These letters grow better and better as we get on. Ah me! and to think
we shall have no more from that delightful pen!
Devonshire Terrace, London, January 2, 1844.
My Very Dear Felton: You are a prophet, and had best retire from
business straightway. Yesterday morning, New Year's day, when I
walked into my little workroom after breakfast, and was looking out
of window at the snow in the garden,--not seeing it particularly
well in consequence of some staggering suggestions of last night,
whereby I was beset,--the postman came to the door with a knock, for
which I denounced him from my heart. Seeing your hand upon the cover
of a letter which he brought, I immediately blessed him, presented
him with a glass of whiskey, inquired after his family (they are all
well), and opened the despatch with a moist and oystery twinkle in
my eye. And on the very day from which the new year dates, I read
your New Year congratulations as punctually as if you lived in the
next house. Why don't you?
Now, if instantly on the receipt of this you will send a free and
independent citizen down to the Cunard wharf at Boston, you will
find that Captain Hewett, of the Britannia steamship (my ship), has
a small parcel for Professor Felton of Cambridge; and in that parcel
you will find a Christmas Carol in prose; being a short story of
Christmas by Charles Dickens. Over which Christmas Carol Charles
Dickens wept and laughed and wept again, and excited himself in a
most extraordinary manner in the composition; and thinking whereof
he walked about the black streets of London, fifteen and twenty
miles, many a night when all the sober folks had gone to bed.... Its
success is most prodigious. And by every post all manner of
strangers write all manner of letters to him about their homes and
hearths, and how this same Carol is read aloud there, and kept on a
little shelf by itself. Indeed, it is the greatest success, as I am
told, that this ruffian and rascal has ever achieved.
Forster is out again; and if he don't go in again, after the manner
in which we have been keeping Christmas, he must be very strong
indeed. Such dinings, such dancings, such conjurings, such
blindman's-buffings, such theatre-goings, such kissings-out of old
years and kissings-in of new ones, never took place in these parts
before. To keep the Chuzzlewit going, and do this little book, the
Carol, in the odd times between two parts of it, was, as you may
suppose, pretty tight work. But when it was done I broke out like a
madman. And if you could have seen me at a children's party at
Macready's the other night, going down a country dance with Mrs.
M., you would have thought I was a country gentleman of independent
property, residing on a tiptop farm, with the wind blowing straight
in my face every day....
Your friend, Mr. P----, dined with us one day (I don't know whether
I told you this before), and pleased us very much. Mr. C---- has
dined here once, and spent an evening here. I have not seen him
lately, though he has called twice or thrice; for K----being unwell
and I busy, we have not been visible at our accustomed seasons. I
wonder whether H---- has fallen in your way. Poor H----! He was a
good fellow, and has the most grateful heart I ever met with. Our
journeyings seem to be a dream now. Talking of dreams, strange
thoughts of Italy and France, and maybe Germany, are springing up
within me as the Chuzzlewit clears off. It's a secret I have hardly
breathed to any one, but I "think" of leaving England for a year,
next midsummer, bag and baggage, little ones and all,--then coming
out with _such_ a story, Felton, all at once, no parts,
sledge-hammer blow.
I send you a Manchester paper, as you desire. The report is not
exactly done, but very well done, notwithstanding. It was a very
splendid sight, I assure you, and an awful-looking audience. I am
going to preside at a similar meeting at Liverpool on the 26th of
next month, and on my way home I may be obliged to preside at
another at Birmingham. I will send you papers, if the reports be at
all like the real thing.
I wrote to Prescott about his book, with which I was perfectly
charmed. I think his descriptions masterly, his style brilliant, his
purpose manly and gallant always. The introductory account of Aztec
civilization impressed me exactly as it impressed you. From
beginning to end, the whole history is enchanting and full of
genius. I only wonder that, having such an opportunity of
illustrating the doctrine of visible judgments, he never remarks,
when Cortes and his men tumble the idols down the temple steps and
call upon the people to take notice that their gods are powerless to
help themselves, that possibly if some intelligent native had
tumbled down the image of the Virgin or patron saint after them
nothing very remarkable might have ensued in consequence.
Of course you like Macready. Your name's Felton. I wish you could
see him play Lear. It is stupendously terrible. But I suppose he
would be slow to act it with the Boston company.
Hearty remembrances to Sumner, Longfellow, Prescott, and all whom
you know I love to remember. Countless happy years to you and
yours, my dear Felton, and some instalment of them, however slight,
in England, in the loving company of