At last, one day, my father and the relative so often mentioned
quarrelled; quarrelled by letter, for I took the letter from my father
to him which caused the explosion, but quarrelled very fiercely. It
was about me. It may have had some backward reference, in part, for
anything I know, to my employment at the window. All I am certain of
is that, soon after I had given him the letter, my cousin (he was a
sort of cousin by marriage) told me he was very much insulted about me;
and that it was impossible to keep me after that. I cried very much,
partly because it was so sudden, and partly because in his anger he was
violent about my father, though gentle to me. Thomas, the old soldier,
comforted me, and said he was sure it was for the best. With a relief
so strange that it was like oppression, I went home.
My mother set herself to accommodate the quarrel, and did so next day.
She brought home a request for me to return next morning, and a high
character of me, which I am very sure I deserved. My father said I
should go back no more, and should go to school. I do not write
resentfully or angrily, for I know how all these things have worked
together to make me what I am, but I never afterward forgot, I never
shall forget, I never can forget, that my mother was warm for my being
sent back.
From that hour until this at which I write no word of that part of my
childhood, which I have now gladly brought to a close, has passed my
lips to any human being. I have no idea how long it lasted; whether
for a year, or much more, or less. From that hour until this, my
father and my mother have been stricken dumb upon it. I have never
heard the least allusion to it, however far off and remote, from either
of them. I have never, until I now impart it to this paper, in any
burst of confidence with any one, my own wife not excepted, raised the
curtain I then dropped, thank God.
Dickens sent the following sketch of his early career to Wilkie
Collins. It will be noted that he omits all reference to his
experiences in the blacking factory. The _naïve_ touches of
self-appreciation are delightful to the true lover of "The Inimitable."
TAVISTOCK HOUSE, June 6, 1856.
I have never seen anything about myself in print which has much
correctness in it--any biographical account of myself I mean. I do not
supply such particulars when I am asked for them by editors and
compilers, simply because I am asked for them every day. If you want
to prime Forgues, you may tell him, without fear of anything wrong,
that I was born at Portsmouth on the 7th of February, 1812; that my
father was in the Navy Pay Office; that I was taken by him to Chatham
when I was very young, and lived and was educated there till I was
twelve or thirteen, I suppose; that I was then put to a school near
London, where (as at other places) I distinguished myself like a brick;
that I was put in the office of a solicitor, a friend of my father's,
and didn't much like it; and after a couple of years (as well as I can
remember) applied myself with a celestial or diabolical energy to the
study of such things as would qualify me to be a first-rate
parliamentary reporter--at that time a calling pursued by many clever
men who were young at the Bar; that I made my debut in the gallery (at
about eighteen, I suppose), engaged on a voluminous publication no
longer in existence, called the _Mirror of Parliament_; that when the
_Morning Chronicle_ was purchased by Sir John Easthope and acquired a
large circulation, I was engaged there, and that I remained there until
I had begun to publish "Pickwick," when I found myself in a condition
to relinquish that part of my labours; that I left the reputation
behind me of being the best and most rapid reporter ever known, and
that I could do anything in that way under any sort of circumstances,
and often did. (I daresay I am at this present writing the best
shorthand writer in the world.)
That I began, without any interest or introduction of any kind, to
write fugitive pieces for the old _Monthly Magazine_, when I was in the
gallery for the _Mirror of Parliament_; that my faculty for descriptive
writing was seized upon the moment I joined the _Morning Chronicle_,
and that I was liberally paid there and handsomely acknowledged, and
wrote the greater part of the short descriptive "Sketches by Boz" in
that paper; that I had been a writer when I was a mere baby, and always
an actor from the same age; that I married the daughter of a writer to
the signet in Edinburgh, who was the great friend and assistant of
Scott, and who first made Lockhart known to him.
And that here I am.
Finally, if you want any dates of publication of books, tell Wills and
he'll get them for you.
This is the first time I ever set down even these particulars, and,
glancing them over, I feel like a wild beast in a caravan describing
himself in the keeper's absence.
Ever faithfully.
The following letter, criticising the work of an inexperienced author,
is valuable in itself, and reveals clearly the essential kindliness of
the man.
OFFICE OF HOUSEHOLD WORDS,
Monday, June 1, 1857.