embankment rising high and dry out of the Thames on the Middlesex shore,
from Westminster Bridge to Blackfriars. A really fine work, and really
getting on. Moreover, a great system of drainage. Another really fine
work, and likewise really getting on. Lastly, a muddle of railways in
all directions possible and impossible, with no general public scheme,
no general public supervision, enormous waste of money, no fixable
responsibility, no accountability but under Lord Campbell's Act. I think
of that accident in which I was preserved. Before the most furious and
notable train in the four-and-twenty hours, the head of a gang of
workmen takes up the rails. That train changes its time every day as the
tide changes, and that head workman is not provided by the railway
company with any clock or watch! Lord Shaftesbury wrote to me to ask me
what I thought of an obligation on railway companies to put strong walls
to all bridges and viaducts. I told him, of course, that the force of
such a shock would carry away anything that any company could set up,
and I added: "Ask the minister what _he_ thinks about the votes of the
railway interest in the House of Commons, and about his being afraid to
lay a finger on it with an eye to his majority."
I seem to be grumbling, but I am in the best of humours. All goes well
with me and mine, thank God.
Last night my gardener came upon a man in the garden and fired. The man
returned the compliment by kicking him in the groin and causing him
great pain. I set off, with a great mastiff-bloodhound I have, in
pursuit. Couldn't find the evil-doer, but had the greatest difficulty in
preventing the dog from tearing two policemen down. They were coming
towards us with professional mystery, and he was in the air on his way
to the throat of an eminently respectable constable when I caught him.
My daughter Mary and her aunt Georgina send kindest regard and
remembrance. Katey and her husband are going to try London this winter,
but I rather doubt (for they are both delicate) their being able to
weather it out. It has been blowing here tremendously for a fortnight,
but to-day is like a spring day, and plenty of roses are growing over
the labourers' cottages. The _Great Eastern_ lies at her moorings beyond
the window where I write these words; looks very dull and unpromising. A
dark column of smoke from Chatham Dockyard, where the iron shipbuilding
is in progress, has a greater significance in it, I fancy.
[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]
GAD'S HILL PLACE, HIGHAM BY ROCHESTER, KENT,
_Tuesday, Nov. 14th, 1865._
MY DEAREST MAMIE,
As you want to know my views of the Sphinx, here they are. But I have
only seen it once; and it is so extraordinarily well done, that it ought
to be observed closely several times.
Anyone who attentively notices the flower trick will see that the two
little high tables hung with drapery cover each a trap. Each of those
tables, during that trick, hides a confederate, who changes the paper
cone twice. When the cone has been changed as often as is required, the
trap is closed and the table can be moved.
When the curtain is removed for the performance of the Sphinx trick,
there is a covered, that is, draped table on the stage, which is never
seen before or afterwards. In front of the middle of it, and between it
and the audience, stands one of those little draped tables covering a
trap; this is a third trap in the centre of the stage. The box for the
head is then upon IT, and the conjuror takes it off and shows it. The
man whose head is afterwards shown in that box is, I conceive, in the
table; that is to say, is lying on his chest in the thickness of the
table, in an extremely constrained attitude. To get him into the table,
and to enable him to use the trap in the table through which his head
comes into the box, the two hands of a confederate are necessary. That
confederate comes up a trap, and stands in the space afforded by the
interval below the stage and the height of the little draped table! his
back is towards the audience. The moment he has assisted the hidden man
sufficiently, he closes the trap, and the conjuror then immediately
removes the little draped table, and also the drapery of the larger
table; when he places the box on the last-named table _with the slide
on_ for the head to come into it, he stands with his back to the
audience and his face to the box, and masks the box considerably to
facilitate the insertion of the head. As soon as he knows the head to be
in its place, he undraws the slide. When the verses have been spoken and
the trick is done, he loses no time in replacing the slide. The curtain
is then immediately dropped, because the man cannot otherwise be got out
of the table, and has no doubt had quite enough of it. With kindest
regards to all at Penton,
Ever your most affectionate.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] Now Captain E. Newton Dickenson.
[15] This was a circular note which he sent in answer to innumerable
letters of enquiry, after the accident.
[16] This letter was written in reply to the Committee's congratulations
upon Mr. Dickens's escape from the accident to the tidal train from
Folkestone, at Staplehurst, just previous to this date.
1866.
NARRATIVE.
The furnished house hired by Charles Dickens in the spring of this year
was in Southwick Place, Hyde Park.
Having entered into negotiations with the Messrs. Chappell for a series
of readings to be given in London, in the English provinces, in Scotland
and Ireland, Charles Dickens had no leisure for more than his usual
editorial work for "All the Year Round." He contributed four parts to
the Christmas number, which was entitled, "Mugby Junction."
For the future all his English readings were given in connection with
the Messrs. Chappell, and never in all his career had he more
satisfactory or more pleasant business relations than those connected
with these gentlemen. Moreover, out of this connection sprang a sincere
friendship on both sides.
Mr. Dolby is so constantly mentioned in future letters, that they
themselves will tell of the cordial companionship which existed between
Charles Dickens and this able and most obliging "manager."
The letter to "Lily" was in answer to a child's letter from Miss Lily
Benzon, inviting him to a birthday party.
The play alluded to in the letter to M. Fechter was called "A Long
Strike," and was performed at the Lyceum Theatre.
The "Sultan" mentioned in the letter to Mr. Fitzgerald was a noble Irish
bloodhound, presented by this gentleman to Charles Dickens. The story of
the dog's death is told in a letter to M. de Cerjat, which we give in
the following year.
[Sidenote: Miss Mary Boyle.]
OFFICE OF "ALL THE YEAR ROUND,"
_Saturday, Jan. 6th, 1866._
MY DEAR MARY,
Feeling pretty certain that I shall never answer your letter unless I
answer it at once (I got it this morning), here goes!
I did not dramatise "The Master of Ravenswood," though I did a good deal
towards and about the piece, having an earnest desire to put Scott, for
once, upon the stage in his own gallant manner. It is _an enormous
success_, and increases in attraction nightly. I have never seen the
people in all parts of the house so leaning forward, in lines sloping
towards the stage, earnestly and intently attractive, as while the story
gradually unfolds itself. But the astonishing circumstance of all is,
that Miss Leclercq (never thought of for Lucy till all other Lucies had
failed) is marvellously good, highly pathetic, and almost unrecognisable
in person! What note it touches in her, always dumb until now, I do not
pretend to say, but there is no one on the stage who could play the
contract scene better, or more simply and naturally, and I find it
impossible to see it without crying! Almost everyone plays well, the
whole is exceedingly picturesque, and there is scarcely a movement
throughout, or a look, that is not indicated by Scott. So you get a life
romance with beautiful illustrations, and I do not expect ever again to
see a book take up its bed and walk in like manner.
I am charmed to learn that you have had a freeze out of my ghost story.
It rather did give me a shiver up the back in the writing. "Dr.
Marigold" has just now accomplished his two hundred thousand. My only
other news about myself is that I am doubtful whether to read or not in
London this season. If I decide to do it at all, I shall probably do it
on a large scale.
Many happy years to you, my dear Mary. So prays
Your ever affectionate
Jo.
[Sidenote: Mr. William Charles Kent.]
GAD'S HILL, _Thursday, Jan. 18th, 1866._
MY DEAR KENT,
I cannot tell you how grieved we all are here to know that you are
suffering again. Your patient tone, however, and the hopefulness and
forbearance of Ferguson's course, gives us some reassurance. Apropos of
which latter reference I dined with Ferguson at the Lord Mayor's, last
Tuesday, and had a grimly distracted impulse upon me to defy the
toast-master and rush into a speech about him and his noble art, when I
sat pining under the imbecility of constitutional and corporational
idiots. I did seize him for a moment by the hair of his head (in
proposing the Lady Mayoress), and derived some faint consolation from
the company's response to the reference. O! no man will ever know under
what provocation to contradiction and a savage yell of repudiation I
suffered at the hands of ----, feebly complacent in the uniform of
Madame Tussaud's own military waxers, and almost the worst speaker I
ever heard in my life! Mary and Georgina, sitting on either side of me,
urged me to "look pleasant." I replied in expressions not to be
repeated. Shea (the judge) was just as good and graceful, as he (the
member) was bad and gawky.
Bulwer's "Lost Tales of Miletus" is a most noble book! He is an
extraordinary fellow, and fills me with admiration and wonder.
It is of no use writing to you about yourself, my dear Kent, because you
are likely to be tired of that constant companion, and so I have gone
scratching (with an exceedingly bad pen) about and about you. But I come
back to you to let you know that the reputation of this house as a
convalescent hospital stands (like the house itself) very high, and that
testimonials can be produced from credible persons who have recovered
health and spirits here swiftly. Try us, only try us, and we are content
to stake the reputation of the establishment on the result.
Ever affectionately yours.
[Sidenote: Mr. Percy Fitzgerald.]
GAD'S HILL, _Friday, Feb. 2nd, 1866._
MY DEAR FITZGERALD,
I ought to have written to you days and days ago, to thank you for your
charming book on Charles Lamb, to tell you with what interest and
pleasure I read it as soon as it came here, and to add that I was
honestly affected (far more so than your modesty will readily believe)
by your intimate knowledge of those touches of mine concerning
childhood.
Let me tell you now that I have not in the least cooled, after all,
either as to the graceful sympathetic book, or as to the part in it with
which I am honoured. It has become a matter of real feeling with me, and
I postponed its expression because I couldn't satisfactorily get it out
of myself, and at last I came to the conclusion that it must be left in.
My dear Fitzgerald, faithfully yours always.
[Sidenote: Miss Hogarth.]
OFFICE OF "ALL THE YEAR ROUND," _Friday, Feb. 9th, 1866._
MY DEAREST GEORGY,
I found your letter here when I came back on Wednesday evening, and was
extremely glad to get it.
Frank Beard wrote me word that with such a pulse as I described, an
examination of the heart was absolutely necessary, and that I had better
make an appointment with him alone for the purpose. This I did. I was
not at all disconcerted, for I knew well beforehand that the effect
could not possibly be without that one cause at the bottom of it. There
seems to be degeneration of some functions of the heart. It does not
contract as it should. So I have got a prescription of iron, quinine,
and digitalis, to set it a-going, and send the blood more quickly
through the system. If it should not seem to succeed on a reasonable
trial, I will then propose a consultation with someone else. Of course I
am not so foolish as to suppose that all my work can have been achieved
without _some_ penalty, and I have noticed for some time a decided
change in my buoyancy and hopefulness--in other words, in my usual
"tone."
I shall wait to see Beard again on Monday, and shall most probably come
down that day. If I should not, I will telegraph after seeing him. Best
love to Mamie.
[Sidenote: Mrs. Brookfield.]
OFFICE OF "ALL THE YEAR ROUND,"
_Tuesday, Feb. 20th, 1866._
MY DEAR MRS. BROOKFIELD,
Having gone through your MS. (which I should have done sooner, but that
I have not been very well), I write these few following words about it.
Firstly, with a limited reference to its unsuitability to these pages.
Secondly, with a more enlarged reference to the merits of the story
itself.
If you will take any part of it and cut it up (in fancy) into the small
portions into which it would have to be divided here for only a month's
supply, you will (I think) at once discover the impossibility of
publishing it in weekly parts. The scheme of the chapters, the manner of
introducing the people, the progress of the interest, the places in
which the principal places fall, are all hopelessly against it. It would
seem as though the story were never coming, and hardly ever moving.
There must be a special design to overcome that specially trying mode of
publication, and I cannot better express the difficulty and labour of it
than by asking you to turn over any two weekly numbers of "A Tale of Two
Cities," or "Great Expectations," or Bulwer's story, or Wilkie
Collins's, or Reade's, or "At the Bar," and notice how patiently and
expressly the thing has to be planned for presentation in these
fragments, and yet for afterwards fusing together as an uninterrupted
whole.
Of the story itself I honestly say that I think highly. The style is
particularly easy and agreeable, infinitely above ordinary writing, and
sometimes reminds me of Mrs. Inchbald at her best. The characters are
remarkably well observed, and with a rare mixture of delicacy and
truthfulness. I observe this particularly in the brother and sister, and
in Mrs. Neville. But it strikes me that you constantly hurry your
narrative (and yet without getting on) _by telling it, in a sort of
impetuous breathless way, in your own person, when the people should
tell it and act it for themselves_. My notion always is, that when I
have made the people to play out the play, it is, as it were, their
business to do it, and not mine. Then, unless you really have led up to
a great situation like Basil's death, you are bound in art to make more
of it. Such a scene should form a chapter of itself. Impressed upon the
reader's memory, it would go far to make the fortune of the book.
Suppose yourself telling that affecting incident in a letter to a
friend. Wouldn't you describe how you went through the life and stir of
the streets and roads to the sick-room? Wouldn't you say what kind of
room it was, what time of day it was, whether it was sunlight,
starlight, or moonlight? Wouldn't you have a strong impression on your
mind of how you were received, when you first met the look of the dying
man, what strange contrasts were about you and struck you? I don't want
you, in a novel, to present _yourself_ to tell such things, but I want
the things to be there. You make no more of the situation than the index
might, or a descriptive playbill might in giving a summary of the
tragedy under representation.
As a mere piece of mechanical workmanship, I think all your chapters
should be shorter; that is to say, that they should be subdivided.
Also, when you change from narrative to dialogue, or _vice versa_, you
should make the transition more carefully. Also, taking the pains to sit
down and recall the principal landmarks in your story, you should then
make them far more elaborate and conspicuous than the rest. Even with
these changes I do not believe that the story would attract the
attention due to it, if it were published even in such monthly portions
as the space of "Fraser" would admit of. Even so brightened, it would
not, to the best of my judgment, express itself piecemeal. It seems to
me to be so constituted as to require to be read "off the reel." As a
book in two volumes I think it would have good claims to success, and
good chances of obtaining success. But I suppose the polishing I have
hinted at (not a meretricious adornment, but positively necessary to
good work and good art) to have been first thoroughly administered.
Now don't hate me if you can help it. I can afford to be hated by some
people, but I am not rich enough to put you in possession of that
luxury.
Ever faithfully yours.
P.S.--The MS. shall be delivered at your house to-morrow. And your
petitioner again prays not to be, etc.
[Sidenote: Miss Hogarth.]
ADELPHI, LIVERPOOL, _Friday, April 13th, 1866._
MY DEAREST GEORGY,
The reception at Manchester last night was quite a magnificent sight;
the whole of the immense audience standing up and cheering. I thought
them a little slow with "Marigold," but believe it was only the
attention necessary in so vast a place. They gave a splendid burst at
the end. And after "Nickleby" (which went to perfection), they set up
such a call, that I was obliged to go in again. The unfortunate gasman,
a very steady fellow, got a fall off a ladder and sprained his leg. He
was put to bed in a public opposite, and was left there, poor man.
This is the first very fine day we have had. I have taken advantage of
it by crossing to Birkenhead and getting some air upon the water. It was
fresh and beautiful.
I send my best love to Mamie, and hope she is better. I am, of course,
tired (the pull of "Marigold" upon one's energy, in the Free Trade Hall,
was great); but I stick to my tonic, and feel, all things considered, in
very good tone. The room here (I mean the hall) being my special
favourite and extraordinarily easy, is _almost_ a rest!
[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]
ADELPHI, LIVERPOOL, _Saturday, April 14th, 1866._
MY DEAREST MAMIE,
The police reported officially that three thousand people were turned
away from the hall last night. I doubt if they were so numerous as that,
but they carried in the outer doors and pitched into Dolby with great
vigour. I need not add that every corner of the place was crammed. They
were a very fine audience, and took enthusiastically every point in
"Copperfield" and the "Trial." They made the reading a quarter of an
hour longer than usual. One man advertised in the morning paper that he
would give thirty shillings (double) for three stalls, but nobody would
sell, and he didn't get in.
Except that I cannot sleep, I really think myself in much better
training than I had anticipated. A dozen oysters and a little champagne
between the parts every night, constitute the best restorative I have
ever yet tried. John appears low, but I don't know why. A letter comes
for him daily; the hand is female; whether Smudger's, or a nearer one
still and a dearer one, I don't know. So it may or may not be the cause
of his gloom.
"Miss Emily" of Preston is married to a rich cotton lord, rides in open
carriages in gorgeous array, and is altogether splendid. With this
effective piece of news I close.
[Sidenote: Miss Hogarth.]
GLASGOW, _April 17th, 1866._
We arrived here at ten yesterday evening. I don't think the journey
shook me at all. Dolby provided a superb cold collation and "the best of
drinks," and we dined in the carriage, and I made him laugh all the way.
The let here is very large. Every precaution taken to prevent my
platform from being captured as it was last time; but I don't feel at
all sure that it will not be stormed at one of the two readings. Wills
is to do the genteel to-night at the stalls, and Dolby is to stem the
shilling tide _if_ he can. The poor gasman cannot come on, and we have
got a new one here who is to go to Edinburgh with us. Of Edinburgh we
know nothing, but as its first night has always been shady, I suppose it
will stick to its antecedents.
I like to hear about Harness and his freshness. The let for the next
reading at St. James's is "going," they report, "admirably." Lady
Russell asked me to dinner to-morrow, and I have written her a note
to-day. The rest has certainly done me good. I slept thoroughly well
last night, and feel fresh. What to-night's work, and every night's
work this week, may do contrariwise, remains to be seen.
I hope Harry's knee may be in the way of mending, from what you relate
of it.
[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]
WATERLOO HOTEL, EDINBURGH, _Wednesday, April 18th, 1866._
We had a tremendous house again last night at Glasgow; and turned away
great numbers. Not only that, but they were a most brilliant and
delicate audience, and took "Marigold" with a fine sense and quickness
not to be surpassed. The shillings pitched into Dolby again, and one man
writes a sensible letter in one of the papers this morning, showing to
_my_ satisfaction (?) that they really had, through the local agent,
some cause of complaint. Nevertheless, the shilling tickets are sold for
to-morrow, and it seems to be out of the question to take any money at
the doors, the call for all parts is so enormous. The thundering of
applause last night was quite staggering, and my people checked off my
reception by the minute hand of a watch, and stared at one another,
thinking I should never begin. I keep quite well, have happily taken to
sleeping these last three nights; and feel, all things considered, very
little conscious of fatigue. I cannot reconcile my town medicine with
the hours and journeys of reading life, and have therefore given it up
for the time. But for the moment, I think I am better without it. What
we are doing here I have not yet heard. I write at half-past one, and we
have been little more than an hour in the house. But I am quite prepared
for the inevitable this first Edinburgh night. Endeavours have been
made (from Glasgow yesterday) to telegraph the exact facts out of our
local agent; but hydraulic pressure wouldn't have squeezed a straight
answer out of him. "Friday and Saturday doing very well, Wednesday not
so good." This was all electricity could discover.
I am going to write a line this post to Katie, from whom I have a note.
I hope Harry's leg will now step out in the manner of the famous cork
leg in the song.
[Sidenote: Miss Hogarth.]
EDINBURGH, _Thursday, April 19th, 1866._
The house was more than twice better than any first night here
previously. They were, as usual here, remarkably intelligent, and the
reading went _brilliantly_. I have not sent up any newspapers, as they
are generally so poorly written, that you may know beforehand all the
commonplaces that they will write. But _The Scotsman_ has so pretty an
article this morning, and (so far as I know) so true a one, that I will
try to post it to you, either from here or Glasgow. John and Dolby went
over early, and Wills and I follow them at half-past eleven. It is cold
and wet here. We have laid half-crown bets with Dolby, that he will be
assaulted to-night at Glasgow. He has a surprising knowledge of what the
receipts will be always, and wins half-crowns every night. Chang is
living in this house. John (not knowing it) was rendered perfectly
drivelling last night, by meeting him on the stairs. The Tartar Dwarf is
always twining himself upstairs sideways, and drinks a bottle of whisky
per day, and is reported to be a surprising little villain.
[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]
WATERLOO HOTEL, EDINBURGH, _Friday, April 20th, 1866._
No row at Glasgow last night. Great placards were posted about the town
by the anxious Dolby, announcing that no money would be taken at the
doors. This kept the crowd off. Two files of policemen and a double
staff everywhere did the rest, and nothing could be better-tempered or
more orderly. Tremendous enthusiasm with the "Carol" and "Trial." I was
dead beat afterwards, that reading being twenty minutes longer than
usual; but plucked up again, had some supper, slept well, and am quite
right to-day. It is a bright day, and the express ride over from Glasgow
was very pleasant.
Everything is gone here for to-night. But it is difficult to describe
what the readings have grown to be. The let at St. James's Hall is not
only immense for next Tuesday, but so large for the next reading
afterwards, that Chappell writes: "That will be the greatest house of
the three." From Manchester this morning they write: "Send us more
tickets instantly, for we are sold out and don't know what to do with
the people." Last night the whole of my money under the agreement had
been taken. I notice that a great bank has broken at Liverpool, which
may hurt us there, but when last heard of it was going as before. And
the audience, though so enormous, do somehow express a personal
affection, which makes them very strange and moving to see.