ROCKINGHAM CASTLE—CHARLES DICKENS.
The autumn of 1850 marks, indeed, a memorable era in my heart’s
calendar, for it was then I spoke for the first time with Charles
Dickens. He had been my familiar friend, as a writer, for years—since
his publication of “Sketches by Boz”—but the day that my conquest was
complete was while on a visit to Burghley. My brother Cavendish had
secured an odd number of “Pickwick,” and coming up to my favourite
little room (“Queen Elizabeth’s China Closet”), he told me he had a
treat in store for me, and then and there read aloud to my enraptured
ears a scene where the runaway couple were tracked through the medium of
“Sam Weller,” who, in his capacity of “Boots” at the hotel, had blacked
Mr Jingle’s Wellingtons and Miss Wardle’s shoes in No. 17. How we
laughed! How many interruptions were caused by our frequent shouts!
Suffice it to say that from that day forward no page of our beloved
author was left unread by either brother or sister, though the time was
far distant ere he became the fast friend of both.
Mrs Watson,[50] one of my dear, though not very near, cousins, had
married the possessor of the grand old castle of Rockingham, situated on
one of the few eminences which are to be found in Northamptonshire, the
Midlandest of England’s counties. That stately old building had
originally been a Royal hunting-lodge, and a surrounding domain, still
diversified and picturesque in the extreme, had once been forest-land.
Some portion of the house itself was of very early date, and the grand
entrance, or gate-house, consisting of two massive circular towers,
dated as far back as the reign of Stephen.
Footnote 50:
Lavinia, daughter of Lord George Quin by Lady Georgiana Spencer;
married Hon. Richard Watson, fourth son of second Lord Sondes.
The interior of Rockingham, the large entrance hall, the gallery and the
dining-room, in particular, were especially remarkable for their
old-world appearance. In the first of these apartments I loved to read
the inscription on the beams of the ceiling—
“Thys House shall be preserved and never shall decaye
While Almighty God is honoured and served daye by daye”—
while the dining-room, with its oak-panelled walls, decorated with
innumerable shields of relations and neighbours, blazoned in proper
heraldic colours, has a lasting claim on my memory as the scene of our
dramatic performances.
The “Chatelaine,” to whom I have already alluded, was a daughter of Lord
George Quin, with whom I claim cousinship, as her mother was a Spencer.
The master of Rockingham was the brother of Lord Sondes, who changed his
patronymic of Milles for the name of Watson, on succeeding to the
Northamptonshire estate. At Lausanne they had made the acquaintance of
the Charles Dickens’ family, and, knowing how devout a hero-worshipper I
was, had promised to include me among their invitations the next time
that “Boz” became their guest. So one day, to my great delight, I
received a letter from Mrs Watson, begging me to come down by rail on a
certain day, and to look out at Euston for the Dickens family, who would
be my fellow-travellers. Either they were too early, or I was late, and
to my great disappointment I missed the pleasure of their company for
many stations.
[Sidenote: FIRST MEETING WITH DICKENS]
I believe I had proceeded as far as Wolverton, when the guard (who, by
the way, was a friend of mine) threw open the door, with the air of a
Master of the Ceremonies, and said to me: “This is Mr Charles Dickens,
who is enquiring for Miss Boyle!” A hand was held out to help me from
the carriage, a hand that for twenty successive years was ever held out
to help me in joy or sorrow, that was ever ready to grasp mine in tender
friendship or cordial companionship, and whose pressure still thrills my
memory. I got into the carriage whence he had descended, where I found
his wife and her sister, Georgina Hogarth—alas! the only one of the
three who will read this record of our first meeting, and of those
delightful days which I passed at Rockingham, in London, and at Gad’s
Hill, in the company of one whose loss we still devoutly mourn—having
the chief part of the whole civilised world to share our grief.
It was difficult for two such lovers of the Drama as Charles Dickens and
myself to meet under the same roof, without some dramatic plotting; and
so, during that visit, we trod for the first time the same boards
together in a hastily-concocted scene from “Nicholas Nickleby”—that in
which the mad neighbour, from the top of the garden wall, makes a
passionate declaration to Mrs Nickleby. My shabby-genteel costume, with
the widow’s cap of the period, attracted universal admiration from its
appropriate fitness, while the amorous outbursts of my adorer were given
in a manner worthy of the actor-author.
How well I remember going into a cheap shop in Oxford Street to buy that
identical widow’s cap, of the close, stiff form then in vogue, and
purposely selecting one of the commonest, I enquired the price.
“Tenpence,” said the man, with a tinge of indignation in his tone, which
conveyed an undoubted reproach. “I think, ma’am,” he said, “that if you
are going to make a present of the cap, we have some at eighteenpence
that will be more suitable.” I so entirely sympathised with his view of
the case, or should have done so in ordinary circumstances, that I
condescended to explain my professional reasons for selecting so common
an article.
This short and impromptu entertainment was only the prelude to
theatrical performances on a larger and grander scale.
I may truly say, and I think be forgiven for so saying that the 20th of
September, 1850, was a very proud day in my small annals. The morning’s
post brought me the subjoined letter from the great novelist of the
day:—
“Sir E. Bulwer Lytton presents his compliments to Miss Boyle,
and hears with great delight from Mr Dickens, that she is kind
enough to take a part in the Theatricals at Knebworth, which it
is at present proposed should take place October 30th.
“Sir Edward therefore requests to know on what previous day he
may calculate on the honour of receiving Miss Boyle’s obliging
visit.
“KNEBWORTH, STEVENAGE,
“HERTS, _16th September 1850_.”
[Sidenote: A FLATTERING PROPOSAL]
It was not till after the death of my beloved friend Charles Dickens
that I became aware, through the publication of his letters, that it was
at his suggestion Sir Edward had made this flattering proposal. In a
letter from Broadstairs to Knebworth, he speaks of me in these terms:
“Do you know Mary Boyle, daughter of the old Admiral?—because
she is the very best actress I ever saw off the stage, and
immeasurably better than a great many I have seen on it. I have
acted with her in a country house in Northamptonshire, and am
going to do so again next November. If you know her, I think she
would be more than pleased to play, and by giving her something
good in a farce, we could get her to do “Mrs Kitely.” In that
case, my little sister-in-law would ‘go on’ for the second lady,
and you could do without actresses, besides giving the thing a
particular grace and interest. If we could get Mary Boyle, we
would do _Used Up_, which is a delightful piece, as the farce.
But maybe you know nothing about the said Mary, and in that
case, I should like to know what you would think of doing.”
These negotiations resulted in the engagement, which I gladly accepted,
to go down to Knebworth and tread the same stage with such distinguished
writers as “Boz” himself, John Forster, Mark Lemon (the editor of
_Punch_), Douglas Jerrold, and such well-known artists as Frank Stone,
John Leech, and Augustus Egg; while for my _confidante_ and companion I
was promised the society of dear Georgina Hogarth. I was in the seventh
heaven, for, as I have always said, theatrical business was the only
business I liked, theatrical properties the only property I possessed.
Then the interesting correspondence with the manager, the only despot I
ever tolerated, the meetings for rehearsal, the conferences on the
costume. I found myself indeed in my real element, but—when are there no
buts to any bright prospects?—all of a sudden the conviction forced
itself upon me that so great a delight was not in store, that some
sorrow or mishap, or unforeseen obstacle, was hanging over my head, to
prevent the consummation of this cherished scheme.
I have often had presentiments, and they have usually been realised; but
this was more than a presentiment: it was a certainty that interfered
with all my preparations, surrounding them with a feeling of
apprehension. I gave orders for the making of the costume, which I was
convinced I should never wear; I set myself drearily to learn the part
of “Dame Kitely,” which I _knew_ I was never destined to recite. My
foreboding was but too sadly fulfilled. My sister-in-law came into the
room one day and broke to me as tenderly as possible the death, in
circumstances of a most distressing nature, of that dear and beautiful
friend to whom I have alluded by the name of Fanny. If any words could
have afforded me consolation at so terrible a moment, they would have
been such tender and sympathetic lines as those which I received from
the kind manager of our company, when he said:
[Sidenote: LETTER FROM CHARLES DICKENS]
“We are all extremely concerned and distressed to lose you, but
we feel that it cannot be otherwise, and we do not in our own
expectation of amusement, forget the sad cause of your absence.
Bulwer was here yesterday, and if I were to tell you how
earnestly he and all the other friends whom you don’t know have
looked forward to the projected association with you, and in
what a friendly spirit they all express their disappointment,
you would be quite moved by it, I think.”
In November, 1851, Charles Dickens and his family went to live in
Tavistock House, Tavistock Square, where they remained until the year
1857. The very sound of the name is replete to me with memories of
innumerable evenings passed in the most congenial and delightful
intercourse; dinners, where the guests vied with each other in brilliant
conversation, whether intellectual, witty, or sparkling—evenings devoted
to music or theatricals. First and foremost of that magic circle was the
host himself, always “one of us,” who invariably drew out what was best
and most characteristic in others, who used the monosyllable “we” much
more frequently than that of “I,” and who made use of his superiority to
charm and quicken the society around him, but never to crush or
overpower it with a sense of their inferiority. The most diffident girl
was encouraged to express her modest opinion to the great man, and in
him the youngest child ever found a ready play-fellow.
I can never forget one evening, shortly after the arrival at Tavistock
House, when we danced in the New Year. It seemed like a page cut out of
the “Christmas Carol,” as far, at least, as fun and frolic went:
authors, actors, friends from near and far, formed the avenues of two
long English country dances, in one of which I had the honour of going
up and down the middle, almost “interminably” as it seemed, with Charles
Dickens for my partner.
The Keeleys were there, husband and wife, the former declining to dance;
but when Sir Roger de Coverley struck up, he was loudly called upon to
do so, and a vehement dispute began between the two sets, which should
secure him in their ranks. That inimitable comedian showed so much fun
in the apparent hesitation of his choice as to elicit roars of laughter,
which were followed by thunders of applause, when the winning side
claimed Keeley as their own.
In those days, before the guests went into dinner at Tavistock House,
the children of the family were admitted into the drawing-room, and
seldom have I seen more lovely boys, or sweeter or more graceful little
girls; and it is still a pleasure to me to talk over that happy past
with Kate Perugini and her sister, with Harry Dickens and his pretty
wife, who venerates the memory of the father-in-law she never knew, and
brings up her beautiful children to do the same.
In 1853, the Dickens family were settled at Boulogne-sur-Mer, having
rented a charming house on the hill just outside the town, called Villa
des Moulineaux, which name it derived from some neighbouring
water-mills. It was well situated, and the house, which you approached
through (I might almost say) an avenue of splendid hollyhocks, was built
against the side of the hill, so that you reached the _rez-de-chaussée_
by a flight of steps, and stepped out of the top floor into a
garden-path. It commanded an extensive view of Boulogne, old and new,
and its picturesque harbour, while on the heights the Napoleon Column
was visible, which commemmorated Napoleon the First’s intended invasion
of England.
[Sidenote: DOUGLAS JERROLD]
Charles Dickens in his invitation that I should come and visit him for
some weeks, provided me with an escort, in the person of the late Mr
Peter Cunningham, the agreeable editor of Horace Walpole’s
correspondence, and in his company I performed the voyage. Many and
pleasant were my fellow-guests in that happy summer. Douglas Jerrold,
with his flow of conversation, which elicited so rich a return in that
of his host; if I might make use of a homely simile, I would say, that
brace of talkers reminded me of Bryant & May’s matches “on a superior
scale.” It was here also I learned to know and value Wilkie Collins, the
popular writer of fiction.
Charles Dickens was an indefatigable pedestrian, and took most extensive
walks in the neighbourhood, and it was amusing to find that the friends
who on the first days after their arrival gladly agreed to accompany
him, mostly slackened by degrees in their readiness to do so, and had
such urgent demands for correspondence or literary work as to detain
them at home. He was thus often reduced to the society of his
sister-in-law and myself, who, from so constantly sharing in his walks,
had got into excellent condition.
During the time I was at Boulogne there was a fair, and a camp, and a
theatre, and many minor excitements, but these halycon days were
suddenly clouded over by the outbreak of that dreadful epidemic,
diphtheria, which was at first called the “Boulogne sore-throat.” It
caused a panic in our little household; mother and children were shipped
off at a moment’s notice, and the rest quickly followed, with no small
regret at the breaking up of so good a time.
It was in the year 1857 that Charles Dickens took possession of the
little house of Gad’s Hill, within a walk of Rochester. I thought the
dwelling characteristic of the man, for it was situated on the high
road, frequented by all sorts and conditions of men—the tramp and
vagrant in their tatters, the well-dressed and joyous holiday-makers,
emigrants travelling to the sea-coast, military men changing quarters,
pedestrians, equestrians. From the opposite garden of the wayside inn,
which bore the traditional sign of the “Falstaff,” came the sound of the
bowling of skittles, with an old-fashioned ring in its merriment. The
smooth lawn with its flower-beds, the hay-fields beyond, and the
beautiful woods of Cobham Park in the distance, represented to my fancy
the tenderness of Charles Dickens’ sentiment, and the freshness and the
delicacy of his imagination.
[Illustration:
GAD’S HILL.
]
[Sidenote: GAD’S HILL]
Many were the summer days I passed under the roof of that little
dwelling, many the hours I sat with Georgina Hogarth in the garden, or
in one of the glades of a small wood which, in the sweet season, formed
a charming resting-place, all hung with garlands of eglantine, with long
strings of blue convolvulus, and the sweet-scented honeysuckle. These
were the hours during which “Boz” was left to his work, in what I called
his “lair,” for few of us would have risked disturbing him, when he had
taken up his position for the morning’s labour, in the _châlet_, which
his friend Fechter, the tragedian, had brought him from Paris. In the
setting-up of the said _châlet_, after the manner of a child’s
architectural toy, Charles had found the greatest amusement, for he was
indeed one of those who find
“A child’s keen delight in little things,”
and the hanging of his pictures, the arranging his furniture, the
annexation of a tiny conservatory, and the construction of an
underground tunnel, which connected the area round the house with a
small plantation of lofty cedars, under the shade of which he had
erected his _châlet_, were all sources to him of intense interest.
In the afternoon he sought relaxation, and then the other inmates of the
house came in for their share of his enviable society, and the
basket-carriage was brought to the door, drawn by the “sober Newman
Noggs,” the harness adorned with musical bells, which his friend Mr
Lehmann had brought him from Norway, and we would take long drives all
around this picturesque neighbourhood. Sometimes we would alight at a
distant point, to return home on foot; sometimes we would wend our way
through green hop-gardens on one side, and golden cornfields on the
other for a distance of many miles; yet we were never wearied. I
remember once Georgina Hogarth and I had accompanied him to a new spot
of interest which he had lately discovered. He walked at his usual
swinging rate, and we had proudly kept up with him. Only five minutes
had been allowed for refreshment, as he called it, otherwise rest,
between reaching the goal and arriving at home. How pleased his
fellow-pedestrians were to receive the following tribute: “Well
done!—ten miles in two hours and a half!” I sit in my armchair now, and
look back on that feat as almost miraculous.
Charles Dickens, himself a hero, was a hero-worshipper, and in all of my
experience I never knew a man so utterly exempt from the slightest tinge
of professional jealousy.
One day I went with his two daughters, Mary and Katie (Mrs Charles
Collins, who, with her husband, spent most of the summer under the
paternal roof) and their aunt to meet him at the station. Lifting up the
hand-bag which he always carried, he exclaimed: “Here, girls, I have a
treat for you—Tennyson’s magnificent poem of ‘The Idylls of the King.’
Is it not glorious to think, that after having written for so many
years, a man should now bring forth, perhaps, the noblest of his works.”
What enchanting hours of summer sunshine were passed in reading for the
first time those magical pages, which since that moment have been pored
over and conned to my heart’s content.
Among our visitors at Gad’s Hill were Fechter, the distinguished actor,
Edmund Yates, Marcus Stone, and many others. I mention these three names
in conjunction, for a special reason. Fechter, for whose talent I had an
unbounded admiration, rather disappointed me as a companion. He had a
limited scope in conversation, but as a mimic, he was unrivalled. It was
not only that with the exact tone and inflexion of voice he assumed the
gait and gesture, but he actually brought his features into so close a
resemblance with the original he intended to copy, that when he walked
into the room and advanced to greet me, I never failed to say, “How do
you do, Mr Yates?” “I am glad to see you, Marcus,” and so on to others
of my acquaintance.
[Sidenote: “MICKETTY” AND “VENERABLE”]
Charles Dickens, junior, had married early in life, what one might well
call a juvenile bride, and their two eldest children, Charles the third,
and his sister, who went by the pet name of “Micketty” in the family,
often came down for fresh air to their grandfather’s country house.
“Micketty” always called him “Venerable,” and one day she made me laugh
heartily, when, coming into the little study, she found me busy at the
book-shelves.
“Oh, Miss Boyle,” she said confidentially, “you take care; if
‘Venerable’ sees you at his books, you’ll catch it”—and verily, if that
had been true, I should often have “caught it,” for I was “always at his
books.”
Another time she was talking to her aunt and myself about what she
intended to do when she grew up, “For then you know, of course, poor
mamma will be dead.” Now her hearers did not see any reason to fear such
a contingency, for she was one of the youngest mothers we knew, and we
told her daughter so, but she would not be convinced, saying, “Oh, no!
she’s very old indeed; do remember how long I have had her.”
But I must pause in recalling these trifling anecdotes, which naturally
recur to my mind as I indite these family records.
In November, 1868, a terrible blow awaited me in the death of my beloved
brother, Cavendish, after two days’ illness. Between him and Charles
Dickens there existed a close and tender friendship, and the letter of
condolence I received from Gad’s Hill on that occasion touched me
deeply, and all the more that it spoke in high terms of him whose loss
had plunged me into such poignant grief. But all Charles Dickens’
letters which he addressed to mourners were remarkable for the delicate
manner in which he expressed his sympathy, being free from the usually
conventional and matter-of-fact manner of offering consolation. The two
friends were shortly to be re-united.
The year following my brother’s death, I went to Rome for the winter,
and on my return to England I visited Charles Dickens in London. It was
in the evening, and he was just going out to dinner at Lord Houghton’s.
He said he did not feel very well and would gladly have sent an excuse,
but his old friend Milnes had made him promise to meet the Prince of
Wales. “Have you seen Lord Clarendon,” he said, “since you came back to
England? I never saw any one look so ill, he is quite changed.”
I had not seen him, but told him I was engaged to luncheon with Lord and
Lady Clarendon the next day. He bade me good-night, assured me he
counted on seeing me very soon at “Gads,” and the door closed behind
him. The following afternoon I realised the truth of what he had said of
Lord Clarendon’s ill-looks—and that day fortnight both those great and
good men, and dear friends of mine, had passed away, leaving me, as well
as the world, impoverished by their loss.
[Sidenote: DEATH OF CHARLES DICKENS]
On the 9th June, 1870, I had been attending the marriage of my little
favourite, Florence, Lady Hastings, with Sir George Chetwynd. It was a
pretty wedding and gay scene, and the bride, who always “looks lovely”
in the newspapers, on this occasion truly merited the epithet. I came
home, and on my table lay the fatal letter, announcing that Charles
Dickens had had a stroke of paralysis, and little hopes were entertained
of his recovery. I lost no time in changing my wedding garment, and
dashing off for Charing Cross, took the rail for Gravesend, and drove in
a fly to the scene of so many past delights, my heart beating with fear
all the way I went.
I had for my companion, my trusty and attached maid, Louisa Simons, who
loved Gad’s Hill and its owners almost as much as I did, and her society
and sympathy upheld me in my suspense.
I got down at the door of the stable-yard, and crawling rather than
walking across the yard, where the two faithful dogs knew and greeted
me, and passing through a little well-known side gate, gained the
entrance, and flung myself down, half-fainting, on a seat, in that spot
hallowed by the remembrance of so many happy summer evenings. The door
was open, but I did not dare enter, or ring, or move, lest I should
break the silence which was profound, save, indeed, for the voices of
the choirs of birds, who were singing his requiem in the garden he
loved.
A short time passed, when his eldest son Charles came into the porch to
breathe the fresh air for a few moments, and I think he was touched with
my deep distress, and my participation in his own grief. He led me into
the little study and brought his aunt to speak to me. It was a comfort
to be clasped for an instant in her arms, but my place was no longer
there, and I left the little house for ever.
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