I observe my favorite chair is placed to-day where the portraits of
Charles Dickens are easiest seen, and I take the hint accordingly. Those
are likenesses of him from the age of twenty-eight down to the year when
he passed through "the golden gate," as that wise mystic William Blake
calls death. One would hardly believe these pictures represented the
same man! See what a beautiful young person Maclise represents in this
early likeness of the great author, and then contrast the face with that
worn one in the photograph of 1869. The same man, but how different in
aspect! I sometimes think, while looking at those two portraits, I must
have known two individuals bearing the same name, at various periods of
my own life. Let me speak to-day of the younger Dickens. How well I
recall the bleak winter evening in 1842 when I first saw the handsome,
glowing face of the young man who was even then famous over half the
globe! He came bounding into the Tremont House, fresh from the steamer
that had brought him to our shores, and his cheery voice rang through
the hall, as he gave a quick glance at the new scenes opening upon him
in a strange land on first arriving at a Transatlantic hotel. "Here we
are!" he shouted, as the lights burst upon the merry party just entering
the house, and several gentlemen came forward to greet him. Ah, how
happy and buoyant he was then! Young, handsome, almost worshipped for
his genius, belted round by such troops of friends as rarely ever man
had, coming to a new country to make new conquests of fame and
honor,--surely it was a sight long to be remembered and never wholly to
be forgotten. The splendor of his endowments and the personal interest
he had won to himself called forth all the enthusiasm of old and young
America, and I am glad to have been among the first to witness his
arrival. You ask me what was his appearance as he ran, or rather flew,
up the steps of the hotel, and sprang into the hall. He seemed all on
fire with curiosity, and alive as I never saw mortal before. From top to
toe every fibre of his body was unrestrained and alert. What vigor, what
keenness, what freshness of spirit, possessed him! He laughed all over,
and did not care who heard him! He seemed like the Emperor of
Cheerfulness on a cruise of pleasure, determined to conquer a realm or
two of fun every hour of his overflowing existence. That night impressed
itself on my memory for all time, so far as I am concerned with things
sublunary. It was Dickens, the true "Boz," in flesh and blood, who stood
before us at last, and with my companions, three or four lads of my own
age, I determined to sit up late that night. None of us then, of course,
had the honor of an acquaintance with the delightful stranger, and I
little thought that I should afterwards come to know him in the beaten
way of friendship, and live with him day after day in years far distant;
that I should ever be so near to him that he would reveal to me his joys
and his sorrows, and thus that I should learn the story of his life from
his own lips.
About midnight on that eventful landing, "Boz,"--everybody called him
"Boz" in those days,--having finished his supper, came down into the
office of the hotel, and, joining the young Earl of M----, his
fellow-voyager, sallied out for a first look at Boston streets. It was
a stinging night, and the moon was at the full. Every object stood out
sharp and glittering, and "Boz," muffled up in a shaggy fur coat, ran
over the shining frozen snow, wisely keeping the middle of the street
for the most part. We boys followed cautiously behind, but near enough
not to lose any of the fun. Of course the two gentlemen soon lost their
way on emerging into Washington from Tremont Street. Dickens kept up one
continual shout of uproarious laughter as he went rapidly forward,
reading the signs on the shops, and observing the "architecture" of the
new country into which he had dropped as if from the clouds. When the
two arrived opposite the "Old South Church" Dickens screamed. To this
day I could never tell why. Was it because of its fancied resemblance to
St. Paul's or the Abbey? I declare firmly, the mystery of that shout is
still a mystery to me!
The great event of Boz's first visit to Boston was the dinner of welcome
tendered to him by the young men of the city. It is idle to attempt much
talk about the banquet given on that Monday night in February,
twenty-nine years ago. Papanti's Hall (where many of us learned to
dance, under the guidance of that master of legs, now happily still
among us and pursuing the same highly useful calling which he practised
in 1842) was the scene of that festivity. It was a glorious episode in
all our lives, and whoever was not there has suffered a loss not easy to
estimate. We younger members of that dinner-party sat in the seventh
heaven of happiness, and were translated into other spheres.
Accidentally, of course, I had a seat just in front of the honored
guest; saw him take a pinch of snuff out of Washington Allston's box,
and heard him joke with old President Quincy. Was there ever such a
night before in our staid city? Did ever mortal preside with such
felicitous success as did Mr. Quincy? How he went on with his delicious
compliments to our guest! How he revelled in quotations from "Pickwick"
and "Oliver Twist" and "The Curiosity Shop"! And how admirably he closed
his speech of welcome, calling up the young author amid a perfect volley
of applause! "Health, Happiness, and a Hearty Welcome to Charles
Dickens." I can see and hear Mr. Quincy now, as he spoke the words. Were
ever heard such cheers before? And when Dickens stood up at last to
answer for himself, so fresh and so handsome, with his beautiful eyes
moist with feeling, and his whole frame aglow with excitement, how we
did hurrah, we young fellows! Trust me, it _was_ a great night; and we
must have made a mighty noise at our end of the table, for I remember
frequent messages came down to us from the "Chair," begging that we
would hold up a little and moderate if possible the rapture of our
applause.
After Dickens left Boston he went on his American travels, gathering up
materials, as he journeyed, for his "American Notes." He was accompanied
as far as New York by a very dear friend, to whom he afterwards
addressed several most interesting letters. For that friend he always
had the warmest enthusiasm; and when he came the second time to America,
there was no one of his old companions whom he missed more. Let us read
some of these letters written by Dickens nearly thirty years ago. The
friend to whom they were addressed was also an intimate and dear
associate of mine, and his children have kindly placed at my disposal
the whole correspondence. Here is the first letter, time-stained, but
preserved with religious care.
Fuller's Hotel, Washington, Monday, March 14, 1842.
My Dear Felton: I was more delighted than I can possibly tell you to
receive (last Saturday night) your welcome letter. We and the
oysters missed you terribly in New York. You carried away with you
more than half the delight and pleasure of my New World; and I
heartily wish you could bring it back again.
There are very interesting men in this place,--highly interesting,
of course,--but it's not a comfortable place; is it? If spittle
could wait at table we should be nobly attended, but as that
property has not been imparted to it in the present state of
mechanical science, we are rather lonely and orphan-like, in respect
of "being looked arter." A blithe black was introduced on our
arrival, as our peculiar and especial attendant. He is the only
gentleman in the town who has a peculiar delicacy in intruding upon
my valuable time. It usually takes seven rings and a threatening
message from ---- to produce him; and when he comes he goes to fetch
something, and, forgetting it by the way, comes back no more.
We have been in great distress, really in distress, at the
non-arrival of the Caledonia. You may conceive what our joy was,
when, while we were dining out yesterday, H. arrived with the joyful
intelligence of her safety. The very news of her having really
arrived seemed to diminish the distance between ourselves and home,
by one half at least.
And this morning (though we have not yet received our heap of
despatches, for which we are looking eagerly forward to this night's
mail),--this morning there reached us unexpectedly, through the
government bag (Heaven knows how they came there), two of our many
and long-looked-for letters, wherein was a circumstantial account of
the whole conduct and behavior of our pets; with marvellous
narrations of Charley's precocity at a Twelfth Night juvenile party
at Macready's; and tremendous predictions of the governess, dimly
suggesting his having got out of pot-hooks and hangers, and darkly
insinuating the possibility of his writing us a letter before long;
and many other workings of the same prophetic spirit, in reference
to him and his sisters, very gladdening to their mother's heart, and
not at all depressing to their father's. There was, also, the
doctor's report, which was a clean bill; and the nurse's report,
which was perfectly electrifying; showing as it did how Master
Walter had been weaned, and had cut a double tooth, and done many
other extraordinary things, quite worthy of his high descent. In
short, we were made very happy and grateful; and felt as if the
prodigal father and mother had got home again.
What do you think of this incendiary card being left at my door last
night? "General G. sends compliments to Mr. Dickens, and called with
two literary ladies. As the two L.L.'s are ambitious of the honor of
a personal introduction to Mr. D., General G requests the honor of
an appointment for to-morrow." I draw a veil over my sufferings.
They are sacred.
We have altered our route, and don't mean to go to Charleston, for I
want to see the West, and have taken it into my head that as I am
not obliged to go to Charleston, and don't exactly know why I should
go there, I need do no violence to my own inclinations. My route is
of Mr. Clay's designing, and I think it a very good one. We go on
Wednesday night to Richmond in Virginia. On Monday we return to
Baltimore for two days. On Thursday morning we start for Pittsburg,
and so go by the Ohio to Cincinnati, Louisville, Kentucky,
Lexington, St. Louis; and either down the Lakes to Buffalo, or back
to Philadelphia, and by New York to that place, where we shall stay
a week, and then make a hasty trip into Canada. We shall be in
Buffalo, please Heaven, on the 30th of April. If I don't find a
letter from you in the care of the postmaster at that place, I'll
never write to you from England.
But if I _do_ find one, my right hand shall forget its cunning,
before I forget to be your truthful and constant correspondent; not,
dear Felton, because I promised it, nor because I have a natural
tendency to correspond (which is far from being the case), nor
because I am truly grateful to you for, and have been made truly
proud by, that affectionate and elegant tribute which ---- sent me,
but because you are a man after my own heart, and I love you _well_.
And for the love I bear you, and the pleasure with which I shall
always think of you, and the glow I shall feel when I see your
handwriting in my own home, I hereby enter into a solemn league, and
covenant to write as many letters to you as you write to me, at
least. Amen.
Come to England! Come to England! Our oysters are small I know; they
are said by Americans to be coppery, but our hearts are of the
largest size. We are thought to excel in shrimps, to be far from
despicable in point of lobsters, and in periwinkles are considered
to challenge the universe. Our oysters, small though they be, are
not devoid of the refreshing influence which that species of fish is
supposed to exercise in these latitudes. Try them and compare.
Affectionately yours,