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 days of his life.--Burial at Westminster.
My father gave his last reading in St. James' Hall, London, on the
fifteenth of March. The programme included "The Christmas Carol" and the
"Trial" from "Pickwick." The hall was packed by an enormous audience,
and he was greeted with all the warmth which the personal affection felt
for the reader inspired. We all felt very anxious for him, fearing that
the excitement and emotion which must attend upon his public farewell
would have a bad effect upon him. But it had no immediate result, at any
rate, much to our relief.
I do not think that my father ever--and this is saying a great
deal--looked handsomer nor read with more ability than on this, his last
appearance. Mr. Forster writes: "The charm of his reading was at its
height when he shut the volume of 'Pickwick' and spoke in his own person.
He said that for fifteen years he had been reading his own books to
audiences whose sensitive and kindly recognition of them had given him
instruction and enjoyment in his art such as few men could have had; but
that he nevertheless thought it well now to retire upon older
associations, and in future to devote himself exclusively to the calling
which first made him known. 'In but two short weeks from this time I
hope that you may enter in your own homes on a new series of readings, at
which my assistance will be indispensable; but from these garish lights I
vanish now, for evermore, with a heartfelt, grateful, respectful,
affectionate farewell.'"
There was a dead silence as my father turned away, much moved; and then
came from the audience such a burst and tumult of cheers and applause as
were almost too much to bear, mixed as they were with personal love and
affection for the man before them. He returned with us all to "Gad's
Hill," very happy and hopeful, under the temporary improvement which the
rest and peace of his home brought him, and he settled down to his new
book, "Edwin Drood," with increased pleasure and interest.
His last public appearances were in April. On the fifth he took the
chair at the News-venders' dinner. On the thirtieth he returned thanks
for "Literature" at the Royal Academy banquet. In this speech he alluded
to the death of his old friend, Mr. Daniel Maclise, winding up thus: "No
artist, of whatsoever denomination, I make bold to say, ever went to his
rest leaving a golden memory more pure from dross, or having devoted
himself with a truer chivalry to the art-goddess whom he worshipped."
These words, with the old, true, affectionate ring in them, were the last
spoken by my father in public.
About 1865 my dear father's health began to give way, a peculiar
affection of the foot which frequently caused him the greatest agony and
suffering, appearing about this time. Its real cause--overwork--was not
suspected either by his physicians or himself, his vitality seeming
something which could not wear out; but, although he was so active and
full of energy, he was never really strong, and found soon that he must
take more in the way of genuine recreation. He wrote me from France
about this time: "Before I went away I had certainly worked myself into a
damaged state. But the moment I got away I began, thank God, to get
well. I hope to profit from this experience, and to make future dashes
from my desk before I need them."
It was while on his way home after this trip that he was in the terrible
railroad accident to which he afterwards referred in a letter to a
friend, saying, that his heart had never been in good condition after
that accident. It occurred on the ninth of June, a date which five years
later was the day of his death.
He wrote describing his experiences: "I was in the only carriage which
did not go over into the stream. It was caught upon the turn by some of
the ruin of the bridge, and became suspended and balanced in an
apparently impossible manner. Two ladies were my fellow-passengers, an
old one and a young one. This is exactly what passed--you may judge from
it the length of our suspense: Suddenly we were off the rail and beating
the ground as the car of a half-emptied balloon might. The old lady
cried out 'My God!' and the young one screamed. I caught hold of them
both (the old lady sat opposite, and the young one on my left) and said:
'We can't help ourselves, but we can be quiet and composed. Pray, don't
cry out!' The old lady immediately answered: 'Thank you, rely upon me.
Upon my soul I will be quiet.' We were then all tilted down together in
a corner of the carriage, which then stopped. I said to them thereupon:
'You may be sure nothing worse can happen; our danger must be over. Will
you remain here without stirring while I get out of the window?' They
both answered quite collectedly 'Yes,' and I got out without the least
notion of what had happened. Fortunately I got out with great caution,
and stood upon the step. Looking down I saw the bridge gone, and nothing
below me but the line of rail. Some people in the other two compartments
were madly trying to plunge out at a window, and had no idea that there
was an open, swampy field fifteen feet down below them, and nothing else.
The two guards (one with his face cut) were running up and down on the
down-track of the bridge (which was not torn up) quite wildly. I called
out to them: 'Look at me! Do stop an instant and look at me, and tell me
whether you don't know me?' One of them answered: 'We know you very
well, Mr. Dickens.' 'Then,' I said, 'my good fellow, for God's sake,
give me your key, and send one of those laborers here, and I'll empty
this carriage.' We did it quite safely, by means of a plank or two, and
when it was done I saw all the rest of the train, except the two baggage
vans, down the stream. I got into the carriage again for my brandy
flask, took off my travelling hat for a basin, climbed down the
brickwork, and filled my hat with water. Suddenly I came upon a
staggering man, covered with blood (I think he must have been flung clean
out of his carriage), with such a frightful cut across the skull that I
couldn't bear to look at him. I poured some water over his face, and
gave him some to drink, then gave him some brandy, and laid him down on
the grass.
He said 'I am gone,' and died afterwards. Then I stumbled over a lady
lying on her back against a little pollard tree, with the blood streaming
over her face (which was lead color) in a number of distinct little
streams from the head. I asked her if she could swallow a little brandy,
and she just nodded, and I gave her some and left her for somebody else.
The next time I passed her she was dead. Then a man examined at the
inquest yesterday (who evidently had not the least remembrance of what
really passed) came running up to me and implored me to help him find his
wife, who was afterward found dead. No imagination can conceive the ruin
of the carriages, or the extraordinary weights under which the people
were lying, or the complications into which they were twisted up among
iron and wood, and mud and water. I am keeping very quiet here."
This letter was written from "Gad's Hill" four days after the accident.
We were spared any anxiety about our father, as we did not hear of the
accident until after we were with him in London. With his usual care and
thoughtfulness he had telegraphed to his friend Mr. Wills, to summon us
to town to meet him. The letter continues: "I have, I don't know what to
call it, constitutional (I suppose) presence of mind, and was not the
least fluttered at the time. I instantly remembered that I had the MS.
of a number with me, and clambered back into the carriage for it. But in
writing these scanty words of recollection I feel the shake, and am
obliged to stop."
We heard, afterwards, how helpful he had been at the time, ministering to
the dying! How calmly and tenderly he cared for the suffering ones about
him!
But he never recovered entirely from the shock. More than a year later
he writes: "It is remarkable that my watch (a special chronometer) has
never gone quite correctly since, and to this day there sometimes comes
over me, on a railway and in a hansom-cab, or any sort of conveyance, for
a few seconds, a vague sense of dread that I have no power to check. It
comes and passes, but I cannot prevent its coming."
I have often seen this dread come upon him, and on one occasion, which I
especially recall, while we were on our way from London to our little
country station "Higham," where the carriage was to meet us, my father
suddenly clutched the arms of the railway carriage seat, while his face
grew ashy pale, and great drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead,
and though he tried hard to master the dread, it was so strong that he
had to leave the train at the next station. The accident had left its
impression upon the memory, and it was destined never to be effaced. The
hours spent upon railroads were thereafter often hours of pain to him. I
realized this often while travelling with him, and no amount of assurance
could dispel the feeling.
Early in May of 1868, we had him safely back with us, greatly
strengthened and invigorated by his ocean journey home, and I think he
was never happier at "Gad's Hill" than during his last two years there.
During that time he had a succession of guests, and none were more
honored, nor more heartily welcomed, than his American friends. The
first of these to come, if I remember rightly, was Mr. Longfellow, with
his daughters. My father writes describing a picnic which he gave them;
"I turned out a couple of postilions in the old red jacket of the old
Royal red for our ride, and it was like a holiday ride in England fifty
years ago. Of course we went to look at the old houses in Rochester, and
the old Cathedral, and the old castle, and the house for the six poor
travellers.
"Nothing can surpass the respect paid to Longfellow here, from the Queen
downward. He is everywhere received and courted, and finds the working
men at least as well acquainted with his books as the classes socially
above them."
Between the comings and goings of visitors there were delightfully quiet
evenings at home, spent during the summer in our lovely porch, or walking
about the garden, until "tray time," ten o'clock. When the cooler nights
came we had music in the drawing-room, and it is my happiness now to
remember on how many evenings I played and sang all his favorite songs
and tunes to my father during these last winters while he would listen
while he smoked or read, or, in his more usual fashion, paced up and down
the room. I never saw him more peacefully contented than at these times.
There were always "improvements"--as my father used to call his
alterations--being made at "Gad's Hill," and each improvement was
supposed to be the last. As each was completed, my sister--who was
always a constant visitor, and an exceptionally dear one to my
father--would have to come down and inspect, and as each was displayed,
my father would say to her most solemnly: "Now, Katie, you behold your
parent's latest and last achievement." These "last improvements" became
quite a joke between them. I remember so well, on one such occasion,
after the walls and doors of the drawing-room had been lined with
mirrors, my sister's laughing speech to "the master": "I believe papa,
that when you become an angel your wings will be made of looking-glass
and your crown of scarlet geraniums."
And here I would like to correct an error concerning myself. I have been
spoken of as my father's "favorite daughter." If he had a favorite
daughter--and I hope and believe that the one was as dear to him as the
other--my dear sister must claim that honor. I say this ungrudgingly,
for during those last two years my father and I seemed to become more
closely united, and I know how deep was the affectionate intimacy at the
time of his death.
The "last improvement"--in truth, the very last--was the building of a
conservatory between the drawing and dining rooms. My father was more
delighted with this than with any previous alteration, and it was
certainly a pretty addition to the quaint old villa. The chalet, too,
which he used in summer as his study, was another favorite spot at his
favorite "Gad's Hill."
In the early months of 1870 we moved up to London, as my father had
decided to give twelve farewell readings there. He had the sanction of
the late Sir Thomas Watson to this undertaking, on condition that there
should be no railway journeys in connection with them. While we were in
London he made many private engagements, principally, I know, on my
account, as I was to be presented that spring.
During this last visit to London, my father was not, however, in his
usual health, and was so quickly and easily tired that a great number of
our engagements had to be cancelled. He dined out very seldom, and I
remember that on the last occasion he attended a very large dinner party
the effort was too much for him, and before the gentlemen returned to the
drawing-room, he sent me a message begging me to come to him at once,
saying that he was in too great pain to mount the stairs. No one who had
watched him throughout the dinner, seeing his bright, animated face, and
listening to his cheery conversation, could have imagined him to be
suffering acute pain.
He was at "Gad's Hill" again by the thirtieth of May, and soon hard at
work upon "Edwin Drood." Although happy and contented, there was an
appearance of fatigue and weariness about him very unlike his usual air
of fresh activity. He was out with the dogs for the last time on the
afternoon of the sixth of June, when he walked into Rochester for the
"Daily Mail." My sister, who had come to see the latest "improvement,"
was visiting us, and was to take me with her to London on her return, for
a short visit. The conservatory--the "improvement" which Katie had been
summoned to inspect--had been stocked, and by this time many of the
plants were in full blossom. Everything was at its brightest and I
remember distinctly my father's pleasure in showing my sister the
beauties of his "improvement."
We had been having most lovely weather, and in consequence, the outdoor
plants were wonderfully forward in their bloom, my father's favorite red
geraniums making a blaze of color in the front garden. The syringa
shrubs filled the evening air with sweetest fragrance as we sat in the
porch and walked about the garden on this last Sunday of our dear
father's life. My aunt and I retired early and my dear sister sat for a
long while with my father while he spoke to her most earnestly of his
affairs.
As I have already said my father had such an intense dislike for
leave-taking that he always, when it was possible, shirked a farewell,
and we children, knowing this dislike, used only to wave our hands or
give him a silent kiss when parting. But on this Monday morning, the
seventh, just as we were about to start for London, my sister suddenly
said: "I _must_ say good-bye to papa," and hurried over to the chalet
where he was busily writing. As a rule when he was so occupied, my
father would hold up his cheek to be kissed, but this day he took my
sister in his arms saying: "God bless you, Katie," and there, "among the
branches of the trees, among the birds and butterflies and the scent of
flowers," she left him, never to look into his eyes again.
In the afternoon, feeling fatigued, and not inclined to much walking, he
drove with my aunt into Cobham. There he left the carriage and walked
home through the park. After dinner he remained seated in the
dining-room, through the evening, as from that room he could see the
effect of some lighted Chinese lanterns, which he had hung in the
conservatory during the day, and talked to my aunt about his great love
for "Gad's Hill," his wish that his name might become more associated
with the place, and his desire to be buried near it.
On the morning of the eighth he was in excellent spirits, speaking of his
book, at which he intended working through the day and in which he was
most intensely interested. He spent a busy morning in the chalet, and it
must have been then that he wrote that description of Rochester, which
touched our hearts when we read it for the first time after its writer
lay dead: "Brilliant morning shines on the old city. Its antiquities and
ruins are surpassingly beautiful with the lusty ivy gleaming in the sun
and the rich trees waving in the balmy air. Changes of glorious light
from moving boughs, songs of birds, scents from gardens, woods and
fields, or rather, from the one great garden of the whole cultivated
island in its yielding time, penetrate into the cathedral, subdue its
earthly odor, and preach the Resurrection and the Life."
He returned to the house for luncheon, seemingly perfectly well and
exceedingly cheerful and hopeful. He smoked a cigar in his beloved
conservatory, and went back to the chalet. When he came again to the
house, about an hour before the time fixed for an early dinner, he was
tired, silent and abstracted, but as this was a mood very usual to him
after a day of engrossing work, it caused no alarm nor surprise to my
aunt, who happened to be the only member of the family at home. While
awaiting dinner he wrote some letters in the library and arranged some
trifling business matters, with a view to his departure for London the
following morning.
* * * * *
It was not until they were seated at the dinner-table that a striking
change in the color and expression of his face startled my aunt. Upon
her asking him if he were ill, he answered "Yes, very ill; I have been
very ill for the last hour." But when she said that she would send for a
physician he stopped her, saying that he would go on with dinner, and
afterward to London.
He made an earnest effort to struggle against the seizure which was fast
coming over him, and continued to talk, but incoherently and very
indistinctly. It being now evident that he was in a serious condition,
my aunt begged him to go to his room before she sent for medical aid.
"Come and lie down," she entreated. "Yes, on the ground," he answered
indistinctly. These were the last words that he uttered. As he spoke,
he fell to the floor. A couch was brought into the dining-room, on which
he was laid, a messenger was dispatched for the local physician,
telegrams were sent to all of us and to Mr. Beard. This was at a few
minutes after six o'clock. I was dining at a house some little distance
from my sister's home. Dinner was half over when I received a message
that she wished to speak to me. I found her in the hall with a change of
dress for me and a cab in waiting. Quickly I changed my gown, and we
began the short journey which brought us to our so sadly-altered home.
Our dear aunt was waiting for us at the open door, and when I saw her
face I think the last faint hope died within me.
All through the night we watched him--my sister on one side of the couch,
my aunt on the other, and I keeping hot bricks to the feet which nothing
could warm, hoping and praying that he might open his eyes and look at
us, and know us once again. But he never moved, never opened his eyes,
never showed a sign of consciousness through all the long night. On the
afternoon of the ninth the celebrated London physician, Dr. Russell
Reynolds, (recently deceased), was summoned to a consultation by the two
medical men in attendance, but he could only confirm their hopeless
verdict. Later, in the evening of this day, at ten minutes past six, we
saw a shudder pass over our dear father, he heaved a deep sigh, a large
tear rolled down his face and at that instant his spirit left us. As we
saw the dark shadow pass from his face, leaving it so calm and beautiful
in the peace and majesty of death, I think there was not one of us who
would have wished, could we have had the power, to recall his spirit to
earth.
* * * * *
I made it my duty to guard the beloved body as long as it was left to us.
The room in which my dear father reposed for the last time was bright
with the beautiful fresh flowers which were so abundant at this time of
the year, and which our good neighbours sent to us so frequently. The
birds were singing all about and the summer sun shone brilliantly.
"And may there be no sadness of farewell
When I embark.
For though when from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.'
Those exquisite lines of Lord Tennyson's seem so appropriate to my
father, to his dread of good-byes, to his great and simple faith, that I
have ventured to quote them here.
* * * * *
On the morning after he died, we received a very kind visit from Sir John
Millais, then Mr. Millais, R.A. and Mr. Woolner, R.A. Sir John made a
beautiful pencil drawing of my father, and Mr. Woolner took a cast of his
head, from which he afterwards modelled a bust. The drawing belongs to
my sister, and is one of her greatest treasures. It is, like all Sir
John's drawings, most delicate and refined, and the likeness absolutely
faithful to what my father looked in death.
* * * * *
You remember that when he was describing the illustrations of Little
Nell's death-bed he wrote: "I want it to express the most beautiful
repose and tranquillity, and to have something of a happy look, if death
can." Surely this was what his death-bed expressed--infinite happiness
and rest.
As my father had expressed a wish to be buried in the quiet little
church-yard at Shorne, arrangements were made for the interment to take
place there. This intention was, however, abandoned, in consequence of a
request from the Dean and chapter of Rochester Cathedral that his bones
might repose there. A grave was prepared and everything arranged when it
was made known to us, through Dean Stanley, that there was a general and
very earnest desire that he should find his last resting-place in
Westminster Abbey. To such a tribute to our dear father's memory we
could make no possible objection, although it was with great regret that
we relinquished the plan to lay him in a spot so closely identified with
his life and works.
The only stipulation which was made in connection with the burial at
Westminster Abbey was that the clause in his will which read: "I
emphatically direct that I be buried in an inexpensive, unostentatious
and and strictly private manner," should be strictly adhered to, as it
was.
At midday on the fourteenth of June a few friends and ourselves saw our
dear one laid to rest in the grand old cathedral. Our small group in
that vast edifice seemed to make the beautiful words of our beautiful
burial service even more than usually solemn and touching. Later in the
day, and for many following days, hundreds of mourners flocked to the
open grave, and filled the deep vault with flowers. And even after it
was closed Dean Stanley wrote: "There was a constant pressure to the spot
and many flowers were strewn upon it by unknown hands, many tears shed
from unknown eyes."
[Picture: Charles Dickens' Grave]
And every year on the ninth of June and on Christmas day we find other
flowers strewn by other unknown hands on that spot so sacred to us, as to
all who knew and loved him. And every year beautiful bright-coloured
leaves are sent to us from across the Atlantic, to be placed with our own
flowers on that dear grave; and it is twenty-six years now since my
father died!
And for his epitaph what better than my father's own words:
"Of the loved, revered and honoured head, thou canst not turn one
hair to thy dread purposes, nor make one feature odious. It is not
that the hand is heavy and will fall down when released; it is not
that the heart and pulse are still; but that the hand was open,
generous and true, the heart brave, warm and tender, and the pulse a
man's. Strike! shadow, strike! and see his good deeds springing from
the wound, to sow the world with life immortal."
THE END.
[Picture: Ex Libris Roxburghe Press]
Footnotes:
{15} When I write about my aunt, or "Auntie," as no doubt I may often
have occasion to do, it is of the aunt _par excellence_, Georgina
Hogarth. She has been to me ever since I can remember anything, and to
all of us, the truest, best and dearest friend, companion and counsellor.
To quote my father's own words: "The best and truest friend man ever
had."