k n B BPuTJ-Ssell PuKLisKei'. THE LIFE AND WRITINGS CHARLES DICKENS % WiommB |it^m0rial Bahmt. BY M PHEBE A^. HANAFORD, AUTHOR OF " LITE OF PEABODY," " LIFE OF LINCOLN," ETC, 310 I have always striven in my writings to express veneration for the life and lessons of our Saviour; because I feel it." — Charles Dickens. / BOSTON : PUBLISHED BY B. B. RUSSELL, 55 CORNHILL. SAN FRANCISCO: A. L. BANCROFT & CO. TORONTO, ONT.: A. H. HOVEY. 1871. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, By PHEBE a. HANAFORD, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. BOSTON : STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY RAND, AVERY, & FRYH. '\ i 4 SX- To THE WOMEN OF AMERICA, Cfjis Folumc, WHICH CONTAINS A RECORD OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF WITH TENDER AND TOUCHING PASSAGES FROM HIS WORKS, WHICH ARE CALCULATED TO AWAKEN PURE AND SACRED EMOTIONS IN THE HEARTS OF ALL WHO PERUSE THEM, IS J\rOlV INSCRIBED, PEEFAOE. r^HARLES DICKENS was a popular writer. "The common ^-^ people heard him gladly," and read his books with an avidity which showed that he reached the heart with his graphic and sympa- thizing pen. His genius was evident to all classes of readers ; and edi- tions of his attractive novels have been so multiplied and so varied, that they are found in the houses of the lofty and the lowly. The Queen of England gives his admirable creations place in her private library ; and the humble cottager on her broad lands prizes also his copy of " Nicholas Nickleby " and " Oliver Twist ; " and both read his books with a zest which shows that the genius of the writer claimed the admiration of the reader, and his tender sympathy with lowly worth touched answering chords in many a humari heart. This world-wide interest in the works of Dickens has induced the publication, in many forms, of his books, and, now that he has passed from earth, will induce the publication of many sketches of his life, more or less exhaustive. On the shelves of booksellers, on both sides the Atlantic, will soon be seen biographies, sketches, and other memo- rial volumes, giving some picture, more or less distinct, of the earthly career of this prince among novelists. This volume is one of the many. It is not pretended that it is exhaustive : it is not designed to be such. Across the broad waters,- among his own immediate friends, perhaps in his own family circle, will be found a biographer wholly prepared to do full justice to the man 6 6 PREFACE. and the author. Meanwhile, his admirers this side the Atlantic, speaking the language whose literature he has helped to enrich, will render loving tribute to his genius, and a grateful acknowledgment of the pleasure experienced in perusing his masterly creations, by publishing various volumes in his memory, briefly sketching his life, and pointing out some of the most beautiful and excellent passages in his numerous books. This is what is attempted here. Women have greatly enjoyed his writings. They have wept over little Nell, and Paul Dombey, and poor Joe ; they have laughed over the inimitable wit which flashed along the pages of Pickwick and others of his works ; and so it is but right and proper that they should have their memorial volumes. The simple claim which this book urges is, that it belongs to that class, and is issued with the hope that women will enjoy it, and be benefited by its perusal ; being at least lifted into closer sympathy with one who saw the pathetic and the ridiculous very clearly, and used his power to depict both for the benefit of humanity at large, and the poorer classes in particu- lar. Some writers see, to use Shakspeare's familiar words, — " Tongues in the trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." And Charles Dickens saw in rich and poor, in high and low, in Eng- lishman and American, in men and women, in boys and girls, some- thing which his unique pen could portray for the advantage of his readers. Such an individual, faulty as he is sometimes confessed to be both as a man and a writer, should be prized in a nation. His death is a calamity to his readers, and a loss to the literature of his age ; and with this sentiment prominent in the writer's heart i 3 prepared this Memorial. ^^ P. A. H. New Haven, Conn. CONTENTS. PAOK. Preface • • • . . 6 CHAPTER I. EARLY LIFE. Birthplace. — Youthful Labors. — The Attorney's Clerk.— Finding his Place.— Beginnings. — The Young Reporter 9 CHAPTER II. ADVANCING. Steadily On. — Sketches by Boz. — Wine-drinking Countries. — Our Next-door Neighbors. — The Drunkard's G-rave. — Sporting Papers . . . .14 CHAPTER III. CLIMBING THE LADDER. Willis's Description of Dickens. — His Inimitable Humor. — Emerson's Criticism. — Hugh Miller's Opinion. — London Review. — Pickwick Pa- pers. — Sam Weller's Valentine. — The Ivy Green. — Death in the Prison, 46 CHAPTER IV. FAMOUS. The Novelist. — E. P. Whipple's Testimony,- Oliver Twist. — Asking for More, — Pauperism in England. — Nancy Sykes. — Jew Fagin ... 71 CHAPTER V. ONE OF HIS BEST. Nicholas Nickleby, — Opinion of "The Methodist." — Thackeray's. — The Squeers School. — Henry Ward Beecher's Testimony , . . . 109 CHAPTER VI. OTHER NOVELS. Master Humph rey's Clock .— London Years Ago . — Country Picture . — Barnaby Rudge. — Old Curiosity Shop. — Death of Little Nell. — Mr. Dickens's Speech. — Funeral of Little Nell. — Landor's Testimony. — Child-Pictures from Dickens, — Memoirs of Grimaldi 141 CHAPTER Vn. FIRST VISIT TO THE UNITED STATES. Testimony of the New -York Tribune. — American Notes for General Circulatio^^ Wholesome Truths for a Nation. — Slavery. — Bad Man- ners, — AUeghanies, — Niagara 175 CHAPTER Vni, CHRISTMAS CAROLS. Martin Chuzzlewit, — Pictures from Italy. — First Carol. — Tiny Tim. — The Chimes. — Cricket on the Hearth , . 208 CONTENTS. CHAPTER IX. WHAT ARE THE AVILD WAVES SAYING ? The Daily News. — Dombey and Son. — Death of Littlo Paul . . . .290 CHAPTER X. HIS MASTERPIECE. The Reality of Fiction . — David Copper field. — Opinion of Fraser's Magazine. — The Shipwreck. — Ui'iah lleep. — Little Em'ly. — A Lone, Lorn Creetur . 307 CHAPTER Xr. RETURNS TO HIS EARLV PRACTICE. Bleak House. — Death of Poor Jo. — Uncommercial Traveller .... 319 CHAPTER Xn. EATER WORKS. LitlleDorritt. — Hard Times. — Dr. Marigold 324 CHAPTER XIU. AS AN EDITOR. Household Words. — All the Year Round. — Great Expectations. — Tale of Two Cities ^ • . . 328 CHAPTER XIV. AMERICAN POPULARITV. The Diamond Edition. — Portraits of Mr. Dickeas. — Our Mutual Friend . . 335 CHAPTKR XV. SECOND VISIT TO AMERICA. Dickens as a Reader and Actor. — His First Appearance in Boston. — His Last Reading in Boston 340 CHAPTER XVI. DICKENS AT HOME. His Domestic Relations. — Gad's Hill. — Shakspeare's Mention of it . . . 353 CHAPTER XVH. THE UNFINISHED STORY. Mystery of Edwin Drood. — Sudden Illness. —Death ...... 368 CHAPTER XVIII. liAST WORDS. Last Letters of Mr. Dickens. — The Queen's Sorrow. — A Nation mourns. — The Funeral of the Great Novelist 377 CHAPTER XIX. ajierica's sympathy. How the News of Mr. Dickens's Death was received. — Henry Ward Beecher's Sermon. — The Voice of the Press 386 CHAPTER XX. the influence OF CHARLES DICKENS. Sympathy for the Poor. — Love for the Young. — The Golden Rule . . .395 LIFE AND WEITINGS CHARLES DICKENS. CHAPTER I. EARLY LIFE. Birthplace. — Youthful Labors. — The Attorney's Clerk. — Finding his Place. — Be- ginnings. — The Young Reporter. " There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will." Hamlet. " There is a spirit in men, and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth them under- Btanding." — Job xxx. ii. 8. CROSS the broad waters to the daiiohter- land has been borne once more the tidinofs of a sudden and lamented departure ; and the two nations that have so lately united in sympathy and in posthumous honor to a great philanthropist now mourn unitedly the loss of a gi'cat novelist. George Peabody and Charles Dickens are honored on both sides the Atlantic, and wherever else their native tongue is spoken, or the value of a 10 LIFE AND WKITINGS OF benevolent heart or a genius for story-telling is known. The departure of Charles Dickens at least has awa- kened sad emotions in many hearts. Well does " The Independent " call it ''The General Sorrow," and go on to say, — "It makes our hand quiver to write the obituary of Charles Dickens. Death jarred two nations when it struck this man. What reader did not claim this author for a friend ? Which of his critics was not also his lover? Both in Encrland and America, there are multitudes of men, women, and children, who, as long as they live, will remember exactly where they were, what they were doing, and what hour of the clock it was, when they heard the sudden announcement that Charles Dickens was no more. The telegraph that car- ried the news of his fatal illness flew in one sad moment round the whole earth, to spread a shadow on all Eng- lish-speaking lands. The first answering voice of the American press acknowledged that the mournful mes- saore was the saddest which the Atlantic cable had ever conducted to our coasts. Almost everybody whom we have met since Friday morning has seemed bearing in his hands a chaplet for the dead man's bier. No other author ever came so near as Dickens to the hearts of the million ; and his death has been like the opening of a grave at their very feet. A hundred pens, in writing their first notice of the event, spontaneously said (and moro truly than Dr. Johnson said of the death of Gar- CHARLES DICKENS. 11 rick) that it ' eclipsed the gayety of nations.' There have been many greater men in literature than Dick- ens, but none who were ever so universally loved and mourned. To be loved in life, and mourned in death ! What better fortune can the earth afford to any one who lives or dies ? This is the most successful of all success. Charles Dickens achieved it. " What manner of man, therefore, must he have been ? Of what fibre was his genius made ? He was the John Bunyan of the secular world. He was the unpriestly preacher to the wayside multitude, rebuking them for their follies, vices, and deceits. His novels are little gospels of charity and good- will to all mankind. And great was his reward. ' The common people heard him gladly.' To ^vin the world's ear is a nobler victory than to win a nation's throne. He was a British subject whose empire was wider than a British sovereign's. He knocked at the common heart of the Anglo-Saxon race, opened it like a gate, entered in, took possession, and will not go hence even to his burial, but will there re- main affectionately enshrined for years to come." The many thousands who have read the incompara- ble works of Charles Dickens's ready pen, while mourn- ing over the fact that his farewell readings in England were indeed as a farewell to all the earth, are eager to read any memorial sketch of their favorite novehst ; and to them, at least, it will be of interest to know that he was born at Landport, Portsmouth, England, in the year 12 LIFE AND WniTIXGS OP of the second war between England and America, 1812. His father's name was John Dickens, and he held a position in the Navy Pay Dej)artment. At the close of the war with the United States, Mr. Dickens removed to London, having received a pension upon retiring. He there became connected with one of the daity jour- nals as* reporter of parliamentary debate^. As time rolled on, his son Charles became of years sufficient to justify him in marking out a path in life for him ; and he chose that of the law, and placed Charles in an at- torney's, office as clerk. But the study of law was dis- tasteful to the youthful genius, whose talents for writ- ing were early evident. Literary occupations were his delight ; and, though he was a diligent student, it Avas human nature and human life that he preferred to study, and then depict with his glowing pen. He was not the first, by any means, to whose young mind the occupation chosen by a parent Avas utterly devoid of attraction. The attorney's clerk only found his place when he left off poring over " Blackstone," " Coke upon Littleton," and kindred volumes, weighty with legal lore, and be- gan to picture those scenes which live in the reader's memory forever. God called him to be a Avriter ; andj until he found his place, he was not content. Yet he did not commence at once to write novels, and to display his marvellous power in delineating char- acter, and creating personages in literature that will CHARLES DICKENS. 13 never die. He began, as many a bright star in the lit- erary firmament has begun, by shining first with the occasional beams of a newspaper contributor. He be- came connected with " The Morning Chronicle," as a reporter. This was a newspaper of great popularity, under the management of Mr. John Black, who saw at once the ability of the young reporter, and gave him ample opportunity to display his talent for making word pictures, and for calling forth both tears and smiles, by publishing in his paper the " Sketches of English Life and Character;" which were collected and reprinted under the title of '' Sketches by Boz," in 1836 and 183T. "Boz " was his signature in '' The Morning Chronicle ;" and he gave, as the reason for his use of it, that it " was the nickname of a pet child, — a younger brother, — whom I had dubbed Moses, in honor of the ' Vicar of Wakefield,' which, being facetiously pronounced through the nose, became Bases, and, being shortened, Boz,^ Boz was a very familiar household word to me long before I was an author, and so I came to adopt it." This begin- ning of his true work showed both the writer and his readers that English literature could claim as a chai'm- ing story-writer young Charles Dickens. CHAPTER II. A.DVANCING. Steadily On.— Sketches by Boz. — Wine-drinking Countries. — Our Next-door Neighbors. — The Drunkard's Grave. — Sporting Papers. " Though a pledge I had to shiver, And the longest ever was, Ere his vessel leaves our river, I AVould drink a health to Boz." Hood. " The pen of a ready writer." Psalm xlv. 1. S already intimated, Charles Dickens was persevering, and kept steadily on in the path of literature, which to him was most alluring. He held ''the pen of a ready writer ; " and he was disposed to use it in the interests of morality and good order. He showed, in the " Sketches by Boz," a faculty of illustration which marked him as one who must be successful. The pathos and humor which blended in his tales were even then seen to be remarkable. From those sketches, these pages are enriched by extracts proving the truth of the assertion, which, to the reader familiar with the works 14 CMAULES DICKENS. 15 of Dickens, needs no proof. These extracts are far from indicating that Dickens favored intemperance, or failed to see its folly and sin. He had himself the bad habits of xin Englishman who is not in favor of total absti- nence ; but it is not right to say of him that he encour- aGfed the drunkard in his evil course. While the be- lievers in the duty of total abstinence cannot but regret that the great novelist did not use his powerful pen in favor of teetotalism, they cannot but acknowledge that he left on record evidence that he did not approve of a career of intemperance. His testimony in refer- ence to Avine countries is often adduced by temperance lecturers, as conclusive against the wine-drinking habits of many foreign lands. It first appeared in '' Household Words," Dickens's journal, and has been copied into " The Good Templar," an American temperance paper, as an evidence that Charles Dickens did not favor the prevalence of wine-shops. These are the words : — " The wine-shops are the colleges and chapels of the poor in France. History, morals, politics, jurispru- dence, and literature, in iniquitous forms, are all taught in these colleges and chapels, where professors of evil continually deliver those lessons, and where hymns are sung nightly to the demons of demoralization. In those haunts of the poor, theft is taught as the morality of propriety, falsehood as speech, and assassination as the justice of the people. It is in the wine-shop the cab- 16 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF man is taught to think it heroic to shoot the middle- class man who disputes his fare. It is in the wine-shop the workman is taught to admire the man Avho stabs his faithless mistress. It is in the wine-shop the doom is pronounced of the employer who lowers the pay of the employed. The wine-shop breeds, in a physical atmos- phere of malaria and a moral pestilence of envy and. vengeance, the men of crime and revolution. Hunger is proverbially a bad counsellor, but drink is worse." From his " Sketches by Boz," the following is given, as an example of the mingling of humor and pathos so noticeable in his writings. It is entitled, — « OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBORS. " We are very fond of speculating, as we walk tlirougli a street, on the character and pursuits of the people who inhabit it ; and nothing so materially assists us in these speculations as the appearance of the house- doors. The various expressions of the human coun- tenance afford a beautiful and interesting study ; but there is something in the physiognomy of street-door knockers, almost as characteristic, and nearly as infal- lible. Whenever we visit a man for the first time, we contemplate the features of his knocker with the great- est curiosity ; for we well know, that, between the man and his knocker, there will inevitably be a greater or less degree of resemblance and sympathy. CHARLES DICKENS. 17 " For instance, there is one description of knocker that used to be common enough, but which is fast passing away, — a large round one, with the jolly face of a con- vivial lion smiling blandly at you, as you twist the sides of your hair inio a curl, or pull up your shirt-collar while you are waiting for the door to be opened. We never sav/ that knocker on the door of a churlish man : so far as our experience is concerned, it invariably bespoke hospitality and another bottle. " No man ever saw this knocker on the door of a small attorney or bill-broker : they always patronize the other lion, — a heavy, ferocious-looking fellow, w^ith a countenance expressive of savage stupidity, — a sort of grand master among the knockers, and a great favorite with the selfish and brutal. " Then there is a little pert Egyptian knocker, with a long, thin face, a pinched-up nose, and a very sharp chin : he is most in vogue with your government-office people ; in light drabs and starched cravats ; little, spare, priggish men, who are perfectly satisfied with their OAvn opinions, and consider themselves of para- mount importance. " We were greatly troubled, a few years ago, by the innovation of a new kind of knocker, without any face at all, composed of a wreath depending from a hand or small truncheon. A little trouble and attention, however, enabled us to overcome this difficulty, and to reconcile the new system to our favorite theory. You 18 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF will invariably find this knocker on the doors of cold and formal people, who alwaj^s ask you why you dont come, and never say do. " Everybody knows the brass knocker is common to suburban villas and extensive boarding-schools ; and, having noticed this genus, we have recapitulated all the most prominent and strongly-defined species. " Some phrenologists affirm, that the agitation of a man's brain by different passions produces correspond- ing developments in the form of his skull. Do not let us be understood as pushing our theory to the length of asserting that any alteration in a man's disposition would produce a visible effect on the feature of his knocker. Our position merely is, that, in such a case, the magnetism which must exist between a man and his knocker would induce the man to remove, and seek some knocker more congenial to his altered feelings. If you ever find a man changing his habitation without any reasonable pretext, depend upon it, that, although he may not be aware of the fact himself, it is because he and his knocker are at variance. "Entertaining these feelings on tlie subject of knock- ers, it will be readily imagined with what consternation we viewed the entire removal of the knocker from the door of the next house to the one we lived in some time ago, and the substitution of a bell. This was a calamity we liad never anticipated. The bare idea of anybody being able to exist without a knocker appeared so wild CHARLES DICKENS. 19 and visionary, that it had never for one instant entered our imagination. " We sauntered moodily from the spot, and bent out steps towards Eaton Square, then just building. What was our astonishment and indignation to find that bells were fast becoming^ the rule, and knockers the excep- tion ! Our theory trembled beneath the shock. We hastened home ; and fancying we foresaw, in the swift progTess of events, its entire abolition, resolved from that day forward to vent our speculations on our next- door neighbors in person. The house adjoining ours on the left hand was uninhabited, and we had, therefore, plenty of leisure to observe our next-door neighbors on the other side. '' The house without the knocker was in the occupa- tion of a city clerk ; and there was a neatly- written bill in the parlor window, intimating that lodgings for a single gentleman were to be let within. " It was a neat, dull little house, on the shady side of the way, with new, narrow floor-cloth in the passage, and new narrow stair-carpets up to the first floor. The paper Avas new, and the paint was new, and the furniture was new; and all three — paper, paint, and furniture — bespoke the limited means of the tenant. There was a little red-and-black carpet in the drawing-room, with a border of flooring all the way round ; a few stained chairs, and a Pembroke table. A pink shell was dis- played on each of the little sideboards ; which, with the 20 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF addition of a tea-tray and caddy, a few more shells on the mantle-piece, and three peacock's feathers taste- fully arranged above them, completed the decorative furniture of the apartment. " Tin's was the room destined for the reception of tlie single gentleman during the day ; and a little back room on the same floor was assigned as his sleeping apartment by night. " The bill had not been long in the window, when a stout, good-humored-looking gentleman, of about five and thirty, appeared as a candidate for the tenancy. Terms were soon arranged, for the bill was taken down immediately after his first visit : in a day or two, the single gentleman came in, and shortly afterwards his real character came out. " First of all, he disj)layed a most extraordinary par- tiality for sitting up till three or four o'clock in the morning, drinking whiskey and water, and smoking cigars ; then he invited friends home, who used to come at ten o'clock, and begin to get happy about the small hours, when they evinced their perfect contentment by singing songs with half a dozen verses of two lines each, and a chorus of ten, which chorus used to be shouted forth by the whole strength of the company, in the most enthusiastic and vociferous manner, to the great annoyance of the neighbors, and the special discomfort of another single gentleman overhead. " Now, this was bad enough, occurring as it did three CHARLES DICKENS. 21 times a week on the average. But this was not all ; when the company did go awa}^, instead of walking quietly down the street, as OAYjhodj else's company would have done, they amused themselves by making alarming and frightful noises, and counterfeiting the shrieks of females in distress. And, one night, a red-faced gentleman in a white hat knocked in a most urgent manner at the door of the powdered-headed old gentle- man at No. 3 ; and when the powdered-headed old gen- tleman, who thought one of his married daughters must have been taken ill prematurely, had groped down stairs, and, after a great deal of unbolting and key-turn- ing, opened the street-door, the red-faced man in the white hat said he hoped he'd excuse his giving him so much trouble, but he'd feel obliged if he'd favor him with a glass of cold spring water, and the loan of a shil- ling for a cab to take him home : on which the old gen- tleman slammed the door, and went up stairs, and threw the contents of his water-jug out of the window, — very straight, only it went over the wrong man, and the whole street was involved in confusion. " A joke's a joke ; and even practical jests are very capital in their way, if you can only get the other party to see the fun of them : but the population of our street were so dull of apprehension as to be quite lost to the drollery of this proceeding ; and the consequence was, that our next-door neighbor was obliged to tell the single gentleman, that, unless he gave up entertaining 22 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF his friends at home, he really must be compelled to part with him. The single gentleman received the remon- strance with great good-humor, and promised, from that time forward, to spend his evenings at a coffee-house, — a determination which afforded general and unmixed satisfaction. -^ '' The next night passed off very well ; everybody was delighted with the change : but, on the next, the noises were renewed with greater spirit than ever. The single gentleman's friends, being unable to see him in his own house every alternate night, had come to the de- termination of seeing him home every night ; and what with the discordant greeting of the friends at parting, and the noise created by the single gentleman in Iris passage up stairs, and his subsequent struggles to get his boots off, the evil was not to be borne. So our next- door neighbor gave the single gentleman, who was a very good lodger in other respects, notice to quit ; and the single gentleman went away, and entertained his friends in other lodgings. " The next applicant for the va<;ant first floor was of a very different character from the troublesome single gentleman who had just quitted it. He was a tall, thin young gentleman, with a profusion of brown hair, red- dish whiskers, and very slightly developed mustachios. He wore a braided surtout, with frogs behind, light gray trousers, and wash-leather gloves, and had alto- gether rather a military appearance. So unlike the CHARLES DICKENS. 23 roystering single gentleman ! Such insinuating man- ners, and such a delightful address ! So seriously dis- posed too ! When he first came to look at the lodgings, he inquired \nost particularly whether he was sure to be able to get a seat in the parish church ; and, when he had agreed to take them, he requested to have a list of the different local charities, as he intended to subscribe his mite to the most deserving among them. " Our next-door neighbor was perfectly happy. He had got a lodger at last of just his own way of think- ing, — a serious, well-disposed man, who abhorred gayety, and loved retirement. He took down the bill with a light heart, and pictured in imagination a long series of quiet Sundays, on which he and his lodger would exchange mutual civilities and Sunday papers. " The serious man arrived, and his luggage was to arrive fi'om the country next morning. He borrowed a clean shirt and a prayer-book from our next-door neighbor, and retired to rest at an early hour, requesting that he might be called punctually at ten o'clock next morning, — not before, as he was much fatigued. '' He was called, and did not answer : 'he was called again, but there was no reply. Our next-door neigh- bor became alarmed, and burst the door open. The se- rious man had left the house mysteriously, carrying with him the shirt, the prayer-book, a tea-spoon, and the bed- clothes. " Whether this occurrence, coupled with the irregu- 24 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF larities of his former lodger, gave our next-door neigh- bor an aversion to single gentlemen, we know not : we only know that the next bill which made its appearance in the parlor window intimated, generally, that there were furnished apartments to let on the first floor. The bill was soon removed. The new lodgers at first at- tracted our curiosity, and afterwards excited our inter- est. " They were a young lad of eighteen or nineteen, and his mother, a lady of about fifty, or it might be less. The mother wore a widow's weeds, and the boy was also clothed in deep mourning. They were poor, very poor; for their only means of support arose from the pittance the boy earned by copying writings, and trans- lating for the booksellers. " They had removed from some country place, and settled in London ; partly because it afforded better chances of employment for the boy, and partly, perhaps, with the natural desire to leave a place where they had been in better circumstances, and where their poverty was known. They were proud under their reverses, and above revealing their wants and privations to stran- gers. How bitter those privations were, and how hard the boy worked to remove them, no one ever knew but themselves. Night after night, two, three, four hours after midnight, could we hear the occasional raking of the scanty fire, or the hollow and half-stifled cough, which indicated his being still at work ; and day after CHARLES DICKENS. 25 day could we see more plainly that Nature had set that unearthly light in his plaintive face which is the beacon of her worst disease. " Actuated, we hope, by a higher feeling than mere curiosity, we contrived to establish first an acquaint- ance, and then a close intimacy, with the poor stran- gers. Our worst fears were realized, — tho boy was sinking fast. Through a part of the winter, and the whole of the following spring and summer, his labors were unceasingly prolonged ; and the mother attempted to procure needle-work, embroidery, — any thing for bread. " A few shillings, now and then, were all she could earn. The boy worked steadily on ; dying by minutes, but never once giving utterance to complaint or mur- mur. " It was a beautiful autumn evening when we went to pay our customary visit to the invalid. His little remaining strength had been decreasing rapidly for two or three days preceding ; and he was lying on the sofa at the open window, gazing at the setting sun. His mother had been reading the Bible to him ; for she closed the book as we entered, and advanced to meet us. ^ I was telling William,' she said, ' that we must man- age to take him into the country somewhere, so that he may get well. He is not ill, you know ; but he is not very strong, and has exerted himself too much lately.* Poor thing ! The tears that streamed through her fin- 26 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF gers, as she turned aside, as if to adjust her close widow's cap, too plainly showed how fruitless was the attempt to deceive herself. " The boy placed one hand in ours, grasped his moth- er's arm with the other, drew her hastily towards him, and fervently kissed her cheek. There was a short pause. He sunk back upon his pillow, and looked with appalling earnestness in his mother's face. ' William, William ! ' said the terrified parent, ' don't look at me so — speak to me, dear ! ' The boy smiled languidly ; but an instant afterwards his features resolved into the same cold, solemn gaze. " ' William, dear William ! ' said the distracted moth- er, ' rouse yourself, dear : don't look at me so, love, — pray don't ! O my God ! what shall I do ! — my dear, dear boy ! — he is dying ! ' " The boy raised himself by a violent effort, and folded his hands together : ' Mother ! dear, dear mother ! bury me in the open fields, anywhere but in these dreadful streets. I should like to be where you can see my grave, mother, but not in these close, crowded streets : they have killed me. Kiss me again, mother ; put your arm round my neck ' — " He fell back : a strange expression stole upon his features ; not of pain or suffering, but an indescribable fixing of every line and muscle, — the boy was dead." The following sketch, from the same early writings CHARLES DICKENS. 27 of Mr. Dickens, cannot surely be open to the charge of favoring intemperance. It is a sad comment on the un- bridled appetite of the drunkard. It warns the mod- erate drinker to beware of that which " biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder." ^^THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. "We will be bold to say, that there is scarcely a man in the constant habit of walking, day after day, through any of the crowded thoroughfares of London, who cannot recollect, among the people whom he ' knows by sight,' to use a familiar phrase, some being, of abject and wretched appearance, whom he remembers to have seen in a very different condition, whom he has observed sinking lower and lower by almost imperceptible de- grees, and the shabbiness and utter destitution of whose appearance at last strike forcibly and painfully upon him as he passes by. Is there any man who has mixed much with society, or whose avocations have caused him to mingle, at one time or other, with a great num- ber of people, who cannot call to mind the time when some shabby, miserable wretch, in rags and filth, who shuffles past him now in all the squalor of disease and poverty, was a respectable tradesman, or a clerk, or a man following some thriving pursuit, with good pros- pects and decent means ; or cannot any of our readers call to mind, from among the list of their quondam ac- quaintance, some fallen and degraded man, who lingers 28 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF about the pavement in hungry misery : from whom every one turns coldly away, and who preserves him- self fi'om sheer starvation, nobody knows how ? Alas ! such cases are of too frequent occurrence to be rare items in any man's experience ; and they arise from one cause, — drunkenness, that fierce rage for the slow, sure poison, that oversteps every other consideration; that casts aside wife, children, friends, happiness, and sta- tion, and hurries its victims madly on to degradation and death. " Some of these men have been impelled by misfor- tune and misery to the vice that has degraded them. The ruin of worldly expectations, the death of those they loved, the sorrow that slowly consumes but will not break the heart, has driven them wild ; and they present the hideous spectacle of madmen, slowly dying by their own hands. But by far the greater part have wilfully, and with open eyes, plunged into the gulf from which the man who once enters it never rises more, but into which he sinks deeper and deeper down, until re- covery is hopeless. " Such a man as this once stood by the bedside of his dying wife, while his children knelt around, and mingled low bursts of giief with their innocent prayers. The room was scantily and meanly furnished ; and it needed but a glance at the pale form from which the light of life was fast passing away, to know that grief and want and anxious care had been busy at the heart for many CHARLES DICKENS. 29 a weary year. An elderly female, with her face bathed in tears, was supporting the head of the dying woman — her daughter — on her arm. But it was not towards her that the wan face turned : it was not her hand that the cold and trembling fingers clasped. They pressed the husband's arm : the eyes so soon to be closed in death rested on his face ; and the man shook beneath their gaze. His dress was slovenly and disor- dered, his face inflamed, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. He had been summoned from some wil^ debauch to the bed of sorrow and death. '' A shaded lamp by the bedside cast a dim light on the figures around, and left the remainder of the room in thick, deep shadow. The silence of night prevailed without the house, and the stillness of death was in the chamber. A watch hung over the mantle-shelf. Its low ticking was the only sound that broke the profound quiet : but it was a solemn one ; for well they knew, who heard it, that before it had recorded the passing of another hour, it would beat the knell of a departed spirit. "It is a dreadful thing to wait and watch for the approach of death ; to know that hope is gone, and recovery impossible ; and to sit and count the dreary hours through long, long nights, — such nights as only watchers by the bed of sickness know. It chills the blood to hear the dearest secrets of the heart, the pent- up, hidden secrets of many years, poured forth by the 30 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF unconscious, "helpless being before you; and to think how little the reserve and cunning of a whole life will avail when fever and delirium tear off the mask at last. Strange tales have been told in the wanderings of dying men, — tales so full of guilt and crime, that those who stood by the sick person's couch have fled in horror and affright, lest they should be scared to madness by what they heard and saw ; and many a wretch has died alone, raving of deeds, the very name of which has driven the boldest man away. " But no such ravings were to be heard at the bed- side by which the children knelt. Their half-stifled sobs and meanings alone broke the silence of the lonely chamber. And when at last the mother's grasp re- laxed ; and, turning one look from the children to their father, she vainly strove to speak, and fell backward on the pillow, all was so calm and tranquil, that she seemed to sink to sleep. They leant over her : they called upon her name, softly at first, and then in the loud and piercing tones of desperation ; but there was no reply. They listened for her breath, but no sound came. They felt for the palpitation of the heart, but no faint throb responded to the touch. That heart was broken, and she was dead. " The husband sunk into a chair by the bedside, and clasped his hands upon his burning forehead. He gazed from child to child ; but, when a weeping eye met his, he quailed beneath its look. No word of comfort was CHARLES DICKENS. 31 whispered in his ear, no look of kindness lighted on his face. All shrunk from and avoided him ; and when, at last, he staggered from the room, no one sought to follow or console the widower. " The time had been when many a friend would have _ crowded round him in his affliction, and many a heart- felt condolence Avould have met him in his grief. Where were they now ? One by one, friends, relations, the commonest acquaintance even, had fallen off from and deserted the drunkard. His wife alone had clung to him in good and evil, in sickness and poverty ; and how had he rewarded her? He had reeled from the tavern to her bedside in time to see her die. " He rushed from the house, and .walked swiftly through the streets. Remorse, fear, shame, all crowded on his mind. Stupefied w^itli drink, and bewildered with the scene he had just witnessed, he re-entered the tavern he had quitted shortly before. Glass succeeded glass. His blood mounted, and his brain whirled round. Death ! Every one must die, and why not she ? She was too good for him : her relations had often told him so. Curses on them ! Had they not deserted her, and left her to whine away the time at home ? AVell, she was dead, and happy perhaps. It was better as it was. Another glass, — one more 1 Hurrah ! It was a merry Hfe while it lasted; and he would make the most of it. " Time went on. The three children who were left to him grew up, and were children no longer : the father 32 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF remained the same, — poorer, shabbier, and more disso- lute-looking, but the same confirmed and irreclaimable drunkard. The boys had, long ago, run wild in the streets, and left him. The girl alone remained; but she worked hard, and words or blows could always procure him something for the tavern. So he went on in the old course, and a merry life he led. " One night, as early as ten o'clock, — for the girl had been sick for many days, and there was, consequently, little to spend at the public house, — he bent his steps homewards, bethinking himself, that, if he would have her able to earn money, it would be as well to apply to the parish surgeon, or, at all events, to take the trouble of inquiring what ailed her, which he had not yet thought it worth while to do. It was a wet December night : the wind blew piercing cold, and the rain poured heavily down. He begged a few half-pence from a passer-by ; and, having bought a small loaf (for it was his interest to keep the girl alive if he could), he shuffled onwards as fast as the wind and rain would let him. At the back of Fleet Street, and lying between it and the water-side, are several mean and narrow courts, which form a portion of Whitefriars; and it was to one of these that he directed his steps. " The alley into which he turned might, for filth and misery, have competed with the darkest corner of this ancient sanctuary in its dirtiest and most lawless time. The houses, varying from two stories in height to four, CHARLES DICKENS. 33 were stained with every indescribable hue that long exposure to the weather, damp, and rottenness, can impart to tenements composed originally of the roughest and coarsest materials. The windows were patched with paper, and stuffed with the foulest rags ; the doors were falling from their hinges ; poles, with lines on which to dry clothes, projected from every casement ; and sounds of quarrelling or drunkenness issued from every room. " The solitary oil-lamp in the centre of the court had been bloAvn out, either by the violence of the wind, or the act of some inhabitant who had excellent reasons for Dbjecting to his residence being rendered too con- spicuous ; and the only light which fell upon the broken and uneven pavement was derived from the miserable candles that here and there twinkled in the rooms of such of the more fortunate residents as could afford to indulge in so expensive a luxury. A gutter ran down the centre of the alley, all the sluggish odors of which had been called forth by the rain ; and, as the wind whistled through the old houses, the doors and shutters creaked upon their hinges, and the windows shook in their frames with a violence which every moment seemed to threaten the destruction of the whole place. " The man whom we have followed into this den walked on in the darkness ; sometimes stumbling into the main gutter, and at others into some branch reposi- tories of garbage which had been formed by the rain, 34 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF until he reached the last house in the court. The door, or rather what was left of it, stood ajar for the con- venience of the numerous lodgers ; and he proceeded to grope his way np the old and broken stair, to the attic story. " He was within a step or two of his room-door, when it opened ; and a girl, whose miserable and emaciated appearance was only to be equalled by that (5f the candle which she shaded with her hand, peeped anx- iously out. '"Is that you, father? ' said the girl. " ' Who else should it be ? ' replied the man gruffly. ' What are you trembling at ? It's little enough that I have had to drink to-day ; for there's no drink without mone}', and no money without work. What the d — ^I's the matter with the girl ? ' " ' I am not well, father — not at all well,' said the girl, bursting into tears. " ' Ah ! ' replied the man, in the tone of a person who is compelled to admit a very unpleasant fact, to which he would rather remain blind if he could. ' You must get better somehow, for we must have money. You must go to the parish doctor, and make him give you some medicine. They're paid for it, d — n 'em. What are you standing before the door for ? Let me come in, can't you ? ' " ' Father,' whispered the girl, shutting the door be- hind her, and placing herself before it, ' WilHam has come back.' CHARLES DICKENS. 35 " ' Who ? ' said the man, with a start. " ' Hush ! ' replied the girl : ' William, Brother Wil- liam.' " ' And what does he want ? ' said the man, with an effort at composure, — 'money? meat? drink? He's come to the wrong shop for that, if he does. Give me the candle ; give me the candle, fool : I ain't going to hurt him.' He snatched the candle from her hand, and walked into the room. Sitting on an old box, with his head resting on his hand, and his eyes fixed on a wretched cinder-fire that was smouldering on the hearth, was a young man of about two and twenty, miserably clad in an old coarse jacket and trousers. He started up when his father entered. " ' Fasten the door, Mary,' said the young man hastily, — 'fasten the door. You look as if you didn't know me, father. It's long enough since you drove me from home : you may well forget me.' " ' And what do you want here now ? ' said the father, seating himself on a stool, on the other side of the fire- place. ' What do you want here now ? ' " ' Shelter,' replied the son : ' I'm in trouble ; that's enough. If I'm caught I shall swing; that's certain. Caught I shall be, unless I stop here ; that's as certain. And there's an end of it.' "• ' You mean to say you ve been robbing or murder- ing, then ? ' said the father. 36 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " Yes, I do,' replied the son. ' Does it surprise you, father? ' He looked steadily in the man's face ; but he withdrew his eyes, and bent them on the ground. " ' Where's your brothers ? ' he said, after a long pause. " ' Where they'll never trouble you,' replied the son : ' John's gone to America, and Henry's dead.' " ' Dead ! ' said the father, with a shudder which even he could not repress. " ' Dead,' replied the young man. ' He died in my arms, — shot like a dog, by a gamekeeper. He staggered back : I caught him, and his blood trickled down my hands. It poured out from his side like water. He was weak, and it blinded him ; but he threw himself down on his knees, on the grass, and prayed to God, that, if his mother was in heaven, he would hear her prayers for pardon for her youngest son. " I was her favorite boy. Will," he said ; " and I am glad to think now, that when she was dying, though I was a very young child then, and my little heart was almost bursting, I knelt down at the foot of the bed, and thanked God for having made me so fond of her as to have never once done any thing to bring the tears into her eyes. O Will ! why was she taken away, and father left?" There's his dying words, father,' said the young man: 'make the best you can of 'em. You struck him across the face, in a drunken fit, the morning we ran away ; and here's the end of it CHARLES DICKENS. 37 " The girl wept aloud ; and the father, sinking hi? head upon his knees, rocked himself to and fro. '' ' If I am taken,' said the young man, ' I shall be carried back into the country, and hung for that man's murder. They cannot trace me here, without your assistance, father. For aught I know, yoi* may give m up to justice ; but, unless you do, here I stop until I cai: venture to escape abroad.' " For two whole days, all three remained in the wretched room, without stirring out. On the third evening, however, the girl was worse than she had been yet, and the few scraps of food they had were gone. It was indispensably necessary that somebody should go out ; and, as the girl Avas too weak and ill, the father went, just at night-fall. " He got some medicine for the girl, and a trifle in the way of pecuniary assistance. On his way back, he earned sixpence by holding a horse ; and he turned homewards with enough money to supply their most pressing wants for two or three days to come. He had to pass the public-house. He lingered for an instant, walked past it, turned back again, lingered dnce more, and finally slunk in. Two men whom he had not ob- served were on the watch. They were on the point of giving up their search in despair, when his loitering attracted their attention ; and, when he entered the pub- lic-house, they followed him. '' ' You'll drink with me, master,' said one of them, proffering him a glass of liquor. 38 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " • And me too,' said the other, replenishing the glass as soon as it was drained of its contents. '* The man thought of his hungry children, and his son's danger. But they were nothing to the drunkard. He did drink ; and his reason left him. '•• ' A wet night. Warden,' whispered one of the men in his ear, as he at length turned to go away, after spending in liquor one-half of the money on which, per- haps, his daughter's life depended. " ' The right sort of night for our friends in hiding, Master Warden,' whispered the other. " ' Sit down here,' said the one who had spoken first, drawing him into a corner. ' We have been looking arter the young 'un. We came to tell him it's all right now ; but we couldn't find him, 'cause we hadn't got the precise direction. But that ain't strange ; for I don't think he Imow'd it himself when he came to London, did he ? ' '' ' No, he didn't,' replied the father. " The two men exchanged glances. " ' There's a vessel down at the docks, to sail at mid- night, when it's high water,' resumed the first speaker; ' and we'll put him on board. His passage is taken in another name ; and, what's better than that, it's paid for. It's lucky we met you.' u 4 Very,' said the second. '' * Capital luck,' said the first, with a wink to his com- panion. CIJARLES DICKENS. 39 " ' Great,' replied the second, with a slight nod of in- telligence. " ' Another glass here ; quick,' said the first speaker. And, in five minutes more, the father had unconsciously yielded up his own son into the hangman's hands. " Slowly and heavily the time dragged along, as the brother and sister, in their miserable hiding-place, listened in anxious suspense to the slightest sound. At length, a heavy footstep was heard upon the stair ; it approached nearer ; it reached the landing ; and the father staggered into the room. " The girl saw that he was intoxicated, and advanced with the candle in her hand to meet him : she stopped short, gave a loud scream, and fell senseless on the ground. She had caught sight of the shadow of a man, reflected on the floor. They both rushed in ; and in another instant the young man was a prisoner, and handcuffed. " ' Very quietly done,' said one of the men to his companion, ' thanks to the old man. Lift up the girl, Tom. Come, come, it's no use crying, young woman. It's all over now, and can't be helped.' " The young man stooped for an instant over the girl, and then turned fiercely round upon his father, who had reeled against the wall, and was gazing on the group with drunken stupidity. " ' Listen to me, father,' he said, in a tone that made the drunkard's flesh creep. 'My brother's blood, and 40 LIFE AND WRIMNGS OF mine, is on your head : I never had kind look or word, or care, from you ; and, alive or dead, I never will for- give you. Die when you will, or how, I will be with you. I speak as a dead man now ; and I warn you, fath- er, that as surely as you must one day stand before your ]\Iaker, so surelj^ shall your children be there, hand in hand, to cry for judgment against you.' He raised his manacled hands in a threatening attitude, fixed his eyes on his shrinking parent, and slowly left the room ; and neither father nor sister ever beheld him more, on this side the grave. " When the dim and misty light of a winter's morning penetrated into the narrow court, and struggled through the begrimed window of the wretched room. Warden awoke from his heavy sleep, and found himself alone. He rose, and looked round him. The old flock mattress on the floor was undisturbed : every thing was just as he remembered to have seen it last ; and there were no signs of any one, save himself, having occupied the room during the night. He inquired of the other lodgers, and of the neighbors ; but his daughter had not been seen or heard of. He rambled through the streets, and scrutinized each wretched face among the crowds that thronged them with anxious eyes. But his search was fruitless ; and he returned to his garret when night came on, des- olate and weary. *' For many days, he occupied himself in the same manner ; but no trace of his daughter did he meet with, CHAKLES DICKENS. 41 and no word of her reached his ears. At length, he gave up the pursuit as hopeless. He had long thought of the probabiHty of her leaving him, and endeavoring to gain her bread in quiet elsewhere. She had left him, at last, to starve alone. He ground his teeth, and cursed her. " He begged his bread from door to door. Every halfpenny he could wring from the pity or credulity of those to whom he addressed himself was spent in the old wa}^ A year passed over his head : the roof of a jail was the only one that had sheltered him for many months. He slept under archways and in brick-fields, — anywhere where there was some warmth or shelter from the cold and rain. But, in the last stage of pover- ty, disease, and houseless want, he was a drunkard still. " At last, one bitter night, he sunk down on a door- step in Piccadilly, faint and ill. The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid ; his eyes were sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb. " And now the long-forgotten scenes of a misspent life crowded thick and fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had had a home, — a happy, cheerful home — and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave and stand about him, — so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were, that he could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were 42 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF fixed upon him once more ; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of village-bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain beat heavil}^ upon him ; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart again. " He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces farther. The street was silent and empty ; the few pas- sengers who passed by at that late hour hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his frame; and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a projecting doorway, and tried to sleep. " But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind wandered strangely, but he was awake and con- scious. The well-known shout of drunken mirth sound- ed in his ear, the glass was at nis lips, the board was cov- ered with choice, rich food. They were before him : he could see them all ; he had but to reach out his hand, and take them ; and, though the illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted street, watching the rain-drops as they j)attered on the stones ; that death Avas coming upon him by inches ; and that there were none to care for or help him. '' Suddenly he startevd up, in the extremity of terror. Ho had heard his own voice shoutins^ in the niorht air, he knew not what, or wiiy. Hark ! A groan ! An- other ! His senses were leaving him : half-formed and CHARLES DICKENS. 43 incoherent words burst from his hps, and his hands sought to tear and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed him. '' He raised his head, and looked up the long, dismal street. He recollected that outcasts like himself, con- demned to wander da}^ and night in those dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own loneliness. He remembered to have heard, many years before, that a homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary wandering to and fro. In an instant, his resolve was taken. His limbs received new life : he ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he reached the river-side. " He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the commencement of Waterloo Bridg^e down to the water's level. He crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. Never did prison- er's heart throb with the hope of liberty and life half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The watch passed close to him, but he re- mained unobserved; and, after waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiouslj^ descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place from the river. '' The tide was in, and the Avater flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, 44 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP for the moment, still and quiet, — so quiet that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling of the water against the barges that were moored there, was distinctly audible to his ear. The stream stole lan- guidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach ; dark, gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from behind urged him onwards. He retreated a few paces, took a short run, a desperate leap, and plunged into the river. " Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water's surface ; but what a change had taken place, in that short time, in all his thoughts and feelings ! Life, life, in any form, — poverty, misery, starvation, any thing but death. He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his head, and screamed in agonies of ter- ror. The curse of his own son rang in his ears. The shore, but one foot of dry ground, — he could almost touch the step. One hand's-breadth nearer, and he was saved; but the tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom. " Again he rose, and struggled for life. For one in- stant, — for one brief instant, — the buildings on the riv- er's banks, the lights on the bridge through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the fast fly- ing clouds, were distinctly visible. Once more he sunk, and once again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and reeled before his eyes, while CHARLES DICKENS. 45 the water thundered in his ears, and .stunned him with its furious roar. "A week afterwards, the body was washed ashore, ^ome miles down the river, a swollen and disfigured mass. Unrecognized and unpitied, it was borne to the grave ; and there it has long since mouldered away." CHAPTER III. CLIMBING THE LADDER. Willis's Description of Dickens. —His Inimitable Humor. —Emerson's Criticism.— Hugh Miller's Opinion. — London Review. —Pickwick Papers. — Sam Weller's Valentine. — The Ivy Green. — Death in the Prison. " O spirits gay, and kindly heart 1 Precious the blessings ye impart I " Joanna Baillie. " A merry heart doeth good like a medicine." — Prov, xvii. 22. ILIGENCE gains its reward. Charles Dickens was not weary in effort, and he believed in climbing the ladder round by round. So he was faithful as a reporter till he found himself able to fill a different, and, as far as regards fame and pecuniary reward, an advanced position. Of those reportorial days, our own N. P. Willis wrote once, and described his first meeting with Charles Dickens. He states that he was invited by the publisher, Macrone, to visit Newgate ; and proceeds to say : — '' I willingly agreed, never having seen this fLiraous prison ; and, after I was seated in the cab, he said that 46 CHARLES DICKENS. 47 he was to pick up a young paragraphist for *' The Morn- ing Chronicle," who wished to write a description of it. In the most crowded part of Holborn, within a door or two of the Bull and Mouth Inn (the great starting and stopping place of the stage-coaches), we pulled up at the entrance of a large building used for lawj^ers' chambers. Not to leave me sitting in the rain, Macrone asked nue to dismount with him. I followed by a long flight of stairs to an upper story, and was ushered into an uncarpeted and bleak-looking room, with a deal ta- ble, two or tliree chairs, a few books, a small boy, and Mr. Dickens,. for the contents. I was only struck at first with one thing (and I made a memorandum of it that evening, as the strongest instance I had ever seen of English obsequiorusness to employers), — the degree to which the poor author was overpowered with the honor of his publisher's visit ! I remember saying to myself, as I sat down on a rickety chair, ' My good fellow, if you were in America, with that fine face and your ready quill, you would have no need to be condescended to b}^ a publisher.' Dickens was dressed very much as he has since described Dick Swiveller, minus the swell look. His hair was cropped close to his head, his clothes scant, though jauntily cut ; and, after changing a ragged office-coat for a shabby blue, he stood by the door, collarless and buttoned up, the very personifica- tion, I thought, of a close sailer to the wind. We went down, and crowded into the cab (one passenger more 48 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF than the law allowed) ; and, Dickens partly in my lap partly in Macrone's, we drove on to Newgate. In his works, if you remember, there is a description of the prison, drawn from this day's observation. We were there an hour or two, and were shown some of the cele- brated murderers, confined for life, and one young sol- dier waiting for execution ; and, in one of the passages, we chanced to meet Mrs. Fry on her usual errand of benevolence. Though interested in Dickens's face, I forgot him, naturally enough, after we entered the pris- on ; and I do not think I heard him speak during the two hours. I parted from him at the door of the prison, and continued my stroll into the city. Not long after this, Macrone sent me the sheets of ' Sketches by Boz,' with a note saying that they were by th^ gentleman who went with us to Newgate. I read the book with amaze- ment at the genius displayed in it, and, in my note of reply, assured Macrone that I thought his fortune was made as a publisher if he could monopolize the author. " Two or three years afterwards, I was in London, and was present at the complimentary dinner given to Macready. Samuel Lover, who sat next me, pointed out Dickens. I looked up and down the table, but was whol- ly unable to single him out, without getting my friend to number the people who sat above him. He was no more like the same man I had seen than a tree in June is like the same tree in February. He sat leaning his head on his hand while Bulwer was speaking ; and, with his very CHARLES DICKENS. 49 long hair, his very flashy waistcoat, his chains and rings, and withal a paler face than of old, he was totally un- recognizable. The comparison was very interesting to me, and I looked at him a long time. He was then in the culmination of popularity, and seemed jaded to stupefaction. " Remembering the glorious works he had written since I had seen liim, I longed to pay him my homage, but had no opportunity ; and I did not see him again till he came over to reap his harvest and upset his hay-cart in America. When all the ephemera of his impru- dences and improvidences shall have passed away, — say twenty years hence, — I should like to see liim again, renowned as he will be for the most original and remarkable works of his time." Willis referred to his first visit to America, which Dickens, signalized by the publication of those "Notes" which were so unaccept- able. When the great novehst again trod the Amer- ican shore, the poet who thus wrote of him had gone to the spirit-land. It has been difficult sometimes to decide in regard to the humor of Dickens, whether it was the chief char- acteristic of his writings, or whether it was exceeded by his pathos : most readers seem to consider them about equal. Ralph Waldo Emerson speaks of Dickens as a writer " with preternatural apprehension of the language of manners and the varieties of street-life, with pathos 4 50 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF and laughter, with patriotic and still enlarging gener- osity." He calls him " a painter of English details, like Hogarth ; local and temporary in his tints and style, and local in his aims." But, notv/ithstanding this crit- icism, Emerson enjoyed Dickens, and the reading world accepted him as a novelist. Hugh Miller classed Dickens with great writers, but at the lower end of a descending scale. The great geol- ogist went to view the place where Shakspeare was born, and there found a set of albums, in which visitors placed their names. Among those presented to his no- tice were, first that of Walter Scott, and then that of Charles Dickens. Mr. Miller wrote of the matter : "It is a curious coincidence, — Shakspeare^ Scott^ Dickens I The scale is a descending one ; so is the scale from the lion to the leopard, and from the leopard to the tiger-cat : but cat, leopard, and lion belong to one great family ; and these three poets belong unequivocally to one great family also. They are generically one ; masters, each in his own sphere, not simply of the art of exhibiting char- acter in the truth of nature, — for that a Hume or a Tacitus may possess, — but of the rarer and more diffi- cult dramatic art of making characters exhibit them- selves. It is not uninstructive to remark how the peculiar ability of portraying character in this form is so exactly proportioned to the general intellectual power of the writer who possesses it. . . . Viewed with ref- erence to this simple rule, the higher characters of CHAELES DICKENS. 51 Scott, Dickens, and Sliakspeare curiously indicate the intellectual status of the men who produced them. . . . The higher characters of Dickens do not stand by any means so high [as Scott's] ; the fluid in the original tube rests at a lower level ; and no one seems better aware of the fact than Dickens himself. He knows liis proper walk ; and, content with expatiating in a comparatively humble province of human life and char- acter, rarely stands on tiptoe, in the vain attempt to portray an intellect taller than his own. . . . Dickens, ere he became the most popular of living English au- thors, must have been a first-class reporter ; and the faculty that made him so is the same which now leads us to speak of him in the same breath with Sliakspeare. ... In this age of books, I marvel no bookseller has ever thought of presenting the public with the Bow- street reports of Dickens. They would form, assuredly, a curious work, — not less so, though on a different principle, than the Parliamentary reports of Dr. Samuel Johnson." Undoubtedly Dickens wrought into his next book some of his experiences and observations while a re- porter ; and he gave the delighted public amother vol- ume, called " The Pickwick Papers." It is said that the freshness and humor of the " Sketches by Boz," and the dramatic power indicated by the " Village Coquettes," a comic opera which Mr. Dickens wrote about the same time, attracted the attention of Messrs. 52 LIFE AND WETTINGS OF Chapman and Hall, the publishers, who applied to " Boz " for a serial story to be issued in monthly parts. The result was the " Posthumous Memoirs of the Pick- wick Club," with illustrations at first from the pencil of Seymour, and, after he committed suicide, illustrations from Hablot K. Browne, — "• Phiz." " The success of the ' Pickwick Papers ' was imme- diate and great. Its wit, pathos, and shrewd picturing of English character, high and low, touched. the heart and fancy of all classes. The sayings of Sam Weller were quoted by speakers in the House of Parliament and the ragged gamins in the slums of London." " The London Quarterly Review," in October, 1837, said of Mr. Dickens, " The popularity of this writer is one of the most remarkable literary phenomena of recent times ; for it has been fairly earned, without resorting to any of the means by which most other writers have succeeded in attracting the attention of their contem- poraries. He has flattered no popular prejudice, and profited by no passing folly ; he has attempted no cari- cature of the manners or conversation of the aristocracy ; and there are very few political or personal allusions in his works. ' Moreover, his class of subjects is such as to expose him, at the outset, to the fatal objection of vul- garity ; and, with the exception of occasional extracts in the newspapers, he received little or no assistance from the press. And yet, in less than six months from the appearance of the first number of the ' Pickwick CHARLES DICKENS. 53 Papers,' the whole reading public was talking about them : the names of Winkle, Warclle, Weller, Snocl- grass, Dodson, and Fogg, had become familiar in our mouths as household terms ; and Mr. Dickens was the grand object of interest to the whole tribe of ' Leo- hunters,' male and female, of the metropolis. Nay, Pickwick chintzes figured in linen-drapers' windows, aiid Weller corduroys in breeches-makers' advertise- ments ; Boz cabs might be seen rattling through the streets ; and the portrait of the author of ' Pelham ' or ' Crichton ' was scraped down or pasted over, to make room for that of the new popular favorite, in the omni- buses. This is only to be accounted for on the suppo- sition that a fresh vein of humor had been opened, that a new and decidedly original genius had sprung up ; and the most cursory reference to preceding English writers of the comic order will show, that, in his own peculiar walk, JMr. Dickens is not simply the most distinguished, but the first." Mr. Dickens was but about twenty-three when he was asked to write "Pickwick; " and of that invitation he thus speaks in a later preface to that humorous vol- lune : — / / » A / " When I opened my door in Furnival's Inn to the partner who represented the firm, I recognized in him the person from whose hands I had bought, two or three years previously, and whom I had never seen before or 54 , LIFE AND WRITINGS OF since, my first copy of the magazine in wliich my first effusion — a paper in the ' Sketches,' called ' Mk. Minns AND HIS Cousin,' dropped stealthily one evening at twilight, with fear and trembling, into a dark letter-box, in a dark office, up a dark court in Fleet Street — ap- peared in all the glory of print ; on which occasion I walked down to Westminster Hall, and turned into it for half-an-hour, because my eyes were so dimmed with joy and pride that they could not bear the street, and were not fit to be seen there. I told my visitor of the coincidence, which we both hailed as a good omen, and so fell to business." The high moral purpose of the " Pickwick Papers " can be seen by these words from the same preface : — " Who knows, but, by the time the series reaches its conclusion, it may be discovered that there are even magistrates in town and country who should be taught to shake hands every day with Common-sense and Jus- tice ; that even poor-laws may have mercy on the weak, the aged, and unfortunate ; that schools, on the broad principles of Christianity, are the best adornment for the length and breadth of this civilized land ; that prison-doors should be barred on the tbutside no less heavily and carefully than they are barred within ; that the universal diffusion of common means of decency and health is as much the right of the poorest of the poor as it is indispensable to the safety of the rich and CHARLES DICKENS. 55 of the State ; that a few petty boards and bodies — less than droj)S in the great ocean of humanity whfbh roars around them — are not forever to let loose fever and consumption on God's creatures at their will, or always to keep their jobbing little fiddles going, for a Dance of Death." In " Pickwick Papers " may be found the following song, which was exceeding!}' popular in its day, entitled " THE IVY GREEN. " Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old ! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, Li his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed. To pleasure his dainty whim ; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wino-s ; And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, To his friend the huge oak-tree ! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves. As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the ivy green. 56 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, « And nations have scattered been ; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past ; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last. Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the ivy green." One of the liumorous sketches in " Pickwick" is that well-known and oft-quoted description of Sam Welter's valentine, which is here inserted. " Mr. Weller having obtained leave of absence from Mr. Pickwick, who in his then state of excitement and worry was by no means displeased at being left alone, set forth, long before the appointed hour, and, having plenty of time at his disposal, sauntered down as far as the Mansion House, where he paused and contemplated, with a face of great calmness and philosophy, the nu- merous cads and drivers of short stages who assemble near that famous place of resort, to the great terror and confusion of the old-lady population of these realms. Havmg loitered here for half an hour or so, Mr. Weller turned, and began wending his way towards Leadenhall Market, through a variety of by-streets and courts. As he was sauntering away his spare time, and stopped to look at almost every object that met his gaze, it is by CHARLES DICKENS. ' 57 no means surprising that Mr. Weller should have paused before a small stationer's and print-seller's window ; but, without further explanation, it does appear surprising that his eyes should have no sooner rested on certain pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than he gave a sudden start, smote his right leg with great vehe- mence, and exclaimed with energy, ' If it hadn't been for this, I should ha' forgot all about it till it was too late ! ' " The particular picture on which Sam Weller 's eyes were fixed, as he said this, was a highly-colored repre- sentation of a couple of human hearts skcAvered together with an arrow, cooking before a cheerful fire, while a male and female cannibal, in modern attire, — the gentle- man being clad in a blue coat and white trousers, and the lady in a deep-red pelisse with a parasol of the same, — were approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a serpentine gravel-path leading thereunto. A decidedly indelicate young gentleman, in a pair of wings and nothing else, was depicted as superintending the cook- ing ; a representation of the spire of the church in Lang- ham Place, London, appeared in the distance ; and the whole formed a ' valentine,' of which, as a written in- scription in the window testified, there was a large assortment within, which the shopkeeper pledged him- self to dispose of to his countrymen generally, at the reduced rate of one-and-sixpence each. "'I should ha' forgot it; I should certainly ha' for- 58 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF got it I ' said Sam : so saying, he at once stepped into the stationer's shop, and requested to be served with a sheet of the best gilt-edged letter-paper, and a hard- nibbed pen which could be warranted not to splutter. These articles having been promptly supplied, he walked on direct towards Leadenhall Market at a good round pace, very different from his recent lingering one. Looldng round him, he there beheld a sign-board, on which the painter's art had delineated something re- motely resembling a cerulean elephant with an aquiline nose in lieu of a trunk. Rightly conjecturing that this was the Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the house, and inquired concerning his parent. " ' He won't be here this three-quarters of an hour or more,' said the young lady who superintended the domestic arrangements of the Blue Boar. u 4 "\yerry good, my dear,' replied Sam. ' Let me have nine-penn'orth o' brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, — will you, miss ? ' "The brandy - and - water luke and the inkstand having been carried into the little parlor, and the young lady having carefully flattened down the coals to pre- vent their blazing, and carried away the poker to pre- clude the possibility of the fire being stirred without the full privity and concurrence of the Blue Boar being first had and obtained, Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the stove, and pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper and the hard-nibbed pen. Then, CHARLES DICKENS. 69 looking carefully at the pen to see that there were no hairs in it, and dusting down the table, so that there might be no crumbs of bread under the paper, Sam tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and composed himself to write. " To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devoting themselves practically to the science of pen- manship, writing a letter is no very easy task ; it being always considered necessary in such cases for the writer to recline his head on his left arm, so as to place his eyes as nearly as possible on a level with the paper, while glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, to form with his tongue imaginary characters to corre- spond. These motions, although unquestionably of the greatest assistance to original composition, retard, in some degree, the progress of the writer ; and Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his little finger, and putting in new ones which required going over very often to render them visible through the old blots, when he was roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of his parent. " ' Veil, Sammy,' said the father. " ' Veil, my Prooshan Blue,' responded the son, lay- ing down his pen. ' What's the last bulletin about moth- er-in-law ? ' " * Mrs. Veller passed a wery good night, but is un- common perwerse and unpleasant this mornin'. Signed 60 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF upon oath, S. Veller, Esquire, Senior. That's the last vun as wos issued, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, untying his shawl. " ' No better yet? ' inquired Sam. " ' All the symptoms aggerawated,' replied Mr. Wel- ler, shaking his head. ' But wot's that you're a doin' of ? Pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, Sammy ? ' " ' I've done now,' said Sam, with slight embarrass- ment : ' I've been a writin'.' " ' So I see,' replied Mr. Weller. ' Not to any young 'oman, I hope, Sammy.' " ' Why it's no use a sayin' it ain't,' replied Sam. ' It's a walentine.' " ' A wot ! ' exclaimed Mr. Weller, aj)parently horror- stricken by the word. " ' A walentine,' replied Sam. " ' Samivel, Samivel,' said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, ' I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your father's wicious propensities ; arter all I've said to you upon this here wery subject ; arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought wos a moral lesson as no man could never ha' forgotten to his dyin' day, — I didn't think you'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd ha' done it ! ' These reflections were too much for the good old man. He raised Sam's tum- bler to his lips, and drank off its contents. " ' Wot's the matter now ? ' said Sam. CHARLES DICKENS. 61 " ' Nev'r mind, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller. ' It'll be a wery agonizin' trial to me at my time of life ; but I'm pretty tough, that's vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked wen the farmer said he wos afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London market.' " ' Wot'U be a trial ? ' inquired Sam. " ' To see you married, Sammy, — to see you a dilluded wictim, and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery capital,' replied Mr. Weller. ' It's a dreadful trial to a father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy.' " ' Nonsense,' said Sam. ' I ain't a goin' to get mar- ried : don't you fret yourself about that. I know you're a judge of these things. Order in your pipe, and I'll read you the letter. There ! ' " We cannot distinctly say whether it was the pros- pect of the pipe, or the consolatory reflection that a fatal disposition to get married ran in the famil}^ and couldn't be helped, which calmed Mr. Weller's feelings, and caused his grief to subside. We should be rather disposed to say that the result was attained by com- bining the two sources of consolation ; for he repeated the second in a low tone, very frequently, ringing the bell, meanwhile, to order in the first. He then divested himself of his upper coat ; and lighting the pi^DC, and placing himself in front of the fire with his back to- wards it, so that he could feel its full heat and recline against the mantle-piece at the same time, turned to- wards Sam, and, with a countenance greatly mollified 62 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF by the softening influence of tobacco, requested him to ' fire away.' " Sam dipped his pen into the ink, to be ready for any corrections, and began, with a very theatrical air, — '•'"Lovely .'" "'Stop,' said ]Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. 'A double glass o' the inwariable, my dear.' '•'Very well, sir,' replied the girl, who with great quickness appeared, yanished, returned, and disap- peared. " 'They seem to know your ways here,' observed Sam. "'Yes,' rephed his father : 'I've been here before in my time. Go on, Sammy.' " ' " Lovely creetur,*' ' repeated Sam. " ' 'Tain't in poetry, is it ? ' interposed his father. " ' Xo, no,' rephed Sam. " ' Wery glad to hear it,' said Mr. Weller. ' Poetry's unnat'ral : no man ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on Ijoxin' day, or Warren's blackin', or Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellows ; never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin agin, Sammy.' " Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a critical solemni- ty; and Sam once more commenced, and read as fol- lows : — " ' " Lovely creetur, i feel myself a dammed " ' — " ' That ain't proper,' said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe fi'om his mouth. "'No: it ain't "dammed,"' observed Sam, holding CHARLES DICKENS. 63 the letter up to the hght, 'it's "shamed," — there's a blot there, — "I feel myself ashamed."' " ' Wery good,' said Mr. Weller. ' Go on.' u (. u pggi myself ashamed, and completely cir " — I forget what this here word is,' said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember. " ' Why don't you look at it, then ? ' inquhed jMr. Weller. "' So I am a looldn' at it,' replied Sam ; ' but there's another blot. Here's a " c," and a " i," and a " d." ' " ' Circumwented, p'haps,' suggested Mr. Weller. " ' No : it ain't that,' said Sam : ' " circumscribed ; " that's it.' " ' That ain't as good a word as circumwented, Sam- my,' said Mr. Weller gravely. " ' Think not ? ' said Sam. " ' Nothin' like it,' replied his father. " ' But don't you think it means more ? ' inquired Sam. "'Veil, p'raps it is a more tenderer word,' said Mr. Weller, after a moment's reflection. ' Go on, Sammy.' " ' " Feel myself ashamed and completely circum- scribed in a dressin' of you ; for j^ou a7^e a nice gal, and nothin' but it." ' " ' That's a wery pretty sentiment,' said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark. " ' Yes, I think it is rayther good,' observed Sam, highly flattered. " 'Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin," ' said the 64 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF elder Mr. Weller, ' is, that tliere ain't no callin' names in it, — no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that kind. Wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy ? ' " ' Ah ! what, indeed ? ' replied Sam. " ' You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a uni- corn, or a king's-arms at once, which is wery well known to be a collection o' fabulous animals,' added Mr. Weller. ••' ' Just as well,' replied Sam. " ' Drive on, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller. " Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows ; his father continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency wliich was par- ticularly edifying. a c u Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike." ' " ' So they are,' observed the elder Mr. Weller paren- thetically. " ' " But now," ' continued Sam, ' " now I find what a reg'lar soft-headed, ink-red'lous turnip I must ha' been ; for there ain't nobody like you, though I like you better than nothin' at all." I thought it best to make that rayther strong,' said Sam, looking up. t' Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. " ' '' So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, — as the gen'l'm'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, — to tell you, that, the first and only time I see CHARLES DICKENS. 65 you, your likeness was took on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was took by the prof eel macheen (wich p'raps you may have heerd on, Mary, my dear), altho' it does finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end to hang it up b}^, and all in two minutes and a quarter/' ' " ' I am afeered that werges on the poetical, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller dubiously. " ' Xo, it don't,' replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid contesting the point, — " ' " Except of me, Mary, my dear, as your walentine, and think over what I've said. My dear Mary, I will now conclude." That's all,' said Sam. " ' That's rather a sudden pull-up, ain't it, Sammy ? ' inquired Mr. Weller. " ' Not a bit on it,' said Sam. ' She'll vish there wos more, and that's the great art o' letter-writin.' " ' Well,' said Mr. Weller, ' there's somethin' in that ; and I wish yoiu^ mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you agoin' to sign it ? ' " ' That's the difficulty,' said Sam. ' I don't know what to sign it.' " ' Sign it Veller,' said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name. " ' Won't do,' said Sam. ' Never sign a walentine with your own name.' 6 66 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' Sign it " Pickvick," then,' said Mr. Weller. ' It's a wery good name, and a easy one to spell.' " ' The wery thing,' said Sam. ' I could end with a werse : what do you think ? ' " ' I don't like it, Sam,' rejoined Mr. Weller. ' I never know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one, as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos hung for highway robbery ; and he was only a Cambervell man : so even that's no rule.' " But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him ; so he signed the let- ter, — " * Your love-sick Pickwick.' And, having folded it in a very intricate manner, squeezed a down-hill direction in one corner : ' To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins's Mayor's, Ipswich, Suffolk ; ' and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready for the General Post." Among the old English customs which modern eyes look upon with contempt and displeasure, that of im- prisonment for debt is one of the worst. In " Pick- wick," the death in prison of one confined for years for debt is thus touchingly described : — " ' I'm sorry to say that your landlord's wery bad to- night, sir,' said Roker, setting down the glass, and in- CHARLES DICKENS. 67 specting the lining of his hat preparatory to putting it on again. " ' What ! The Chancery prisoner ! ' exclaimed Mr. Pickvvdck. " ' He won't be a Chancery prisoner wery long, sir,' replied Roker, turning his hat round, so as to get the maker's name right-side upwards, as he looked into it. " ' You make my blood run cold,' said Mr. Pickwick. ' What do you mean ? ' " ' He's been consumptive for a long time past,' said Mr. Roker, ' and he's taken wery bad in the breath to- night. The doctor said, six months ago, that nothing but change of air could save him.' " ' Great Heaven ! ' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick : ' has this man been slowly murdered by the law for six months ? ' " ' I don't know about that,' replied Roker, weighing the hat by the brims in both hands. ' I suppose he'd have been took the same, wherever he was. He went into the infirmary this morning ; the doctor says his strength is to be kept up as much as possible ; and the warden's sent him wine and broth and that, from liis own house. It's not the warden's fault, you know, sir.' " ' Of course not,' replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. " ' I'm afraid, however,' said Roker, shaking his head, ' that it's all up with him. I offered Neddy two six- penn'orths to one upon it just now ; but he wouldn't take it, and quite right. Thankee, sir. Good -night, sir.' 68 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' Stay,' said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. ' Where is this infirmary ? ' " ' Just over where you slept, sir,' replied Roker. ' I'll show you, if you like to come.' Mr. Pickwick snatched up his hat without spealdng, and followed at once. " The turnkey led the way in silence; and, gently rais- ing the latch of the room-door, motioned Mr. Pickwick to enter. It was a large, bare, desolate room, with a number of stump bedsteads made of iron, on one of which lay stretched the shadow of a man, — wan, pale, and ghastly. • His breathing was hard and thick, and he moaned painfully as it came and went. At the bedside sat a short old man in a cobbler's apron, who, by the aid of a pair of horn spectacles, was reading from the Bible aloud. It was the fortunate legatee. " The sick man laid his hand upon his attendant's arm, and motioned him to stop. He closed the book, and laid it on the bed. " ' Open the window,' said the sick man. " He did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the rattle of wheels, the cries of men and boys, all the busy sounds of a mighty multitude instinct with life and occu- pation, blended into one deep murmur, floated into the room. Above the hoarse, loud hum, arose, from time to time, a boisterous laugh ; or a scrap of some jingling song, shouted forth by one of the giddy crowd, would strike upon the ear for an instant, and then be lost amidst the roar of voices and the tramp of footsteps, — CHARLES DICKENS. 69 the brealdng^ of the billows of the restless sea of life, that rolled heavily on, without. Melancholy sounds to a quiet listener, at any tim'e : how melancholy to the watcher by the bed of death ! " ' There's no air here,' said the sick man faintly. ' The place pollutes it. It was fresh round about, when I walked there, years ago ; but it grows hot and heavy in passing these walls. I cannot breathe it.' " ' We have breathed it together for a long time,' said the old man. ' Come, come.' " There was a short silence, during which the two spectators approached the bed. The sick man drew a hand of his old fellow-prisoner towards him, and, pressing it affectionately between his own, retained it in his grasp. " ' I hope,' he gasped after a while, — so faintly that they bent their ears close over the bed to catch the half- formed sounds his pale lips gave vent to, — ' I hope my merciful Judge will bear in mind my heavy punishment on earth. Twenty years, my friend, twenty years in this hideous grave ! My heart broke when niy child died, and I could not even kiss him in his little cofQn. My loneliness since then, in all this noise and riot, has been very dreadful. May God forgive me ! He has seen my sohtary, lingering death.' " He folded his hands, and, murmuring something more they could not h'ear, fell into a sleep, — only a sleep at first, for they saw him smile. 70 LIFE AND WRITINGS. " They whispered together for a little time ; and the turnkey, stooping over the pillow, drew hastily back. ' He has got his discharge ! 'said the man. " He had. But he had grown so like death in life, that they knew not when he died." CHAPTER IV. FAMOUS. The Novelist. — E. P. Whipple's Testimony. — Oliver Twist. — Asking for More. — Pauperism in England. — Nancy Sykes. — Jew Fagin. " Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame I A draught that mantles high, And seems to lift this earthly frame Above mortality." Mrs. Hemans. " I have made thee a great name, like unto the name of the great men that are in the earth." — 2 Sam. vii. 9. HE brilliant " Pickwick Papers " prepared the way for yet greater success. Leading London publishers made proposals at once to the popular author. He accepted the editorship of Mr. Bentley's " Miscellany," and in the second number (February, 1837) appeared the first instalment of " Oliver Twist." This became at once a favorite story, and Mr. Dickens took rank at once among novelists. " Oliver Twist " was " admirably illus- trated by George Cruikshank, and is still regarded as one of the author's most striking novels." It talked in story fashion of the cruelties and abuses that prevailed too largely in certain public institutions, and was hap- 71 72 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF pily instrumental in repealing laws that sanctioned gross injustice. One can hardly read a page of his novels, without perceiving that Mr. Dickens has contended bravely against some hidden wrong in society ; and while adding to English literature many gems, and a host of imperishable creations, has at the same time rebuked wrong fearlessly, and taught the lessons of humanity and good will. A portion of the manuscript of " Oliver Twist," which originally, as above stated, appeared in Bentley's " Mis- cellany," is still in Mr. Bentley's possession. " The British Museum " says one, " might fittingly place it by the side of the manuscript of Sterne's ' Sentimental Jour- ney.' " As a novelist, our own brilliant essayist, E. P. Whipple, says of Mr. Dickens,* " Dickens, as a novelist and prose poet, is to be classed in the front rank of the noble company to which he belongs. He has revived the novel of genuine practical life as it existed in the works of Fielding, Smollett, and Goldsmith, but, at the same time, has given to his materials an individual coloring and expression peculiarly his own. His characters, like those of his great exemplars, constitute a world of their own, whose truth to Nature every reader instinctively recognizes in connection with their trutli to Dickens. • Fielding delineates with more exquisite art, standing more as the spectator of his personages, commenting on their actions with an ironical humor and a seeming inno- * North- American Review, Ixix., 392, 393, October, 1849. CHARLES DICKENS. 73 cence of insiglit, which pierces not only into but through their very nature, laying bare their most unconscious scenes of action, and in every instance indicating that he understands them better than they understand them- selves. It is this perfection of knowledge and insight which gives to his novels their naturalness, their free- dom of movement, and their value as lessons in human nature, as well as consummate representations of actual life. Dickens's eye for the forms of things is as accu- rate as Fielding's, and his range of vision more extended; but he does not probe so profoun^-ly into the heart of what he sees, and he is more led away from the sim- j)licity of truth by a tricky spirit of fantastic exagger- ation. Mentally he is indisputably below Fielding ; but in tenderness, in pathos, in sweetness and purity of feel- ing, in that comprehensiveness of sympathy which springs from a sense of brotherhood with mankind, he is indisputably above him." .'• Mr. Dickens gave in his preface to " Oliver Twist," ' good and sufficient reasons for the choice of the charac- ters there represented, in the following words : — '' I have yet to learn that a lesson of the purest good may not be drawn from the vilest evil. I have alwa3^s believed this to be a recognized and established truth, laid down by the greatest men the world has ever seen, constantly acted upon by the best and wisest natures, 74 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF and confirmed by the reason and experience of every thinking mind. " In this spirit, when I wished to show, in little Oliver, the principle of good surviving through every adverse circumstance, and triumphing at last ; and when I consid- ered among what companions I could try him best, hav- ing regard to that kind of men into whose hands he would most naturally fall, — I bethought myself of those who figure in these volumes. When I came to discuss the subject more maturely with myself, I saw many strong reasons for pursuing tjie course to which I was inclined. I had read of thieves by scores, — seductive fellows (ami- able for the most part), faultless in dress, plump in pocket, choice in horse-flesh, bold in bearing, fortunate in gallantry, great at a song, a bottle, a pack of cards, or dice-box, and fit companions for the bravest. But I had never met (except in Hogarth) with the miserable reality. It appeared to me, that to draw a knot of such associates in crime as really do exist ; to paint them in all their deformity, in all their wretchedness, in all the squalid poverty of their lives ; to show them, as they really are, forever skulking uneasily through the dirtiest paths of life, with the great, black, ghastly gallows closing up their prospect, turn them where they may, — it appeared to me that to do this would be to attempt a something which was greatly needed, and which would be a service to society. And, therefore, I did it as I best could." CHARLES DICKENS. 75 Oliver Twist commenced life in a workhouse. The graphic picture drawn by Mr. Dickens of the workhouses in his day was not one calculated to give a favorable impression of English benevolence or justice. " Oliver asking for more " has become a proverb. The manner in which the fare of the poor boys was dealt out to them, is thus described : — " The room in which the boys were fed was a large stone hall, with a copper at one end, out of which the the master, dressed in an apron for the purpose, and as- sisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at meal- times. Of this festive composition, each boy had one por- ringer, and no more, except on occasions of great pub- he rejoicing, when he had two ounces and a quarter of bread besides. The bowls never wanted washing. The boys polished them with their spoons till they shone again ; and, when they had performed this operation (which never took very long, the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sit staring at the copper, with such eager eyes, as if they could have de- voured the very bricks of which it was composed ; em- ploying themselves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingers most assiduously, with a view of catching up any stray splashes of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys have, generally, excellent apj)etites. Oliver Twist and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starva- tion for three months : at last, they got so voracious and 76 LIFE AND WEITINGS OF wild with hunger, that one boy, who was tall for his age, and hadn't been used to that sort of thing (for his father had kept a small cook's shop), hinted darkly to his com- panions, that, unless he had another basin of gruel per diem, he was afraid he might some night happen to eat the boy who slept next him, who happened to be a weakly youth of tender age. He had a wild, hungry eye ; and they implicitly believed him. A council was held : lots were cast who should walk up to the master after supper that evening, and ask for more ; and it fell to Oliver Twist. " The evening arrived : the boys took their places. The master, in his cook's uniform, stationed himself at the copper ; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him ; the gruel was served out ; and a long grace was said over the short commons. The gruel disappeared : the boys whispered each other, and winked at Oliver, while his next neighbors nudged him. Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger, and recldess with misery. He rose from the table ; and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said, somewhat alarmed at his own temerity, — " ' Please, sir, I want some more.' " The master was a fat, healthy man ; but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for sup- port to the copper. The assistants were paralyzed with wonder, the boys with fear. CHARLES DICKENS. 77 " ' What ! ' said the master at length, in a faint voice. " ' Please, sir,' replied Oliver, ' I want some more.' " The master aimed a blow at Oliver's head with the ladle, pinioned him in his arms, and shrieked aloud for the beadle. " The board was sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and, addressing the gentleman in the high-chair, said, — " ' Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir ! Oliver Twist has asked for more ! ' " There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance. " ' For more ! ' said Mr. Limbkins. ' Compose jom:- self. Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I under- stand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary ? ' " ' He did, sir,' replied Bumble. " ' That boy will be hung,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. ' I know that boy will be hung.' " Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman's opin- ion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement ; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oli- ver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, busi- ness, or caUing." 78 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF The pen of the novelist was not lacking in power when he portrayed the abject wretchedness of some of the misera]:)le dwellers in crowded haunts of poverty, and showed, with a noble fearlessness, the heartless treat- ment they sometimes received from those whose duty it was to aid them to the extent of their power, or, at least, to manifest a Christian sympathy for them. Here is an example of such pen-pictures, horrible in its truthful- ness. Oliver had been requested by his employer, the undertaker, to accompany him : — " They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely-inhabited part of the town ; and then, striking down a narrow street more dirty and mis- erable than any they had jet passed through, paused to look for the house which was the object of their search. The houses on either side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by people of the poorest class, as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently de- noted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men and women, who, with folded arms and bodies half-doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts ; but these were fast closed, and mouldering away, only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and decay were prevented from falling into the street by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly CHARLES DICKENS. 79 planted in the road : but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some homeless wretches ; for many of the rough boards, which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their positions to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stag- nant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine. " There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped : so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him, and not be afraid, the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles. " It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or four- teen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in. Oliver followed him. " There was no fire in the room ; but a man was crouching mechanically over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner ; and in a small recess, oppo- site the door, there lay upon the ground something cov- ered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes towards the place, and crept involuntarily closer 80 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF to his master ; for, though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. " The man's face was thin and very pale ; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. ^The old woman's face was wrinlded ; her two remaining teeth pro- truded over her underlip ; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man : they seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. '' ' Nobody shall go near her,' said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approched. ' Keep back ! d — n 3^ou, keep back, if you've a life to lose I ' " ' Nonsense, my good man,' said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. ' Non- sense ! ' *"I tell you,' said the man, — clinching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor, — ' I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her, — not eat her, — she is so worn aAvay.' " The undertaker offered no reply to this raving ; but, producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the bod}^ " ' Ah 1 ' said the man, bursting into tears, and sink- ing on his knees at the feet of the dead woman : 'kneel down, kneel down, — kneel round her, every one of 3^ou, and mark my words ! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her ; and then her bones were starting CHARLES DICKENS. 81 tliroiigli the skin. There was neither fire nor candle : she died in the dark, — in the dark ! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets ; and they sent me to prison. When I came back, she was d^dng ; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it ! They starved her ! ' He twined his hands in his hair ; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor, his eyes fixed, and the foam covering his lips. " The terrified children cried bitterly ; but the old woman, who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence. Having unloosed the cravat of the man, who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the undertaker. " ' She was my daughter,' said the old woman, nod- ding her head in the direction of the corpse, and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even the presence of death in such a place. ' Lord, Lord ! Well, it is strange that I, who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there, — so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord! to think of it : it's as good as a play, — as good as a play ! ' " As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go away. 82 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' Stop, stop ! ' said the old woman, in a loud whis- per. ' Will she be buried to-morrow, or next day, or to-night ? I laid her out ; and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak, — a good warm one ; for it is bit- ter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go ! Never mind : send some bread, — only a loaf of bread, and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear ? ' she said eagerl}^, catching at the under- taker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door. '^ ' Yes, yes,' said the undertaker, ' of course. Any thing you like ! ' He disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp, and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away. " The next day (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself), Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode ; where JMr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man ; and the bare cof&n, having been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street. " ' Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady ! ' whispered Sowerberry in the old woman's ear : ' we are rather late ; and it won't do to keep the clergy- man waiting. Move on, my men, as quick as you like ! ' " Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their CHARLES DICKEXS. 83 light burden ; and the two mourners kept as near them as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front ; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master's, ran by tke side. " There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however: for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish-graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived ; and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so before he came. So they put the bier on the brink of the grave, and the two mourners w^aited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down ; while the ragged boys, whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard, played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backward and forward over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being per- sonal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper. " At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry and the clerk were seen running towards the grave. Immediately after- ward the clergyman appeared, putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances ; and the reverend gentle- man, having read as much of the burial-service as could 84 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away. " ' Now, Bill ! ' said Sowerberry to the grave-digger, 'fill up!' " It was no very difficult task ; for the grave was so full that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth, stamped it loosely down with his feet, shouldered his spade, and walked off, followed by the boys, who mur- mured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon. " ' Come, my good fellow ! ' said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. ' They want to shut up the yard.' " The man, who had never once moved since he had taken his station by the grave-side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces, and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off) to pay him any attention : so they threw a can of cold water over him ; and, when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways." At the present day, when so much more is done to reclaim the fallen women than was ever done before, a rare interest attaches to the chapter in " Oliver Twist " where poor lost Nancy converses with pure Rose May- CHARLES DICKENS. 85 lie. Hoocrs exquisitely touching poem, " The Bridge of Sighs," and Miss Phelps's far later " Hedged In," are remembered as one reads the words of Dickens, written so man}^ years ago, and showing a Christian sympathy with the outcast. Read the description of the interview between the two young women. Poor Nancy ! — " The girl's life had been squandered in the streets and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London : but there was something of the woman's ori- ginal nature left in her still ; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrank as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. " But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creature no •less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows it- self, — even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. 86 LIFE AND WIUTJNGS OF " She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl ; and then, bending them on the ground, tossed her head with affected carelessness, as she said, — " ' It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason, either.' " ' I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to 3'ou,' replied Rose. ' Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you in- quired for.' " The Idnd tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haugh- tiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by sur- prise, and she burst into tears. '" O lady, lady ! ' she said, clasping her hands pas- sionately before her face : ' if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me ! There would, — there would ! ' " ' Sit down,' said Rose earnestly : ' you distress me. If you are in poverty or affliction, I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can. I shall indeed. Sit down. ' " ' Let me stand, lady,' said the girl, still weeping ; " and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is — is — that door shut? ' " ' Yes,' said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. ' Why ? ' CHARLES DICKENS. 87 " ' Because,' said the girl, ' I am about to put my life, and the lives of others, in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's the Jew's, on the night when he went out from the house in Pen- tonville.' " ' You ! ' said Rose Maylie. " ' I, lady ! ' replied the girl. ' I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never, from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets, have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, — so help me God ! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me ; but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement. " ' What dreadful things are these ! ' said Rose, invol- untarily falling from her strange companion. " ' Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,' cried the girl, ' that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger and riot and drunkenness, and — and something worse than all, as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word ; for the alley and the gut- ter were mine, as they will be my deathbed.' " ' I jjity you ! ' said Rose in a broken voice. ' It wrings my heart to hear you ! ' " ' Heaven bless you for your goodness ! ' rejoined the girl. ' If you knew what I am sometimes, 3^ou would 88 LIFE AND WAITINGS OF pity me indeed. But I have stolen away from those who wonld surely murder me if they knew I had been here to tell you Avhat I have overheard. Do you know a man named iMonks ? ' " ' No,' said Rose. " ' He knows you,' rephed the girl, ' and knew you were here ; for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out.' " ' I never heard the name,* said Rose. " ' Then he goes by some other amongst us,' rejoined the girl ; ' which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I — suspecting this man — listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks — the man I asked you about, you know " — " ' Yes,' said Rose, ' I understand.' " — ' That Monks,' pursued the girl, ' had seen him accidentally with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that, if Oliver was got back, he should have a certain sum ; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own.' " ' For what purpose ? ' asked Rose. " ' He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened*, in the hope of finding out,' said the girl ; ' and CHARLES DICKENS. 89 there are Dot many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did ; and I saw him no more till last night.' " ' And what occurred then ? ' " ' I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went up stairs ; and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow should not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these : ' So the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that re- ceived them from the mother is rottino: in her coffin.' They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this : and Monks, talldng on about the boy, and getting very wild, said, that, though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way ; for what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then haul- ing him up for some capital felony, which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides.' "'What is all this? ' said Rose. " ' The truth, lady, though it comes from mj lips,' replied the girl. ' Then he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that, if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bring- ing his own neck in danger, he would : but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in 90 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF life ; and, i-f he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet. ' In short, Fagin,' he says, ' Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I'll con- trive for my young brother Oliver.' " ' His brother ! ' exclaimed Rose. " ' Those were his words,' said Nancy, glancing un- easily round, as she had scarcely ceased to do since she began to speak ; for a vision of Sykes haunted her per- petually. ' And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the Devil, against him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some com- fort in that too ; for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel Avas ! ' *' ' You do not mean,' said Rose, turning very pale, ' to tell me that this was said in earnest ? ' '' ' He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did,' replied the girl, shaking her head. ' He is an ear- nest man when his hatred is up. I know many who do worse things ; but I'd rather listen to them all a dozen times than to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly,' " ' But what can I do ? ' said Rose. ' To what use can I turn this communication without you ? Back ! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in such terrible colors ? If you repeat this information to a CHARLES DICKENS. ,91 gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety without half an hour's delay.' " ' I wish to go back,' said the girl. ' I must go back, because — how can I tell such things to an innocent ladylike you? — because, among the men I have told you of, there is one — the most desperate among them all — that I can't leave ; no, not even to be saved from the life I am leading now.' " ' Your having interfered in this dear boy's behalf be- fore,' said Rose ; ' your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard ; your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say ; your evi- dent contrition, and sense of shame, — all lead me to be- lieve that you might be yet reclaimed. Oh ! ' said the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears coursed down her face, ' do not turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one of your own sex, the first — the first, I do believe — who ever aj^pealed to you in the voice of pity and compas- sion. Do hear my words, and let me save you yet for better things ! ' '' ' Lady,' cried the girl, sinking on her knees, ' dear, sweet, angel lady, you are the first that ever blessed me with such words as these ; and, if I had heard them j^ears ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin and sorrow ; but it is too late, — it is too late ! ' " ' It is never too late,' said Rose, ' for penitence and atonement.' 92 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' It is,' cried the girl, writhing in the agony of her mind : ' I cannot leave him now ! I could not be his death.' " ' Why should you be ? ' asked Rose. " ' Nothing could save him,' cried the girl. ' If I told others what I have told you, and led to their being taken, he would be sure to die. He is the boldest, and has been so cruel.' " ' Is it possible," cried Rose, ' that, for such a man as this, you can resign every future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue ? It is madness.' " ' I don't know what it is,' answered the girl : ' I only know that it is so ; and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others, as bad and wretched as myself. I must go back. Whether it is God's wrath for the wrong I have done, I do not knov/ : but I am drav/n back to him through every suffering and ill-usage ; and should be, I believe, if I knew that I was to die by his hand at last.' " ' What am I to do ? ' said Rose. ' I should not let you depart from me thus.' " ' You should, lady, and I know you will,' rejoined the girl, rising. ' You will not stop my going, because I have trusted in your goodness, and forced no promise from you, as I might have done.' '' ' Of what use, then, is the communication jou. have made ?' said Rose. ' This mystery must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me benefit Oliver, whom you are anxious to serve ? ' CHARLES DICKENS. 93 " ' You must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a secret, and advise you what to do,' rejoined the girl. " ^ But where can I find you again, when it is neces- sary ? ' asked Rose. ' I do not seek to know where these dreadful people live ; but where will you be walk- ing, or passing, at any settled period from this time ? ' " ' Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and come alone, or with the only other person that knows it, and that I shall not be watched or followed ? ' asked the girl. " ' I promise you solemnly,' answered Rose. " ' Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve,' said the girl, without hesitation, ' I will walk on London Bridge, if I am alive.' " ' Stay another moment,' interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards the door. ' Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have of escaping from it. You have a claim on me, not only as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost, almost beyond redemption. Will you re- turn to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you ? What fascination is it that can take yoLi back, and make you cling to wickedness and misery? Oh! is there no chord in your heart that I can touch? Is there nothing left to which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation ? ' " ' When ladies as young and good and beautiful as 94 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF you are,' replied the girl steadily, ^give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths, — even such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, every thing to fill them. When such as I, who have no cer- tain roof bat the coffin-lid, and no friend in sickness or death but the hospital-nurse, set our rotten hearts on any man, and let him fill the place that has been a blank through all our wretched lives, who can hope to cure us ? Pity us, lady, — pity us for having only one feeling of the woman left, and for having that turned, by a heavy judgment, from a comfort and a pride into a new means of violence and suffering.' " ' You will,' said Rose after a pause, ' take some money from me, which may enable you to live without dishonest}^ — at all events until we meet again ? ' " ' Not a penny,' replied the girl, waving her hand. " ' Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you,' said Rose, stepping gently forward. ' I wish to serve you, indeed.' " ' You would serve me best, lady,' replied the girl, wringing her hands, ' if j^ou could take my life at once ; for I have felt more grief to think of what I am to- night than I ever did before ; and it would be something not to die in the same hell in which I have lived. God bless you, sweet lady, and send as much happiness on your head as I have brought shame on mine ! ' " Thus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy creature turned away ; while Rose Maylie, overpowered CHARLES DICKENS. 95 by this extraordinary interview, wliich had more the semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank mto a chair, and endeavored to collect her wander- ing thoughts." Space forbids, in tliis chapter, further selection from this soul-reaching novel, save that about the wicked Jew's last night on earth, just before he was about to meet the penalty so richly deserved. Shakspeare's Jew Shylock, and the Jew Fagin of Dickens, will ever live in literature as ghastly warnings to those who would be wealthy at whatever cost, — weighing honor and in- tegrity in the balance against gold and silver. As one reads the graphic word-picture of the de- parted novelist, one seems to see the court-room, the prison, the scaffold. " The court was paved from floor to roof with hu- man faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks were fixed upon one man, — the Jew. Before him and behind ; above, below, on the right, and on the left: he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes. " He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one hand resting on the wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust forward to en- able him to catch with greater distinctness every word 96 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF that fell from the presiding judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon them, to observe the effect of the slightest feather-weight in his favor, and, when the points against him were stated with terrible distinctness, looked to- wards his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, even then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these man- ifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial began ; and, now that the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same strained attitude of close attention, with his gaze bent on him as though he listened still. " A slight bustle in the court recalled him to himself. Looking round, he saw that the jurymen had turned to- gether, to consider of their verdict. As his eyes wan- dered to the gallery, he could see the people rising above each other to see his face, — some hastily applying their glasses to their eyes, and others whispering their neighbors with looks expressive of abhorrence. A few there were who seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to the jury, in impatient wonder how they could delay. But" in no one face — not even amoQg the wo- men, of whom there were many there — could he read the faintest sympathy with himself, or any feeling but one of all-absorbing interest that he should be con- demned. "As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the death-like stillness came again ; and, looking back, he CHARLES DICKENS. 97 saw that the jurymen had turned towards the judge. Hush ! " They only sought permission to retire. " He looked wistfully into their faces, one by one, when they passed out, as though to see which way the greater number leaned; but that was fruitless. The jailer touched him on the shoulder. He followed me- chanically to the end of the dock, and sat down on a chair. The man pointed it out, or he would not have seen it. " He looked up into the gallery again. Some of the people were eating, and some fanning themselves with handkerchiefs ; for the crowded place was very hot. There was one young man sketching his face in a little note-book. He wondered whether it was like, and looked on when the artist broke his pencil-point, and made another with his knife, as any idle spectator might have done. " In the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the judge, his mind began to busy itself with the fashion of his dress, and what it cost, and how he put it on. There was an old, fat gentleman on the bench, too, who had gone out, some half an hour before, and now came back. He wondered within himself whether this man had been to get his dinner, what he had had, and AAdiere he had had it ; and pursued this train of careless thought until some new object caught his eye and roused another. '^ Not that all this time his mind was, for an instant, 7 98 LIFE AND WAITINGS OF free from one oppressive, overwhelming sense of the grave that opened at his feet: it was ever present to him, but in a vague and general w*ay, and he could not fix his thoughts upon it. Thus, even while he trem- bled, and turned burning hot at the idea of speedy death, he fell to counting the iron spikes before him, and Avondering how the head of one had been broken off, and whether they would mend it, or leave it as it was. Then he thought of all the horrors of the gallows and scaffold, — and stopped to watch a man sprinkling the floor to cool it, — and then went on to think again. " At length, there was a cry of silence, and a breath- less look from all towards the door. The jury returned, and passed him close. He could glean nothing from their faces : they might as well have been of stone. Perfect silence ensued — not a rustle — not a breath. Guilty. " The building rang with a tremendous shout, and an- other, and another ; and then it echoed deep, loud groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, like angry thunder. It was a peal of joy from the populace out- side, greeting the news that he would die on Monday. " The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had any thing to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him. He had resumed his listening attitude, and looked intently at his questioner while the demand was made : but it was twice repeated before he seemed to hear it ; and then he only muttered that he was an CHARLES DICKENS. 99 old man — an old man ^ an old man; and so, dropping into a whisper, was silent again. " The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same air and gesture. A woman in the gallery uttered some exclamation, called forth by this dread solemnity. He looked hastily up as if angry at the interruption, and bent forward yet more atten- tively. The address was solemn and impressive, the sentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still thrust forward, his under-jaw hanging down, and his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer put his hand upon his arm, and beckoned him away. He gazed stupidly about him for an instant, and obeyed. " They led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners were waiting till their turns came, and others were talking to their friends, who crowded round a grate which looked into the open 5'ard. There was nobody to speak to him : but, as he passed, the prisoners fell back to render him more visi- ble to the people who were clinging to the bars ; and they assailed him with opprobrious names, and screeched and hissed. He shook his fist, and would have spat upon them ; but his conductors hurried him on through a gloomy passage, lighted by a few dim lamps, into the interior of the prison. "Here he was searched, that he might not have 100 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF about him the means of anticipating the law : this cere- mony performed, they led him to one of the condemned cells, and left him there — alone. " He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for seat and- bedstead, and, casting his bloodshot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect his thoughts. After a while, he began to remember a few disjointed fragments of what the judge had said ; though it had seemed to him, at the time, that he could not hear a word. These gradually fell into their proper places, and by degrees suggested more : so that, in a lit- tle time, he had the whole, almost as it was delivered. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead, — that was the end. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead. "As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who had died upon the scaffold, some of them through his means. They rose up in such quick succession that he could hardly count them. He had seen some of them die, — and had joked, too, 'be- cause they died with prayers upon their lips. With what a rattling noise the drop went down ; and how sud- denly they changed from strong and vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes ! " Some of them might have inhabited that very cell, — sat upon that very spot. It was very dark: why didn't they bring a light? The cell had been built for many years. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It was like sitting in a vault strewn with CHARLES DICKENS. 101 dead bodies, — the cap, the noose, the pmioned arms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil. Light! light! " At length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavy door and walls, two men appeared, — one bearing a candle, which he thrust into an iron can- dlestick fixed against the wall ; the other dragging in a mattress on which to pass the night, for the prisoner was to be left alone no more. " Then came night, — dark, dismal, silent night. Other watchers are glad to hear the church-clocks strike, for they tell of life and coming day. To the Jew, they brought despair. The boom of every iron bell came laden with the one deep, hollow sound, — Death. What availed the noise and bustle of cheerful morning, which penetrated even there, to him ? It was another form of knell, with mockery added to the warning. " The day passed off, — day ! There was no day : it was gone as soon as come, and night came on again, — night so long, and yet so short ; long in its dreadful si- lence, and short in its fleeting hours. At one time, he raved and blasphemed ; and, at another, howled and tore his hair. Venerable men of his own persuasion had come to pray beside him, but he had driven them away with curses. They renewed their charitable efforts, and he beat them off. . " Saturday night. He had only one night more to live. And, as he thought of this, the day broke, — Sun- day. 102 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " It was n-ot until the night of this last awful day, that a withering sense of his helpless, desperate state came in its full intensity upon his blighted soul : not that he had ever held any defined or positive hope of mercy, but that he had never been able to consider more than the* dim probability of dying so soon. He had spo- ken little to either of the two men who relieved each other in their attendance upon him ; and they, for their parts, made no effort to rouse his attention. He had sat there, awake, but dreaming. Now he started up every mmute, and, with gasping moutli and burning skin, hur- ried to and fro, in such a paroxysm of fear and wrath, that even they — used to such sights — recoiled from him with horror. He grew so terrible at last, in all the tortures of his evil conscience, that one man could not bear to sit there eying him alone ; and so the two kept watch together. " He cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. He had been wounded with some missiles from the crowd on the day of his capture, and his head was bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung down upon his bloodless face ; his beard was torn, and twisted into knots ; his eyes shone with a terrible light ; his unwashed flesh craclded with the fever that burnt him up. Eight — nine — ten. If it was not a trick to frighten him, and those were the real hours treading on each other's heels, where would he be when they came round again ! Eleven ! Another struck, before the voice CHARLES DICKENS. 103 of tlie previous hour had ceased to "vdbrate. At eight, he Avould be the only mourner in his own funeral train ; at eleven — " Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hid- den so much misery and such unspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often and too long, from the thoughts, of men, never held so dread a spectacle as that. The few who lingered as they passed, and won- dered what the man was doing who was to be hung to- morrow, would have slept but ill that night if they could have seen him. " From early in the evening until nearly midnight, lit- tle groups of two and three presented themselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired, with anxious faces, whether any reprieve had been received. These, being answered in the negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to clusters in the street, who pointed out to one another the door from which he must come out, and showed where the scaffold would be built, and, walldng with unwilling steps away, turned back to conjure up the scene. By degrees they fell off, one by one ; and for an hour, in the dead of night, the street was left to solitude and darkness. " The space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers, painted black, had been already thrown across the road to break the pressure of the expected crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket, and presented an order of admission to the pris- 104 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF oner, signed by one of the sheriffs. They were immedi- ately admitted into the lodge. " ' Is the young gentleman to come too, sir ? ' said the man whose duty it was to conduct them. ' It's not a sight for children, sir. ' " ' It is not indeed, my friend,' rejoined Mr. Brown- low ; ' but my business with this man is intimately con- nected with him ; and, as this child has seen him in the full career of his success and villany, I think it well, even at the cost of some pain and fear, that he should see him now.' " These few words had been said apart, so as to be in- audible to Ohver. The man touched his hat ; and, glan- cing at Oliver with some curiosity, opened another gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and led them on, through dark and winding ways, towards the cells. " ' This,' said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage where a couple of workmen were making some prepara- tions in profound silence, — ' this is the place he passes through. If you step this way, you can see the door he goes out at. ' " He led them into a stone kitchen, fitted with cop- pers for dressing the prison food, and pointed to a door. There was an open grating above it, through which came the sound of men's voices, mingled with the noise of hammering, and the throwing down of boards. They were putting up the scaffold. CHARLES DICKENS. 105 " From this place, they passed through several strong gates, opened by other turnkeys from the inner side ; and, having entered an open yard, ascended a flight of narrow steps, and came into a passage with a row of strong doors on the left hand. Motioning them to re- main where they were, the turnkey knocked at one of these with his bunch of keys. The two attendants, after a little whispering, came out into the passage, stretching themselves as if glad of the temporary relief, and mo- tioned the visitors to follow the jailer into the cell. They did so. *' The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life ; for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision. " ' Good boy, Charley — well done ! ' — he mumbled. ' Oliver too, — Ha ! ha ! ha ! Oliver too — quite the gen- tleman now — quite the — take that boy away to bed ! ' " The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver ; and, whispering liim not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking. " ' Take him away to bed I ' cried the Jew. ' Do you hear me, some of you ? He has been the — the — some- how the cause of all this. It's worth the money to bring him up to it — Bolter's throat. Bill; never mind the girl — Bolter's throat as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off ! ' 106 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' Fagin,' said the jailer. " ' That's me ! ' cried the Jew, falling instantly into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. ' An old man, my lord, — a very old, old man ! ' " ' Here,' said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down. ' Here's somebody wants to see you, — to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin ! Are you a man ? ' " ' I sha'n't be one long,' replied the Jew, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. ' Strike them all dead ! what right have they to butcher me ? ' " As he spoke, he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the farthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there. " ' Steady, ' said the turnkey, still holding him down. ' Now, sir, tell him what you want, — quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on.' " ' You have some papers,' said Mr. Brownlow, ad- vancing, ' which were placed in 'your hands, for better security, by a man called Monks.' " ' It's all a lie together,' replied the Jew. ' I haven't one, — not one.' " ' For the love of God,' said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, ' do not say that now, upon the very verge of death ; but tell me where they are. You know that Sykes is dead, that Monks has confessed, that there is no hope of any further gain. Where are those papers ? ' CHARLES DICKENS. 107 " ' Oliver,' cried the Jew, beckoning to Mm. ' Here, here ! Let me whisper to you.' " ' I am not afraid,' said Oliver in a loud voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow's hand. " ' The papers,' said the Jew, drawing him towards him, ' are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up tlie chimney, in the top front room. I want to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk to you.' " ' Yes, yes,' returned Oliver. * Let me say a prayer. Do ! Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till morning.' " ' Outside, outside,' replied the Jew, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. ' Say I've gone to sleep : they'll believe you. You can get me out if you take me so. Now, then ; now, then ! ' " ' O God, forgive this wretched man ! ' cried the boy with a burst of tears. " ' That's right, that's right,' said the Jew. ' That'll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don't you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now ! ' " ' Have you nothing else to ask him, sir ? ' inquired the turnkey. " ' No other question,' replied Mr. Brownlow. ' If I hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position ' — " ' Nothing will do that, sir,' replied the man, shaking his head. ' You had better leave him.' 108 LIFE AND WRITINGS. " Tlie door of tlie cell opened,, and the attendants re- turned. " ' Press on, press on ! ' cried the Jew. ' Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster ! ' " The men laid hands upon him, and, disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He struggled with the power of desperation for an instant, and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard. " It was some time before they left the prison. Oliver nearly swooned after this frightful scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more he had not the strength to walk. " Day was dawning when they again emerged. A great multitude had already assembled: the windows were filled with people, smoking, and playing cards, to beguile the time. The crowd were pushing, quarrelling, and joldng. Every thing told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects, in the very centre of aH, — the black stage, the cross-beam, and the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death." CHAPTER V. ONE OF HIS BEST. Nicholas Nickleby. — Opinion of " The Methodist." — Thackeray's. School. — Henry "Ward Beecher's Testimony, ■The Squeers " Have pity on them, for their life Is full of grief and care. You do not know one-half the woes The very poor must bear; Tou do not see the silent tears By many a mother shed, As childhood offers up the prayer, — * Give us our daily bread.' " Mrs. Jane F. Worthingtox. " Hath not Q-od chosen the poor of this world rich in faith, and heirs of the king- dom which he hath promised to them that love him." — Jas. ii. 5, BOUT the year 1839 was published, in shilhng numbers, uniform with " Pick- wick," another characteristic novel from the pen of Charles Dickens. This was entitled Nicholas Nickleby. It became very popular abroad, as well as in England, and was dramatized in France, as were also several other of his works. Thackeray once wrote a laughable account of a performance of " Neekolass Neeklbee " which he attended in Paris. At present, a French edition of Dickens's novels is announced ; and the news of his death was unwelcome 109 110 LIFE AND WHITINGS OF in foreign lands as well as in " merrie " England. Those, in all lands, most familiar with the creations of Mr. Dick-, ens's genius, and most capable of appreciating such creations, render him a verdict of praise and thanks. ■ " The Methodist," with wise discrimination, says, — " His volumes have reformed some of the most pro- found vices of Enghsh life, — the Yorkshire schools, the Debtors' Prison, the intolerable grievances of Chancery. What defects of British society has he not attempted to amehorate ? But, aside from his sarcasm, his humorous caricature, the genial method by which he would correct grievous evils, he has infused a moral vitality into all the veins and arteries of English common life by his genial teachings, his boundless illustration of character, the habitual humanity and benevolence of his senti- ments, and the general high tone of his morality. His pages are unsullied with any of that grossness which had, down to his day, seemed inseparable from English humor. " The greatest of the British humorists, — for we do not hesitate to accord him this pre-eminence, — he is also the purest of them all. Not to speak of Swift and Sterne and Fielding and Smollett, he is even less blemished than Goldsmith or Addison. He does, indeed, too often draw humor from drinldng scenes ; but in this he repre- sents the standard sentiment of his countrymen. No other taint can be detected by the acutest moral analysis of his pages. . . . CHARLES DICKEXS. Ill " His works can be unreservedly placed in any vir- tuous household. They cannot be read by the young without neutralizing a taste for lower literature ; with- out imparting freshness, healthfulness, geniality, and moral tone to the susceptibilities of youth," " Nicholas Nickleby " dealt with the abuses in cheap Yorkshire schools, at which body and mind were both kept on starvation diet, and broke up a system which was disgraceful to a civilized country. It showed, as did " Oliver Twist," that the author was still working for the emancipation of boyhood. He drew from real life liis pictures of Dotheboys Hall and the miserable Squeers who domineered therein. It was only a humor- ous exaggeration, if it was an exaggeration at all, of evils really existing which he desired to expose in order to correct. And he did correct them. After-years showed that he labored not in vain ; so that, in his pref- ace to a later edition, he could say of the cheap York- shire schools he depicted, " There are very few now." The righteous indignation and Christian disgust he felt in regard to such miserable substitutes for good schools led him to characterize the masters in this forcible lanofuagre. " Of the monstrous neglect of education in England, and the disregard of it by the State as the means of forming good or bad citizens and miserable or happy men, private schools long afforded a notable example. 112 LIFE AND WHITINGS OF Although any man, who had proved his unfitness for any- other occupation in life, was free, without examination or qualification, to open a school anywhere ; although preparation for the functions he undertook was required in the surgeon who assisted to bring a boy into the world, or might one day assist, perhaps, to send him out of it; in the chemist, the attorney, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, the whole round of crafts and trades, the schoolmaster excepted; and although schoolmasters, as a race, were the blockheads and impos- tors who might naturally be expected to spring from such a state of things, and to flourish in it, — these York- shire schoolmasters were the lowest and most rotten round in the whole ladder. Traders in the avarice, in- difference, imbecility, of parents, and the helplessness of children ; ignorant, sordid, brutal men, to whom few considerate persons would have intrusted the board and lodging of a horse or a dog, — they formed the worthy corner-stone of a structure, which, for absurdity and a magnificent, high-minded, laissez-aller neglect, has rarely been exceeded in the world." And solemnly in the preface, Mr. Dickens afiirmed that his picture of the Squeers school was a truthful one, saying, — "The author's object in calling public attention to the system would be very imperfectly fidfiUed, if he did CHARLES DICKENS. 113 not state now, in his own person, emphatically and ear- nestly, that Mr. S queers and his school are faint and fee- ble pictures of an existing reality, purposely subdued and kept down lest they should be deemed impossible. That there are, upon record, trials at law in which dam- ages have been sought as a poor recompense for lasting agonies and disfigurements inflicted upon children by the treatment of the master in these places, involving such offensive and foul details of neglect, cruelty, and disease, as no writer of fiction would have the boldness to imagine. And that, since he has been engaged upon these Adventures, he has received, from private quarters far beyond the reach of suspicion or distrust, accounts of atrocities, in the perpetration of which upon neglected or repudiated children these schools have been the main instruments, very far. exceeding any that appear in these pages. " / Charles Dickens loved children. He wrote for their\ good. He may be called the children's friend. The brilliant Thackeray, in one of his lectures on " English Humorists of the Nineteenth Century, " paid an eloquent and touching tribute to the pure genius of Dickens, and , in it referred thus to Mm and to " Nicholas Nickleby." " As for this man's love of children, that amiable or- gan at the back of his honest head must be perfectly monstrous. All children ought to love him. I know 8 114 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF • two that do, and read his books ten times for once that they perase the dismal preachments of their father. I know one who, when she is happy, reads ' Nicholas Nic- kleby ; ' when she is unhappy, reads ' Nicholas Nickleby ; ' when she is tired, reads ' Nicholas Nickleby ; ' when she is in bed, reads ' Nicholas Nickleby ; ' when she has noth- ing to do, reads ' Nicholas Nickleby ; ' and, when she has finished the book, reads ' Nicholas Nickleby ' over again. This candid young critic, at ten years of age, said, ' I like Mr. Dickens's books much better than I do your books, papa ; ' and frequently expressed her desire that the latter author should write a book like one of Mr. Dickens's books. Who can ? Every man must say his own thoughts in his own voice, in his own way : lucky is he v/ho has such a charming gift of nature as this, which brings all the children in the world trooping to him and being fond of him. " I remember, when the famous ' Nicholas Nickleby ' came out, seeing a letter from a pedagogue in the north of England, which, dismal as it was, was immensely com- ical. ' Mr. Dickens's ill-advised publication,' wrote the poor schoolmaster, ' has passed like a whirlwind over the schools of the north.' He was the proprietor of a cheap school. Dotheboys Hall was a cheap school. There were many such establishments in the northern coun- ties. Parents were ashamed that never were ashamed before until the kind satirist laughed at them ; relatives were frightened ; scores of little scholars were taken CHAHLES DICKENS. 115 awa}^ ; poor schoolmasters had to shut their shops up ; every pedagogue was voted a Squeers, and many suf- fered, no doubt, unjustly ; but afterwards school-boys' backs were not so much caned, school-boys' meat was less tough and more plentiful, and school-boys' milk was not so sky-blue. What a kind light of benevolence it is that plays round Crummies and the Phenomenon, and all those poor theatre people in that charming book ! What a humor ! And what a good humor ! I coincide with the youthful critic whose opinion has just been mentioned, and own to a family admiration for Nicholas Nickleby. " '\ Tliis side the water, the great Brooklyn preacher J\ whom all Christians love, bore this testimony concern-' ing Mr. Dickens and his book : — " Many ameliorations of bad laws and cruel customs can be traced to the influence of his pen. I remember his sa3dng to me in the room adjoining, in a modest wa}^ that since his account of Mr. Squeers's school, in which Nicholas Nickleby was not educated, such schools had passed away from England. His writings led the way to many reforms, and made many abuses ashamed." No one who has read " Nicholas Nickleby " can fail to remember the description of Mr. Squeers, or to de- spise the Yorkshire schoolmaster thus described : — 116 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " Mr. Squeers's appearance was not prepossessing. He had but one eye ; and the popular prejudice runs in favor of two. The eye he had was unquestionably useful, but decidedly not ornamental ; being of a green- ish gray, and in shape resembling the fan-light of a street-door. The blank side of his face was much wrin- kled and puckered up, which gave him a very sinister appearance, especially when he smiled ; at which times liis expression bordered closely on the villanous. His hair was very flat and shiny, save at the ends, where it was brushed stiffly up from a low, protruding forehead, which assorted well with his harsh voice and coarse manner. He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle below the middle size. He wore a Avhite necker- chief with long ends, and a suit of scholastic black ; but his coat-sleeves being a great deal too long, and his trousers a great deal too short, he appeared ill at ease in his clothes, and as if he were in a perpetual state of astonishment at finding himself so respectable. '' Mr. Squeers was standing in a box by one of the coffee-room fireplaces, fitted with one such table as is usually seen in coffee-rooms, and two of extraordinary shapes and dimensions, made to suit the angles of the partition. In a corner of the seat was a very small deal trunk, tied round with a scanty piece of cord ; and on the trunk was perched — his lace-up half-boots and cor- duroy trousers dangling in the air — a diminutive boy, with shoulders drawn up to his ears, and his hands CHAKLES DICKENS. 117 planted on his knees, who glanced timidly at the school- master from time to time, with evident dread and ap- prehension. " ' Half-past three,' muttered Mr. Squeers, turning from the window, and looking sulkily at the coffee-room clock. ' There will be nobody here to-day.' " Much vexed by this reflection, Mr. Squeers looked at the little boy to see whether he was doing any thing he could beat him for. As he happened not to be doing any thing at all, he merely boxed his ears, and told him not to do it again. " ' At midsummer,' muttered Mr. Squeers, resuming 'his complaint, ' I took down ten boys : ten twenty s is two hundred pound. I go back at eight o'clock to- morrow morning, and have got only three, — three oughts is an ought, three twos is six, — sixty pound. What's come of all the boys? What's parents got in their heg-ds ? What does it all mean ? ' " Here the little boy on the top of the trunk gave a violent sneeze. " ' Holloa, sir ! ' growled the schoolmaster, turning round. ' What's that, sir ? ' " ' Nothing, please, sir,' said the little boy. " ' Nothing, sir ! ' exclaimed Mr. Squeers. " ' Please, sir, I sneezed,' rejoined the boy, trembling till the little trunk shook under him. " ' Oh !, sneezed, did you ? ' retorted Mr. Squeers. ' Then what did you say, " Nothing " for, sir ? ' 118 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a couple of knucldes into each of his ejes, and began to cry ; wherefore Mr. Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of his face, and knocked him on again with a blow on the other. " ' Wait till I get you down into Yorkshire, my young gentleman,' said Mr. Squeers, ' and then I'll give you the rest. Will you hold that noise, sir ? ' " ' Ye-ye-yes,' sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face very hard with the ' Beggar's Petition ' in printed calico. " ' Then do so at once, sir,' said Squeers. ' Do 3^ou hear ? ' " As this admonition was accompanied with a threat- ening gesture, and uttered with a savage asj)ect, the little boy rubbed his face harder, as if to keep the tears back, and, beyond alternately sniffing and choking, gave no further vent to his emotions. " ' Mr. Squeers,' said the waiter, looking in at this juncture, ' here's a gentleman asking for you at the bar.' " ' Show the gentleman in, Richard,' replied Mr. Squeers in a soft voice. ' Put your handkerchief in your pocket, you little scoundrel, or I'll murder you when the gentleman goes.' " The schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words in a fierce whisper, when the stranger entered. Affect- ing not to see him, Mr. Squeers feigned to be intent upon mending a pen, and offering benevolent ^vice to his yo.uthful pupil. CHARLES DICKENS. 119 " ' My dear child,' said Mr. Squeers, ' all people have their trials. This early trial of yours, that is fit to make your little heart burst, and your very eyes come out of your head with crying, what is it ? Nothing, less than nothing. You are leaving your friends ; but you will have a father in me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs. Squeers. At the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, where youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money, provided with all necessaries " — " ' It is the gentleman,' observed the stranger, stop- ping the schoolmaster in the rehearsal of his advertise- ment. ' Mr. Squeers, I believe, sir ? ' " ' The same, sir,' said Mr. Squeers, with an assump- tion of extreme surprise. " ' The gentleman,' said the stranger, ' that advertised in " The Times " newspaper ? ' — " ' " Morning Post," " Chronicle," " Herald," and '' Advertiser," regarding the Academy called Dotheboys Hall, at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire,' added Mr. Squeers. ' You come on business, sk, I see by my young friends. How do you do, my little gentleman ? and how do ^ou do, sir ? ' With this salutation, Mr. Squeers patted the heads of two hollow-eyed, small-boned little boys, whom the appli- cant had brought with him, and waited for fiu-ther com- munications." 120 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF After such a description of the master, what may be expected as a picture of the school ? The introduction which Nicholas Nickleby had to the young noblemen of Dotheboys Hall, and the manner in which they were treated in regard to food and medicine, gives the answer. Mr. Squeers led Nicholas to the schoolroom, saying, " ' This is our shop, Nickleby.' "It was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects to attract attention, that, at first, Nicholas stared about him, really without seeing any thing at all. By degrees, however, the place resolved itself into a bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof a tenth part might be of glass, the remainder being stopped up with old copybooks and paper. There were a couple of long, old, rickety desks, cut and notched and inked, and damaged in every possible way ; two or three forms ; a detached desk for Squeers, and another for his assistant. The ceiling was supported, like that of a barn, by cross-beams and rafters ; and the walls were so stained and discolored that it was impossible to tell whether they had ever been touched with paint or whitewash. " But the pupils, — the young noblemen ! How the last faint traces of hope, the remotest glimmering of any good to be derived from his efforts in this den, faded from the mind of Nicholas as he looked in dismay around ! Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony fig- CHARLES DICKENS. 121 ures, children with the countenances of old men, de- formities with irons upon their limbs, boys of stunted growth, and others whose long, meagre legs would hardly bear their stooping bodies, all crowded on the view together. There were the bleared eye, the hair-lip, the crooked foot, and every ugliness or distortion that told of unnatural aversion conceived by parents for their offspring, or of young lives which, from the earliest dawn of infancy, had been one horrible endurance of cruelty and neglect ; there were little faces which should have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering ; there was childhood, with the light of its eye quenched, its beauty gone, and its helplessness alone remaining ; there were vicious-faced boys, brooding, with leaden eyes, like malefactors in a jail ; and there were young creatures, on whom the sins of their frail j^arents had descended, weeping even for the mercenary nurses they had known, and lonesome even in their loneliness. With every kindly sympathy and affection blasted in its birth, with every young and healthy feeling flogged and starved down, with every revengeful passion that can fester in swollen hearts eat- ing its evil way to their core in silence, what an incipient hell was breediuGf here ! '' And yet this scene, painful as it Avas, had its gro- tesque features, which, in a less interested observer than Nicholas, might have provoked a smile. Mrs. Squeers stood at one of the desks, presiding over an immense 122 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF basin of brimstone and treacle, of which delicious com- pound she administered a large instalment to each boy in succession, using for the purpose a common wooden spoon, which might have been originally manufactured for some gigantic top, and which widened every young gentleman's mouth considerably ; they being all obliged, under heavy corporal penalties, to take in the whole of the bowl at a gasp. In another corner, huddled to- gether for companionship, were the little boys who had arrived on the preceding night, — three of them in very large leather breeches, and two in old trousers, a some- what tighter fit than drawers are usually worn. At no great distance from these was seated the juvenile son and heir of Mr. Squeers, — a strildng likeness of his father, — kicking, with great vigor, under the hands of Smike, who was fitting upon him a pair of new boots that bore a most suspicious resemblance to those which the least of the little boys had worn on the journey down, as the little boy himself seemed to think, for he was regarding the appropriation with a look of most rueful amazement. Besides these, there was a long row of boys waiting, with countenances of no pleasant anti- cipation, to be treacled ; and another file, who had just escaped from the infliction, making a variety of wry mouths indicative of any thing but satisfaction. The wliole were attired in such motley, ill-sorted, extraordi- nary garments, as would have been irresistibly ridicu- lous, but for the foul appearance of dirt, disorder, and disease, with which they were associated. CHARLES DICKENS. 123 " ' Now,' said Squeers, giving the desk a great rap with his cane, which made half the Httle boys nearly jump out of their boots, ' is that physicking over ? ' " ' Just over,' said Mrs. Squeers, choking the last boy in her hurr}^, and tapping the crown of his head with the wooden spoon to restore him. ' Here, you Smike ! take away now. Look sharp ! ' " Smike shuffled out with the basin; and Mrs. Squeers, having called up a little boy with a curly head, and wiped her hands upon it, hurried out after him into a species of wash-house, where there was a small fire, and a large kettle, together with a number of little wooden bowls which were arranged upon a board. " Into these bowls, Mrs. Squeers, assisted by the hun- gry servant, poured a brown composition, which looked like diluted pincushions without the covers, and was called porridge. A minute wedge of brown bread was inserted in each bowl ; and, when they had eaten their porridge by means of the bread, the boys ate the bread itself, and had finished their breakfast : whereupon Mr. Squeers said, in a solemn voice, ' For what we have re- ceived, may the Lord make us truly thankful ! ' — and went away to his own. " Nicholas distended his stomach with a bowl of por- ridge, for much the same reason which induces some savages to swallow earth, — lest they should be incon- veniently hungry Avhen there is nothing to eat. Having further disposed of a slice of bread and butter, allotted 124 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF to liim ill virtue of liis office, he sat himself down to wait for school-time. " He could not but observe how silent and sad the boys all seemed to be. There was none of the noise and clamor of a school-room ; none of its boisterous play or hearty mirth. The children sat crouching and shivering together, and seemed to lack the spirit to move about. The only pupil who evinced the slightest ten- dency towards locomotion or playfulness was Master Squeers ; and, as his chief amusement was to tread upon the other boys' toes in his new boots, his flow of spirits was rather disagreeable than otherwise. "After some half-hour's delay, Mr. Squeers re-ap- peared ; and the boys took their places and their books, of which latter commodity the average might be about one to eight learners. A few minutes having elapsed, during which Mr. Squeers looked very profound, as if he had a perfect apprehension of what was inside all the books, and could say every word of their contents by heart if he only chose to take the trouble, that gentle- man called up the first class. " Obedient to this summons, there ranged themselves in front of the schoolmaster's desk half a dozen scare- crows, out at knees and elbows ; one of whom placed a torn and filthy book beneath his learned eye. " ' This is the first class in English spelling and phi- losophy, Nickleby,' said Squeers, beckoning Nicholas to stand beside liim. 'We'll get up a Latin one, and CHARLES DICKENS. 125 hand that over to you. Now, then, where's the first boy?' " ' Please, sir, he's cleaning the back-parlor window,' said the temporary head of the philosophical class. '"So he is, to be sure,' rejoined Squeers. ' We go upon the practical mode of teaching, Nickleby ; the regular education system. C-1-e-a-n, clean, verb active, to make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder, a casement. When the boy knows this out of book, he goes and does it. It's just the same principle as the use of the globes. Where's the second boy ? ' " ' Please, sir, he's weeding the garden,' rejDlied a small voice. " ' To be sure,' said Squeers, by no means discon- certed : ' so he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney, noun substantive, a knowledge of plants. When he has learned that bottinney means a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. That's our system, Nicideby : what do you think of it ? ' " ' It's a very useful one, at any rate,' ansAvered Nicholas. " ' I believe you,' rejoined Squeers, not remarking the emphasis of his usher. ' Third boy. What's a horse ? ' " ' A beast, sir,' replied the boy. " ' So it is,' said Squeers. ' Ain't it, Nickleby ? ' " ' I believe there is no doubt of that, sir,' answered Nicholas. 12G LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' Of course, there isn't,' said Squeers. ' A horse is a quadruped, and quadruped's Latin for beast, as every- body that's gone through the grammar knows ; or else Where's the use of having^ o^rammars at all ? ' " ' Where, indeed ! ' said Nicholas abstractedly. "'As you're perfect in that,' resumed Squeers, turn- ing to the boy, ' go and look after my horse, and rub him down well, or I'll rub you doAvn. The rest of the class go and draw water up till somebody tells you to leave off; for it's washing-day to-morrow, and they want the coppers filled.' "So saying, he dismissed the first class to their ex- periments in practical philosoph}^, and eyed Nicholas with a look, half- cunning and half- doubtful, as if he were not altogether certain what he might think of him by this time. " ' That's the way we do it, Nickleby,' he said after a pause. " Nicholas shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was scarcely perceptible, and said he saw it was. " ' And a very good way it is too,' said Squeers. ' Now, just take them fourteen little boys, and hear them some reading, because, you know, you must begin to be useful. Idling about here won't do.' " Mr. Squeers said this as if it had suddenly occurred to him, either that he must not say too much to his as- sistant, or that his assistant did not say enough to him in praise of the establishment. The children were ar- CFTARLES DICKENS. 127 ranged in a semicircle round the new master ; and lie was soon listening to their dull, drawling, hesitating re- cital of those stories of engrossing interest which are to be found in the more antiquated spelling-books. " In this exciting occupation the morning lagged heavily on. At one o'clock, the boys, having previously had their appetites thoroughly taken away by stir-about and potatoes, sat down in the Idtchen to some hard salt- beef, of which Nicholas was graciously permitted to take his portion to his own solitary desk to eat it there in peace. After this, there was another hour of crouch- ing in the school-room, and shivering with cold; and then school began again." In connection with Nicholas, the poor drudge, Smike, is always remembered. That he was the cousin of Nicholas is afterwards shown ; but neither of them dreamed of the relationship while they were together. Not until Smike found the friendly shelter of the grave did the lono^-hidden secret become revealed. The fol- lowing is the account of their first conversation : — " As he was absorbed in these meditations, he all at once encountered the upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a few stray cin- ders from the hearth, and planting them on the fire. He had paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and, when he saw that he was observed, shrunk back, as if expecting a blow. 128 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' You need not fear me,' said Nicholas kindly. ' Are you cold ? ' u 4 N-n-o.' " ' You are shivering.' " ' I am not cold,' replied Smike quickly. ' I am used to it.' " There was such an obvious fear of giving offence in his manner, and he was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help exclaiming, ' Poor fellow ! ' '' If he had struck the drudge, he would have slunk away without a word. But now he burst into tears. " ' Oh, dear, oh, dear ! ' he cried, covering his face with his cracked and horny hands. ' My heart will break. It will, it will.' " ' Hush ! ' said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder. ' Be a man ! you are nearly one by years, God help you ! ' " ' By years I ' cried Smike. ' Oh, dear, dear, how many of them ! How many of them since I was a little child, younger than any that are here now ! Where are they all?' " ' Whom do you speak of ? ' inquired Nicholas, wish- ing to rouse the poor, half-witted creature to reason ; ' Tell me. ' " ' My friends,' he replied, ' myself — my — oh ! what sufferings mine have been ! ' " ' There is always hope,' said Nicholas : he knew not what to say. CHARLES DICKENS. 129 " ' No,' rejoined the other. ' No : none for me.' Do you remember the boy that died here ? ' " ' I was not here, you know,' said Nicholas gently ; ' but what of him ? ' " ' Why,' replied the youth, drawing closer to liis questioner's side, ' I was with him at night ; and, when it was all silent, he cried no more for friends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see faces round his bed that came from home. He said they smiled, and talked to him ; and he died, at last, lifting his head to kiss them. Do you hear ! ' " ' Yes, yes,' rejoined Nicholas. " ' What faces will smile on me when I die ! ' cried his companion, shivering. 'Who will talk to me in those long nights ! They cannot come from home : they would frighten me, if they did, for I don't know what it is, and shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and fear, for me, alive or dead. No hope, no hope ! ' " The bell rang to bed ; and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his own listless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a heavy heart that Nicho- las soon afterwards — no, not retired ; there was no re- tirement, there — followed — to his dirty and crowded dormitory." Nicholas proved the friend of the friendless boy. Their adventures to