"To begin my life with the beginning of my life," Dickens makes one of
his heroes say, "I record that I was born (as I have been informed and
believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night." Dickens was born on a
Friday, the date the 7th of February, 1812, the place Landport in
Portsea, England. The house was a comfortable one, and during Charles's
early childhood his surroundings were prosperous; for his father, John
Dickens, a clerk in the navy pay-office, was temporarily in easy
circumstances. When Charles was but two, the family moved to London,
taking lodgings for a time in Norfolk Street, Bloomsbury, and finally
settling in Chatham. Here they lived in comfort, and here Charles gained
more than the rudiments of an education, his earliest teacher being his
mother, who instructed him not only in English, but in Latin also. Later
he became the pupil of Mr. Giles, who seems to have taken in him an
extraordinary interest.
[Illustration: CHARLES DICKENS
1812-1870]
Indeed, he was a child in whom it was difficult not to take an
extraordinary interest. Small for his years, and attacked occasionally
by a sort of spasm which was exceedingly painful, he was not fitted for
much active exercise; but the _aliveness_ which was apparent in him all
his life distinguished him now. He was very fond of reading, and in
_David Copperfield_ he put into the mouth of his hero a description
of his own delight in certain books. "My father had left a small
collection of books in a little room upstairs, to which I had access
(for it adjoined my own), and which nobody else in our house ever
troubled. From that blessed little room, _Roderick Random_, _Peregrine
Pickle_, _Humphrey Clinker_, _Tom Jones_, _The Vicar of Wakefield_, _Don
Quixote_, _Gil Blas_ and _Robinson Crusoe_ came out, a glorious host, to
keep me company. They kept alive my fancy, ... they, and the _Arabian
Nights_ and the _Tales of the Genii_--and did me no harm; for whatever
harm was in some of them was not there for me; I knew nothing of it....
I have been Tom Jones (a child's Tom Jones, a harmless creature) for a
week together. I have sustained my own idea of Roderick Random for a
month at a stretch, I verily believe. I had a greedy relish for a few
volumes of Voyages and Travels--I forget what, now--that were on those
shelves; and for days and days I can remember to have gone about my
region of our house, armed with the center piece out of an old set of
boot-trees--the perfect realization of Captain Somebody, of the Royal
British Navy, in danger of being beset by savages, and resolved to sell
his life at a great price."
Not only did the little Charles read all he could lay hands upon; he
made up stories, too, which he told to his small playmates, winning
thereby their wondering admiration. Some of these tales he wrote down,
and thus he became an author in a small way while he was yet a very
small boy. His making believe to be the characters out of books shows
another trait which clung to him all his life--his fondness for
"play-acting." It was, in fact, often said of the mature Dickens that
he would have made as good an actor as he was a novelist, and Dickens's
father seems to have recognized in his little son decided traces of
ability; for often, when there was company at the house, little Charles,
with his face flushed and his eyes shining, would be placed on a table
to sing a comic song, amid the applause of all present.
His early days were thus very happy; but when he was about eleven years
old, money difficulties beset the family, and they were obliged to move
to a poor part of London. Mrs. Dickens made persistent efforts to open a
school for young ladies, but no one ever showed the slightest intention
of coming. Matters went from bad to worse, and finally Mr. Dickens was
arrested for debt and taken to the Marshalsea prison. The time that
followed was a most painful one to the sensitive boy--far more painful,
it would seem, than to the "Prodigal Father," as Dickens later called
him. This father, whom Dickens long afterward described, in _David
Copperfield_, as Mr. Micawber, was, as his son was always most willing
to testify, a kind, generous man; but he was improvident to the last
degree; and when in difficulties which would have made melancholy any
other man, he was able, by the mere force of his rhetoric, to lift
himself above circumstances or to make himself happy in them.
At length all the family except the oldest sister, who was at school,
and Charles, went to live in the prison; and Charles was given work in a
blacking-warehouse of which a relative of his mother's was manager. The
sufferings which the boy endured at this time were intense. It was not
only that the work was sordid, monotonous, uncongenial; it was not only
that his pride was outraged; what hurt him most of all was that he
should have been "so easily cast away at such an age," and that "no one
made any sign." He had always yearned for an education; he had always
felt that he must grow up to be worth something. And to see himself
condemned, as he felt with the hopelessness of childhood, for life, to
the society of such boys as he found in the blacking-warehouse, was
almost more than he could endure. During his later life, prosperous and
happy, he could scarcely bear to speak, even to his dearest friends, of
this period of his life.
Though this period of his life seemed to him long, it was not really so,
for he was not yet thirteen when he was taken from the warehouse and
sent to school. Once given a chance, he learned rapidly and easily,
although in all probability the schools to which he went were not of the
best. After a year or two at school he again began work, but this time
under more hopeful circumstances. He was, to be sure, but an
under-clerk--little more than an office-boy in a solicitor's office; but
at least the surroundings were less sordid and the companions more
congenial. However, he had no intention of remaining an under-clerk, and
he set to work to make himself a reporter.
Of his difficulties in mastering shorthand he has written feelingly in
that novel which contains so much autobiographical material--_David
Copperfield_. "I bought an approved scheme of the noble art and mystery
of stenography ... and plunged into a sea of perplexity that brought me,
in a few weeks, to the confines of distraction. The changes that were
rung upon dots, which in such a position meant such a thing, and in such
another position something else, entirely different; the wonderful
vagaries that were played by circles; the unaccountable consequences
that resulted from marks like flies' legs, the tremendous effect of a
curve in the wrong place; not only troubled my waking hours, but
reappeared before me in my sleep."
When Dickens once made up his mind to do a thing, however, he always
went through with it, and before so very long he had perfected himself
in his "art and mystery," and was one of the most rapid and accurate
reporters in London.
At nineteen he became a reporter of the speeches in Parliament. Before
taking up his newspaper work, he made an attempt to go upon the stage;
but it was not long before he found his true vocation, and abandoned all
thought of the stage as a means of livelihood. In 1833 he published a
sketch in the _Old Monthly Magazine_, and this was the first of those
_Sketches by Boz_ which were published at intervals for the next two
years.
The year 1836 was a noteworthy one for Dickens, for in that year he
married Catherine Hogarth, the daughter of an associate on the
_Chronicle_; and in that year began the publication of _The Posthumous
Papers of the Pickwick Club_. The publication of the first few numbers
wakened no great enthusiasm, but with the appearance of the fifth
number, in which Sam Weller is introduced, began that popularity which
did not decline until Dickens's death. In fact, as one writer has said,
"In dealing with Dickens, we are dealing with a man whose public success
was a marvel and almost a monstrosity." Every one, old and young,
serious and flippant, talked of _Pickwick_, and it was actually
reported, by no less an authority than Thomas Carlyle, that a solemn
clergyman, being told that he had not long to live, exclaimed, "Well,
thank God, _Pickwick_ will be out in ten days anyway!"
_Oliver Twist_ followed, and then _Nicholas Nickleby_; and by this time
Dickens began to get, what he did not receive from his first work,
something like his fair share of the enormous profits, so that his
growing family lived in comfort, if not in luxury. When the _Old
Curiosity Shop_, and, later, _Barnaby Rudge_, appeared, the number of
purchasers of the serials rose as high as seventy thousand.
Early in 1842 Dickens and his wife made a journey to America, leaving
their children in the care of a friend. Shortly after arriving in the
United States he wrote to a friend, "I can give you no conception of my
welcome here. There was never a king or emperor upon the earth so
cheered and followed by crowds, and entertained in public at splendid
balls and dinners, and waited on by public bodies and deputations of all
kinds;" and again, "In every town where we stay, though it be only for a
day, we hold a regular levee or drawing-room, where I shake hands on an
average with five or six hundred people."
Dickens had come prepared to like America and Americans--and in many
ways he did like them. But in other ways he was disappointed. He
ventured to object, in various speeches, to the pirating, in America, of
English literature, and fierce were the denunciations which this course
drew upon him. Having fancied that in the republic of America he might
have at least free speech on a matter which so closely concerned him,
Dickens resented this treatment, and the Americans resented his
resentment. However, it was with the kindliest feelings toward the many
friends he had made in the United States, and with the most out-spoken
admiration for many American institutions that he left for England. The
publication of his _American Notes_ and of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ did not
tend to reconcile Americans to Dickens; but there seems to have been no
falling off in the sale of his books in this country.
Dickens's life, like the lives of most literary men, was not
particularly eventful. It was, however, a constantly busy life. Book
followed book in rapid succession, and still their popularity grew.
Sometimes in London, sometimes in Italy or Rome or Switzerland, he
created those wonderful characters of his which will live as long as the
English language. The first of the Christmas books, _A Christmas Carol_,
appeared in 1843, and henceforward one of the things to which people
looked forward at Yuletide was the publication of a new Dickens
Christmas story.
One diversion--if diversion it can be called--Dickens allowed himself
not infrequently, and enjoyed most thoroughly. This was the production,
sometimes before a selected audience, sometimes in public, of plays, in
which Dickens himself usually took the chief part. Often these plays
were given not only in London, but in various parts of the country, as
benefits for poor authors or actors, or for the widows and families of
such; and always they were astonishingly successful. It is reported that
an old stage prompter or property man said one time to Dickens "Lor,
Mr. Dickens! If it hadn't been for them books, what an actor you would
have made."
Naturally, a man of Dickens's eminence had as his friends and
acquaintances many of the foremost men of his time, and a most
affectionate and delightful friend he was. His letters fall no whit
below the best of his writing in his novels in their power of
observation, their brightness, their humorous manner of expression.
In 1849 was begun the publication of _David Copperfield_, Dickens's own
favorite among his novels. It contains, as has already been said, much
that is autobiographical, and one of the most interesting facts in
connection with this phase of it is that there really was, in Dickens's
young days, a "Dora" whom he worshiped. Years later he met her again,
and what his feelings on that occasion must have been may be imagined
when we know that this Dora-grown-older was the original of "Flora" in
_Little Dorrit_.
The things that Dickens, writing constantly and copiously, found time to
do are wonderful. One of the matters in which he took great interest and
an active part was the children's theatricals. These were held each year
during the Christmas holiday season at Dickens's home, and while his
children and their friends were the principal actors, Dickens
superintended the whole, introduced three-quarters of the fun, and
played grown-up parts, adopting as his stage title the "Modern Garrick."
Though the story of these crowded years is quickly told, the years were
far from being uneventful in their passing. Occasional sojourns, either
with his family or with friends, in France and in Italy always made
Dickens but the more glad to be in his beloved London, where he seemed
most in his element and where his genius had freest play. This does not
mean that he did not enjoy France and Italy, or appreciate their
beauties, but simply that he was always an Englishman--a city
Englishman. His observations, however, on what he saw in traveling were
always most acute and entertaining.
His account of his well-nigh unsuccessful attempt to find the house of
Mr. Lowther, English chargé d'affaires at Naples, with whom he had been
invited to dine, may be quoted here to show his power of humorous
description:
"We had an exceedingly pleasant dinner of eight, preparatory to which I
was near having the ridiculous adventure of not being able to find the
house and coming back dinnerless. I went in an open carriage from the
hotel in all state, and the coachman, to my surprise, pulled up at the
end of the Chiaja.
"'Behold the house' says he, 'of Signor Larthoor!'--at the same time
pointing with his whip into the seventh heaven, where the early stars
were shining.
"'But the Signor Larthoor,' returns the Inimitable darling, 'lives at
Pausilippo.'
"'It is true,' says the coachman (still pointing to the evening star),
'but he lives high up the Salita Sant' Antonio, where no carriage ever
yet ascended, and that is the house' (evening star as aforesaid), 'and
one must go on foot. Behold the Salita Sant' Antonio!'
"I went up it, a mile and a half I should think. I got into the
strangest places, among the wildest Neapolitans--kitchens,
washing-places, archways, stables, vineyards--was baited by dogs,
answered in profoundly unintelligible Neapolitan, from behind lonely
locked doors, in cracked female voices, quaking with fear; could hear of
no such Englishman or any Englishman. By-and-by I came upon a
Polenta-shop in the clouds, where an old Frenchman, with an umbrella
like a faded tropical leaf (it had not rained for six weeks) was staring
at nothing at all, with a snuff-box in his hand. To him I appealed
concerning the Signor Larthoor.
"'Sir,' said he, with the sweetest politeness, 'can you speak French?'
"'Sir,' said I, 'a little.'
"'Sir,' said he, 'I presume the Signor Lootheere'--you will observe that
he changed the name according to the custom of his country--'is an
Englishman.'
"I admitted that he was the victim of circumstances and had that
misfortune.
"'Sir,' said he, 'one word more. _Has_ he a servant with a wooden leg?'
"'Great Heaven, sir,' said I, 'how do I know? I should think not, but it
is possible.'
"'It is always,' said the Frenchman, 'possible. Almost all the things of
the world are always possible.'
"'Sir,' said I--you may imagine my condition and dismal sense of my own
absurdity by this time--'that is true.'
"He then took an immense pinch of snuff, wiped the dust off his
umbrella, led me to an arch commanding a wonderful view of the Bay of
Naples, and pointed deep into the earth from which I had mounted.
"'Below there, near the lamp, one finds an Englishman, with a servant
with a wooden leg. It is always possible that he is the Signor
Lootheere.'
"I had been asked at six, and it was now getting on for seven. I went
down again in a state of perspiration and misery not to be described,
and without the faintest hope of finding the place. But as I was going
down to the lamp, I saw the strangest staircase up a dark corner, with a
man in a white waistcoat (evidently hired) standing on the top of it
fuming. I dashed in at a venture, found it was the place, made the most
of the whole story, and was indescribably popular."
"Indescribably popular" Dickens was almost every place he went. And in
1858 there came to him increased popularity by reason of a new venture.
In this year he began his public readings from his own works, which
brought him in immense sums of money. Through England, Scotland, Ireland
and the United States he journeyed, reading, as only he could read,
scenes humorous and pathetic from his great novels, and everywhere the
effect was the same.
Descriptive of an evening at Edinburgh, he wrote: "Such a pouring of
hundreds into a place already full to the throat, such indescribable
confusion, such a rending and tearing of dresses, and yet such a scene
of good humor on the whole!... I read with the platform crammed with
people. I got them to lie down upon it, and it was like some impossible
tableau or gigantic picnic; one pretty girl in full dress hang on her
side all night, holding on to one of the legs of my table. And yet from
the moment I began to the moment of my leaving off, they never missed a
point, and they ended with a burst of cheers."
Meanwhile Dickens's domestic life had not been happy. He and his wife
were not entirely congenial in temper, and the incompatibility increased
with the years, until in 1858 they agreed to live apart. Most of the
children remained with their father, although they were given perfect
freedom to visit their mother.
Among Dickens's later novels are the _Tale of Two Cities_, _Great
Expectations_, which is one of his very best books, and _Our Mutual
Friend_, which, while as a story it has many faults, yet abounds with
the humor and fancy which are characteristic of Dickens. In October,
1869, was begun _Edwin Drood_, which was published like most of its
predecessors, as a serial. Six numbers appeared, and there the story
closed; for on June 9, 1870, Charles Dickens died, after an illness of
but one day, during all of which he was unconscious.
His family desired to have him buried near his home, the Gad's Hill
which he had admired from his childhood and had purchased in his
manhood; but the general wish was that he should be laid in Westminster
Abbey, and to this wish his family felt that it would be wrong to
object. For days there were crowds of mourners about the grave, shedding
tears, scattering flowers, testifying to the depth of affection they had
felt for the man who had given them so many happy hours.