Dickens's memory, ii. 491. Salisbury Plain, superiority of, to an American prairie, i. 279 ; a ride over, ii- 93- Samson (M.), i. 520, ii. 99. Sand (Georges), ii. 206-7. Sandeau (Jules), ii. 209. Sandusky (U.S.), discomforts of inn at, i. 283-4. Sardinians, Dickens's liking for, ii. 174, Satirist, editor of, hissed from the Covent-garden stage, i. 318. Saturday Review on the realities of Dickens's characters, i. 108. Scene-painting at Tavistock-house, ii. 230. Scheffer (Ary), ii. 197 ; his portrait of Dickens, ii. 213-5 5 reading of Cricket on the Hearth in atelier of, ii. 214. Scheffer (Henri), ii. 215. Schools, public, Dickens on, IL 280. Scotland, readings in, ii. 277-8. Scott (Sir W. ), boyish recollections of, i. 4, II ; real people in his novels, ii. 121, 126; incident in his life, ii. 339. Scott monument at Edinburgh, ii. 20. Scribe (M.), dinner to, ii. 99; social intercourse of Dickens with, i. 520, ii. 203 ; author- anxieties of, ii. 204 ; a fine actor lost in, ii. 206. Scribe (Madame), ii. 205. Sea-bathing and authorship, i. 301. Seaside holidays, Dickens's, ii. 46-72, 179-94. Sebastopol, reception in France of sup. posed fall of, ii. 186. Serenades at Hartford and Newhaven, (U.S.), i. 221-2 ; at Cincinnati, i. 271. Serle (Mr.), i. 322. Servants, Swiss, excellence of, i. 460. Seven Dials, ballad literature of, i.154. Seymour (Mr. ) and the Pickwick Papers, i. 67, 69 note ; death of, i. 71. Shaftesbury (Lord) and ragged schools, i. 192, 323, ii. 1 16-7. Shakespeare Society, the, i. 122 (see 354)- Shakespeare and Ben Jonson, ii. 35 ; on the actor's calling, ii. 248 note. Shakespeare's house, purchase of, ii, 21. Sheffield, reading at, ii. 277. Shell (Richard Lalor), i. 320. Shepherd's-bush, home for fallen women at, ii. 113. Sheridans (the), ii. 98 (seei. 512). Ship news on the Atlantic, i. 203, Short-hand, difficulties of, i. 54. Shows, Saturday-night, i. 32. Siddons (Mrs.), genius of, ii. 102-3. Sierra Nevada, strange encounter on the, ii. 390-1. Sikes and Nancy reading, proposed, ii. 441-2 ; at Clifton, ii. 444 ; Macready on the, ib. ; at York, ii. 446, and note ; Dickens's pulse after, ii. 504-5. Simplon, passing the, i. 406. 554 Index. 'Six' (Bachelor), ii. 196. Sketches by Boz, first collected and pub- lished, i. 66, 70 (see 525, 526) ; cha- racterized, i. 71. Slavery in America, i. 231, 250, 274-6, 356 ; a slave burnt alive, i. 275 ; the ghost of slavery, ii. 418. Slaves, runaway, i. 276. Sleeplessness, Dickens's remedy for, ii. 288. Sleighs in New York, ii. 402. * Slopping round,' ii. 427. *Smallness of the world,' i. 59, 69, 263. Small-pox, Backwoods doctor's remedy for, ii. 311 note. Smith (Albert), Battle of Life drama- tized by, i. 515. Smith (Arthur), ii. 253, 277 ; first series of Dickens's readings under his man- agement, ii. 254 (see 298 note) ; first portion of second series planned by, ii. 295 ; serious illness of, ii. 296 ; death, ii. 297 ; touching incident at funeral, ib. note. Smith (Bobus), i. 417. Smith (O.), acting of, i. 1 14, 350. Smith (Porter), ii. 104. Smith (Southwood), i. 320, 359. Smith (Sydney), i. 220, 359 ; on Nicho- las Nickleby, i. iio-ii, 1 15 note; on Martin Chuzzlewit, i. 314, 335 ; death of, i. 421. Smithson (Mr.), i. 119, 158; death of, i. 348. Smoking party, a feminine, i. 491-2. Smollett (Tobias), a recollection of,* i. 83 ; real people in his novels, ii. 121 (see 227). Snuff-shop readings of Dombey, i. 524. Solitary confinement, effects of, i. 244-5, 452. Somebody' s Luggage, iu 519 ; the Waiter in, ii. 362. Sortes Shandyanse, i. 457. Sparks (Jared), i. 209. Speculators, American, ii. 398, 399,424. Spiritual tyranny, i. 450 note. Spittoons in America, i. 239. Springfield (U.wS.), reading at, ii. 434. Squib Annual, the, i. 67. St. Bernard, Great, proposed trip to, i. 477 j ascent of the mountain, i. 479-81 ; the convent, i. 479 ; scene at the top, i. 480; bodies found in the snow, ib. ; the convent a tavern in all but sign, i. 481 ; Dickons's fancy of writing a book about, ii, 243. St. George (Madame), i. 408. St. Giles's, Dickens's early attraction of repulsion to, i. 17 ; original of Mr. Venus found in, ii. 365. St. Gothard, dangers of the, i. 424-5. St. James's Hall, Dickens's final read- ing at, i. 503-6 (see 449-50). St. Leger, Dickens's prophecy at the, ii. 237. St. Louis (U.S.), levee at, i. 273 ; slavery at, i. 274 ; a pretty scene, i. 276-78 ; duelling in, i. 280. Stafford (Augustus), ii. 109. Stage-coach, queer American, i. 256-7. Stage, training for the, i. 437 ; Shake- speare's dislike of the stage, ii. 248 note. Stanfield (Clarkson), i. 119, 353, 360, 396, 407, 434 note, ii. 87-8, 495 ; sketches in Cornwall by, i. 312; his illustrations to Battle of Life, i, 505 ; price realized at the Dickens sale for the Lighthouse scenes, ii. 159 note (and see ii. 229, 230, 284) ; at work, ii. 230 ; death of, ii. 322, Stanfield Hall, Dickens at, ii. 94. Stanley of Alderley (Mr.), i. 119. Stanley (Dr. A. P.), Dean of West- minster, compliance with general wish, ii' 513; letter and sermon, ib. Stanton (Secretary), curious story told by, ii. 419-20 (and see 485). Staplehurst accident, ii. 311, 366; effect on Dickens, ii. 317-8, 366-7 (see 447, 503). Staples (J. v.), letter from Dickens to, i. 346 note. Statesmen, leading Anerican, i. 247. Index. 555 State Trials, story from the, ii. 377. Stealings, Carlyle's argument against, i. 236. Steamers, perils of, i. 230, 232-4, 273 (and see ii 165-6). Stevenage, visit to the hermit near, ii. 286. Stevens (Mr.), * mare ' of Rochester, ii. 259. Stirling (Mr.), a theatrical adapter, i. 114. Stone (Frank), at Boulogne, ii. 183 ; his sketch of Sydney Dickens, ii. 3 note ; fancy sketch of, ii. 14 ; death of, ii. 293 note. Stone (Marcus), designs supplied by, to Our Mutual Friend, ii. 364 note. Strangford (Lord), ii. 98. Streets, crowded, Dickens's craving for, i. 384, 482, 484-5, 489, 493. Strange Gentleman, a farce written by Dickens, i. 72 (see 525). Stuart (Lord Dudley), ii. 102. Sue (Eugene), i. 520. Sumner (Charles), i. 209, ii. 419, 423. Sunday, a French, i. 510, ii. iii note. Sunday under Three Heads, i. 98 note (see 525). Swinburne (Algernon), ii. 64. Switzerland, splendid scenery of, i. 423-4 ; villages, i. 425 ; Dickens's resolve to write new book in, i. 442 ; early impressions, i. 446-7 ; climate, i. 459 note ; the people of, i. 459-60, 469, ii. 162 ; mule-travelling, i. 465, ii. 162 ; Protestant and Catholic can- tons, i. 470 ; Dickens's last days in, i. 506-9; pleasures of autumn, i. 507; revisited, ii. 162. Syme (Mr,), opinion of, as to Dickens's lameness, ii. 445-6. Syracuse (U.S.), reading at, ii. 427. Tagart (Edward), i. 325, 378, 472, ii. 100. Taine (M.), on Martin Chuzzlewit, i. 338 ; criticisms on Dickens, i. 354-5, ii. 23, 329-33 (and see i. 463 note) ; a hint for, ii. 58 ; on Hard Times, ii. 146 note ; Fielding criticized by, ii. 345. Tale of Two Cities, ii. 518; titles sug- gested for, ii. 350, 373 ; first germ of Carton, ii. 373 (and see 354) j origin of, ii. 350 ; characterised, ii. 354-5. Tales of Miletus (Bulwer's), Dickens on, ii. 86-7. Talfourd (Judge), i. 117, 118, 160,351, 494, ii. 100 (and see 486) ; Dickens's affection for, ii. 63. Tatter (Hunt's), sayings from, ii. 123 note. Tauchnitz (Baron), letter from, ii. 152 note ; intercourse with Dickens, ii. 451 note (and see 215 note). Tavistock-house, sketch of, ii. 150; children's theatricals at, ii. 156, 229 ; a scene outside, ii. 229-30 ; Stanfield scenes at, ii. 229, 284 ; sale of, ii. 294 ; startling message from servant, ii- 371. Taylor (Tom), ii. 102. Taylor (the Ladies), i. 477. Telbin (William), ii. 87 ; at work, ii. 230. Temperance agitation, Dickens on the, ii. 50-1. Temperature, sudden changes of, in America, i. 246 (see ii. 408). Temple (Hon. Mr.), i. 418. Tennent (Sir Emerson), ii. 104, 165 ; death and funeral of, ii. 446. Tenniel (John), ii. 90, 99. Tennyson (Alfred), ii. 117; Dickens's allegiance to, i. 102, 299, 352 note ii. 102. Ternan (Ellen Lawless), ii. 522. Tete Noire Pass, i. 467 ; accident in, i 467-8. Thackeray (W. M.) i. 118, 320, 416, ii. 100, 117, 156; offers to illustrate Pickwick, i. 71-2 (see ii. 307) ; on Maclise's portrait of Dickens, i. 117 note ; on the Carol, i. 345 ; his fondness for Mrs. Steerforth, ii. 132 ; 556 Index. dinner to, H. l6o; at Boulogne, ii. 183 note ; in Paris, ii. 198 ; tribute to, by Dickens, ii. 279 (see 453) ; death of, ii. 307-8 ; estrangement between him and Dickens, ii. 307 note. Thanet (Isle of) races, Dickens at, i. 298. The9,tre Fran9ais (Paris), conventionali- ties of the, ii. 198-9. Theatres, Italian, i. 412 ; French, i. 520. Theatrical Fund dinner, Dickens's speech at, i. 443, ii. 114-15 (and see ii. 279). Theatricals, private, at Montreal, i. 293-4 ; at Rockingham, ii. 108-9 ; at Tavistock House, ii. 156-9 (and see 229). Theede (Fred), a schoolfellow of Dickens, ii. 488 note. Thomas (Owen P.), recollections of Dickens at school, i. 43-47. Thompson (Mr. T. J.), ii. 104. Thompson (Sir Henry), consulted by Dickens, ii. 323 ; a reading of Dickens's stopped by, ii. 444 ; opinion as to Dickens's lameness, ii. 323, 445 (see 446, 447). Thornton (Mr.), ii. 421. Ticknor (George), i. 209, 212. Ticknor & Fields (Messrs.), commission received by, on the American read- ings, ii. 440. Timber Doodle (Dickens's dog), i. 299, 301 ; troubles of, i. 378 note ; death of, ii. 211 note. Times (the), on Dickens's death, ii. 512 note. Tindal (Chief Justice), on the editor of the Satirist, i. 318. Tintoretto, Dickens on the works of, i. 402, ii. 173-4. Titian's Assumption, effect of, on Dickens, i. 402. Tobin (Daniel), a schoolfellow of Dickens, i. 43 (see ii. 488 note) ; assists Dickens as amanuensis, but finally discarded, i. 45 (see 50, 153). Toole (J. L.), encouragement given to in early life, by Dickens, ii. 150. Topham (F. W.), il 90, 99, Topping (Groom), i. 147, 156-7, 174, 196, 293, 331. Toronto, toryism of, i. 292. Torquay, readings at, ii. 295, 302, 444. Torrens (Mrs.), ii. 104 (see i. 295). Tour in Italy (Simond's), i. 364 note. Townshead (Chauncy Hare), i. 189, ii. 293 ; death and bequest of, ii. 441. Townshend (parson), ii. 259. Tracey (Lieut.), i. 189, 297. Tramps, ways of, ii. 260 note, 289. Tremont House (Boston, U. S. ), Dickens at, i. 206. Trossachs, Dickens in the, i. 175-6. True Sun, Dickens reporting for, i. 57. Turk (Dickens's dog), ii. 493. Turin, Dickens at, ii. 174-5. Turner (J. M. W.)^ at the Chuzzlewit dinner, i. 360. Tuscany, wayside memorials in, i. 416 note. Twickenham, cottage at, occupied by Dickens, i. 118-9; visitors at, ib. ; childish enjoyments, i. 120 note. Twiss (Horace), ii. 99. Tyler (President), i. 247. Tylney Hall (Hood's), i. 472. Tynemouth, scene at, ii. 319, Uncommercial Traveller^ Dickens's, ii. 287-91. Uncommercial Traveller Upside Down, contemplated, ii. 303. Underclift (Isle of Wight), Dickens's first impressions of, ii. 63 ; depressing effect of climate, ii. 66-8. Unitarianism adopted by Dickens for a short time, i. 324. Upholsterer, story of an, i. 125. Up the R/mie (Hood's), Dickens on, i. 121. Utica (U. S.), hotel at, ii. 429. Tndex. 557 Vauxhall, the Duke of Wellington and party at, ii. lOO. Venice, Dickens's first impressions of, i- 399-400 J revisited, ii. 1 72-4 ; habits of gondoliers, ii. 172 ; theatre, ii. 173. Verdeil (M.), i. 451-2. Vernet (Horace), Edwin Landseer on, ii. 213 note. Vernon (Lord), i. 496 ; eccentricities of, i. 476-7. Vesuvius, Mount, ascent of, ii. 167. Viardot (Madame) in Orphee, ii. 206 note. Village Coquettes, story and songs for, written by Dickens, i. 72 (see 75 and 525)- Vote, value of, in America, ii. 418. Wales (Prince of), and Dickens, ii. 485. Wainewright (the murderer), recognized by Macready in Newgate, i. 121 ; made the subject of a tale in the Netv York Ledger, ii. 291 ; portrait of a girl by, i. 522 note (and see ii. 99, 373)- Wales, North, tour in, i. 121. Walker (Judge), party given by, i. 271. Walsh (Mr.), a schoolfellow of Dickens, ii. 488-9 note. Walton (Mr.), i. 412 note. Ward (Professor) on Dickens, ii. 349 note. Ward (Mr. E. M.) and the Guild of Literature and Art, ii. 88 ; his Royal Family in the Temple, ii. 212. Warehousemen and Clerks' Schools, Dickens presiding at anniversary of, ii. 279. Washington (U.S.), hotel extortion at, i. 244 ; climate, i. 246 ; Congress and Senate, i. 247 ; a comical dog at reading, ii. 422 ; other readings at, ii. 419, 421 note. Wassail-bowl presented to Dickens at Edinburgh, ii. 252. Waterloo, Battle of, at Vauxhall, ii. 100. Watson, Mr. (of Rockingham), i. 450, 473> 517, ii. 107 ; death of, ii. 151. Watson (Mrs.), i. 473 ; her sketch of Rosemont, i. 448. Watson (Sir Thomas), note by, of Dickens's illness in April, 1869, ii. 448-50 ; readings stopped by, ii. 449 (see 503 note) ; guarded sanction given to additional readings, ib. (and see 455) ; Dickens's letter to, ii. 450 note. Watts's Charity at Rochester, ii. 221 note (see 264). Webster (Daniel), i. 247 ; on Dickens, i. 212. Webster (Benjamin), ii. 104, 200. Webster murder at Cambridge (U.S.), ii. 406-7. Well-boring at Gadshill, ii. 260-I. Weller (Sam) a pre-eminent achievement in literature, i. 85. Wellington (Duke of), fine trait of i. 472-3 ; at Derby, ii. 88 ; at Vauxhall, ii. 100, Wellington House Academy (Hamp- stead-road), Dickens a day-scholar at, i. 42-49 ; described in Household Words, i. 49-50 (see 43) ; Dickens's schoolfellows, i. 43-51, ii. 488-9 note ; Beverley painting scenes, i. 48 ; revisited after five-and- twenty years, i. 43- Westminster Abbey, the burial in, il 512-14. Weyer (M. Van de), ii. 99, 105. Whig jealousies, i. 1 72-3 (and see i. 471). Whitechapel workhouse, incident at, ii. 161. White-conduit-house, reminiscence of, i. 376. Whitefriars, a small revolution in, i. 499. White (Rev. James), at Paris, ii. 197 ; character of, ii. 62 (and see 64, 65). White (Mrs. James), ii. 62, 65. 558 Index. White (Grant) on the character of Car- ton in the Tale of Two Cities^ ii. 354- Whitehead (Charles), i, 67. Whitworth (Mr.), ii. 104. Wieland the clown, death of, ii. 231 note. Wig experiences, ii. ii. Wigton (Cumberland) described by Dickens, ii. 235. Wilkie (Sir David), on the genius of Dickens, i. 117 ; death of, 168. Wilks (Egerton), i. 92, ii. 104. Willis (N. P.), fanciful description of Dickens by, i. 66 note. Wills (W. H.), ii. 293, 474 ; appointed assistant editor oi Household Words, ii. 80 (see 524). Wilson (Professor), L 169; sketch of, i .169-70 ; speeches by, i. 379. Wilson (Sir John), i. 200, 298. Wilson (Mr. Grant), ii. 466 note. Wilson (Mr.) the hair-dresser, fancy sketch of, II-I2. Wilton (Marie) as Pippo in the Maid and Magpie^ ii. 280 note. Winter (Prof. Gilbert), i. 125 note. Women, defective legislation respecting, i. 471 note; home for fallen, ii. 113 (and see ii. 379). Worcester (U.S.), reading at, ii. 434. Wordsv/orth, memorable saying of, iu 387. Worms, the city of^ i. 444. Yarmouth, first seen by Dickens, ii. 93-4. Yates (Edmund), ii. 293 ; tales by, in All the Year Round, ii, 286 ; Dickens's interest in, ii. 475. Yates (Mr.), i. 432; acting of, i. 114, 350- York, readings at, ii. 276, 446. Yorkshire, materials gathered in, for Nickleby, i. 112. Young (Julian), ii. 64. Young Gentlemen and Young Couples, sketches written by Dickens for Chapman & Hall, i. 97 note (see 526, 527). Zoological Gardens, feeding the ser- pents at, ii. 232-3. Zouaves, Dickens's opinion of the, ii. 210. THE END. PKINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.