Transcribed from the Roxburghe Press edition by David Price,
ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: Cover of book]
[Picture: Charles Dickens]
The pages of this little book were in type and about to be sent for
correction to my sister--who had been for some months in very delicate
health--when she suddenly became still more gravely ill. The hand which
had traced the words of love and veneration dedicated to our father's
memory grew too feeble to hold a pen, and before the proofs of her little
volume could be submitted to her for revision, my dear sister died.
K. P.
[Picture: Mamie Dickens]
MY FATHER AS I RECALL HIM.
BY
MAMIE DICKENS.
THE
_ROXBURGHE PRESS_,
FIFTEEN, VICTORIA STREET,
WESTMINSTER.
THIS WORK, AND ALL THE PUBLICATIONS OF THE ROXBURGHE PRESS, ARE SUPPLIED
TO THE TRADE BY MESSRS. SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & COMPANY,
LIMITED, AND CAN BE OBTAINED THROUGH ANY BOOKSELLER.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
CHAPTER I. 7
Seeing "Gad's Hill" as a child.--His domestic side and
home love.--His love of children.--His neatness and
punctuality.--At the table, and as host.--The original
of "Little Nell."
CHAPTER II. 25
Buying Christmas presents.--In the dance.--The merriest
of them all.--As a conjurer.--Christmas at "Gad's
Hill."--Our Christmas dinners.--A New Year's Eve
frolic.--New Year on the Green.--Twelfth Night
festivities.
CHAPTER III. 46
My father at his work.--Rooms in which he wrote.--Love
for his child characters.--Genius for character
drawing.--Nicholas Nickleby.--His writing hours.--His
only amanuensis.--"Pickwick" and "Boz."--Death of Mr.
Thackeray.
CHAPTER IV. 69
Fondness for Athletic Sports.--His love of bathing.--His
study of the raven.--Calling the doctor in.--My father
with our dogs.--The cats of "Gad's Hill."--"Bumble" and
"Mrs. Bouncer."--A strange friendship.
CHAPTER V. 88
Interest in London birds.--Our pet bird
"Dick."--Devotion of his dogs.--Decision to visit
America.--His arrival in New York.--Comments on American
courtesies.--Farewell public appearances.
CHAPTER VI. 103
Last words spoken in public.--A railroad accident in
1865.--At home after his American visit.--"Improvements"
at "Gad's Hill."--At "Gad's Hill" once more.--The
closing day of his life.--Burial at Westminster.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
Charles Dickens Frontispiece
Mamie Dickens Facing Dedication
Charles Dickens reading in the garden page 7
Mr. Pickwick slides 25
Mr. John Leech 28
Mr. Pickwick under the Mistletoe 45
Mrs. Bouncer 86
To Miss Dickens' Pomeranian "Mrs. Bouncer" 86
The Empty Chair 101
Charles Dickens' Grave 127
CHAPTER I.
Seeing "Gad's Hill" as a child.--His domestic side and home-love.--His
love of children.--His neatness and punctuality.--At the table, and as
host.--The original of "Little Nell."
[Picture: Charles Dickens Reading in Garden]
If, in these pages, written in remembrance of my father, I should tell
you my dear friends, nothing new of him, I can, at least, promise you
that what I shall tell will be told faithfully, if simply, and perhaps
there may be some things not familiar to you.
A great many writers have taken it upon themselves to write lives of my
father, to tell anecdotes of him, and to print all manner of things about
him. Of all these published books I have read but one, the only genuine
"Life" thus far written of him, the one sanctioned by my father himself,
namely: "The Life of Charles Dickens," by John Forster.
But in what I write about my father I shall depend chiefly upon my own
memory of him, for I wish no other or dearer remembrance. My love for my
father has never been touched or approached by any other love. I hold
him in my heart of hearts as a man apart from all other men, as one apart
from all other beings.
Of my father's childhood it is but natural that I should know very little
more than the knowledge possessed by the great public. But I never
remember hearing him allude at any time, or under any circumstances, to
those unhappy days in his life except in the one instance of his childish
love and admiration for "Gad's Hill," which was destined to become so
closely associated with his name and works.
He had a very strong and faithful attachment for places: Chatham, I
think, being his first love in this respect. For it was here, when a
child, and a very sickly child, poor little fellow, that he found in an
old spare room a store of books, among which were "Roderick Random,"
"Peregrine Pickle," "Humphrey Clinker," "Tom Jones," "The Vicar of
Wakefield," "Don Quixote," "Gil Blas," "Robinson Crusoe," "The Arabian
Nights," and other volumes. "They were," as Mr. Forster wrote, "a host
of friends when he had no single friend." And it was while living at
Chatham that he first saw "Gad's Hill."
As a "very queer small boy" he used to walk up to the house--it stood on
the summit of a high hill--on holidays, or when his heart ached for a
"great treat." He would stand and look at it, for as a little fellow he
had a wonderful liking and admiration for the house, and it was, to him,
like no other house he had ever seen. He would walk up and down before
it with his father, gazing at it with delight, and the latter would tell
him that perhaps if he worked hard, was industrious, and grew up to be a
good man, he might some day come to live in that very house. His love
for this place went through his whole life, and was with him until his
death. He takes "Mr. Pickwick" and his friends from Rochester to Cobham
by the beautiful back road, and I remember one day when we were driving
that way he showed me the exact spot where "Mr. Pickwick" called out:
"Whoa, I have dropped my whip!" After his marriage he took his wife for
the honeymoon to a village called Chalk, between Gravesend and Rochester.
Many years after, when he was living with his family in a villa near
Lausanne, he wrote to a friend: "The green woods and green shades about
here are more like Cobham, in Kent, than anything we dream of at the foot
of the Alpine passes." And again, in still later years, one of his
favorite walks from "Gad's Hill" was to a village called Shorne, where
there was a quaint old church and graveyard. He often said that he would
like to be buried there, the peace and quiet of the homely little place
having a tender fascination for him. So we see that his heart was always
in Kent.
But let this single reference to his earlier years suffice, so that I may
write of him during those years when I remember him among us and around
us in our home.
From his earliest childhood, throughout his earliest married life to the
day of his death, his nature was home-loving. He was a "home man" in
every respect. When he became celebrated at a very early age, as we
know, all his joys and sorrows were taken home; and he found there
sympathy and the companionship of his "own familiar friends." In his
letters to these latter, in his letters to my mother, to my aunt, and,
later on, to us his children, he never forgot anything that he knew would
be of interest about his work, his successes, his hopes or fears. And
there was a sweet simplicity in his belief that such news would most
certainly be acceptable to all, that is wonderfully touching and
child-like coming from a man of genius.
His care and thoughtfulness about home matters, nothing being deemed too
small or trivial to claim his attention and consideration, were really
marvellous when we remember his active, eager, restless, working brain.
No man was so inclined naturally to derive his happiness from home
affairs. He was full of the kind of interest in a house which is
commonly confined to women, and his care of and for us as wee children
did most certainly "pass the love of women!" His was a tender and most
affectionate nature.
For many consecutive summers we used to be taken to Broadstairs. This
little place became a great favorite with my father. He was always very
happy there, and delighted in wandering about the garden of his house,
generally accompanied by one or other of his children. In later years,
at Boulogne, he would often have his youngest boy, "The Noble Plorn,"
trotting by his side. These two were constant companions in those days,
and after these walks my father would always have some funny anecdote to
tell us. And when years later the time came for the boy of his heart to
go out into the world, my father, after seeing him off, wrote: "Poor
Plorn has gone to Australia. It was a hard parting at the last. He
seemed 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. These
are hard, hard things, but they might have to be done without means or
influence, and then they would be far harder. God bless him!"
When my father was arranging and rehearsing his readings from "Dombey,"
the death of "little Paul" caused him such real anguish, the reading
being so difficult to him, that he told us he could only master his
intense emotion by keeping the picture of Plorn, well, strong and hearty,
steadily before his eyes. We can see by the different child characters
in his books what a wonderful knowledge he had of children, and what a
wonderful and truly womanly sympathy he had with them in all their
childish joys and griefs. I can remember with us, his own children, how
kind, considerate and patient he always was. But we were never afraid to
go to him in any trouble, and never had a snub from him or a cross word
under any circumstances. He was always glad to give us "treats," as he
called them, and used to conceive all manner of those "treats" for us,
and if any favor had to be asked we were always sure of a favorable
answer. On these occasions my sister "Katie" was generally our
messenger, we others waiting outside the study door to hear the verdict.
She and I used to have delightful treats in those summer evenings,
driving up to Hampstead in the open carriage with him, our mother, and
"Auntie," {15} and getting out for a long walk through the lovely country
lanes, picking wild roses and other flowers, or walking hand in hand with
him listening to some story.
There never existed, I think, in all the world, a more thoroughly tidy or
methodical creature than was my father. He was tidy in every way--in his
mind, in his handsome and graceful person, in his work, in keeping his
writing table drawers, in his large correspondence, in fact in his whole
life.
I remember that my sister and I occupied a little garret room in
Devonshire Terrace, at the very top of the house. He had taken the
greatest pains and care to make the room as pretty and comfortable for
his two little daughters as it could be made. He was often dragged up
the steep staircase to this room to see some new print or some new
ornament which we children had put up, and he always gave us words of
praise and approval. He encouraged us in every possible way to make
ourselves useful, and to adorn and beautify our rooms with our own hands,
and to be ever tidy and neat. I remember that the adornment of this
garret was decidedly primitive, the unframed prints being fastened to the
wall by ordinary black or white pins, whichever we could get. But, never
mind, if they were put up neatly and tidily they were always "excellent,"
or "quite slap-up" as he used to say. Even in those early days, he made
a point of visiting every room in the house once each morning, and if a
chair was out of its place, or a blind not quite straight, or a crumb
left on the floor, woe betide the offender.
And then his punctuality! It was almost frightful to an unpunctual mind!
This again was another phase of his extreme tidiness; it was also the
outcome of his excessive thoughtfulness and consideration for others.
His sympathy, also, with all pain and suffering made him quite invaluable
in a sick room. Quick, active, sensible, bright and cheery, and
sympathetic to a degree, he would seize the "case" at once, know exactly
what to do and do it. In all our childish ailments his visits were
eagerly looked forward to; and our little hearts would beat a shade
faster, and our aches and pains become more bearable, when the sound of
his quick footstep was heard, and the encouraging accents of his voice
greeted the invalid. I can remember now, as if it were yesterday, how
the touch of his hand--he had a most sympathetic touch--was almost too
much sometimes, the help and hope in it making my heart full to
overflowing. He believed firmly in the power of mesmerism, as a remedy
in some forms of illness, and was himself a mesmerist of no mean order; I
know of many cases, my own among the number, in which he used his power
in this way with perfect success.
And however busy he might be, and even in his hours of relaxation, he was
still, if you can understand me, always busy; he would give up any amount
of time and spare himself no fatigue if he could in any way alleviate
sickness and pain.
In very many of my father's books there are frequent references to
delicious meals, wonderful dinners and more marvellous dishes, steaming
bowls of punch, etc, which have led many to believe that he was a man
very fond of the table. And yet I think no more abstemious man ever
lived.
In the "Gad's Hill" days, when the house was full of visitors, he had a
peculiar notion of always having the menu for the day's dinner placed on
the sideboard at luncheon time. And then he would discuss every item in
his fanciful, humorous way with his guests, much to this effect:
"Cock-a-leekie? Good, decidedly good; fried soles with shrimp sauce?
Good again; croquettes of chicken? Weak, very weak; decided want of
imagination here," and so on, and he would apparently be so taken up with
the merits or demerits of a menu that one might imagine he lived for
nothing but the coming dinner. He had a small but healthy appetite, but
was remarkably abstemious both in eating and drinking.
He was delightful as a host, caring individually for each guest, and
bringing the special qualities of each into full notice and prominence,
putting the very shyest at his or her ease, making the best of the most
humdrum, and never thrusting himself forward.
But when he was most delightful, was alone with us at home and sitting
over dessert, and when my sister was with us especially--I am talking now
of our grownup days--for she had great power in "drawing him out." At
such times although he might sit down to dinner in a grave or abstracted
mood, he would, invariably, soon throw aside his silence and end by
delighting us all with his genial talk and his quaint fancies about
people and things. He was always, as I have said, much interested in
mesmerism, and the curious influence exercised by one personality over
another. One illustration I remember his using was, that meeting someone
in the busy London streets, he was on the point of turning back to accost
the supposed friend, when finding out his mistake in time he walked on
again until he actually met the real friend, whose shadow, as it were,
but a moment ago had come across his path.
And then the forgetting of a word or a name. "Now into what pigeon-hole
of my brain did that go, and why do I suddenly remember it now?" And as
these thoughts passed through his mind and were spoken dreamily, so they
also appeared in his face. Another instant, perhaps, and his eyes would
be full of fun and laughter.
At the beginning of his literary career he suffered a great sorrow in the
death--a very sudden death--of my mother's sister, Mary Hogarth. She was
of a most charming and lovable disposition, as well as being personally
very beautiful. Soon after my parents married, Aunt Mary was constantly
with them. As her nature developed she became my father's ideal of what
a young girl should be. And his own words show how this great affection
and the influence of the girl's loved memory were with him to the end of
his life. The shock of her sudden death so affected and prostrated him
that the publication of "Pickwick" was interrupted for two months.
"I look back," he wrote, "and with unmingled pleasure, to every link
which each ensuing week has added to the chain of our attachment. It
shall go hard I hope ere anything but death impairs the toughness of a
bond now so firmly riveted. That beautiful passage you were so kind and
considerate as to send to me has given me the only feeling akin to
pleasure, sorrowful pleasure it is, that I have yet had connected with
the loss of my dear young friend and companion, for whom my love and
attachment will never diminish, and by whose side, if it please God to
leave me in possession of sense to signify my wishes, my bones whenever
or wherever I die, will one day be laid."
She was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, and her grave bears the
following inscription, written by my father:
"Young, beautiful, and good, God in His mercy numbered her among His
angels at the early age of seventeen."
A year after her death, in writing to my mother from Yorkshire, he says:
"Is it not extraordinary that the same dreams which have constantly
visited me since poor Mary died follow me everywhere? After all the
change of scene and fatigue I have dreamt of her ever since I left home,
and no doubt shall until I return. I would fain believe, sometimes, that
her spirit may have some influence over them, but their perpetual
repetition is extraordinary."
In the course of years there came changes in our home, inevitable
changes. But no changes could ever alter my father's home-loving nature.
As he wrote to Mr. Forster, as a young man, so it was with him to the
time of his death: "We shall soon meet, please God, and be happier than
ever we were in all our lives. Oh! home--home--home!!!"