Charles Dickens was a very little and very sickly boy, but he had
always the belief that this circumstance had brought to him the
inestimable advantage of having greatly inclined him to reading.
When money troubles came upon his parents, the poor little fellow was
taken away from school and kept for some time at an occupation most
distasteful to him, with every surrounding that could jar on sensitive
and refined feelings. But the great hardship, and the one which he felt
most acutely, was the want of the companionship of boys of his own age.
A few years later on we read in “Mr. Forster's Life” a schoolfellow's
description of Charles Dickens: “A healthy-looking boy, small, but
well-built, with a more than usual flow of spirits, inclining to
harmless fun, seldom, if never, I think, to mischief. He usually held
his head more erect than lads ordinarily do, and there was a general
smartness about him.” This is also a very good personal description of
the man.
I have never heard him refer in any way to his own childish days,
excepting in one instance, when he would tell the story of how, when
he lived at Chatham he and his father often passed Gad's Hill in their
walks, and what an admiration he had for the red-brick house with its
beautiful old cedar trees, and how it seemed to him to be larger and
finer than any other house; and how his father would tell him that if
he were to be very persevering and were to work hard he might perhaps
some day come to live in it. I have heard him tell this story over and
over again, when he had become the possessor of the very place which
had taken such a hold upon his childish affections. Beyond this, I
cannot recall a single instance of any allusion being made by him to
his own early childhood.
He believed the power of observation in very young children to be close
and accurate, and he thought that the recollection of most of us could
go further back than we supposed. I do not know how far my own memory
may carry me back, but I have no remembrance of my childhood which is
not immediately associated with him.
He had a wonderful attraction for children and a quick perception of
their character and disposition; a most winning and easy way with
them, full of fun, but also of a graver sympathy with their many small
troubles and perplexities, which made them recognise a friend in him at
once.
I have often seen mere babies, who would look at no other stranger
present, put out their tiny arms to him with unbounded confidence,
or place a small hand in his and trot away with him, quite proud and
contented at having found such a companion; and although with his own
children he had sometimes a sterner manner than he had with others,
there was not one of them who feared to go to him for help and advice,
knowing well that there was no trouble too trivial to claim his
attention, and that in him they would always find unvarying justice and
love. When any treat had to be asked for, the second little daughter,
always a pet of her father's, was pushed into his study by the other
children, and always returned triumphant. He wrote special prayers
for us as soon as we could speak, interested himself in our lessons,
would give prizes for industry, for punctuality, for neat and unblotted
copy-books. A word of commendation from him was indeed most highly
cherished, and would set our hearts glowing with pride and pleasure.
His study, to us children, was rather a mysterious and awe-inspiring
chamber, and while he was at work no one was allowed to enter it. We
little ones had to pass the door as quietly as possible, and our little
tongues left off chattering. But at no time through his busy life was
he too busy to think of us, to amuse us, or to interest himself in all
that concerned us. Ever since I can remember anything I remember him
as the good genius of the house, and as its happy, bright, and funny
genius. He had a peculiar tone of voice and way of speaking for each of
his children, who could tell, without being called by name which was
the one addressed. He had funny songs which he used to sing to them
before they went to bed. One in particular, about an old man who caught
cold and rheumatism while sitting in an omnibus, was a great favorite,
and as it was accompanied by sneezes, coughs, and gesticulations,
it had to be sung over and over again before the small audience was
satisfied.
I can see him now, through the mist of years, with a child nearly
always on his knee at this time of the evening, his bright and
beautiful eyes full of life and fun. I can hear his clear sweet voice
as he sang to those children as if he had no other occupation in the
world but to amuse them; and when they grew older, and were able
to act little plays, it was their father himself, who was teacher,
manager, and prompter to the infant amateurs. These theatricals were
undertaken as earnestly and seriously as were those of the grown up
people. He would teach the children their parts separately; what to do
and how to do it, acting himself for their edification. At one moment
he would be the dragon in “Fortunio,” at the next one of the seven
servants, then a jockey—played by the youngest child, whose little legs
had much difficulty to get into the tiny top-boots—until he had taken
every part in the play.
As with his grown-up company of actors, so with his juvenile company,
did his own earnestness and activity work upon them and affect each
personally. The shyest and most awkward child would come out quite
brilliantly under his patient and always encouraging training.
At the juvenile parties he was always the ruling spirit. He had
acquired by degrees an excellent collection of conjuring tricks, and on
Twelfth Night—his eldest son's birthday—he would very often, dressed as
a magician, give a conjuring entertainment, when a little figure which
appeared from a wonderful and mysterious bag, and which was supposed
to be a personal friend of the conjuror, would greatly delight the
audience by his funny stories, his eccentric voice and way of speaking,
and by his miraculous appearances and disappearances. Of course a plum
pudding was made in a hat, and was always one of the great successes
of the evening. I have seen many such puddings, but no other conjurer
has been able to put into a pudding all the love, sympathy, fun, and
thorough enjoyment which seemed to come from the hands of this great
magician. Then, when supper time came, he would be everywhere at once,
serving, cutting up the great twelfth cake, dispensing the bonbons,
proposing toasts, and calling upon first one child and then another
for a song or recitation. How eager the little faces looked for each
turn to come round, and how they would blush and brighten up when the
magician's eyes looked their way!
One year, before a Twelfth Night dance, when his two daughters were
quite tiny girls, he took it into his head that they must teach him
and his friend John Leech the polka. The lessons were begun as soon as
thought of, and continued for some time. It must have been rather a
funny sight to see the two small children teaching those two men—Mr.
Leech was over six feet—to dance, all four as solemn and staid as
possible.
As in everything he undertook, so in this instance, did Charles
Dickens throw his whole heart into the dance. No one could have taken
more pains than he did, or have been more eager and anxious, or more
conscientious about steps and time than he was. And often, after the
lesson was over, he would jump up and have a practice by himself.
When the night of the party came both the small dancing mistresses
felt anxious and nervous. I know that the heart of one beat very fast
when the moment for starting off arrived. But both pupils acquitted
themselves perfectly, and were the admiration of all beholders.
Sir Roger de Coverley was always the finale to those dances, and was
a special favorite of Charles Dickens, who kept it up as long as
possible, and was as unflagging in his dancing enthusiasm as was his
own “Fizziwig” in his.
There can be but little doubt that the children who came to those
parties, and who have lived to grow up to be men and women, remember
them as something bright and sunny in their young lives, and must
always retain a loving feeling for their kind and genial host.
In those early days when he was living in Devonshire Terrace, his
children were quite babies. And when he paid his first visit to
America—accompanied by Mrs. Dickens—they were left under the care of
some relations and friends. Anyone reading “The Letters of Charles
Dickens” must be touched by his frequent allusions to these children,
and by the love and tenderness expressed in his longings to see them
again.
I can recall but very little of those days. I can remember our being
obliged to spend much of the time at the house of a dear and good
friend, but where the children of the house were very severely and
sternly brought up. And I can remember how my little sister used to
cry whenever she had to go there. I have also a vague remembrance of
the return of the travellers, and of being lifted up to a gate and
kissing my father through the bars. I do not know how the gate came to
be shut, but imagine that he, in his impatience and eagerness to see us
again, must have jumped out of the carriage before there was time for
the gate to be opened.
I cannot at all recall his appearance at this time, but know from old
portraits that his face was beautiful. I think he was fond of dress,
and must have been rather a dandy in his way. Carrying my memory
further on, I _can_ remember him as very handsome. He had a most
beautiful mouth, sensitive, strong, and full of character. This was,
unfortunately, hidden when he took to wearing—some years afterwards—a
beard and mustache. But this is the only alteration I can remember in
him, as to me his face never seemed to change at all. He had always an
active, young, and boyish-looking figure, and a way of holding his head
a little thrown back, which was very characteristic. This carriage of
the head, and his manner altogether, are exactly inherited by one of
his sons.
Charles Dickens was always a great walker, but in these days he rode
and drove more than he did in later years. He was fond of the game of
battledore and shuttlecock, and used constantly to play with friends on
summer evenings. There is a little drawing by the late Daniel Maclise,
where a shuttlecock is to be seen in the air. This is suggestive of
many and many a pleasant evening in the garden, which was shut in all
round by a high wall, and where, in summer time, a tent was always put
up, and where, after dinner the family would adjourn for “dessert,”
This was always considered by us a special treat.
As the children grew older, there were evenings when they would be
allowed to drive out into the country, and then get out of the carriage
and walk with “Papa.” It seems now as if the wild flowers which used
to be gathered on those evenings in the country lanes were sweeter
and more beautiful than any which grow nowadays! The very lanes have
all disappeared and grown into houses. But the memory of the one who
originated those treats, and who was the good spirit of the time, can
_never_ be blotted out.
Charles Dickens brought a little white Havannah spaniel with him from
America, and from that time there were always various pets about the
house. In particular there was an eagle and a raven. The eagle had a
sort of grotto made for him in the garden, to which he was chained,
and being chained he was not quite such an object of terror to the
children as the raven was. This raven, with its mischievous nature,
delighted in frightening them. One of the little daughters had very
chubby, rosy legs, and the raven used to run after and peck at them,
until poor “Tatie's leds” became a constant subject for commiseration.
Yet the raven was a great source of amusement to the family, and there
were countless funny stories about him. He was especially wicked to
the eagle; as soon as his food was brought to him, the raven would
swoop down upon it, take it just beyond the eagle's reach, mount guard
over it, dancing round it, and chuckling. When he considered he had
tantalised the poor bird enough, he would eat the food as deliberately
and slowly as possible, and then hop away perfectly contented with
himself. He was not the celebrated Grip of “Barnaby Rudge,” but was
given after the death of that bird.
In bringing up his children, Charles Dickens was always most anxious
to impress upon them that as long as they were honest and truthful, so
would they always be sure of having justice done to them. To show how
strongly he felt about this, and what a horror he had of their being
frightened, or in any way unnecessarily intimidated, his own words
shall be quoted:—
“In the little world in which children have their existence, whosoever
brings them up, there is nothing so finely perceived and so finely
felt as injustice. It may only be small injustice that the child can
be exposed to; but the child is small, and its rocking-horse stands as
many hands high, according to scale, as a big-boned Irish hunter.” And
again:—“It would be difficult to overstate the intensity and accuracy
of an intelligent child's observation. At that impressible time of
life, it must sometimes produce a fixed impression. If the fixed
impression be of an object terrible to the child, it will be (for want
of reasoning upon) inseparable from great fear. Force the child at such
a time, be Spartan with it, send it into the dark against its will, and
you had better murder it.”
He was always tender with us, as I have said, in our small troubles
and trials. When the time came for the eldest son to be sent to a
boarding-school, there was great grief in the nursery at Devonshire
Terrace, and he came unexpectedly upon one of his daughters who was
putting away some school-books, and crying bitterly at the time. To
him the separation could not have seemed such a terrible one, as the
boy was certainly to come home once a month, if not once a week. But
he soothed the weeping child, and reasoned with her, using much the
same arguments as he did years afterwards, when the well-beloved Plorn
went to Australia—namely, that these partings were “Hard, hard things,
but must be borne,” until at last the sobs ceased, and the poor aching
little heart had found consolation in his loving sympathy.
There are so many people, good, kind, and affectionate, but who can
_not_ remember that they once were children themselves, and looked out
upon the world with a child's eyes _only_!
A third daughter was born in Devonshire Terrace, but only lived to be
nine months old. Her death was very sudden, and happened while Charles
Dickens was presiding at a public dinner. He had been playing with the
baby before starting for the dinner, and the little thing was then as
well and as bright as possible.
An evening or two after her death, some beautiful flowers were sent
and were brought into the study, and the father was about to take them
upstairs and place them on the little dead baby, when he suddenly gave
away completely. It is always very terrible to see a man weep; but
to see your own father weep, and to see this for the first time as a
child, fills you with a curious awe.
When the grave where the little Dora was buried was opened, a few
years ago, and the tiny coffin was seen lying at the bottom of it,
the remembrance of that evening in the study at Devonshire Terrace was
fresh in the minds of some of those who were standing at the grave.
It was always a great honor and delight to any of the children to have
any special present from “Papa,” and on the occasion of a daughter's
birthday a watch had been promised, and the day was eagerly looked
forward to by the whole of the family. When the morning arrived,
Charles Dickens was not well, and was unable to get up to breakfast,
but the little girl was sent for, and went up to his bedside in a state
of trembling and anxious expectation. He put his arms round her and
kissed her, wishing her “Many happy returns of the day,” and took a
case from under his pillow and opened it. But when she saw first a gold
watch, and then when he turned it and showed an enamelled back, with
her initials also in enamel, it was many seconds before the joyful Oh!
could be gasped out; but when it _did_ come, and she met her father's
eyes, I don't think they were freer from a certain sort of moisture
than were those of the happy and delighted child.
When the move was made from Devonshire Terrace to Tavistock House—a far
larger and handsomer house than the old home—Charles Dickens promised
his daughters a better bedroom than they ever had before, and told
them that he should choose “the brightest of papers” for it, but that
they were not to see “the gorgeous apartment” until it was ready for
their use. But when the time came for the move, and the two girls were
shown their room, it surpassed even their expectations. They found
it full of love and thoughtful care, and as pretty and as fresh as
their hearts could desire, and with not a single thing in it which had
not been expressly chosen for them, or planned by their father. The
wall-paper was covered with wild-flowers, the two little iron bedsteads
were hung with a flowery chintz. There were two toilet-tables, two
writing-tables, two easy chairs, etc., etc., all so pretty and elegant,
and this in the days when bedrooms were not, as a rule, so luxurious as
they are now.
Notwithstanding his constant and arduous work, he was never too busy to
be unmindful of the comfort and welfare of those about him, and there
was not a corner in any of his homes, from kitchen to garret, which was
not constantly inspected by him, and which did not boast of some of his
neat and orderly contrivances. We used to laugh at him sometimes and
say we believed that he was personally acquainted with every nail in
the house.
It was in this home, some few years later, that the first grown-up
theatricals were given. And these theatricals were very remarkable,
in that nearly every part was filled by some celebrated man in either
literature or art.
Besides being a really great actor, Charles Dickens as a manager
was quite incomparable. His “company” was as well trained as any
first-class professional company, and although always kind and
pleasant, he was feared and looked up to by every member of his
company. The rehearsals meant business and hard work, and sometimes
even tears to a few, when all did not go quite satisfactorily. Each one
knew that there could be no trifling, no playing at work. As in the
children's performances so in these later ones did he know every part,
and enter heart and soul into each character. If any new idea came into
his head, he would at once propound it to the actor or actress, who,
looking upon that earnest face and active figure, would do his or her
very best to gain a managerial smile of approval.
He had a temporary theatre built out into the garden, and the scenes
were painted by some of the greatest scene-painters of the day. A
drop-scene, representing Eddystone lighthouse, by the late Clarkson
Stanfield, R.A., was afterwards framed and covered with glass, and hung
in the entrance hall of Gad's Hill.
In the play called “The Lighthouse,” written by Mr. Wilkie Collins, the
great effect at the end of an act was to come from a storm, and the
rehearsing of this storm was a very serious matter indeed. There was
a long wooden box with peas in it, to be moved slowly up and down to
represent rain—a wheel to be turned for wind—a piece of oilcloth to be
dashed upon oilcloth and slowly dragged away, for the waves coming up
and then receding, carrying the pebbles along with them—a heavy weight
rolled about upon the floor above the stage, for thunder, etc., etc.
At the time of the storm the manager's part kept him on the stage,
but during rehearsal he somehow or other managed to be in the hall
where the storm was worked, as well as on the stage, for he sometimes
appeared with the rain, sometimes with the wind, sometimes with the
thunder, until he had seen each separate part made perfect. This storm
was pronounced by the audience a most wonderful success. I know there
was such a noise “behind the scenes” that we could not hear ourselves
speak, and it was most amusing to watch all the actors in their sailor
dresses and their various “make-ups,” gravely and solemnly pounding
away at these raw materials.
Then the suppers after these evenings were so delightful! Many and many
of the company, besides the dear manager, have passed away, but many
still remain to remember them.
Until he came into possession of Gad's Hill, Charles Dickens was in
the habit of removing his whole household to some seaside place every
summer. For many years Broadstairs was the favorite spot, and for some
seasons he rented a house there, called Fort House. It stood on a
hill surrounded by a nice garden, a little out of the town, and close
to the cliff, and was a home of which he was very fond. Since those
days the name of it has been changed to Bleak House. During these
seaside visits he would take long walks, in all weathers—and always
accompanied by one faithful friend and companion—and would get as brown
and as weather-beaten as any of the sailors about, of whom he was the
special favorite. I think he had some of the sailor element in himself.
One always hears of sailors being so neat, handy, and tidy, and he
possessed all these qualities to a wonderful extent. When a sea captain
retires, his garden is always the trimmest about, the gates are painted
a bright green, and of course he puts up a flag-staff. The garden at
Gad's Hill was the trimmest and the neatest, green paint was on every
place where it could possibly be put, and the flag staff had an endless
supply of flags.
There was one year spent in Italy, when the children were still
very young, and another year in Switzerland, at Lausanne; but after
Broadstairs, Boulogne became the favorite watering-place. It was here,
in a charming villa, quite out of the town, that he and his youngest
son, “The Plorn,” would wander about the garden together admiring the
flowers, the little fellow being taught to show his admiration by
holding up his tiny arms. It was a pretty sight to watch them down the
long avenue, the baby looking so sweet in its white frock and blue
ribbons, either carried in his father's arms, or toddling by his side
with his little hand in his, and a most perfect understanding between
them! There were always anecdotes to be told of the Plorn after these
walks, when his father invariably wound up with the assertion that he
was “a noble boy.” Being the youngest of the family, he was made a
great pet of, especially by his father, and was kept longer at home
than any of his brothers had been.
Charles Dickens writes to his sister-in-law in the year 1856:—“Kiss
the Plorn for me, and expound to him that I am always looking forward
to meeting him again, among the birds and flowers in the garden on
the side of the hill at Boulogne.” And when he had to part with this
son in 1868, he says in a letter to a friend, “Poor Plorn is gone to
Australia. It was a hard parting at the last. He seemed to me to become
once more my youngest and favorite little child as the day drew near,
and I did not think I could have been so shaken.” The housekeeper at
his office, who saw him after he had taken leave of the boy, told “how
she had never seen the master so upset, and that when she asked him
how Mr. Edward went off he burst into tears, and couldn't answer her a
word.”
During the years spent at Tavistock House one of his daughters was,
for a time, a great invalid, and after a worse attack of illness than
usual her father suggested that she should be carried as far as the
study, and lie on the sofa there, while he was at work. This was of
course considered an immense privilege, and even if she had not felt as
weak and ill as she did, she would have been bound to remain as still
and quiet as possible. For some time there was no sound to be heard
in the room but the rapid working of the pen, when suddenly he jumped
up, went to the looking-glass, rushed back to his writing-table and
jotted down a few words; back to the glass again, this time talking to
his own reflection, or rather to the simulated expression he saw there,
and was trying to catch before drawing it in words, then back again to
his writing. After a little he got up again, and stood with his back to
the glass, talking softly and rapidly for a long time, then _looking_
at his daughter, but certainly never _seeing_ her, then once more back
to his table, and to steady writing until luncheon time. It was a
curious experience, and a wonderful thing to see him throwing himself
so entirely _out_ of himself and _into_ the character he was writing
about. His daughter has very seldom mentioned this incident, feeling
as if it would be almost a breach of confidence to do so. But in these
reminiscences of her father, she considers it only right that this
experience should be mentioned, showing as it does his characteristic
earnestness and method of work.
Often, after a hard morning's writing, when he has been alone with his
family, and no visitors in the house, he has come in to luncheon and
gone through the meal without uttering a word, and then has gone back
again to the work in which he was so completely absorbed. Then again,
there have been times when his nerves have been strung up to such a
pitch that any sudden noise, such as the dropping of a spoon, or the
clatter of a plate, seemed to cause him real agony. He never could bear
the least noise when he was writing, and waged a fierce war against all
organ-grinders, bands, etc.
In 1856 the purchase of Gad's Hill was made. Charles Dickens had never
been inside the house until it was his own. For once we may hope and
believe that a childish dream was realised, for certainly some of the
happiest years of his home-life were spent in the house he had so
coveted and admired when he was quite a small boy. “It has never been
to me like any other house,” were his own words.
For the first three years, Gad's Hill was only used by him as a summer
residence, but after the sale of Tavistock House, in 1860, it became
his home; and from this time, until the year of his death, his great
delight was to make “the little freehold” as comfortable, complete,
and pretty as possible. Every year he had some “bright idea,” or
some contemplated “wonderful improvement” to propound to us. And it
became quite a joke between him and his youngest daughter—who was
constantly at Gad's Hill—as to what the next improvement was to be.
These additions and alterations gave him endless amusement and delight,
and he would watch the growing of each one with the utmost eagerness
and impatience. The most important _out_-door “improvement” he made,
was a tunnel to connect the garden with the shrubbery, which lay on
the opposite side of the high road, and could only be approached by
leaving the garden, crossing the road, and unlocking a gate. The work
of excavation began, of course from each side, and on the day when it
was supposed that the picks would meet and the light appear, Charles
Dickens was so excited that he had to “knock off work,” and stood for
hours waiting for this consummation, and when at last it did come to
pass, the workmen were all “treated,” and there was a general jubilee.
This “improvement” was a great success, for the shrubbery was a nice
addition to the garden, and moreover in it, facing the road, grew two
very large and beautiful cedar-trees. Some little time after Monsieur
Fechter sent his friend a two-roomed châlet, which was placed in the
shrubbery. The upper room was prettily furnished, and fitted all round
with looking-glasses to reflect the view, and was used by Charles
Dickens as a study throughout the summer. He had a passion for light,
bright colors, and looking-glass. When he built a new drawing-room he
had two mirrors sunk into the wall opposite each other, which, being so
placed, gave the effect of an endless corridor. I do not remember how
many rooms could thus be counted, but he would often call some of us,
and ask if we could make out another room, as _he_ certainly could.
For one “improvement” he had looking-glass put into each panel of the
dining-room door, and showing it to his youngest daughter said, with
great pride, “Now, what do you say to _this_, Katie?” She laughed and
said, “Well, really, papa, I think when you're an angel your wings will
be made of looking-glass, and your crown of scarlet geraniums!”
He loved all flowers, but especially bright flowers, and scarlet
geraniums were his favorite of all. There were two large beds of these
on the front lawn, and when they were fully out, making one scarlet
mass, there was blaze enough to satisfy even _him_. Even in dress he
was fond of a great deal of color, and the dress of a friend who came
to his daughter's wedding quite delighted him because it was trimmed
with a profusion of cherry-colored ribbon. He used constantly to speak
about it afterwards in terms of the highest admiration.
The large dogs at Gad's Hill were quite a feature of the place,
and were also rather a subject of dread to outsiders. But this was
desirable, as the house really required protection, standing as it
did on the high road, which was frequented by tramps of a wild and
low order, who, in the hopping season, were sometimes even dangerous;
and the dogs, though as gentle as possible to their own people, knew
that they were the guardians of the place, and were terribly fierce
to all intruders. Linda—a St. Bernard, and a beautiful specimen of
that breed—had been as a puppy living in the garden at Tavistock House
before she was taken to Gad's Hill. She and Turk, a mastiff, were
constant companions in all their master's walks. When he was away
from home, and the ladies of the family were out alone with the dogs,
Turk would at once feel the responsibility of his position, and guard
them with unusual devotion, giving up all play in an instant when he
happened to see any suspicious-looking figure approaching; and he never
made a mistake in discovering the tramp. He would then keep on the
outside of the road, close to his mistresses, with an ominous turning
up of the lip, and with anything but the usually mild expression in his
beautiful large brown eyes, and he would give many a look back before
he thought it safe to be off again on his own account. Of all the large
dogs— and there were many at different times—these two were the best
loved by their dear master.
Mrs. Bouncer, a little white Pomeranian with black eyes and nose, the
very sweetest and most bewitching of her sex, was a present to the
eldest daughter, and was brought by her, a puppy of only six weeks old,
to Tavistock House. “The boys,” knowing that the little dog was to
arrive, were ready to receive their sister at the door, and escorted
her, in a tremendous state of excitement, up to the study. But when
the little creature was put down on the floor to be exhibited to
Charles Dickens, and showed her pretty figure and little bushy tail
curling tightly over her back, they could keep quiet no longer, but
fairly screamed and danced with delight. From that moment he took to
the little dog and made a pet of her, and it was he who gave her the
name of Mrs. Bouncer. He delighted to see her out with the large dogs,
because she looked “so preposterously small” by the side of them.
He had a peculiar voice and way of speaking for her, which she knew
perfectly well and would respond to at once, running to him from any
part of the house or garden directly she heard the call. To be stroked
with a foot had great fascinations for Mrs. Bouncer, and my father
would often and often take off his boot of an evening and sit stroking
the little creature while he read or smoked for an hour together.
And although there were times, I fear, when her sharp bark must have
irritated him, there never was an angry word for Bouncer.
Then there was Dick, the eldest daughter's canary, another important
member of the household, who came out of his cage every morning at
breakfast time and hopped about the table, pecking away at anything
he had a fancy for, and perching upon the heads or shoulders of those
present. Occasionally he would have naughty fits, when he would
actually dare to peck his master's cheek. He took strong likes and
dislikes, loving some people and really hating others. But a word from
his mistress called him to order at once, and he would come to her when
so called from any part of the room. After she had been away from home
she always on her return went to the room where Dick lived and put
her head just inside the door. At the very sight of her the bird would
fly to the corner of his cage and sing as if his little throat would
burst. Charles Dickens constantly followed his daughter and peeped into
the room behind her, just to see Dick's rapturous reception of his
mistress. When this pet bird died he had him buried in the garden, and
a rose-tree planted over his grave, and wrote his epitaph:—
_This is the grave of
DICK,
The best of birds.
Born at Broadstairs, Midsr. 1851.
Died at Gad's Hill Place, 14th Oct., 1866._
While Dick lived cats were of course tabooed, and were never allowed
about the house; but after his death a white kitten called Williamina
was given to one of the family, and she and her numerous offspring had
a happy home at Gad's Hill.
This cat ingratiated herself into favor with every one in the house,
but she was particularly devoted to the master. Once, after a family
of kittens had been born, she had a fancy that they should live in the
study. So she brought them up, one by one, from the kitchen floor,
where a comfortable bed had been provided for them, and deposited them
in a corner of the study. They were taken down stairs by order of the
master, who said he really could _not_ allow the kittens to be in his
room. Williamina tried again, but again with the same result. But
when the third time she carried a kitten up the stairs into the hall,
and from there to the study window, jumping in with it in her mouth,
and laying it at her master's feet, until the whole family were at
last before him, and she herself sat down beside them and gave him an
imploring look, he could resist no longer, and Williamina carried the
day. As the kittens grew up they became very rampagious, and swarmed
up the curtains and played on the writing-table, and scampered among
the book-shelves, and made such a noise as was never heard in the study
before. But the same spirit which influenced the whole house must have
been brought to bear upon those noisy little creatures to keep them
still and quiet when necessary, for they were never complained of, and
they were never turned out of the study until the time came for giving
them away and finding good homes for them. One kitten was kept, and,
being a very exceptional cat, deserves to be specially mentioned. Being
deaf, he had no name given him, but was called by the servants “the
master's cat,” in consequence of his devotion to him. He was always
with his master, and used to follow him about the garden and sit with
him while he was writing. One evening they were left together, the
ladies of the house having gone to a ball in the neighborhood. Charles
Dickens was reading at a small table on which a lighted candle was
placed, when suddenly the candle went out. He was much interested in
his book, relighted the candle, gave a pat to the cat, who he noticed
was looking up at him with a most pathetic expression, and went on with
his reading. A few minutes afterwards, the light getting dim, he looked
up and was in time to see Puss deliberately put out the candle with his
paw, and then gaze again appealingly at his master. This second appeal
was understood, and had the desired effect. The book was shut, and Puss
was made a fuss with and amused till bed-time. His master was full of
this anecdote when we all met in the morning.
During the summer months there was a constant succession of visitors at
Gad's Hill, with picnics, long drives, and much happy holiday-making.
At these picnics there was a frequent request to this lover of light
and color of “_Please_ let us have the luncheon in the shade at any
rate.” He came to his daughter one day and said he had “a capital idea”
about picnic luncheons. He wished each person to have his or her own
ration neatly done up in one parcel, to consist of a mutton pie, a
hard-boiled egg, a roll, a piece of butter, and a packet of salt. Of
course this idea was faithfully carried out, but was not always the
rule, as when the choice of food was put to the vote, it was found that
many people cared neither for mutton-pie nor hard-boiled egg. But “the
capital idea” of separate rations was always followed as closely as
possible.
Charles Dickens was a most delightful and genial host, had the power of
putting the shyest people at ease with him at once, and had a charm in
his manner peculiarly his own and quite indescribable. The charm was
always there whether he was grave or gay, whether in his very funniest
or in his most serious and earnest mood.
He was a strict master in the way of insisting upon everything being
done perfectly and exactly as he desired, but, on the other hand, was
most kind, just, and considerate.
His punctuality was a remarkable characteristic, and visitors used to
wonder how it was that everything was done to the very minute, “almost
by clockwork,” as some of them would remark.
It is a common saying now in the family of some dear friends, where
punctuality is not _quite_ so well observed, “What would Mr. Dickens
have said to this?” or, “Ah! my dear child, I wish you could have been
at Gad's Hill to learn what punctuality means!”
Charles Dickens was very fond of music, and not only of classical
music. He loved national airs, old tunes, songs, and ballads, and was
easily moved by anything pathetic in a song or tune, and was never
tired of hearing his special favorites sung or played. He used to like
to have music of an evening, and duets used to be played for hours
together, while he would read or walk up and down the room. A member
of his family was singing a ballad one evening while he was apparently
deep in his book, when he suddenly got up, saying, “You don't make
enough of that word,” and he sat down by the piano, showed her the
way in which he wished it to be emphasized, and did not leave the
instrument until it had been sung to his satisfaction. Whenever this
song was sung, which it often was, as it became a favorite with him, he
would always listen for that word, with his head a little on one side,
as much as to say, “I wonder if she will remember.”
There was a large meadow at the back of the garden in which, during the
summer-time, many cricket matches were held. Although never playing
himself, he delighted in the game, and would sit in his tent, keeping
score for one side, the whole day long. He never took to croquet; but
had lawn-tennis been played in the Gad's Hill days, he would certainly
have enjoyed it. He liked American bowls, at which he used constantly
to play with his male guests. For one of his “improvements” he had
turned a waste piece of land into a croquet-ground and bowling-green.
In the meadow he used to practice many of his “readings;” and any
stranger passing down the lane and seeing him gesticulating and hearing
him talking, laughing, and sometimes it may be weeping, must surely
have thought him out of his mind! The getting up of these “readings”
gave him an immense amount of labor and fatigue, and the sorrowful
parts tried him greatly. For instance, in the reading of “Little
Dombey,” it was hard work for him so to steel his heart as to be able
to read the death without breaking down or displaying too much emotion.
He often told how much he suffered over this story, and how it would
have been impossible for him to have gone through with it had he not
kept constantly before his eyes the picture of his own Plorn alive and
strong and well.
His great neatness and tidiness have already been alluded to, as also
his wonderful sense of order. The first thing he did every morning,
before going to work, was to make a complete circuit of the garden,
and then to go over the whole house, to see that everything was in
its place. And this was also the first thing he did upon his return
home, after long absence. A more thoroughly orderly nature never
existed. And it must have been through this gift of order that he was
enabled to make time—notwithstanding any amount of work—to give to the
minutest household details. Before a dinner-party the _menu_ was always
submitted to him for approval, and he always made a neat little plan
of the table, with the names of the guests marked in their respective
places, and a list of “who was to take in who” to dinner, and had
constantly some “bright idea” or other as to the arrangement of the
table or the rooms.
Among his many attributes, that of a doctor must not be forgotten.
He was invaluable in a sick room, or in any sudden emergency; always
quiet, always cheerful, always useful and skilful, always doing the
right thing, so that his very presence seemed to bring comfort and
help. From his children's earliest days his visits, during any
time of sickness, were eagerly longed for and believed in, as doing
more good than those even of the doctor himself. He had a curiously
magnetic and sympathetic hand, and his touch was wonderfully soothing
and quieting. As a mesmerist he possessed great power, which he used,
most successfully, in many cases of great pain and distress. He had a
strong aversion to saying good-bye, and would do anything he possibly
could to avoid going through the ordeal. This feeling must have been
natural to him, for as early as the “Old Curiosity Shop” he writes:
“Why is it we can better bear to part in spirit than in body, and while
we have the fortitude to bid farewell have not the nerve to say it? On
the eve of long voyages, or an absence of many years, friends who are
tenderly attached will separate with the usual look, the usual pressure
of the hand, planning one final interview for the morrow, while each
well knows that it is but a feint to save the pain of uttering that
one word, and that the meeting will never be! Should possibilities be
worse to bear than certainties?” So all who love him, and who know the
painful dislike _he_ had to that word, are thankful that he was spared
the agony of that last, long Farewell.
Almost the pleasantest times at Gad's Hill were the winter gatherings
for Christmas and the New Year, when the house was more than full, and
the bachelors of the party had to be “put up” in the village. At these
times Charles Dickens was at his gayest and brightest, and the days
passed cheerily and merrily away. He was great at games, and many of
the evenings were spent in playing at Yes and No, Proverbs, Russian
Scandal, Crambo, Dumb Crambo—in this he was most exquisitely funny—and
a game of Memory, which he particularly liked.
The New Year was always welcomed with all honors. Just before twelve
o'clock everybody would assemble in the hall, and he would open the
door and stand in the entrance, watch in hand—how many of his friends
must remember him thus, and think lovingly of the picture!—as he
waited, with a half-smile on his attentive face, for the bells to
chime out the New Year. Then his voice would break the silence with,
“A Happy New Year to us all.” For many minutes there would be much
embracing, hand-shaking, and good-wishing; and the servants would all
come up and get a hearty shake of the hand from the beloved “master.”
Then hot spiced wine would be distributed, and good-health drunk all
round. Sometimes there would be a country dance, in which the host
delighted, and in which he insisted upon every one joining, and he
never allowed the dancing—and real dancing it was too—to flag for an
instant, but kept it up until even _he_ was tired and out of breath,
and had at last to clap his hands, and bring it to an end. His thorough
enjoyment was most charming to witness, and seemed to infect every one
present.
One New Year's Day at breakfast, he proposed that we should act some
charades, in dumb show, that evening. This proposal being met with
enthusiasm, the idea was put into train at once. The different parts
were assigned, dresses were discussed, “properties” were collected, and
rehearsing went on the whole day long. As the home visitors were all
to take part in the charades, invitations had to be sent to the more
intimate neighbors to make an audience, an impromptu supper had to be
arranged for, and the day was one of continual bustle and excitement,
and the rehearsals were the greatest fun imaginable. A dear old friend
volunteered to undertake the music, and he played delightfully all
through the acting. These charades made one of the pleasantest and most
successful of New Year's evenings spent at Gad's Hill.
But there were not only grown-up guests invited to the pretty cheerful
home. In a letter to a friend Charles Dickens writes: “Another
generation begins to peep above the table. I once used to think what a
horrible thing it was to be a grandfather. Finding that the calamity
falls upon me without my perceiving any other change in myself, I
bear it like a man.” But as he so disliked the name of grandfather as
applied to himself, those grandchildren were taught by him to call him
“Venerables.” And to this day some of them still speak of him by this
self-invented name.
Now there is another and younger family who never knew “Venerables,”
but have been all taught to know his likeness, and taught to know his
books by the pictures in them, as soon as they can be taught anything,
and whose baby hands lay bright flowers upon the stone in Westminster
Abbey, every June 9 and every Christmas Eve. For in remembrance of his
love for all that is gay in color, none but the brightest flowers, and
also some of the gorgeous American leaves, sent by a friend for the
purpose, are laid upon the grave, making that one spot in the midst of
the vast and solemn building bright and beautiful.
In a letter to Plorn before his departure for Australia, Charles
Dickens writes: “I hope you will always be able to say in after life,
that you had a kind father.” And to this hope, each one of his children
can answer with a loving, grateful heart, that so it was.—_Cornhill
Magazine._