"I cannot tell you how much I thank you for your kind little letter,
which is like a pleasant voice coming across the Atlantic, with
that domestic welcome in it which has no substitute on earth. If
you knew how strongly I am inclined to allow myself the pleasure of
staying at your house, you would look upon me as a kind of ancient
Roman (which, I trust in Heaven, I am not) for having the courage to
say no. But if I gave myself that gratification in the beginning, I
could scarcely hope to get on in the hard 'reading' life, without
offending some kindly disposed and hospitable American friend
afterwards; whereas if I observe my English principle on such
occasions, of having no abiding-place but an hotel, and stick to it
from the first, I may perhaps count on being consistently
uncomfortable.
"The nightly exertion necessitates meals at odd hours, silence and
rest at impossible times of the day, a general Spartan behavior so
utterly inconsistent with my nature, that if you were to give me a
happy inch, I should take an ell, and frightfully disappoint you in
public. I don't want to do that, if I can help it, and so I will be
good in spite of myself.
"Ever your affectionate friend,
"CHARLES DICKENS."
A ridiculous paragraph in the papers following close on the public
announcement that Dickens was coming to America in November, drew from
him this letter to me, dated also early in October:--
"I hope the telegraph clerks did not mutilate out of recognition or
reasonable guess the words I added to Dolby's last telegram to
Boston. 'Tribune London correspondent totally false.' Not only is
there not a word of truth in the pretended conversation, but it is
so absurdly unlike me that I cannot suppose it to be even invented
by any one who ever heard me exchange a word with mortal creature.
For twenty years I am perfectly certain that I have never made any
other allusion to the republication of my books in America than the
good-humored remark, 'that if there had been international copyright
between England and the States, I should have been a man of very
large fortune, instead of a man of moderate savings, always
supporting a very expensive public position.' Nor have I ever been
such a fool as to charge the absence of international copyright upon
individuals. Nor have I ever been so ungenerous as to disguise or
suppress the fact that I have received handsome sums for advance
sheets. When I was in the States, I said what I had to say on the
question, and there an end. I am absolutely certain that I have
never since expressed myself, even with soreness, on the subject.
Reverting to the preposterous fabrication of the London
correspondent, the statement that I ever talked about 'these
fellows' who republished my books, or pretended to know (what I
don't know at this instant) who made how much out of them, or ever
talked of their sending me 'conscience money,' is as grossly and
completely false as the statement that I ever said anything to the
effect that I could not be expected to have an interest in the
American people. And nothing can by any possibility be falser than
that. Again and again in these pages (All the Year Round) I have
expressed my interest in them. You will see it in the 'Child's
History of England.' You will see it in the last Preface to
'American Notes.' Every American who has ever spoken with me in
London, Paris, or where not, knows whether I have frankly said, 'You
could have no better introduction to me than your country.' And for
years and years when I have been asked about reading in America, my
invariable reply has been, 'I have so many friends there, and
constantly receive so many earnest letters from personally unknown
readers there, that, but for domestic reasons, I would go
to-morrow.' I think I must, in the confidential intercourse between
you and me, have written you to this effect more than once.
"The statement of the London correspondent from beginning to end is
false. It is false in the letter and false in the spirit. He may
have been misinformed, and the statement may not have originated
with him. With whomsoever it originated, it never originated with
me, and consequently is false. More than enough about it.
"As I hope to see you so soon, my dear Fields, and as I am busily at
work on the Christmas number, I will not make this a longer letter
than I can help. I thank you most heartily for your proffered
hospitality, and need not tell you that if I went to any friend's
house in America, I would go to yours. But the readings are very
hard work, and I think I cannot do better than observe the rule on
that side of the Atlantic which I observe on this,--of never, under
such circumstances, going to a friend's house, but always staying at
a hotel. I am able to observe it here, by being consistent and never
breaking it. If I am equally consistent there, I can (I hope) offend
no one.
"Dolby sends his love to you and all his friends (as I do), and is
girding up his loins vigorously.
"Ever, my dear Fields, heartily and affectionately yours,
"CHARLES DICKENS."
Before sailing in November he sent off this note to me from the office
of All the Year Round:--
"I received your more than acceptable letter yesterday morning, and
consequently am able to send you this line of acknowledgment by the next
mail. Please God we will have that walk among the autumn leaves, before
the readings set in.
"You may have heard from Dolby that a gorgeous repast is to be given to
me to-morrow, and that it is expected to be a notable demonstration. I
shall try, in what I say, to state my American case exactly. I have a
strong hope and belief that within the compass of a couple of minutes or
so I can put it, with perfect truthfulness, in the light that my
American friends would be best pleased to see me place it in. Either so,
or my instinct is at fault.
"My daughters and their aunt unite with me in kindest loves. As I write,
a shrill prolongation of the message comes in from the next room, 'Tell
them to take care of you-u-u!'
"Tell Longfellow, with my love, that I am charged by Forster (who has
been very ill of diffused gout and bronchitis) with a copy of his Sir
John Eliot.
"I will bring you out the early proof of the Christmas number. We
publish it here on the 12th of December. I am planning it (No
Thoroughfare) out into a play for Wilkie Collins to manipulate after I
sail, and have arranged for Fechter to go to the Adelphi Theatre and
play a Swiss in it. It will be brought out the day after Christmas day.
"Here, at Boston Wharf, and everywhere else,
"Yours heartily and affectionately,
"C.D."
On a blustering evening in November, 1867, Dickens arrived in Boston
Harbor, on his second visit to America. A few of his friends, under the
guidance of the Collector of the port, steamed down in the custom-house
boat to welcome him. It was pitch dark before we sighted the Cuba and
ran alongside. The great steamer stopped for a few minutes to take us on
board, and Dickens's cheery voice greeted me before I had time to
distinguish him on the deck of the vessel. The news of the excitement
the sale of the tickets to his readings had occasioned had been earned
to him by the pilot, twenty miles out. He was in capital spirits over
the cheerful account that all was going on so well, and I thought he
never looked in better health. The voyage had been a good one, and the
ten days' rest on shipboard had strengthened him amazingly he said. As
we were told that a crowd had assembled in East Boston, we took him in
our little tug and landed him safely at Long Wharf in Boston, where
carriages were in waiting. Rooms had been taken for him at the Parker
House, and in half an hour after he had reached the hotel he was sitting
down to dinner with half a dozen friends, quite prepared, he said, to
give the first reading in America that very night, if desirable.
Assurances that the kindest feelings towards him existed everywhere put
him in great spirits, and he seemed happy to be among us. On Sunday he
visited the School Ship and said a few words of encouragement and
counsel to the boys. He began his long walks at once, and girded himself
up for the hard winter's work before him. Steadily refusing all
invitations to go out during the weeks he was reading, he only went into
one other house besides the Parker, habitually, during his stay in
Boston. Every one who was present remembers the delighted crowds that
assembled nightly in the Tremont Temple, and no one who heard Dickens,
during that eventful month of December, will forget the sensation
produced by the great author, actor, and reader. Hazlitt says of Kean's
Othello, "The tone of voice in which he delivered the beautiful
apostrophe 'Then, O, farewell,' struck on the heart like the swelling
notes of some divine music, like the sound of years of departed
happiness." There were thrills of pathos in Dickens's readings (of David
Copperfield, for instance) which Kean himself never surpassed in
dramatic effect.
He went from Boston to New York, carrying with him a severe catarrh
contracted in our climate. In reality much of the time during his
reading in Boston he was quite ill from the effects of the disease, but
he fought courageously against its effects, and always came up, on the
night of the reading, all right. Several times I feared he would be
obliged to postpone the readings, and I am sure almost any one else
would have felt compelled to do so; but he declared no man had a right
to break an engagement with the public, if he were able to be out of
bed. His spirit was wonderful, 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. Every morning his table was
covered with invitations to dinners and all sorts of entertainments, but
he said, "I came for hard work, and I must try to fulfil the
expectations of the American public." He did accept a dinner which was
tendered to him by some of his literary friends in Boston; but the day
before it was to come off he was so ill he felt obliged to ask that the
banquet might be given up. The strain upon his strength and nerves was
very great during all the months he remained in the country, and only a
man of iron will could have accomplished all he did. And here let me
say, that although he was accustomed to talk and write a great deal
about eating and drinking, I have rarely seen a man eat and drink less.
He liked to dilate in imagination over the brewing of a bowl of punch,
but I always noticed that when the punch was ready, he 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. He liked to have a
little supper every night after a reading, and have three or four
friends round the table with him, but he only pecked at the viands as a
bird might do, and I scarcely saw him eat a hearty meal during his whole
stay in the country. Both at Parker's Hotel in Boston, and at the
Westminster in New York, everything was arranged by the proprietors for
his comfort and happiness, and tempting dishes to pique his invalid
appetite were sent up at different hours of the day, with the hope that
he might be induced to try unwonted things and get up again the habit of
eating more; but the influenza, that seized him with such masterful
powder, held the strong man down till he left the country.
One of the first letters I had from him, after he had begun his reading
tour, was dated from the Westminster Hotel in New York, on the 15th of
January, 1868.
My Dear Fields: On coming back from Philadelphia just now (three
o'clock) I was welcomed by your cordial letter. It was a delightful
welcome and did me a world of good.
The cold remains just as it was (beastly), and where it was (in my
head). We have left off referring to the hateful subject, except in
emphatic sniffs on my part, convulsive wheezes, and resounding
sneezes.
The Philadelphia audience ready and bright. I think they understood
the Carol better than Copperfield, but they were bright and
responsive as to both.--They also highly appreciated your friend Mr.
Jack Hopkins. A most excellent hotel there, and everything
satisfactory. While on the subject of satisfaction, I know you will
be pleased to hear that a long run is confidently expected for the
No Thoroughfare drama. Although the piece is well cast and well
played, my letters tell me that Fechter is so remarkably fine as to
play down the whole company. The Times, in its account of it, said
that "Mr. Fechter" (in the Swiss mountain scene, and in the Swiss
Hotel) "was practically alone upon the stage." It is splendidly got
up, and the Mountain Pass (I planned it with the scene-painter) was
loudly cheered by the whole house. Of course I knew that Fechter
would tear himself to pieces rather than fall short, but I was not
prepared for his contriving to get the pity and sympathy of the
audience out of his passionate love for Marguerite.
My dear fellow, you cannot miss me more than I miss you and yours.
And Heaven knows how gladly I would substitute Boston for Chicago,
Detroit, and Co.! But the tour is fast shaping itself out into its
last details, and we must remember that there is a clear fortnight
in Boston, not counting the four Farewells. I look forward to that
fortnight as a radiant landing-place in the series....
Rash youth! No presumptuous hand should try to make the punch,
except in the presence of the hoary sage who pens these lines. With
_him_ on the spot to perceive and avert impending failure, with
timely words of wisdom to arrest the erring hand and curb the
straying judgment, and, with such gentle expressions of
encouragement as his stern experience may justify, to cheer the
aspirant with faint hopes of future excellence,--with these
conditions observed, the daring mind may scale the heights of sugar
and contemplate the depths of lemon. Otherwise not.
Dolby is at Washington, and will return in the night. ---- is on
guard. He made a most brilliant appearance before the Philadelphia
public, and looked hard at them. The mastery of his eye diverted
their attention from his boots: charming in themselves, but
(unfortunately) two left ones.
I send my hearty and enduring love. Your kindness to the British
Wanderer is deeply inscribed in his heart.
When I think of L----'s story about Dr. Webster, I feel like the
lady in Nickleby who "has had a sensation of alternate cold and
biling water running down her back ever since."
Ever, my dear Fields, your affectionate friend,