Dickens always greatly rejoiced in the theatre; and, having seen him act
with the Amateur Company of the Guild of Literature and Art, I can well
imagine the delight his impersonations in Montreal must have occasioned.
I have seen him play Sir Charles Coldstream, in the comedy of Used Up,
with such perfection that all other performers in the same part have
seemed dull by comparison. Even Matthews, superb artist as he is, could
not rival Dickens in the character of Sir Charles. Once I saw Dickens,
Mark Lemon, and Wilkie Collins on the stage together. The play was
called Mrs. Nightingale's Diary (a farce in one act, the joint
production of Dickens and Mark Lemon), and Dickens played six characters
in the piece. Never have I seen such wonderful changes of face and form
as he gave us that night. He was alternately a rattling lawyer of the
Middle Temple, a boots, an eccentric pedestrian and cold-water drinker,
a deaf sexton, an invalid captain, and an old woman. What fun it was, to
be sure, and how we roared over the performance! Here is the playbill
which I held in my hand nineteen years ago, while the great writer was
proving himself to be as pre-eminent an actor as he was an author. One
can see by reading the bill that Dickens was manager of the company, and
that it was under his direction that the plays were produced. Observe
the clear evidence of his hand in the very wording of the bill:--
"On Wednesday evening, September 1, 1852.
"THE AMATEUR COMPANY
OF THE
GUILD OF LITERATURE AND ART;
To encourage Life Assurance and other provident habits among Authors
and Artists; to render such assistance to both as shall never
compromise their independence; and to found a new Institution where
honorable rest from arduous labors shall still be associated with
the discharge of congenial duties;
"Will have the honor of presenting," etc., etc.,
But let us go on with the letters. Here is the first one to his friend
after Dickens arrived home again in England. It is delightful, through
and through.
London, 1 Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park, Sunday, July
31, 1842.
My Dear Felton: Of all the monstrous and incalculable amount of
occupation that ever beset one unfortunate man, mine has been the
most stupendous since I came home. The dinners I have had to eat,
the places I have had to go to, the letters I have had to answer,
the sea of business and of pleasure in which I have been plunged,
not even the genius of an ---- or the pen of a ---- could describe.
Wherefore I indite a monstrously short and wildly uninteresting
epistle to the American Dando, but perhaps you don't know who Dando
was. He was an oyster-eater, my dear Felton. He used to go into
oyster-shops, without a farthing of money, and stand at the counter
eating natives, until the man who opened them grew pale, cast down
his knife, staggered backward, struck his white forehead with his
open hand, and cried, "You are Dando!!!" He has been known to eat
twenty dozen at one sitting, and would have eaten forty, if the
truth had not flashed upon the shopkeeper. For these offences he was
constantly committed to the House of Correction. During his last
imprisonment he was taken ill, got worse and worse, and at last
began knocking violent double-knocks at Death's door. The doctor
stood beside his bed, with his fingers on his pulse. "He is going,"
says the doctor. "I see it in his eye. There is only one thing that
would keep life in him for another hour, and that is--oysters." They
were immediately brought. Dando swallowed eight, and feebly took a
ninth. He held it in his mouth and looked round the bed strangely.
"Not a bad one, is it?" says the doctor. The patient shook his head,
rubbed his trembling hand upon his stomach, bolted the oyster, and
fell back--dead. They buried him in the prison yard, and paved his
grave with oyster-shells.
We are all well and hearty, and have already begun to wonder what
time next year you and Mrs. Felton and Dr. Howe will come across the
briny sea together. To-morrow we go to the seaside for two months. I
am looking out for news of Longfellow, and shall be delighted when I
know that he is on his way to London and this house.
I am bent upon striking at the piratical newspapers with the
sharpest edge I can put upon my small axe, and hope in the next
session of Parliament to stop their entrance into Canada. For the
first time within the memory of man, the professors of English
literature seem disposed to act together on this question. It is a
good thing to aggravate a scoundrel, if one can do nothing else, and
I think we can make them smart a little in this way....
I wish you had been at Greenwich the other day, where a party of
friends gave me a private dinner; public ones I have refused. C. was
perfectly wild at the reunion, and, after singing all manner of
marine songs, wound up the entertainment by coming home (six miles)
in a little open phaeton of mine, _on his head_, to the mingled
delight and indignation of the metropolitan police. We were very
jovial indeed; and I assure you that I drank your health with
fearful vigor and energy.
On board that ship coming home I established a club, called the
United Vagabonds, to the large amusement of the rest of the
passengers. This holy brotherhood committed all kinds of
absurdities, and dined always, with a variety of solemn forms, at
one end of the table, below the mast, away from all the rest. The
captain being ill when we were three or four days out, I produced my
medicine-chest and recovered him. We had a few more sick men after
that, and I went round "the wards" every day in great state,
accompanied by two Vagabonds, habited as Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer,
bearing enormous rolls of plaster and huge pairs of scissors. We
were really very merry all the way, breakfasted in one party at
Liverpool, shook hands, and parted most cordially....