PUBLIC DINNER IN EDINBURGH.
1841.
His Son Walter Landor--Dies in Calcutta
(1863)--C. D. and the New Poor-Law--Moore and
Rogers--Jeffrey's Praise of Little
Nell--Resolve to visit Scotland--Edinburgh
Dinner proposed--Sir David Wilkie's
Death--Peter Robertson--Professor Wilson--A
Fancy of Scott--Lionization made
tolerable--Thoughts of Home--The Dinner and
Speeches--His Reception--Wilson's Eulogy--Home
Yearnings--Freedom of City voted to
him--Speakers at the Dinner--Politics and Party
Influences--Whig Jealousies--At the
Theatre--Hospitalities--Moral of it
all--Proposed Visit to the Highlands--Maclise
and Macready--Guide to the Highlands--Mr. Angus
Fletcher (Kindheart).
AMONG the occurrences of the year, apart from the tale he was writing,
the birth of his fourth child and second son has been briefly mentioned.
"I mean to call the boy Edgar," he wrote, the day after he was born (9th
February), "a good honest Saxon name, I think." He changed his mind in a
few days, however, on resolving to ask Landor to be godfather. This
intention, as soon as formed, he announced to our excellent old friend,
telling him it would give the child something to boast of, to be called
Walter Landor, and that to call him so would do his own heart good. For,
as to himself, whatever realities had gone out of the ceremony of
christening, the meaning still remained in it of enabling him to form a
relationship with friends he most loved; and as to the boy, he held that
to give him a name to be proud of was to give him also another reason
for doing nothing unworthy or untrue when he came to be a man. Walter,
alas! only lived to manhood. He obtained a military cadetship through
the kindness of Miss Coutts, and died at Calcutta on the last day of
1863, in his twenty-third year.
The interest taken by this distinguished lady in him and in his had
begun, as I have said, at an earlier date than even this; and I
remember, while _Oliver Twist_ was going on, his pleasure because of her
father's mention of him in a speech at Birmingham, for his advocacy of
the cause of the poor. Whether to the new poor-law Sir Francis Burdett
objected as strongly as we have seen that Dickens did, as well as many
other excellent men, who forgot the atrocities of the system it
displaced in their indignation at the needless and cruel harshness with
which it was worked at the outset, I have not at hand the means of
knowing. But certainly this continued to be strongly the feeling of
Dickens, who exulted in nothing so much as at any misadventure to the
Whigs in connection with it. "How often used Black and I," he wrote to
me in April, "to quarrel about the effect of the poor-law bill! Walter
comes in upon the cry. See whether the Whigs go out upon it." It was the
strong desire he had to make himself heard upon it, even in Parliament,
that led him not immediately to turn aside from a proposal, now
privately made by some of the magnates of Reading, to bring him in for
that borough; but the notion was soon dismissed, as, on its revival
more than once in later times, it continued very wisely to be. His
opinions otherwise were extremely radical at present, as will be
apparent shortly; and he did not at all relish Peel's majority of one
when it came soon after, and unseated the Whigs. It was just now, I may
add, he greatly enjoyed a quiet setting-down of Moore by Rogers at Sir
Francis Burdett's table, for talking exaggerated toryism. So debased was
the House of Commons by reform, said Moore, that a Burke, if you could
find him, would not be listened to. "No such thing, Tommy," said Rogers;
"_find yourself_, and they'd listen even to you."
This was not many days before he hinted to me an intention soon to be
carried out in a rather memorable manner: "I have done nothing to-day"
(18th March: we had bought books together, the day before, at Tom Hill's
sale) "but cut the _Swift_, looking into it with a delicious laziness in
all manner of delightful places, and put poor Tom's books away. I had a
letter from Edinburgh this morning, announcing that Jeffrey's visit to
London will be the week after next; telling me that he drives about
Edinburgh declaring there has been 'nothing so good as Nell since
Cordelia,' which he writes also to all manner of people; and informing
me of a desire in that romantic town to give me greeting and welcome.
For this and other reasons I am disposed to make Scotland my destination
in June rather than Ireland. Think, _do_ think, meantime (here are ten
good weeks), whether you couldn't, by some effort worthy of the owner of
the gigantic helmet, go with us. Think of such a fortnight,--York,
Carlisle, Berwick, your own Borders, Edinburgh, Rob Roy's country,
railroads, cathedrals, country inns, Arthur's Seat, lochs, glens, and
home by sea. DO think of this, seriously, at leisure." It was very
tempting, but not to be.
Early in April Jeffrey came, many feasts and entertainments welcoming
him, of which he very sparingly partook; and before he left, the visit
to Scotland in June was all duly arranged, to be initiated by the
splendid welcome of a public dinner in Edinburgh, with Lord Jeffrey
himself in the chair. Allan the painter had come up meanwhile, with
increasing note of preparation; and it was while we were all regretting
Wilkie's absence abroad, and Dickens with warrantable pride was saying
how surely the great painter would have gone to this dinner, that the
shock of his sudden death[37] came, and there was left but the sorrowful
satisfaction of honoring his memory. There was one other change before
the day. "I heard from Edinburgh this morning," he wrote on the 15th of
June. "Jeffrey is not well enough to take the chair, so Wilson does. I
think under all circumstances of politics, acquaintance, and _Edinburgh
Review_, that it's much better as it is--Don't you?"
His first letter from Edinburgh, where he and Mrs. Dickens had taken up
quarters at the Royal Hotel on their arrival the previous night, is
dated the 23d of June: "I have been this morning to the Parliament
House, and am now introduced (I hope) to everybody in Edinburgh. The
hotel is perfectly besieged, and I have been forced to take refuge in a
sequestered apartment at the end of a long passage, wherein I write this
letter. They talk of 300 at the dinner. We are very well off in point of
rooms, having a handsome sitting-room, another next to it for _Clock_
purposes, a spacious bedroom, and large dressing-room adjoining. The
castle is in front of the windows, and the view noble. There was a
supper ready last night which would have been a dinner anywhere." This
was his first practical experience of the honors his fame had won for
him, and it found him as eager to receive as all were eager to give.
Very interesting still, too, are those who took leading part in the
celebration; and in his pleasant sketches of them there are some once
famous and familiar figures not so well known to the present generation.
Here, among the first, are Wilson and Robertson.
"The renowned Peter Robertson is a large, portly, full-faced man, with a
merry eye, and a queer way of looking under his spectacles which is
characteristic and pleasant. He seems a very warm-hearted earnest man
too, and I felt quite at home with him forthwith. Walking up and down
the hall of the courts of law (which was full of advocates, writers to
the signet, clerks, and idlers) was a tall, burly, handsome man of
eight-and-fifty, with a gait like O'Connell's, the bluest eye you can
imagine, and long hair--longer than mine--falling down in a wild way
under the broad brim of his hat. He had on a surtout coat, a blue
checked shirt; the collar standing up, and kept in its place with a wisp
of black neckerchief; no waistcoat; and a large pocket-handkerchief
thrust into his breast, which was all broad and open. At his heels
followed a wiry, sharp-eyed, shaggy devil of a terrier, dogging his
steps as he went slashing up and down, now with one man beside him, now
with another, and now quite alone, but always at a fast, rolling pace,
with his head in the air, and his eyes as wide open as he could get
them. I guessed it was Wilson, and it was. A bright, clear-complexioned,
mountain-looking fellow, he looks as though he had just come down from
the Highlands, and had never in his life taken pen in hand. But he has
had an attack of paralysis in his right arm, within this month. He
winced when I shook hands with him; and once or twice, when we were
walking up and down, slipped as if he had stumbled on a piece of
orange-peel. He is a great fellow to look at, and to talk to; and, if
you could divest your mind of the actual Scott, is just the figure you
would put in his place."
Nor have the most ordinary incidents of the visit any lack of interest
for us now, in so far as they help to complete the picture of himself:
"Allan has been squiring me about, all the morning. He and Fletcher have
gone to a meeting of the dinner-stewards, and I take the opportunity of
writing to you. They dine with us to-day, and we are going to-night to
the theatre. M'Ian is playing there. I mean to leave a card for him
before evening. We are engaged for every day of our stay, already; but
the people I have seen are so very hearty and warm in their manner that
much of the horrors of lionization gives way before it. I am glad to
find that they propose giving me for a toast on Friday the Memory of
Wilkie. I should have liked it better than anything, if I could have
made my choice. Communicate all particulars to Mac. I would to God you
were both here. Do dine together at the Gray's Inn on Friday, and think
of me. If I don't drink my first glass of wine to you, may my pistols
miss fire, and my mare slip her shoulder. All sorts of regard from Kate.
She has gone with Miss Allan to see the house she was born in, etc.
Write me soon, and long, etc."
His next letter was written the morning after the dinner, on Saturday,
the 26th June: "The great event is over; and, being gone, I am a man
again. It was the most brilliant affair you can conceive; the completest
success possible, from first to last. The room was crammed, and more
than seventy applicants for tickets were of necessity refused yesterday.
Wilson was ill, but plucked up like a lion, and spoke famously.[38] I
send you a paper herewith, but the report is dismal in the extreme. They
say there will be a better one--I don't know where or when. Should there
be, I will send it to you. I _think_ (ahem!) that I spoke rather well.
It was an excellent room, and both the subjects (Wilson and Scottish
Literature, and the Memory of Wilkie) were good to go upon. There were
nearly two hundred ladies present. The place is so contrived that the
cross table is raised enormously: much above the heads of people
sitting below: and the effect on first coming in (on me, I mean) was
rather tremendous. I was quite self-possessed, however, and,
notwithstanding the enthoosemoosy, which was very startling, as cool as
a cucumber. I wish to God you had been there, as it is impossible for
the 'distinguished guest' to describe the scene. It beat all natur.". . .
Here was the close of his letter: "I have been expecting every day to
hear from you, and not hearing mean to make this the briefest epistle
possible. We start next Sunday (that's to-morrow week). We are going out
to Jeffrey's to-day (he is very unwell), and return here to-morrow
evening. If I don't find a letter from you when I come back, expect no
Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life from your indignant correspondent.
Murray the manager made very excellent, tasteful, and gentlemanly
mention of Macready, about whom Wilson had been asking me divers
questions during dinner." "A hundred thanks for your letter," he writes
four days later. "I read it this morning with the greatest pleasure and
delight, and answer it with ditto, ditto. Where shall I begin--about my
darlings? I am delighted with Charley's precocity. He takes arter his
father, he does. God bless them, you can't imagine (_you!_ how can you?)
how much I long to see them. It makes me quite sorrowful to think of
them. . . . Yesterday, sir, the lord provost, council, and magistrates
voted me by acclamation the freedom of the city, in testimony (I quote
the letter just received from 'James Forrest, lord provost') 'of the
sense entertained by them of your distinguished abilities as an author.'
I acknowledged this morning in appropriate terms the honor they had
done me, and through me the pursuit to which I was devoted. It _is_
handsome, is it not?"
The parchment scroll of the city-freedom, recording the grounds on which
it was voted, hung framed in his study to the last, and was one of his
valued possessions. Answering some question of mine, he told me further
as to the speakers, and gave some amusing glimpses of the party-spirit
which still at that time ran high in the capital of the north.
"The men who spoke at the dinner were all the most rising men here, and
chiefly at the Bar. They were all, alternately, Whigs and Tories; with
some few Radicals, such as Gordon, who gave the memory of Burns. He is
Wilson's son-in-law and the lord-advocate's nephew--a very masterly
speaker indeed, who ought to become a distinguished man. Neaves, who
gave the other poets, a _little_ too lawyer-like for my taste, is a
great gun in the courts. Mr. Primrose is Lord Rosebery's son. Adam
Black, the publisher as you know. Dr. Alison, a very popular friend of
the poor. Robertson you know. Allan you know. Colquhoun is an advocate.
All these men were selected for the toasts as being crack speakers,
known men, and opposed to each other very strongly in politics. For this
reason, the professors and so forth who sat upon the platform about me
made no speeches and had none assigned them. I felt it was very
remarkable to see such a number of gray-headed men gathered about my
brown flowing locks; and it struck most of those who were present very
forcibly. The judges, solicitor-general, lord-advocate, and so forth,
were all here to call, the day after our arrival. The judges never go
to public dinners in Scotland. Lord Meadowbank alone broke through the
custom, and none of his successors have imitated him. It will give you a
good notion of _party_ to hear that the solicitor-general and
lord-advocate refused to go, though they had previously engaged,
_unless_ the croupier or the chairman were a Whig. Both (Wilson and
Robertson) were Tories, simply because, Jeffrey excepted, no Whig could
be found who was adapted to the office. The solicitor laid strict
injunctions on Napier not to go if a Whig were not in office. No Whig
was, and he stayed away. I think this is good?--bearing in mind that all
the old Whigs of Edinburgh were cracking their throats in the room. They
gave out that they were ill, and the lord-advocate did actually lie in
bed all the afternoon; but this is the real truth, and one of the judges
told it me with great glee. It seems they couldn't quite trust Wilson or
Robertson, as they thought; and feared some Tory demonstration. Nothing
of the kind took place; and ever since, these men have been the loudest
in their praises of the whole affair."
The close of his letter tells us all his engagements, and completes his
graceful picture of the hearty Scottish welcome given him. It has also
some personal touches that may be thought worth preserving. "A threat
reached me last night (they have been hammering at it in their papers,
it seems, for some time) of a dinner at Glasgow. But I hope, having
circulated false rumors of my movements, to get away before they send to
me; and only to stop there on my way home, to change horses and send to
the post-office. . . . You will like to know how we have been living.
Here's a list of engagements, past and present. Wednesday, we dined at
home, and went incog. to the theatre at night, to Murray's box; the
pieces admirably done, and M'Ian in the _Two Drovers_ quite wonderful
and most affecting. Thursday, to Lord Murray's; dinner and evening
party. Friday, _the_ dinner. Saturday, to Jeffrey's, a beautiful place
about three miles off" (Craigcrook, which at Lord Jeffrey's invitation I
afterwards visited with him), "stop there all night, dine on Sunday, and
home at eleven. Monday, dine at Dr. Alison's, four miles off. Tuesday,
dinner and evening party at Allan's. Wednesday, breakfast with Napier,
dine with Blackwood's seven miles off, evening party at the treasurer's
of the town-council, supper with all the artists (!!). Thursday, lunch
at the solicitor-general's, dine at Lord Gillies's, evening party at
Joseph Gordon's, one of Brougham's earliest supporters. Friday, dinner
and evening party at Robertson's. Saturday, dine again at Jeffrey's;
back to the theatre, at half-past nine to the moment, for public
appearance;[39] places all let, etc. etc. etc. Sunday, off at seven
o'clock in the morning to Stirling, and then to Callender, a stage
further. Next day, to Loch Earn, and pull up there for three days, to
rest and work. The moral of all this is, that there is no place like
home; and that I thank God most heartily for having given me a quiet
spirit, and a heart that won't hold many people. I sigh for Devonshire
Terrace and Broadstairs, for battledoor and shuttlecock; I want to dine
in a blouse with you and Mac; and I feel Topping's merits more acutely
than I have ever done in my life. On Sunday evening, the 17th of July, I
shall revisit my household gods, please Heaven. I wish the day were
here. For God's sake be in waiting. I wish you and Mac would dine in
Devonshire Terrace that day with Fred. He has the key of the cellar.
_Do._ We shall be at Inverary in the Highlands on Tuesday week, getting
to it through the Pass of Glencoe, of which you may have heard! On
Thursday following we shall be at Glasgow, where I shall hope to receive
your last letter before we meet. At Inverary, too, I shall make sure of
finding at least one, at the post-office. . . . Little Allan is trying hard
for the post of queen's limner for Scotland, vacant by poor Wilkie's
death. Every one is in his favor but ----, who is jobbing for some one
else. Appoint him, will you, and I'll give up the premiership.--How I
breakfasted to-day in the house where Scott lived seven-and-twenty
years; how I have made solemn pledges to write about missing children in
the _Edinburgh Review_, and will do my best to keep them; how I have
declined to be brought in, free gratis for nothing and qualified to
boot, for a Scotch county that's going a-begging, lest I should be
thought to have dined on Friday under false pretenses; these, with other
marvels, shall be yours anon. . . . I must leave off sharp, to get dressed
and off upon the seven miles' dinner-trip. Kate's affectionate regards.
My hearty loves to Mac and Grim." Grim was another great artist having
the same beginning to his name, whose tragic studies had suggested an
epithet quite inapplicable to any of his personal qualities.
The narrative of the trip to the Highlands must have a chapter to itself
and its incidents of adventure and comedy. The latter chiefly were due
to the guide who accompanied him, a quasi-Highlander himself, named a
few pages back as Mr. Kindheart, whose real name was Mr. Angus Fletcher,
and to whom it hardly needs that I should give other mention than will
be supplied by such future notices of him as my friend's letters may
contain. He had a wayward kind of talent, which he could never
concentrate on a settled pursuit; and though at the time we knew him
first he had taken up the profession of a sculptor, he abandoned it soon
afterwards. His mother, a woman distinguished by many remarkable
qualities, lived now in the English lake-country; and it was no fault of
hers that this home was no longer her son's. But what mainly had closed
it to him was undoubtedly not less the secret of such liking for him as
Dickens had. Fletcher's eccentricities and absurdities, often divided by
the thinnest partition from the most foolish extravagance, but
occasionally clever, and always the genuine though whimsical outgrowth
of the life he led, had a curious sort of charm for Dickens. He enjoyed
the oddity and humor; tolerated all the rest; and to none more freely
than to Kindheart during the next few years, both in Italy and in
England, opened his house and hospitality. The close of the poor
fellow's life, alas! was in only too sad agreement with all the previous
course of it; but this will have mention hereafter. He is waiting now to
introduce Dickens to the Highlands.
FOOTNOTES:
[37] Dickens refused to believe it at first. "My heart assures me Wilkie
liveth," he wrote. "He is the sort of man who will be VERY old when he
dies"--and certainly one would have said so.
[38] The speeches generally were good, but the descriptions in the text
by himself will here be thought sufficient. One or two sentences ought,
however, to be given to show the tone of Wilson's praise, and I will
only preface them by the remark that Dickens's acknowledgments, as well
as his tribute to Wilkie, were expressed with great felicity, and that
Peter Robertson seems to have thrown the company into convulsions of
laughter by his imitation of Dominie Sampson's PRO-DI-GI-OUS, in a
supposed interview between that worthy schoolmaster and Mr. Squeers of
Dotheboys. I now quote from Professor Wilson's speech:
"Our friend has mingled in the common walks of life; he has made himself
familiar with the lower orders of society. He has not been deterred by
the aspect of vice and wickedness, and misery and guilt, from seeking a
spirit of good in things evil, but has endeavored by the might of genius
to transmute what was base into what is precious as the beaten gold. . . .
But I shall be betrayed, if I go on much longer,--which it would be
improper for me to do,--into something like a critical delineation of
the genius of our illustrious guest. I shall not attempt that; but I
cannot but express, in a few ineffectual words, the delight which every
human bosom feels in the benign spirit which pervades all his creations.
How kind and good a man he is, I need not say; nor what strength of
genius he has acquired by that profound sympathy with his
fellow-creatures, whether in prosperity and happiness, or overwhelmed
with unfortunate circumstances, but who yet do not sink under their
miseries, but trust to their own strength of endurance, to that
principle of truth and honor and integrity which is no stranger to the
uncultivated bosom, and which is found in the lowest abodes in as great
strength as in the halls of nobles and the palaces of kings. Mr. Dickens
is also a satirist. He satirizes human life, but he does not satirize it
to degrade it. He does not wish to pull down what is high into the
neighborhood of what is low. He does not seek to represent all virtue as
a hollow thing, in which no confidence can be placed. He satirizes only
the selfish, and the hard-hearted, and the cruel. Our distinguished
guest may not have given us, as yet, a full and complete delineation of
the female character. But this he has done: he has not endeavored to
represent women as charming merely by the aid of accomplishments,
however elegant and graceful. He has not depicted those accomplishments
as their essentials, but has spoken of them rather as always inspired by
a love of domesticity, by fidelity, by purity, by innocence, by charity,
and by hope, which makes them discharge, under the most difficult
circumstances, their duties, and which brings over their path in this
world some glimpses of the light of heaven. Mr. Dickens may be assured
that there is felt for him all over Scotland a sentiment of kindness,
affection, admiration, and love; and I know for certain that the
knowledge of these sentiments must make him happy."
[39] On this occasion, as he told me afterwards, the orchestra did a
double stroke of business, much to the amazement of himself and his
friends, by improvising at his entrance _Charley is my Darling_, amid
tumultuous shouts of delight.