he can't get four thousand people into a room that holds two thousand),
and is reviled in print daily. Yesterday morning a newspaper proclaims
of him: "Surely it is time that the pudding-headed Dolby retired into
the native gloom from which he has emerged." He takes it very coolly,
and does his best. Mrs. Morgan sent me, the other night, I suppose the
finest and costliest basket of flowers ever seen, made of white
camellias, yellow roses, pink roses, and I don't know what else. It is a
yard and a half round at its smallest part.
I must bring this to a close, as I have to go to the hall to try an
enlarged background.
[Sidenote: Miss Hogarth.]
BOSTON, _Sunday, Dec. 22nd, 1867._
Coming here from New York last night (after a detestable journey), I was
delighted to find your letter of the 6th. I read it at my ten o'clock
dinner with the greatest interest and pleasure, and then we talked of
home till we went to bed.
Our tour is now being made out, and I hope to be able to send it in my
next letter home, which will be to Mamie, from whom I have _not_ heard
(as you thought I had) by the mail that brought out yours. After very
careful consideration I have reversed Dolby's original plan, and have
decided on taking Baltimore, Washington, Cincinnati, _Chicago_ (!), St.
Louis, and a few other places nearer here, instead of staying in New
York. My reason is that we are doing immensely, both at New York and
here, and that I am sure it is in the peculiar character of the people
to prize a thing the more the less easily attainable it is made.
Therefore, I want, by absence, to get the greatest rush and pressure
upon the five farewell readings in New York in April. All our announced
readings are already crammed.
When we got here last Saturday night, we found that Mrs. Fields had not
only garnished the rooms with flowers, but also with holly (with real
red berries) and festoons of moss dependent from the looking-glasses and
picture frames. She is one of the dearest little women in the world. The
homely Christmas look of the place quite affected us. Yesterday we dined
at her house, and there was a plum-pudding, brought on blazing, and not
to be surpassed in any house in England. There is a certain Captain
Dolliver, belonging to the Boston Custom House, who came off in the
little steamer that brought me ashore from the _Cuba_. He took it into
his head that he would have a piece of English mistletoe brought out in
this week's Cunard, which should be laid upon my breakfast-table. And
there it was this morning. In such affectionate touches as this, these
New England people are especially amiable.
As a general rule, you may lay it down that whatever you see about me in
the papers is not true. But although my voyage out was of that highly
hilarious description that you first made known to me, you may
_generally_ lend a more believing ear to the Philadelphia correspondent
of _The Times_. I don't know him, but I know the source from which he
derives his information, and it is a very respectable one.
Did I tell you in a former letter from here, to tell Anne, with her old
master's love, that I had seen Putnam, my old secretary? Grey, and with
several front teeth out, but I would have known him anywhere. He is
coming to "Copperfield" to-night, accompanied by his wife and daughter,
and is in the seventh heaven at having his tickets given him.
Our hotel in New York was on fire _again_ the other night. But fires in
this country are quite matters of course. There was a large one there at
four this morning, and I don't think a single night has passed since I
have been under the protection of the Eagle, but I have heard the fire
bells dolefully clanging all over the city.
Dolby sends his kindest regard. His hair has become quite white, the
effect, I suppose, of the climate. He is so universally hauled over the
coals (for no reason on earth), that I fully expect to hear him, one of
these nights, assailed with a howl when he precedes me to the platform
steps. You may conceive what the low newspapers are here, when one of
them yesterday morning had, as an item of news, the intelligence:
"Dickens's Readings. The chap calling himself Dolby got drunk last
night, and was locked up in a police-station for fighting an Irishman."
I don't find that anybody is shocked by this liveliness.
My love to all, and to Mrs. Hulkes and the boy. By-the-bye, when we left
New York for this place, Dolby called my amazed attention to the
circumstance that Scott was leaning his head against the side of the
carriage and weeping bitterly. I asked him what was the matter, and he
replied: "The owdacious treatment of the luggage, which was more
outrageous than a man could bear." I told him not to make a fool of
himself; but they do knock it about cruelly. I think every trunk we have
is already broken.
I must leave off, as I am going out for a walk in a bright sunlight and
a complete break-up of the frost and snow. I am much better than I have
been during the last week, but have a cold.
[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]
WESTMINSTER HOTEL, IRVING PLACE, NEW YORK CITY,
_Thursday, Dec. 26th, 1867._
I got your aunt's last letter at Boston yesterday, Christmas Day
morning, when I was starting at eleven o'clock to come back to this
place. I wanted it very much, for I had a frightful cold (English colds
are nothing to those of this country), and was exceedingly depressed and
miserable. Not that I had any reason but illness for being so, since the
Bostonians had been quite astounding in their demonstrations. I never
saw anything like them on Christmas Eve. But it is a bad country to be
unwell and travelling in; you are one of say a hundred people in a
heated car, with a great stove in it, and all the little windows closed,
and the hurrying and banging about are indescribable. The atmosphere is
detestable, and the motion often all but intolerable. However, we got
our dinner here at eight o'clock, and plucked up a little, and I made
some hot gin punch to drink a merry Christmas to all at home in. But it
must be confessed that we were both very dull. I have been in bed all
day until two o'clock, and here I am now (at three o'clock) a little
better. But I am not fit to read, and I must read to-night. After
watching the general character pretty closely, I became quite sure that
Dolby was wrong on the length of the stay and the number of readings we
had proposed in this place. I am quite certain that it is one of the
national peculiarities that what they want must be difficult of
attainment. I therefore a few days ago made a _coup d'etat_, and altered
the whole scheme. We shall go to Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington,
also some New England towns between Boston and this place, away to the
falls of Niagara, and off far west to Chicago and St. Louis, before
coming back for ten farewell readings here, preceded by farewells at
Boston, leaving Canada altogether. This will not prolong the list beyond
eighty-four readings, the exact original number, and will, please God,
work it all out in April. In my next, I daresay, I shall be able to send
the exact list, so that you may know every day where we are. There has
been a great storm here for a few days, and the streets, though wet, are
becoming passable again. Dolby and Osgood are out in it to-day on a
variety of business, and left in grave and solemn state. Scott and the
gasman are stricken with dumb concern, not having received one single
letter from home since they left. What their wives can have done with
the letters they take it for granted they have written, is their stormy
speculation at the door of my hall dressing-room every night.
If I do not send a letter to Katie by this mail, it will be because I
shall probably be obliged to go across the water to Brooklyn to-morrow
to see a church, in which it is proposed that I shall read!!! Horrible
visions of being put in the pulpit already beset me. And whether the
audience will be in pews is another consideration which greatly disturbs
my mind. No paper ever comes out without a leader on Dolby, who of
course reads them all, and never can understand why I don't, in which he
is called all the bad names in (and not in) the language.
We always call him P. H. Dolby now, in consequence of one of these
graceful specimens of literature describing him as the "pudding-headed."
I fear that when we travel he will have to be always before me, so that
I may not see him six times in as many weeks. However, I shall have done
a fourth of the whole this very next week!
Best love to your aunt, and the boys, and Katie, and Charley, and all
true friends.
_Friday._
I managed to read last night, but it was as much as I could do. To-day I
am so very unwell, that I have sent for a doctor; he has just been, and
is in doubt whether I shall not have to stop reading for a while.
[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]
WESTMINSTER HOTEL, IRVING PLACE, NEW YORK,
_Monday, Dec. 30th, 1867._
I am getting all right again. I have not been well, been very low, and
have been obliged to have a doctor; a very agreeable fellow indeed, who
soon turned out to be an old friend of Olliffe's.[19] He has set me on
my legs and taken his leave "professionally," though he means to give me
a call now and then.
In the library at Gad's is a bound book, "Remarkable Criminal Trials,"
translated by Lady Duff Gordon, from the original by Fauerbach. I want
that book, and a copy of Praed's poems, to be sent out to Boston, care
of Ticknor and Fields. If you will give the "Criminal Trials" to Wills,
and explain my wish, and ask him to buy a copy of Praed's poems and add
it to the parcel, he will know how to send the packet out. I think the
"Criminal Trials" book is in the corner book-case, by the window,
opposite the door.
No news here. All going on in the regular way. I read in that church I
told you of, about the middle of January. It is wonderfully seated for
two thousand people, and is as easy to speak in as if they were two
hundred. The people are seated in pews, and we let the pews. I stood on
a small platform from which the pulpit will be removed for the
occasion!! I emerge from the vestry!!! Philadelphia, Baltimore, and
another two nights in Boston will follow this coming month of January.
On Friday next I shall have read a fourth of my whole list, besides
having had twelve days' holiday when I first came out. So please God I
shall soon get to the half, and so begin to work hopefully round.
I suppose you were at the Adelphi on Thursday night last. They are
pirating the bill as well as the play here, everywhere. I have
registered the play as the property of an American citizen, but the law
is by no means clear that I established a right in it by so doing; and
of course the pirates knew very well that I could not, under existing
circumstances, try the question with them in an American court of law.
Nothing is being played here scarcely that is not founded on my
books--"Cricket," "Oliver Twist," "Our Mutual Friend," and I don't know
what else, every night. I can't get down Broadway for my own portrait;
and yet I live almost as quietly in this hotel, as if I were at the
office, and go in and out by a side door just as I might there.
I go back to Boston on Saturday to read there on Monday and Tuesday.
Then I am back here, and keep within six or seven hours' journey of
hereabouts till February. My further movements shall be duly reported as
the details are arranged.
I shall be curious to know who were at Gad's Hill on Christmas Day, and
how you (as they say in this country) "got along." It is exceedingly
cold here again, after two or three quite spring days.
FOOTNOTES:
[17] Madame Sainton Dolby.
[18] The nearest neighbour at Higham, and intimate friends.
[19] Dr. Fordyce Barker.
1868.
NARRATIVE.
Charles Dickens remained in America through the winter, returning home
from New York in the _Russia_, on the 19th of April. His letters show
how entirely he gave himself up to the business of the readings, how
severely his health suffered from the climate, and from the perpetual
travelling and hard work, and yet how he was able to battle through to
the end. These letters are also full of allusions to the many kind and
dear friends who contributed so largely to the pleasure of this American
visit, and whose love and attention gave a touch of _home_ to his
private life, and left such affection and gratitude in his heart as he
could never forget. Many of these friends paid visits to Gad's Hill; the
first to come during this summer being Mr. Longfellow, his daughters,
and Mr. Appleton, brother-in-law of Mr. Longfellow, and Mr. and Mrs.
Charles Eliot Norton, of Cambridge.
For the future, there were to be no more Christmas numbers of "All the
Year Round." Observing the extent to which they were now copied in all
directions, Charles Dickens supposed them likely to become tiresome to
the public, and so determined that in his journal they should be
discontinued.
While still in America, he made an agreement with the Messrs. Chappell
to give a series of farewell readings in England, to commence in the
autumn of this year. So, in October, Charles Dickens started off again
for a tour in the provinces. He had for some time been planning, by way
of a novelty for this series, a reading from the murder in "Oliver
Twist," but finding it so very horrible, he was fearful of trying its
effect for the first time on a public audience. It was therefore
resolved, that a trial of it should be made to a limited private
audience in St. James's Hall, on the evening of the 18th of November.
This trial proved eminently successful, and "The Murder from Oliver
Twist" became one of the most popular of his selections. But the
physical exertion it involved was far greater than that of any of his
previous readings, and added immensely to the excitement and exhaustion
which they caused him.
One of the first letters of the year from America is addressed to Mr.
Samuel Cartwright, of surgical and artistic reputation, and greatly
esteemed by Charles Dickens, both in his professional capacity and as a
private friend.
The letter written to Mrs. Cattermole, in May, tells of the illness of
Mr. George Cattermole. This dear old friend, so associated with Charles
Dickens and his works, died soon afterwards, and the letter to his widow
shows that Charles Dickens was exerting himself in her behalf.
The play of "No Thoroughfare" having been translated into French under
the title of "L'Abime," Charles Dickens went over to Paris to be present
at the first night of its production.
On the 26th of September, his youngest son, Edward Bulwer Lytton (the
"Plorn" so often mentioned), started for Australia, to join his brother
Alfred Tennyson, who was already established there. It will be seen by
his own words how deeply and how sadly Charles Dickens felt this
parting. In October of this year, his son Henry Fielding entered Trinity
Hall, Cambridge, as an undergraduate.
The Miss Forster mentioned in the letter to his sister-in-law, and for
whom the kind and considerate arrangements were suggested, was a sister
of Mr. John Forster, and a lady highly esteemed by Charles Dickens. The
illness from which she was then suffering was a fatal one. She died in
this same year, a few days before Christmas.
Mr. J. C. Parkinson, to whom a letter is addressed, was a gentleman
holding a Government appointment, and contributing largely to journalism
and periodical literature.
As our last letter for this year, we give one which Charles Dickens
wrote to his youngest son on his departure for Australia.
[Sidenote: Miss Hogarth.]
WESTMINSTER HOTEL, IRVING PLACE, NEW YORK,
_Friday, Jan. 3rd, 1868._
MY DEAREST GEORGY,
I received yours of the 19th from Gad's and the office this morning. I
read here to-night, and go back to Boston to-morrow, to read there
Monday and Tuesday.
To-night, I read out the first quarter of my list. Our houses have been
very fine here, but have never quite recovered the Dolby uproar. It
seems impossible to devise any scheme for getting the tickets into the
people's hands without the intervention of speculators. The people _will
not_ help themselves; and, of course, the speculators and all other such
prowlers throw as great obstacles in Dolby's way (an Englishman's) as
they possibly can. He may be a little injudicious into the bargain. Last
night, for instance, he met one of the "ushers" (who show people to
their seats) coming in with Kelly. It is against orders that anyone
employed in front should go out during the readings, and he took this
man to task in the British manner. Instantly the free and independent
usher put on his hat and walked off. Seeing which, all the other free
and independent ushers (some twenty in number) put on _their_ hats and
walked off, leaving us absolutely devoid and destitute of a staff for
to-night. One has since been improvised; but it was a small matter to
raise a stir and ill will about, especially as one of our men was
equally in fault.
We have a regular clerk, a Bostonian whose name is Wild. He, Osgood,
Dolby, Kelly, Scott, George the gasman, and perhaps a boy or two,
constitute my body-guard. It seems a large number of people, but the
business cannot be done with fewer. The speculators buying the front
seats to sell at a premium (and we have found instances of this being
done by merchants in good position!), and the public perpetually
pitching into Dolby for selling them back seats, the result is that they
won't have the back seats, send back their tickets, write and print
volumes on the subject, and deter others from coming.
You may get an idea of the staff's work, by what is in hand now. They
are preparing, numbering, and stamping six thousand tickets for
Philadelphia, and eight thousand tickets for Brooklyn. The moment those
are done, another eight thousand tickets will be wanted for Baltimore,
and probably another six thousand for Washington. This in addition to
the correspondence, advertisements, accounts, travellings, and the
mighty business of the reading four times a week.
The Cunard steamers being now removed from Halifax, I have decided _not_
to go there, or to St. John's, New Brunswick. And as there would be a
perfect uproar if I picked out such a place in Canada as Quebec or
Montreal, and excluded those two places (which would guarantee three
hundred pounds a night), and further, as I don't want places, having
more than enough for my list of eighty-four, I have finally resolved not
to go to Canada either. This will enable me to embark for home in April
instead of May.
Tell Plorn, with my love, that I think he will find himself much
interested at that college,[20] and that it is very likely he may make
some acquaintances there that will thereafter be pleasant and useful to
him. Sir Sydney Dacres is the best of friends. I have a letter from Mrs.
Hulkes by this post, wherein the boy encloses a violet, now lying on the
table before me. Let her know that it arrived safely, and retaining its
colour. I took it for granted that Mary would have asked Chorley for
Christmas Day, and am very glad she ultimately did so. I am sorry that
Harry lost his prize, but believe it was not his fault. Let _him_ know
_that_, with my love. I would have written to him by this mail in answer
to his, but for other occupation. Did I tell you that my landlord made
me a drink (brandy, rum, and snow the principal ingredients) called a
"Rocky Mountain sneezer"? Or that the favourite drink before you get up
is an "eye-opener"? Or that Roberts (second landlord), no sooner saw me
on the night of the first fire, than, with his property blazing, he
insisted on taking me down into a roomful of hot smoke to drink brandy
and water with him? We have not been on fire again, by-the-bye, more
than once.
There has been another fall of snow, succeeded by a heavy thaw. I have
laid down my sledge, and taken up my carriage again, in consequence. I
am nearly all right, but cannot get rid of an intolerable cold in the
head. No more news.
[Sidenote: Miss Hogarth.]
PARKER HOUSE, BOSTON, U.S., _Jan. 4th, 1868._
I write to you by this opportunity, though I really have nothing to tell
you. The work is hard and the climate is hard. We made a tremendous hit
last night with "Nickleby" and "Boots," which the Bostonians certainly
on the whole appreciate more than "Copperfield"! Dolby is always going
about with an immense bundle that looks like a sofa cushion, but it is
in reality paper money; and always works like a Trojan. His business at
night is a mere nothing, for these people are so accustomed to take care
of themselves, that one of these immense audiences will fall into their
places with an ease amazing to a frequenter of St. James's Hall. And the
certainty with which they are all in, before I go on, is a very
acceptable mark of respect. I must add, too, that although there is a
conventional familiarity in the use of one's name in the newspapers as
"Dickens," "Charlie," and what not, I do not in the least see that
familiarity in the writers themselves. An inscrutable tone obtains in
journalism, which a stranger cannot understand. If I say in common
courtesy to one of them, when Dolby introduces, "I am much obliged to
you for your interest in me," or so forth, he seems quite shocked, and
has a bearing of perfect modesty and propriety. I am rather inclined to
think that they suppose their printed tone to be the public's love of
smartness, but it is immensely difficult to make out. All I can as yet
make out is, that my perfect freedom from bondage, and at any moment to
go on or leave off, or otherwise do as I like, is the only safe position
to occupy.
Again; there are two apparently irreconcilable contrasts here. Down
below in this hotel every night are the bar loungers, dram drinkers,
drunkards, swaggerers, loafers, that one might find in a Boucicault
play. Within half an hour is Cambridge, where a delightful domestic
life--simple, self-respectful, cordial, and affectionate--is seen in an
admirable aspect. All New England is primitive and puritanical. All
about and around it is a puddle of mixed human mud, with no such quality
in it. Perhaps I may in time sift out some tolerably intelligible whole,
but I certainly have not done so yet. It is a good sign, may be, that it
all seems immensely more difficult to understand than it was when I was
here before.
Felton left two daughters. I have only seen the eldest, a very sensible,
frank, pleasant girl of eight-and-twenty, perhaps, rather like him in
the face. A striking-looking daughter of Hawthorn's (who is also dead)
came into my room last night. The day has slipped on to three o'clock,
and I must get up "Dombey" for to-night. Hence this sudden break off.
Best love to Mamie, and to Katie and Charley Collins.
[Sidenote: Mr. W. Wilkie Collins.]
WESTMINSTER HOTEL, NEW YORK, _Sunday, Jan. 12th, 1868._
MY DEAR WILKIE,
First, of the play.[21] I am truly delighted to learn that it made so
great a success, and I hope I may yet see it on the Adelphi boards. You
have had a world of trouble and work with it, but I hope will be repaid
in some degree by the pleasure of a triumph. Even for the alteration at
the end of the fourth act (of which you tell me in your letter received
yesterday), I was fully prepared, for I COULD NOT see the original
effect in the reading of the play, and COULD NOT make it go. I agree
with Webster in thinking it best that Obenreizer should die on the
stage; but no doubt that point is disposed of. In reading the play
before the representation, I felt that it was too long, and that there
was a good deal of unnecessary explanation. Those points are, no doubt,
disposed of too by this time.