"Coming into Canterbury, I loitered through the old streets with a sober
pleasure that calmed my spirits and eased my heart. There were the old
signs, the old names over the shops, the old people serving in them. It
appeared so long since I had been a school-boy there, that I wondered
the place was so little changed, until I reflected how little I was
changed myself. Strange to say, that quiet influence which was
inseparable in my mind from Agnes seemed to pervade even the city where
she dwelt. The venerable cathedral towers, and the old jackdaws and
rooks, whose airy voices made them more retired than perfect silence
would have done; the battered gateways, once stuck full with statues,
long thrown down and crumbled away, like the reverential pilgrims who
had gazed upon them; the still nooks, where the ivied growth of
centuries crept over gabled ends and ruined walls; the ancient houses;
the pastoral landscape of field, orchard, and garden;--everywhere, in
everything, I felt the same serene air, the same calm, thoughtful,
softening spirit."
Walking away and leaving Canterbury behind us forever, we came again
into the voiceless streets, past a "very old house bulging out over the
road, ... quite spotless in its cleanliness, the old-fashioned brass
knocker on the low, arched door ornamented with carved garlands of fruit
and flowers, twinkling like a star," the very house, perhaps, "with
angles and corners and carvings and mouldings," where David Copperfield
was sent to school. We were turned off with a laughing reply, when we
ventured to accuse this particular house of being _the one_, and were
told there were several that "would do"; which was quite true, for
nothing could be more quaint, more satisfactory to all, from the lovers
of Chaucer to the lovers of Dickens, than this same city of Canterbury.
The sun had set as we rattled noisily out of the ancient place that
afternoon, and along the high road, which was quite novel in its evening
aspect. There was no lingering now; on and on we went, the postilions
flying up and down on the backs of their huge horses, their red coats
glancing in the occasional gleams of wayside lamps, fire-flies making
the orchards shine, the sunset lighting up vast clouds that lay across
the western sky, and the whole scene filled with evening stillness. When
we stopped to change horses, the quiet was almost oppressive. Soon after
nine we espied the welcome lantern of Gad's Hill Place and the open
gates. And so ended Dickens's last pilgrimage to Canterbury.
There was another interesting spot near Gad's Hill which was one of
Dickens's haunts, and this was the "Druid-stone," as it is called, at
Maidstone. This is within walking distance of his house, along the
breezy hillside road, which we remember blossomy and wavy in the summer
season, with open spaces in the hedges where one may look over wide
hilly slopes, and at times come upon strange cuts down into the chalk
which pervades this district. We turned into a lane from the dusty road,
and, following our leader over a barred gate, came into wide grassy
fields full of summer's bloom and glory. A short walk farther brought us
to the Druid-stone, which Dickens thought to be, from the fitness of its
position, simply a vantage-ground chosen by priests,--whether Druid or
Christian of course it would be impossible to say,--from which to
address a multitude. The rock served as a kind of background and
sounding-board, while the beautiful sloping of the sward upward from the
speaker made it an excellent position for out-of-door discourses. On
this day it was only a blooming solitude, the birds had done all the
talking, until we arrived. It was a fine afternoon haunt, and one
worthy of a visit, apart from the associations which make the place
dear.
One of the weirdest neighborhoods to Gad's Hill, and one of those most
closely associated with Dickens, is the village of Cooling. A cloudy day
proved well enough for Cooling; indeed, was undoubtedly chosen by the
adroit master of hospitalities as being a fitting sky to show the dark
landscape of "Great Expectations." The pony-carriage went thither to
accompany the walking party and carry the baskets; the whole way, as we
remember, leading on among narrow lanes, where heavy carriages were
seldom seen. We are told in the novel, "On every rail and gate, wet lay
clammy, and the marsh mist was so thick that the wooden finger on the
post directing people to our village--a direction which they never
accepted, for they never came there--was invisible to me until I was
close under it." The lanes certainly wore that aspect of never being
accepted as a way of travel; but this was a delightful recommendation to
our walk, for summer kept her own way there, and grass and wild-flowers
were abundant. It was already noon, and low clouds and mists were lying
about the earth and sky as we approached a forlorn little village on the
edge of the wide marshes described in the opening of the novel. This was
Cooling, and passing by the few cottages, the decayed rectory, and
straggling buildings, we came at length to the churchyard. It took but a
short time to make us feel at home there, with the marshes on one hand,
the low wall over which Pip saw the convict climb before he dared to run
away; "the five little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half
long, ... sacred to the memory of five little brothers, ...to which I
had been indebted for a belief that they all had been born on their
backs, with their hands in their trousers pockets, and had never taken
them out in this state of existence";--all these points, combined with
the general dreariness of the landscape, the far-stretching marshes, and
the distant sea-line, soon revealed to us that this was Pip's country,
and we might momently expect to see the convict's head, or to hear the
clank of his chain, over that low wall.
We were in the churchyard now, having left the pony within eye-shot, and
taken the baskets along with us, and were standing on one of those very
lozenges, somewhat grass-grown by this time, and deciphering the
inscriptions. On tiptoe we could get a wide view of the marsh, with, the
wind sweeping in a lonely limitless way through the tall grasses.
Presently hearing Dickens's cheery call, we turned to see what he was
doing. He had chosen a good flat gravestone in one corner (the corner
farthest from the marsh and Pip's little brothers and the expected
convict), had spread a wide napkin thereupon after the fashion of a
domestic dinner-table, and was rapidly transferring the contents of the
hampers to that point. The horrible whimsicality of trying to eat and
make merry under these deplorable circumstances, the tragic-comic
character of the scene, appeared to take him by surprise. He at once
threw himself into it (as he says in "Copperfield" he was wont to do
with anything to which he had laid his hand) with fantastic eagerness.
Having spread the table after the most approved style, he suddenly
disappeared behind the wall for a moment, transformed himself by the aid
of a towel and napkin into a first-class head-waiter, reappeared, laid a
row of plates along the top of the wall, as at a bar-room or
eating-house, again retreated to the other side with some provisions,
and, making the gentlemen of the party stand up to the wall, went
through the whole play with most entire gravity. When we had wound up
with a good laugh, and were again seated together on the grass around
the table, we espied two wretched figures, not the convicts this time,
although we might have easily persuaded ourselves so, but only tramps
gazing at us over the wall from the marsh side as they approached, and
finally sitting down, just outside the churchyard gate. They looked
wretchedly hungry and miserable, and Dickens said at once, starting up,
"Come, let us offer them a glass of wine and something good for lunch."
He was about to carry them himself, when what he considered a happy
thought seemed to strike him. "_You_ shall carry it to them," he cried,
turning to one of the ladies; "it will be less like a charity and more
like a kindness if one of you should speak to the poor souls!" This was
so much in character for him, who stopped always to choose the most
delicate way of doing a kind deed, that the memory of this little
incident remains, while much, alas! of his wit and wisdom have vanished
beyond the power of reproducing. We feasted on the satisfaction the
tramps took in their lunch, long after our own was concluded; and,
seeing them well off on their road again, took up our own way to Gad's
Hill Place. How comfortable it looked on our return; how beautifully the
afternoon gleams of sunshine shone upon the holly-trees by the porch;
how we turned away from the door and went into the playground, where we
bowled on the green turf, until the tall maid in her spotless cap was
seen bringing the five-o'clock tea thitherward; how the dews and the
setting sun warned us at last we must prepare for dinner; and how
Dickens played longer and harder than any one of the company, scorning
the idea of going in to tea at that hour, and beating his ball instead,
quite the youngest of the company up to the last moment!--all this
returns with vivid distinctness as I write these inadequate words.
Many days and weeks passed over after those June days were ended before
we were to see Dickens again. Our meeting then was at the station in
London, on our way to Gad's Hill once more. He was always early at a
railway station, he said, if only to save himself the unnecessary and
wasteful excitement hurry commonly produces; and so he came to meet us
with a cheery manner, as if care were shut up in some desk or closet he
had left behind, and he were ready to make the day a gay one, whatever
the sun might say to it. A small roll of manuscript in his hand led him
soon to confess that a new story was already begun; but this
communication was made in the utmost confidence, as if to account for
any otherwise unexplainable absences, physically or mentally, from our
society, which might occur. But there were no gaps during that autumn
afternoon of return to Gad's Hill. He told us how summer had brought him
no vacation this year, and only two days of recreation. One of those, he
said, was spent with his family at "Rosherville Gardens," "the place,"
as a huge advertisement informed us, "to spend a happy day." His
curiosity with regard to all entertainments for the people, he said to
us, carried him thither, and he seemed to have been amused and rewarded
by his visit. The previous Sunday had found him in London; he was
anxious to reach Gad's Hill before the afternoon, but in order to
accomplish this he must walk nine miles to a way station, which he did.
Coming to the little village, he inquired where the station was, and,
being shown in the wrong direction, walked calmly down a narrow road
which did not lead there at all. "On I went," he said, "in the perfect
sunshine, over yellow leaves, without even a wandering breeze to break
the silence, when suddenly I came upon three or four antique wooden
houses standing under trees on the borders of a lovely stream, and, a
little farther, upon an ancient doorway to a grand hall, perhaps the
home of some bishop of the olden time. The road came to an end there,
and I was obliged to retrace my steps; but anything more entirely
peaceful and beautiful in its aspect on that autumnal day than this
retreat, forgotten by the world, I almost never saw." He was eager, too,
to describe for our entertainment one of the yearly cricket-matches
among the villagers at Gad's Hill which had just come off. Some of the
toasts at the supper afterward were as old as the time of Queen Anne.
For instance,--
"More pigs,
Fewer parsons";
delivered with all seriousness; a later one was, "May the walls of old
England never be covered with French polish!"
Once more we recall a morning at Gad's Hill, a soft white haze over
everything, and the yellow sun burning through. The birds were singing,
and beauty and calm pervaded the whole scene. We strayed through Cobham
Park and saw the lovely vistas through the autumnal haze; once more we
reclined in the cool châlet in the afternoon, and watched the vessels
going and coming upon the ever-moving river. Suddenly all has vanished;
and now, neither spring nor autumn, nor flowers nor birds, nor dawn nor
sunset, nor the ever-moving river, can be the same to any of us again.
We have all drifted down upon the river of Time, and one has already
sailed out into the illimitable ocean.
* * * * *
On a pleasant Sunday morning in October, 1869, as I sat looking out on
the beautiful landscape from my chamber window at Gad's Hill, a servant
tapped at my door and gave me a summons from Dickens, written in his
drollest manner on a sheet of paper, bidding me descend into his study
on business of great importance. That day I heard from the author's lips
the first chapters of "Edwin Drood" the concluding lines of which
initial pages were then scarcely dry from the pen. The story is
unfinished, and he who read that autumn morning with such vigor of voice
and dramatic power is in his grave. This private reading took place in
the little room where the great novelist for many years had been
accustomed to write, and in the house where on a pleasant evening in the
following June he died. The spot is one of the loveliest in Kent, and
must always be remembered as the last residence of Charles Dickens. He
used to declare his firm belief that Shakespeare was specially fond of
Kent, and that the poet chose Gad's Hill and Rochester for the scenery
of his plays from intimate personal knowledge of their localities. He
said he had no manner of doubt but that one of Shakespeare's haunts was
the old inn at Rochester, and that this conviction came forcibly upon
him one night as he was walking that way, and discovered Charles's Wain
over the chimney just as Shakespeare has described it, in words put into
the mouth of the carrier in King Henry IV. There is no prettier place
than Gad's Hill in all England for the earliest and latest flowers, and
Dickens chose it, when he had arrived at the fulness of his fame and
prosperity, as the home in which he most wished to spend the remainder
of his days. When a boy, he would often pass the house with his father
and frequently said to him, "If ever I have a dwelling of my own, Gad's
Hill Place is the house I mean to buy." In that beautiful retreat he had
for many years been accustomed to welcome his friends, and find
relaxation from the crowded life of London. On the lawn playing at
bowls, in the Swiss summer-house charmingly shaded by green leaves, he
always seemed the best part of summer, beautiful as the season is in the
delightful region where he lived.
There he could be most thoroughly enjoyed, for he never seemed so
cheerfully at home anywhere else. At his own table, surrounded by his
family, and a few guests, old acquaintances from town,--among them
sometimes Forster, Carlyle, Reade, Collins, Layard, Maclise, Stone,
Macready, Talfourd,--he was always the choicest and liveliest companion.
He was not what is called in society a professed talker, but he was
something far better and rarer.
In his own inimitable manner he would frequently relate to me, if
prompted, stories of his youthful days, when he was toiling on the
London Morning Chronicle, passing sleepless hours as a reporter on the
road in a post-chaise, driving day and night from point to point to take
down the speeches of Shiel or O'Connell. He liked to describe the
post-boys, who were accustomed to hurry him over the road that he might
reach London in advance of his rival reporters, while, by the aid of a
lantern, he was writing out for the press, as he flew over the ground,
the words he had taken down in short-hand. Those were his days of severe
training, when in rain and sleet and cold he dashed along, scarcely able
to keep the blinding mud out of his tired eyes; and he imputed much of
his ability for steady hard work to his practice as a reporter, kept at
his grinding business, and determined if possible to earn seven guineas
a week. A large sheet was started at this period of his life, in which
all the important speeches of Parliament were to be reported _verbatim_
for future reference. Dickens was engaged on this gigantic journal. Mr.
Stanley (afterwards Lord Derby) had spoken at great length on the
condition of Ireland. It was a long and eloquent speech, occupying many
hours in the delivery. Eight reporters were sent in to do the work. Each
one was required to report three quarters of an hour, then to retire,
write out his portion, and to be succeeded by the next. Young Dickens
was detailed to lead off with the first part. It also fell to his lot,
when the time came round, to report the closing portions of the speech.
On Saturday the whole was given to the press, and Dickens ran down to
the country for a Sunday's rest. Sunday morning had scarcely dawned,
when his father, who was a man of immense energy, made his appearance in
his son's sleeping-room. Mr. Stanley was so dissatisfied with what he
found in print, except the beginning and ending of his speech (just what
Dickens had reported) that he sent immediately to the office and
obtained the sheets of those parts of the report. He there found the
name of the reporter, which, according to custom, was written on the
margin. Then he requested that the young man bearing the name of Dickens
should be immediately sent for. Dickens's father, all aglow with the
prospect of probable promotion in the office, went immediately to his
son's stopping-place in the country and brought him back to London. In
telling the story, Dickens said: "I remember perfectly to this day the
aspect of the room I was shown into, and the two persons in it, Mr.
Stanley and his father. Both gentlemen were extremely courteous to me,
but I noted their evident surprise at the appearance of so young a man.
While we spoke together, I had taken a seat extended to me in the middle
of the room. Mr. Stanley told me he wished to go over the whole speech
and have it written out by me, and if I were ready he would begin now.
Where would I like to sit? I told him I was very well where I was, and
we could begin immediately. He tried to induce me to sit at a desk, but
at that time in the House of Commons there was nothing but one's knees
to write upon, and I had formed the habit of doing my work in that way.
Without further pause he began and went rapidly on, hour after hour, to
the end, often becoming very much excited and frequently bringing down
his hand with great violence upon the desk near which he stood."
I have before me, as I write, an unpublished autograph letter of young
Dickens, which he sent off to his employer in November, 1835, while he
was on a reporting expedition for the Morning Chronicle. At that early
stage of his career he seems to have had that unfailing accuracy of
statement so marked in after years when he became famous. The letter was
given to me several years ago by one of Dickens's brother reporters.
Thus it runs:--
George And Pelican, Newbury, Sunday Morning.
Dear Fraser: In conjunction with The Herald we have arranged for a
Horse Express from Marlborough to London on Tuesday night, to go the
whole distance at the rate of thirteen miles an hour, for six
guineas: half has been paid, but, to insure despatch, the remainder
is withheld until the boy arrives at the office, when he will
produce a paper with a copy of the agreement on one side, and an
order for three guineas (signed by myself) on the other. Will you
take care that it is duly honored? A Boy from The Herald will be in
waiting at our office for their copy; and Lyons begs me to remind
you most strongly that it is an indispensable part of our agreement
_that he should not be detained one instant_.
We go to Bristol to-day, and if we are equally fortunate in laying
the chaise-horses, I hope the packet will reach town by seven. As
all the papers have arranged to leave Bristol the moment Russell is
down, we have determined on adopting the same plan,--one of us will
go to Marlborough in the chaise with one Herald man, and the other
remain at Bristol with the second Herald man to conclude the account
for the next day. The Times has ordered a chaise and four the whole
distance, so there is every probability of our beating them hollow.
From all we hear, we think the Herald, relying on the packet
reaching town early, intends publishing the report in their first
Edition. This is however, of course, mere speculation on our parts,
as we have no direct means of ascertaining their intention.
I think I have now given you all needful information. I have only in
conclusion to impress upon you the necessity of having all the
compositors ready, at a very early hour, for if Russell be down by
half past eight, we hope to have his speech in town at six.
Believe me (for self and Beard) very truly yours,
Charles Dickens.
Nov., 1835.
Thomas Fraser, Esq., Morning Chronicle Office.
No writer ever lived whose method was more exact, whose industry was
more constant, and whose punctuality was more marked, than those of
Charles Dickens. He never shirked labor, mental or bodily. He rarely
declined, if the object were a good one, taking the chair at a public
meeting, or accepting a charitable trust. Many widows and orphans of
deceased literary men have for years been benefited by his wise
trusteeship or counsel, and he spent a great portion of his time
personally looking after the property of the poor whose interests were
under his control. He was, as has been intimated, one of the most
industrious of men, and marvellous stories are told (not by himself) of
what he has accomplished in a given time in literary and social matters.
His studies were all from nature and life, and his habits of observation
were untiring. If he contemplated writing "Hard Times," he arranged with
the master of Astley's circus to spend many hours behind the scenes with
the riders and among the horses; and if the composition of the "Tale of
Two Cities" were occupying his thoughts, he could banish himself to
France for two years to prepare for that great work. Hogarth pencilled
on his thumb-nail a striking face in a crowd that he wished to preserve;
Dickens with his transcendent memory chronicled in his mind whatever of
interest met his eye or reached his ear, any time or anywhere. Speaking
of memory one day, he said the memory of children was prodigious; it was
a mistake to fancy children ever forgot anything. When he was
delineating the character of Mrs. Pipchin, he had in his mind an old
lodging-house keeper in an English watering-place where he was living
with his father and mother when he was but two years old. After the book
was written he sent it to his sister, who wrote back at once: "Good
heavens! what does this mean? you have painted our lodging-house keeper,
and you were but two years old at that time!" Characters and incidents
crowded the chambers of his brain, all ready for use when occasion
required. No subject of human interest was ever indifferent to him, and
never a day went by that did not afford him some suggestion to be
utilized in the future.
His favorite mode of exercise was walking; and when in America, scarcely
a day passed, no matter what the weather, that he did not accomplish his
eight or ten miles. It was on these expeditions that he liked to recount
to the companion of his rambles stories and incidents of his early life;
and when he was in the mood, his fun and humor knew no bounds. He would
then frequently discuss the numerous characters in his delightful books,
and would act out, on the road, dramatic situations, where Nickleby or
Copperfield or Swiveller would play distinguished parts. I remember he
said, on one of these occasions, that during the composition of his
first stories he could never entirely dismiss the characters about whom
he happened to be writing; that while the "Old Curiosity Shop" was in
process of composition Little Nell followed him about everywhere; that
while he was writing "Oliver Twist" Fagin the Jew would never let him
rest, even in his most retired moments; that at midnight and in the
morning, on the sea and on the land, Tiny Tim and Little Bob Cratchit
were ever tugging at his coat-sleeve, as if impatient for him to get
back to his desk and continue the story of their lives. But he said
after he had published several books, and saw what serious demands his
characters were accustomed to make for the constant attention of his
already overtasked brain, he resolved that the phantom individuals
should no longer intrude on his hours of recreation and rest, but that
when he closed the door of his study he would shut them all in, and only
meet them again when he came back to resume his task. That force of will
with which he was so pre-eminently endowed enabled him to ignore these
manifold existences till he chose to renew their acquaintance. He said,
also, that when the children of his brain had once been launched, free
and clear of him, into the world, they would sometimes turn up in the
most unexpected manner to look their father in the face.
Sometimes he would pull my arm while we were walking together and
whisper, "Let us avoid Mr. Pumblechook, who is crossing the street to
meet us"; or, "Mr. Micawber is coming; let us turn down this alley to
get out of his way." He always seemed to enjoy the fun of his comic
people, and had unceasing mirth over Mr. Pickwick's misadventures. In
answer one day to a question, prompted by psychological curiosity, if he
ever dreamed of any of his characters, his reply was, "Never; and I am
convinced that no writer (judging from my own experience, which cannot
be altogether singular, but must be a type of the experience of others)
has ever dreamed of the creatures of his own imagination. It would," he
went on to say, "be like a man's dreaming of meeting himself, which is
clearly an impossibility. Things exterior to one's self must always be
the basis of dreams." The growing up of characters in his mind never
lost for him a sense of the marvellous. "What an unfathomable mystery
there is in it all!" he said one day. Taking up a wineglass, he
continued: "Suppose I choose to call this a _character_, fancy it a man,
endue it with certain qualities; and soon the fine filmy webs of
thought, almost impalpable, coming from every direction, we know not
whence, spin and weave about it, until it assumes form and beauty, and
becomes instinct with life."
In society Dickens rarely referred to the traits and characteristics of
people he had known; but during a long walk in the country he delighted
to recall and describe the peculiarities, eccentric and otherwise, of
dead and gone as well as living friends. Then Sydney Smith and Jeffrey
and Christopher North and Talfourd and Hood and Rogers seemed to live
over again in his vivid reproductions, made so impressive by his
marvellous memory and imagination. As he walked rapidly along the road,
he appeared to enjoy the keen zest of his companion in the numerous
impersonations with which he was indulging him.
He always had much to say of animals as well as of men, and there were
certain dogs and horses he had met and known intimately which it was
specially interesting to him to remember and picture. There was a
particular dog in Washington which he was never tired of delineating.
The first night Dickens read in the Capital this dog attracted his
attention. "He came into the hall by himself," said he, "got a good
place before the reading began, and paid strict attention throughout. He
came the second night, and was ignominiously shown out by one of the
check-takers. On the third night he appeared again with another dog,
which he had evidently promised to pass in free; but you see," continued
Dickens, "upon the imposition being unmasked, the other dog apologized
by a howl and withdrew. His intentions, no doubt, were of the best, but
he afterwards rose to explain outside, with such inconvenient eloquence
to the reader and his audience, that they were obliged to put him down
stairs."
He was such a firm believer in the mental faculties of animals, that it
would have gone hard with a companion with whom he was talking, if a
doubt were thrown, however inadvertently, on the mental intelligence of
any four-footed friend that chanced to be at the time the subject of
conversation. All animals which he took under his especial patronage
seemed to have a marked affection for him. Quite a colony of dogs has
always been a feature at Gad's Hill.
In many walks and talks with Dickens, his conversation, now, alas! so
imperfectly recalled, frequently ran on the habits of birds, the raven,
of course, interesting him particularly. He always liked to have a raven
hopping about his grounds, and whoever has read the new Preface to
"Barnaby Rudge" must remember several of his old friends in that line.
He had quite a fund of canary-bird anecdotes, and the pert ways of birds
that picked up worms for a living afforded him infinite amusement. He
would give a capital imitation of the way a robin-redbreast cocks his
head on one side preliminary to a dash forward in the direction of a
wriggling victim. There is a small grave at Gad's Hill to which Dickens
would occasionally take a friend, and it was quite a privilege to stand
with him beside the burial-place of little Dick, the family's favorite
canary.
What a treat it was to go with him to the London Zoölogical Gardens, a
place he greatly delighted in at all times! He knew the zoölogical
address of every animal, bird, and fish of any distinction; and he
could, without the slightest hesitation, on entering the grounds,
proceed straightway to the celebrities of claw or foot or fin. The
delight he took in the hippopotamus family was most exhilarating. He
entered familiarly into conversation with the huge, unwieldy creatures,
and they seemed to understand him. Indeed, he spoke to all the
unphilological inhabitants with a directness and tact which went home to
them at once. He chaffed with the monkeys, coaxed the tigers, and
bamboozled the snakes, with a dexterity unapproachable. All the keepers
knew him, he was such a loyal visitor, and I noticed they came up to him
in a friendly way, with the feeling that they had a sympathetic listener
always in Charles Dickens.
There were certain books of which Dickens liked to talk during his walks
Among his especial favorites were the writings of Cobbett, DeQuincey,
the Lectures on Moral Philosophy by Sydney Smith, and Carlyle's French
Revolution. Of this latter Dickens said it was the book of all others
which he read perpetually and of which he never tired,--the book which
always appeared more imaginative in proportion to the fresh imagination
he brought to it, a book for inexhaustibleness to be placed before every
other book. When writing the "Tale of Two Cities," he asked Carlyle if
he might see one of the works to which he referred in his history;
whereupon Carlyle packed up and sent down to Gad's Hill _all_ his
reference volumes, and Dickens read them faithfully. But the more he
read the more he was astonished to find how the facts had passed through
the alembic of Carlyle's brain and had come out and fitted themselves,
each as a part of one great whole, making a compact result,
indestructible and unrivalled; and he always found himself turning away
from the books of reference, and re-reading with increased wonder this
marvellous new growth. There were certain books particularly hateful to
him, and of which he never spoke except in terms of most ludicrous
raillery. Mr. Barlow, in "Sandford and Merton," he said was the favorite
enemy of his boyhood and his first experience of a bore. He had an
almost supernatural hatred for Barlow, "because he was so very
_instructive_, and always hinting doubts with regard to the veracity of
'Sindbad the Sailor,' and had no belief whatever in 'The Wonderful Lamp'
or 'The Enchanted Horse.'" Dickens rattling his mental cane over the
head of Mr. Barlow was as much better than any play as can be well
imagined. He gloried in many of Hood's poems, especially in that biting
Ode to Rae Wilson, and he would gesticulate with a fine fervor the
lines,
"...the hypocrites who ope Heaven's door
Obsequious to the sinful man of riches,--
But put the wicked, naked, bare-legged poor
In parish _stocks_ instead of _breeches_."
One of his favorite books was Pepys's Diary, the curious discovery of
the key to which, and the odd characteristics of its writer, were a
never-failing source of interest and amusement to him. The vision of
Pepys hanging round the door of the theatre, hoping for an invitation to
go in, not being able to keep away in spite of a promise he had made to
himself that he would spend no more money foolishly, delighted him.
Speaking one day of Gray, the author of the Elegy, he said: "No poet
ever came walking down to posterity with so _small_ a book under his
arm." He preferred Smollett to Fielding, putting "Peregrine Pickle"
above "Tom Jones." Of the best novels by his contemporaries he always
spoke with warm commendation, and "Griffith Gaunt" he thought a
production of very high merit. He was "hospitable to the thought" of all
writers who were really in earnest, but at the first exhibition of
floundering or inexactness he became an unbeliever. People with
dislocated understandings he had no tolerance for.
He was passionately fond of the theatre, loved the lights and music and
flowers, and the happy faces of the audience; he was accustomed to say
that his love of the theatre never failed, and, no matter how dull the
play, he was always careful while he sat in the box to make no sound
which could hurt the feelings of the actors, or show any lack of
attention. His genuine enthusiasm for Mr. Fechter's acting was most
interesting. He loved to describe seeing him first, quite by accident,
in Paris, having strolled into a little theatre there one night. "He was
making love to a woman," Dickens said, "and he so elevated her as well
as himself by the sentiment in which he enveloped her, that they trod in
a purer ether, and in another sphere, quite lifted out of the present.
'By heavens!' I said to myself, 'a man who can do this can do
anything.' I never saw two people more purely and instantly elevated by
the power of love. The manner, also," he continued, "in which he presses
the hem of the dress of Lucy in the Bride of Lammermoor is something
wonderful. The man has genius in him which is unmistakable."
Life behind the scenes was always a fascinating study to Dickens. "One
of the oddest sights a green-room can present," he said one day, "is
when they are collecting children for a pantomime. For this purpose the
prompter calls together all the women in the ballet, and begins giving
out their names in order, while they press about him eager for the
chance of increasing their poor pay by the extra pittance their children
will receive. 'Mrs. Johnson, how many?' 'Two, sir.' 'What ages?' 'Seven
and ten.' 'Mrs. B., how many?' and so on, until the required number is
made up. The people who go upon the stage, however poor their pay or
hard their lot, love it too well ever to adopt another vocation of their
free-will. A mother will frequently be in the wardrobe, children in the
pantomime, elder sisters in the ballet, etc."
* * * * *
Dickens's habits as a speaker differed from those of most orators. He
gave no thought to the composition of the speech he was to make till the
day before he was to deliver it. No matter whether the effort was to be
a long or a short one, he never wrote down a word of what he was going
to say; but when the proper time arrived for him to consider his
subject, he took a walk into the country and the thing was done. When he
returned he was all ready for his task.
He liked to talk about the audiences that came to hear him read, and he
gave the palm to his Parisian one, saying it was the quickest to catch
his meaning. Although he said there were many always present in his room
in Paris who did not fully understand English, yet the French eye is so
quick to detect expression that it never failed instantly to understand
what he meant by a look or an act. "Thus, for instance," he said, "when
I was impersonating Steerforth in 'David Copperfield,' and gave that
peculiar grip of the hand to Emily's lover, the French audience burst
into cheers and rounds of applause." He said with reference to the
preparation of his readings, that it was three months' hard labor to get
up one of his own stories for public recitation, and he thought he had
greatly improved his presentation of the "Christmas Carol" while in this
country. He considered the storm scene in "David Copperfield" one of the
most effective of his readings. The character of Jack Hopkins in "Bob
Sawyer's Party" he took great delight in representing, and as Jack was a
prime favorite of mine, he brought him forward whenever the occasion
prompted. He always spoke of Hopkins as my particular friend, and he was
constantly quoting him, taking on the peculiar voice and turn of the
head which he gave Jack in the public reading.
It gave him a natural pleasure when he heard quotations from his own
books introduced without effort into conversation. He did not always
remember, when his own words were quoted, that he was himself the author
of them, and appeared astounded at the memory of others in this regard.
He said Mr. Secretary Stanton had a most extraordinary knowledge of his
books and a power of taking the text up at any point, which he supposed
to belong to only one person, and that person not himself.
It was said of Garrick that he was the _cheerfullest_ man of his age.
This can be as truly said of Charles Dickens. In his presence there was
perpetual sunshine, and gloom was banished as having no sort of
relationship with him. No man suffered more keenly or sympathized more
fully than he did with want and misery; but his motto was, "Don't stand
and cry; press forward and help remove the difficulty." The speed with
which he was accustomed to make the deed follow his yet speedier
sympathy was seen pleasantly on the day of his visit to the School-ship
in Boston Harbor. He said, previously to going on board that ship,
nothing would tempt him to make a speech, for he should always be
obliged to do it on similar occasions, if he broke through his rule so
early in his reading tour. But Judge Russell had no sooner finished his
simple talk, to which the boys listened, as they always do, with eager
faces, than Dickens rose as if he could not help it, and with a few
words so magnetized them that they wore their hearts in their eyes as if
they meant to keep the words forever. An enthusiastic critic once said
of John Ruskin, "that he could discover the Apocalypse in a daisy." As
noble a discovery may be claimed for Dickens. He found all the fair
humanities blooming in the lowliest hovel. He never _put on_ the good
Samaritan: that character was native to him. Once while in this country,
on a bitter, freezing afternoon,--night coming down in a drifting
snow-storm,--he was returning with me from a long walk in the country.
The wind and baffling sleet were so furious that the street in which we
happened to be fighting our way was quite deserted; it was almost
impossible to see across it, the air was so thick with the tempest; all
conversation between us had ceased, for it was only possible to breast
the storm by devoting our whole energies to keeping on our feet; we
seemed to be walking in a different atmosphere from any we had ever
before encountered. All at once I missed Dickens from my side. What had
become of him? Had he gone down in the drift, utterly exhausted, and was
the snow burying him out of sight? Very soon the sound of his cheery
voice was heard on the other side of the way. With great difficulty,
over the piled-up snow, I struggled across the street, and there found
him lifting up, almost by main force, a blind old man who had got
bewildered by the storm, and had fallen down unnoticed, quite unable to
proceed. Dickens, a long distance away from him, with that tender,
sensitive, and penetrating vision, ever on the alert for suffering in
any form, had rushed at once to the rescue, comprehending at a glance
the situation of the sightless man. To help him to his feet and aid him
homeward in the most natural and simple way afforded Dickens such a
pleasure as only the benevolent by intuition can understand.
Throughout his life Dickens was continually receiving tributes from
those he had benefited, either by his books or by his friendship. There
is an odd and very pretty story (vouched for here as true) connected
with the influence he so widely exerted. In the winter of 1869, soon
after he came up to London to reside for a few months, he received a
letter from a man telling him that he had begun life in the most humble
way possible, and that he considered he owed his subsequent great
success and such education as he had given himself entirely to the
encouragement and cheering influence he had derived from Dickens's
books, of which he had been a constant reader from his childhood. He had
been made a partner in his master's business, and when the head of the
house died, the other day, it was found he had left the whole of his
large property to this man. As soon as he came into possession of this
fortune, his mind turned to Dickens, whom he looked upon as his
benefactor and teacher, and his first desire was to tender him some
testimonial of gratitude and veneration. He then begged Dickens to
accept a large sum of money. Dickens declined to receive the money, but
his unknown friend sent him instead two silver table ornaments of great
intrinsic value bearing this inscription: "To Charles Dickens, from one
who has been cheered and stimulated by his writings, and held the author
amongst his first Remembrances when he became prosperous." One of these
silver ornaments was supported by three figures, representing three
seasons. In the original design there were, of course, four, but the
donor was so averse to associating the idea of Winter in any sense with
Dickens that he caused the workman to alter the design and leave only
the _cheerful_ seasons. No event in the great author's career was ever
more gratifying and pleasant to him.
His friendly notes were exquisitely turned, and are among his most
charming compositions. They abound in felicities only like himself. In
1860 he wrote to me while I was sojourning in Italy: "I should like to
have a walk through Rome with you this bright morning (for it really
_is_ bright in London), and convey you over some favorite ground of
mine. I used to go up the street of Tombs, past the tomb of Cecilia
Metella, away out upon the wild campagna, and by the old Appian Road
(easily tracked out among the ruins and primroses), to Albano. There, at
a very dirty inn, I used to have a very dirty lunch, generally with the
family's dirty linen lying in a corner, and inveigle some very dirty
Vetturino in sheep-skin to take me back to Rome."
In a little note in answer to one I had written consulting him about the
purchase of some old furniture in London he wrote: "There is a chair
(without a bottom) at a shop near the office, which I think would suit
you. It cannot stand of itself, but will almost seat somebody, if you
put it in a corner, and prop one leg up with two wedges and cut another
leg off, The proprietor asks £20, but says he admires literature and
would take £18. He is of republican principles and I think would take
£17 19_s_. 6_d_. from a cousin; shall I secure this prize? It is very
ugly and wormy, and it is related, but without proof, that on one
occasion Washington declined to sit down in it."
Here are the last two missives I ever received from his dear, kind
hand:--