isss ^^5^1 1 -^IS J \ n ./" ':r' mdyi/e^zTtt- cti.^<^ THE LIFE AND WRITINGS CHARLES DICKENS ^ Moxam'^ IHemorial Uolume. BY PHEBE A. HANAFORD, AUTHOR OF "LIFE OF PEABODY," "LIFE OF LINCOLN," ETC. I have always striven in my writings to express veneration for the life and lessons of our Saviour; because I feel it." — Charles Dickens. AUGUSTA, ME.: PUBLISHED BY E. C. ALLEN & CO. 1875. . ri 3 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by PHEBE A. HANAFORD, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massac') ai^etls. SOURCE UNKNOWN MAY 2 8 1S25 BOSTON : STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY RAND, AVERY, & FRYE. // To THE WOMEN OF AMERICA, E!ji» Folume, 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 NOW INSCRIBED, PEEFAOE. /^HAKLES 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 human 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, spe-aking 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 flawed 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 ia prepared this Memorial. p. a. h. New Haven, Conn, OONTEE'TS. PAOB. Preface • ..S CHAPTER I. EARLY LIFE. Birthplace. —Youthful Labors. — The Attorney's Clerk. — Finding his Place. — Beginnings.- The Young Reporter 9 CHAPTER II. ADVANCING. Bteadily On. — Sketches by Boz. — Wine-drinking Countries. — Our Next-door Neighbors.- The Drunkard's Grave. — 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- pera. — 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 Fagm ... 71 CHAPTER V. ONE OF HIS BEST. Nicholas Nickleby.- Opinion of "The Methodist." - Thackeray's. -The Squeers School. — Henry Ward Beecher's Testimony . . . • ii>» CHAPTER VI. OTHER NOVELS. Master Humphrey's Clock.— London Years Ago. — Country Picture. — Barn aby Kud<-e —Old Curiosity Shop. — Death of Little Nell. — Mr. Dickens's Speedi. — Funeral of Little Nell. - Landor's Testimony. — Child-Picturea from Dickens. — Memoirs of Grimaldi 1*1 CHAPTER Vn. FIRST VISIT TO THE UNITED STATES. Testimony of the New -York Tribune. — American Notes for General Circulation. — Wholesome Truths for a Nation. — Slavery. — Bad Man- ners. — Alleghanies. — Niagara • • .175 CHAPTER Vni. CHRISTMAS CAROLS. Martin Chuzzlewit. — Pictures from Italy. — First Carol.— Tiny Tim. — The Chimes.- Cricket on the Hearth , . Mm CONTENTS. CHAPTER IX. WHAT ARE THE WILD WAVES SAYING? TheDaily News. — Dombey and Son. — Death of Little Paul .... 290 CHAPTER X. HIS MASTERPIECE. The Reality of Fiction. — David Copperfield. — Opinion of Eraser's Magazine. — The Shipwreck. — Uriah Heep. — Little Em'ly . — A Lone, Lorn Creetur . 307 CHAPTER XI. RETURNS TO HIS EARLY PRACTICE. Bleak House. — Death of Poor Jo. — Uncommercial Traveller .... 319 CHAPTER Xn. LATER WORKS. LittleDorritt. — Hard Tunes. — Dr. Marigold 324 CHAPTER Xni. AS AN EDITOR. Household Words. — All the Year Round. — Great Expectations. — Tale of Two Cities • . . 328 CHAPTER XIV. AMERICAN POPULARITY. The Diamond Edition. — Portraits of Mr. Dickens. — Our Mutual Friend . , 335 CHAPTER XV. SECOND VISIT TO AMERICA. Dickens as a fender 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 XVn. THE UNFINISHED STORY. Mystery of Edwin Drood. — Sudden Illness. — Death ...... 368 CHAPTER XVni. LAST WORDS. Last Letters of Mr. Dickens. — The Queen's Sorrow. — A Nation mourns.— The Funeral of the Great Novelist 377 CHAPTER XIX. AMERICA'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. BympathyforthePoor.- Love for the Young. — The Golden Rule . . .395 LIFE AND WKITINGS CHAELES 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- standing." — Job xxx. ii. 8. CROSS the broad waters to the daughter- land has been borne once more the tidings 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 great 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 WRITINGS 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 England 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- sage 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 milHon ; 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 more truly than Dr. Johnson said of the death of Gar- CHARLES DICKERS. 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 win 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 novelist ; and to theni, at least, it will be of interest to know that ho was born at Landport, Portsmouth, England, in the year 12 LIFE AND WKITIKGS OF 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 Department. 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 daily jour- nals as reporter of parliamentary debates. 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 was human na.ture and human life that he preferred to study, and then depict with his glowing pen. He was not the first, by any means, to w^hose young mind the occupation chosen by a parent was 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 writer ; and, until he found his place, he was not content. Yet he did not commence at once to write novels, and to display his marvellous poAver in delineating char- acter, and creating personages in literature that will CHARLES DICKENS. 13 never die. He began, as many a bright star in tbe 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 183G 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 Boses, 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 hia readers that English literature could claim as a chai'm- big story- writer young Charles Dickens. CHAPTER II. ADVANCING. Bteadily On. — Sketches by Boz.— Wine-drinking Countries. — Our Next-aooi 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 would drink a health to Boz." ■ The pen of a ready writer. Hood. PSAIiM xlv. 1. S already intimated, Charles Dickens was persevering, and kejDt steadily on in the path of literature, which to him was most allurmg. 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 CHARLES DICKENS. 15 of Dickens, needs Ao 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 an Englishman who is not in favor of total absti- nence ; but it is not right to say of him that he encour- a'^ed the drunkard in his evil course. While the be- Uevers 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 wine 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 hterature, in iniquitous forms, are all taught in these colleges and chapels, where professors of evil continually deliver those lessons, and where hymns are suno- nif^htly 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 who 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 througli 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 oi less degree of resemblance and sympathy. UHAELES DICKENS. 17 " For instance, there is one description of knockei 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 into a curl, or pull up your shirt-collar wliile you are waiting for the door to be opened. We never saw 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, with 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 own 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 always ask you why you donH 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 w^ould 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 the 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 had never anticipated. The bare idea of anybody being able to exist without a knocker appeared so wild CHARLES DICKENS. 19 and visionary, tliat it had never for one instant entered our imagination. " We sauntered moodily from the spot, and lent oul steps towards Eaton Square, then just building. What was our astonishment and indignation to find that bells wore 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 progress 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 was 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. "This was the room destined for the reception of the 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 displayed 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 anybody 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 his passage up stairs, and his subsequent struggles to get liis 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 vacant 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 dehghtful address ! So seriously dis- posed too ! When he first came to look at the lodgings, he inquired most 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 from 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 aftei 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- g^ers. Our worst fears were realized, — the boy was sinking fast. Through a part of the winter, and the whole of the following spring and summer, his labors r~ dered, his face inflamed, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. He had been summoned from some wild 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 vmconscious, 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 moanings 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 q^uailed 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 would 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 with 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! Everyone 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 ? Well, she was dead, and happy -perhaps. It was better as it was. Another glass, — one more ! 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, sliabbier, 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 w^ell 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 fain 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 wliich 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 blown out, either by the violence of the wind, or the act of some inhabitant who had excellent reasons for objecting 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 twinlded 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. " Tlie 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 m 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 up 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 of 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 vou tremblinsc at ? It's little enough that I have had to drink to-day ; for there's no drink without money, and no money without work. Ayhat 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 3^ou some medicine. They're paid for it, d — n 'em. What are 3^ou 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, ' WiUiam has come back.' CHAIILES DICKENS. 35 " ' Who ? ' said the man, with a start. " ' Hush ! ' rephed 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 mo 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 Avhen 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 sav you ve been robbing^ or murder- ing, then ? ' said the father. 36 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " Yes, I do,' replied tlie 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,' repHed 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 mothei' 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 liis 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, sinldng his 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, you may give me up to justice ; but, unless you do, here I stop until I can venture to escape abroad.' "• For two Y/hole 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 was 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, ho 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 once 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 glasa 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 diink ; and his reason left him. '' ' A wet night, Warden,' whispered one of the m.en 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 know'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.' " ' Very,' said the second. " * Capital luck,' said the first, with a wink to his com- panion. CHAKLES DICKENS. 39 " ' Great,' replied the second, with a sKght 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. ' Mj brother's blood, and 40 LIFE AND WHITINGS OF mine, is on jour 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 Maker, so surely 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 hght 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 Ihem 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 probability 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 way. 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 heat heavily 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 his 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 pattered on the stones ; that death was coming upon him by inches ; and that there were none to care for or help him. " Suddenly he started up, in the extremity of terror. He had heard his own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what, or why. Hark ! A groan ! An- other ! His senses were leaving him : half-formed and CHARLES DICKENS. 43 incoherent words burst from his lips, 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 day 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 Bridge 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 cautiously descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place from the river. " The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased, the. wind was lulled, and all was, 44 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 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 m his ears, and stunned hmi with its furious roar. "A week afterwards, the body was washed ashore, some 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 Criticiam.— Hugh Miller's Opinion. — London Review. —Pickwick Papers, — Sam Weller'a Valentine. — The Ivy Green. — Death in the Prison. " O spirits gay, and kindly heart I 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 famous 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 IMorii- ing Chronicle," who wished to write a description of it. In the most croAvded 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 lawyers' chambers. Not to leave me sitting in the rain, Macrone asked nie to dismount with him. I followed by a long flight of stairs to an upper story, and was ushered into an uncarpeted and bleak-looldng 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 obsequiousness 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 by 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, coUarless and buttoned up, the very personifica- t:on, 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 the 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 1 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 him, 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 him 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 pubh cation of those *' Notes " which were so unaccept- able. When the great novelist 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 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, notwithstanding 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, — Shaks'peare^ 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 tho peculiar ability of portraying character in this form is so exactly proportioned to the general intellectual power of the writer who possesses it. . . . Viewed Avith ref- erence to this simple rule, the higher characters of CHARLES DICKENS. 51 Scott, Dickens, and Shakspeare 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 tu] e rests at a lower level ; and no one seems better aAvare of the fact than Dickens himself. He knows his 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 Shakspeare. ... 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 another vol- ume, called " The Pickwick Papers." It is said that tlie 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. 53 LIFE AND WKITINGS 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 fppearance of the first number of the ' Pickwick CHARLES DICKENS. 53 Papers,' the whole reading public was talking about them : the names of Winkle, Wardle, Weller, Snod- 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, and 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, Mr. 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 ])e thus speaks in a later preface to that humorous vol- ume : — " 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 oi 54 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF since, my first copy of the magazine in wliicli my first effusion — a paper in the ' Sketches,' called ' Mr. 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 1 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 i :£ conclusion, it may be discovered that there are even magistrates in town and country who should be tauglit to shake hands every day with Common-sense and Jus- tice ; that even poor-laws may have mercy on the wealv, the aged, and unfortunate ; that schools, on the broad principles of Christianity, are the best adornment lor the length and breadth of this civihzed land ; tliat prison-doors should be barred on the outside no less heavily and carefully than they are barred within ; that the universal diffusion of common means of decenc}'- 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 ; tliat a few petty boards and bodies — less than drops in the great ocean of humanity which roars around them — are not forever to let loose fever and consumption on God's creatures at their will, or always to Jieep their jobbing little fiddles going, for a Dance of Death." In " Pickwick Papers " may be found the following Bong, which was exceedingl}^ 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, In 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 wings; 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 humorous sketches in " Pickwick" is that well-known and oft-quoted description of Sam Weller'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. Having 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 Avere 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 r " 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 skewered 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- 5S LIFE AND WRITINGS OF got it ! ' said Sam : so saying, he at once stepped into the stationer's shop, and reqnested 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. Looking 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. " ' Werry good, my dear,' replied Sam. ' Let me have nine-penn'orth o' brand3^-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. 59 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 j)en- 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, m}^ 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, shaldng 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, apparently 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 d3in' 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 Sara. 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 sl.ould be obliged to kill him for the London market.' " ' Wot'll 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 family 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 Ij^ll, meanwhile, to order in the first. He then divested himself of his upper coat ; and lighting the pipe, 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, vanished, returned, and disap- peared. " ' They seem to know your ways here,' observed Sam. " ' Yes,' replied 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. " ' No, no,' replied Sam. u i "VVery glad to hear it,' said Mr. "Weller. ' Poetry's unnat'ral : no man ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's blackin', or Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellows ; never you let yourself down to talk poetr}^ 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. 03 the letter up to the light, 'it's "shamed," — there's a blot there, — "I feel myself ashamed." ' " ' Wery good,' said Mr. Weller. ' Go on.' " ' " Feel 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 ? ' inquired Mr. WeUer. " ' So I «w a looldn' at it,' replied Sam ; ' but there's another blot. Here's a " c," and a " i," and a " d." ' " ' Circumwented, p'h^ps,' 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 you are 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 there ain't no callin' names in it, — no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that kind. Wot's the good o' calHn' 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 which was par- ticularly edifying. " ' " 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 regular 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. " 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 quickei time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was took by the profeel macheen (wich p'raps you may have heercl 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 by, and all in two minutes and a quarter;'" ' " ' I am afeered that werges on the poetical, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller dubiously. " ' No, 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 Mar}^, 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 your 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.' & 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 wory thing,' said Sam. ' I could end with a werse : what do you think ? ' " ' I don't like it, Sam,' rejoined Mr. Weller. ' I ne\or know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one, as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos hung for highwa}^ robbery ; and lie was only a Camber veil 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 hn- 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 DTCKENS. 67 specting the lining of his hat preparatory to putting it on again. *' ' What I The Chancery prisoner ! ' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. *" 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 slowl}^ murdered by the law for six months ? ' "'I don't know about that,' replied Poker, 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 morniiig : the doctor says liis strength is to be kept up as much as possible ; and the warden's sent him wine and broth and that, from his 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, Fir.* 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 speaking, 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 time : 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 1 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 my child died, and I could not even kiss him in his little coffin. My loneliness since then, in all this noise and riot, has been very dreadful. May God forgive me ! He has seen my solitary, lingering death.' " He folded his hands, and, murmuring something more they could not hear, 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 tlie man. " He had. But he had grown so like death in life, that they knew not when he died." CHAPTER IV. FAMOUS. rhe 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 Ahove mortality." Mrs. Hemans. " I have made thee a great name, like imto 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 ill 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 " OKver 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 truth 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 insight, 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 profoundly into the heart of what he sees, and he is more led away from the sim- plicity 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 always 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 ever;y 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, hay- ing regard to that land 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 the 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 th&if really are, forever skulldng 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.'* CHAKLES DICKERS. 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- lic 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 fmgers most assiduously, with a view of catching up any stray splashes of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys have, generally, excellent appetites. 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 WRITINGS 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 reckless 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, su% 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 I ' said Mr. Limbkins. ' Compose j^our- self. Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I under- stand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the sujDper 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 w^ho wanted an apprentice to any trade, busi- ness, or calling." 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 miserable 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 yet 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 tliese 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 falKng 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 stej^ped 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. Ohver shuddered as he cast his eyes towards the place, and crept involuntarily closei 80 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF to his master ; for, though it was covered up, the boj? 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 wrinkled ; 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 you, keep back, if you've a life to lose ! ' " ' 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 away.' "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 body. " ' Ah ! ' said the man, bursting into tears, and sink- ing on his Imees at the feet of the dead woman : 'knsel down, kneel down, — kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words ! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fevei came upon her; and then her bones were starting CHARLES DfCKENS. 81 throngh 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 dying ; 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 imloosed 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 spealdng 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. 6 S2 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 eagerlj^, catcliing 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 Mr. 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 coffin, 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 1 CHARLES DICKENS. 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 the side. " There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Scwerberr}^ had anticipated, however: for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish-graves w^ere 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 waited 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- w^ard 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 Ms surplice to the clerk, and walked away. " ' Now, Bill ! ' said Sowerberry to the grave-digger, 'fill up!' " It was no very difficult task ; for tbe grave was so full tbat 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- CHAELES DICKENS. 85 lie. Hood's exquisitely toucliing poem, " The Bridge of Sighs," and Miss Phelps's far later " Hedged In," are remembered as one reads the words of Dickens, written so many years ago, and showmg 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 sous^ht 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, man}- traces when a very child. 86 LIFE AND WRITINGS 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 you,' 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, lad}^ ! ' she said, clasping her hands pas- sionately before her face : ' if there was more hke 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 OTowin^x late. Is — ^^is — that door shut ? ' fc> " ' Yes,' said Rosu, recoiling a few steps, as if to be aearer assistance in case she should require it. ' Why ? ' CHAELES 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- ton ville.' " ' 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 I ' 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 pity 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, you would 88 LIFE AND WETTINGS OF pity me indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me if they knew I had been here to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks ? ' " ' No,' said Rose. " ' He knows you,' replied the gui, ' 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 1 listened, in the hope of finding out,' said the girl ; ' and CHARLES DICKENS. 89 there are not 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 rotting 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 diiving 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 my lips,' replied the girl. ' Then he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that, if he could gratif}^ 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 \v no your two-legged spaniel was ! ' " ' 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, shakmg 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 tliis 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 lady like 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 appealed 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 years 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 Eose, ' 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 olliers 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 know : but I am drawn back to him through cvcrj^ f^UiTering 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 you 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 tilive.' " ' 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 you 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 but 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 dishonesty, — 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 you 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 I by this extraordinary interview, which had more the Bemblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank into a chair, and endeavored to collect her wander- ing thoughts." Space forbids, in this 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. Shakspc^are'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 ivom 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. " Pie 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 f:;co, — 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 among 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 CHAHLES 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 where 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 instaint, T 98 LIFE AND WBITINGS 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 way, 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 wondering how the head of one had been broken off, and whether they would mend it, or leave it as ib 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, Avas silent again. "The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same air and gesture. A woman in tJie gallery uttered some exclamation, called forth by tliis 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 yard. There was nobody to speak to hi77i : 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 OP about him the means of anticipating the law : this cere- mony performed, they led him to one of the condemned ceils, 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 Ut- 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 not until tlie 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 minute, and, with gasping mouth and burning skin, hur- ried to and fro, in sack 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 Avas 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 asfain ! Eleven ! Another struck, before the yoice CHARLES DICKEKS. 103 of the previous hour had ceased to vibrate. At eight, he would 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 grouj)s 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, walking with unwilling steps away, turned back to conjure up the scene. By degrees the}^ 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 tlie sheriffs. They were immedi- ately admitted into the lodge. " ' Is the yoimg gentleman to come too, sir ? ' said the man whose duty it was to conduct them. ' It's not a sight for cliildren, sir. ' "- ' It is not indeed, my friend,' rejoined Mr. Biown- low ; ' but my business with tliis man is intimately con- nected with him ; and, as this child has seen him in the full career of his success and viUany, 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 Oliver. The man touched liis hat ; and, glan- cing at Ohver 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, — ' tliis 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 awa}^ to bed ! ' " The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver ; and, whispering him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking. '' ' Take him away to bed ! ' 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 ? ' " ' 1 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 him. ' 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 the chimney, in the top front room. I want to talk to yon, 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. " The door of the 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 joking. Every thing told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects, in the very centre of all, — the black stage, the cross-beam, and the rope, and aU -the hideous apparatus of death." CHAPTER V. ONE OF HIS BEST. N'icholas Nickleby. — Opinion of " The Methodist." — Thaekeray's. — The S(iueer« School. — Henry Ward Beecher's Testimony. " Have pity on thcra, for their life Is full of grief and care. You do not know one-half the woes The very poor must bear; You 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. Worthington. " Hath not God chosen the poor of this world ricli 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, iu shilling .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 annouuced ; and the news of his death was unwelcome 109 110 LIFE AND WRITINGS 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 ameliorate ? 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 Enghsh humor. " The greatest of the British humorists, — for we do not hesitate to accord him this pre-eminence, — he is also the pu];est 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 drinking 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 DICKENS. 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 Nicldeby " dealt with the abuses in cheap Yorkshire schools, at which body and mind v/ere 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 his 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 lano'uagfe. " 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 tuen, private schools long afforded a notable example. 112 LIFE AND WKITINGS 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, imbecihty, 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 affirmed that his picture of the Squeers school was a truthful one, saying, — " The author's object in calling public attention to {he system would be very imperfectly fulfilled, if he did CHARLES DICKEN8. 113 not state now, in his own person, emphatically and ear- nestly, that Mr. Squeers and his school are faint and fee- ble picjbures 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 iiiMicted 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 liim 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 114 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF two that do, and read Kis books ten times for once that they perase the dismal preachments of their father. I know one who, when she is happy, reads ' Nicholas Ni(}- 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. Dickefts's books. Who can ? Every man must say his own thoughts in his own voice, in his own way : lucky is he who 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,' Avrote the poor schoolmaster, ' has passed like a whirlwind over the schools of the north.' He Avas the proprietor of a cheap school. Dotheboys Hall v/as a cheap school. There were many such establishments in tlie 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 CHARLES 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-bine. 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. " This side the water, the great Brooklyn preacher, 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 saying to me in the room adjoining, in a modest way, 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 his 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 white 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 CHARLES DICKENS. 11 planted on his knees, who glanced thnidly at the school- master from time to time, with evident dread and ap- prehension. " ' Half-past three,' muttered Mr. Si^ueers, 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 Avhether 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 twentys 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 heads ? 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 j "In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a couple of knuckles into each of his eyes, 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 you hear ? ' " As this admonition was accompanied with a threat- ening gesture, and uttered with a savage aspect, the little boy rubbed his face harder, as if to keep the tears back, and, beyond alternately sniffing and choldng, 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 advice to his youthful 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 Avith 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 ? ' __uiu 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, sir, I see by my young friends. How do you do, my little gentleman ? and how do i/oii 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 further com- munications." 120 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF After such a description of tlie master, what may be expected as a picture of the school ? The introduction which Nicholas Nickleby had to the young noblemen of Dothebo3^s 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, Nicldeb}^' "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 I Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony fig- CHAKLES DICKENS. 121 ares, 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 -» iew together. There were the bleared eye, the hair-hp, 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 parents 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 breeding here ! " And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its gro- tesque features, which, in a less interested observer than Nicholas, might have provoked a smile. Mrs. Squeers etood at one of the desks, presidhig over an immensa 122 LIFE AND' WRITINGS OF basin of brimstone and treacle, of which dehcious 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, maldng a variety of wry mouths indicative of -any thing but satisfaction. The whole 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 " ' NoAv^,' said Squeers, giving the desk a great rap with his cane, which made half the little 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 Avere 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, v/hen they had eaten their porrivdge 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 trul}^ thankful!.' — and went away to his own. " Nicholas distended his stomach with a bowl of por- ridcce, for much the same reason which induces some savages to swallow earth, — lest they should be incon- veniently hungry when there is nothing to eat. Having further disposed of a slice of bread and butter, allotted 124 LIFE AND WAITINGS OY to liim in virtue of his 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 him. '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,' replied 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, Nicldeby ; what do you think of it ? ' " ' It's a very useful one, at any rate,' answered Nicholas. " ' I believe you,' rejoined Squeers, not remarking the emphasis of his usher. ' Third boy. What's a liorse ? ' " ' A beast, sir,' re]3lied the boy. " ' So it is,' said Squeers. ' Ain't it, Nicldeby ? ' " ' I believe there is no doubt of that, sir,' answered Nicholas. 126 LIFE AND WHITINGS OF " ' Of course, there isn't,' said Squeers. ' A horse is a quadruped, and quadruped's Latin for Least, as every- body that's gone through the grammar knows ; or else Where's the use of havinof Gframmars at all ? ' " ' AVhere, 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 Avell, or 111 rub you down. The rest of the class go and draw water up till somebody tells you to leave off; for it's washing-day to-morroAV, and they want the coppers filled.' " So saying, he dismissed the first class to their ex- periments in practical philosophy, 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, 3'ou 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- CHARLES DICKENS. 127 ranged in a semicircle round the new master , and ho was soon* listening to their dull, drawling, hesitating re- cital of those stories of eno-rossincr 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 tlie kitchen 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 long-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, Avho 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 ? ' " ' N-n-o.' " ' You are sliivering.' " ' 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 ! ' 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- uig 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 sav. CHARLES DICKENS. ' 129 " ' Nd,' 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 his 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 I 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 liis 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 together served to interest them still more deeply in each other ; and, when poor Smike passed loO LIFE AND WKITINGS OF on to the other life, his faithful cousin was found near him to smooth his dying pillow. For Smike's health, the two friends went into the country ; and then Mr. Dickens says, — " They procured a humble lodging in a small farm- house, surrounded by meadows, where Nicholas had often revelled, when a child, with a troop of merry schoolfellows ; and here they took up their rest. "At first, Smike was strong enough to walk about, for short distances at a time, with no other support or aid than that which Nicholas could afford him. At this time, nothing appeared to interest him so much as visit- ing those places which had been most familiar to his friend in bygone days. Yielding to this fancy, and pleased to find that its indulgence beguiled the sick boy of many tedious hours, and never failed to afford him matter for thought and conversation afterwards, Nicho- las made such s2:)ots the scenes of their daily rambles ; driving him from place to place in a little pony-chair, and supporting him on his arm while they walked slowly among these old haunts, or lingered in the sunlight to take long parting looks of those which were most quiet and beautiful. " It was on such occasions as these, that Nicholas, yielding almost unconsciously to the interest of old associations, would point out some tree that he had climbed a hundred times to peep at the young birds CHARLES DIOKKNS. 131 Id their nest, and the branch frno wliich he used to shout to little Kate, who stood below, terrified at the height he had gained, and yet urging him higher still by the intensity of her admiration. There was the old house, too, which ih.ey Avould pass ev^ery day, looking up at the tiny window through which the sun used to stream in, and wake him on the summer mornings (they were all summer mornings then) ; and climbing up the garden-wall, and looking over, Nicholas could see the very rose-bush Avhich had come, a present to Kate, from some little lover, and she had planted with her own hands. There were the hedgerows where the brother and sister had often gathered wild-flowers to- gether, and the green fields and shady paths where they had often strayed. There was not a lane or brook or copse or cottage near, with wdiich some childish event w^as not int wined ; and back it came upon the mind (as events of childhood do), nothing in itself, — perhaps a word, a laugh, a look, some slight distress, a passing thought or fear, — and yet more strongly arid distinctly marked, and better remembered, than the hardest trials or severest sorrows of a year ago. " One of these expeditions led them through the churchyard where was his father's grave. ' Even here,' said Nicholas softly, ' we used to loiter before we knew what death was, and when we little thought whoso ashes would rest beneath, and, wondering at the silence, sit down to rest, and speak below our breath. 132 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF Once Kate was lost; and, after an hour of fruitless search, they found her fast asleep under that tree which shades m}^ father's grave. He was very fond of her, and said when he took her up in his arms, still sleeping, that, whenever he died, he would wish to be buried where his dear little child had laid her head. You see his wish was not forgotten.' " Nothing more passed at the time ; but that night, as Nicholas sat beside his bed, Smike started from what had seemed to be a slumber, and, laying his hand in his, prayed, as the tears coursed down his face, that he would make him one solemn promise. " ' What is that ? ' said Nicholas kindly. ' If I can redeem it, or hope to do so, you know I will.' " ' I am sure you will,' was the reply. ' Promise me, that, when I die, I shall be buried near — as near as they can make my grave — to the tree we saw to-day.' " Nicholas gave the promise. He had few words to give it in ; but they were solemn and earnest. His poor friend kept his hand in his, and turned as if to sleep. But there were stifled sobs ; and the hand \yas pressed more than once or twice or thrice before he sank to rest, and slowly loosed his hold. " In a fortnight's time, he became too ill to move ^bout. Once or twice, Nicholas drove him out, propped up with pillows ; but the motion of the chaise was painful to him, and brought on fits of fainting, which, in his weakened state, were dangerous. There was an CHARLES DICKENS. 1C3 old couch in the house, Avhich was his favorite resting- place by day : when the sun shone, and the Aveather was Avarm, Nicholas had this wheeled into a little or- chard which was close at hand ; and his charge being well wrapped up, and carried out to it, they used to sit lliere sometimes for hours together. " It was on one of these occasions that a circumstance took place, which Nicholas, at the time, thoroughly be- lieved to be the mere delusion of an imagination affected by disease, but which he had afterwards too good reason to know was of real and actual occurrence, . " He had brought Smike out in his arms — poor fel- low ! a child might have carried him then — to see the sunset, and, having arranged his couch, had taken his seat beside it. Ho had been watching the whole of the night before, and, being greatly fatigued both in mind and body, gradually fell asleep. '•'• He could not have closed his eyes five minutes, when he w^as awakened by a scream, and, starting up in that kind of terror which affects a person suddenly roused, saw, to his great astonishment, that his charge had struggled into a sitting posture, and with eyes al- most starting from their sockets, cold dew standing on his forehead, and, in a fit of trembling which quite con- vuLed his frame, was calling to him for help. " ' Good heaven ! what is this ? " said -Nicholas, bend* ing over him. " Be calm : you have been dreaming." " ' No, no, no ! ' cried Smike, clinging to him. ' Hold 134 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF me tight. Don't let me go. There, there! Behind the tree ! "Nicliolas followed his eyes, which were directed to some distance behind the chair from which he him- self had just risen. But there was nothing there. " ' This is nothing but your fancy,' he said, as he strove to compose him : ' nothing else indeed.' " ' I know better. I saw as plain as I see now,' was the answer. ' Oh, say you'll keep me with you ! Swear you won't leave me, for an instant ! ' " ' Do I ever leave you ? ' returned Nicholas. ' Lie down again: there! You see I'm here. Now, tell me, what was it ? ' " ' Do you remember,' said Smike in a low voice, and glancing fearfully round, — ' do you remember my telling you of the man who fii-st took me to the school ? ' " ' Yes, surely.' " ' 1 raised my eyes, just now, towards that tree, — that one with the thick trunk, — and there, with his eyes fixed on me, he stood ! ' *' ' Only reflect for one moment,' said Nicholas. ' Granting, for an instant, that it's likely he is alive and wandering about a lonely place like this, so far re- moved from the public road, do you think, that, at this distance of time, you could possibly know that man again ? ' " ' Anywhere, — in any dress,' returned Smike ; ' but, just now, he stood leaning upon his stick and looking CHARLES DICKENS. 135 at me, exactlj as I told you I remembered him. Hg was dusty with walking, and poorly dressed, — I think his clothes were ragged ; but, directly I saw him, the wet night, his face when he left me, tlie parlor I was left in, the people who were there, — all seemed to come back together. When he knew I saw him, he looked frightened ; for he started, and shrank away. I have thought of him by day, and dreamt of him by night. He looked in my sleep when I was quite a little child, and has looked in my sleep ever since, as he did just now." " Nicholas endeavored, by every persuasion and argu- ment he could think of, to convince the terrified creature that his imagination had deceived him, and that this close resemblance between the creation of his dreams and the man he supposed he had seen Avas a proof of it ; but all in vain. When he could persuade him to remain, for a few moments, in the care of the people to whom the house belonged, he instituted a strict inquiry v/hether any stranger had been seen, and searched, himself, behind the tree, and through the orchard, and upon the land immediately adjoining, and in every place near, where it was possible for a man to lie concealed ; but all in vain. Satisfied that he was right in his original con- jecture, he applied himself to calming the fears of Smike : which, after some time, he partially succeeded in doing, though not in removing tlie impression upon his mind ; for he still declared, again and again, in the most solemn and fervid manner, that he had positively 136 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF seen what he had described, and that nothing could ever remove his conviction of its reality. " And now Nicholas began to see that hope was gone, and that upon the partner of his poverty and the sharer of his better fortune the world was closing fast. There was little pain, little uneasiness ; but there was no rally- ing, no effort, no struggle for life. He was worn and wasted to the last degree ; his voice had sunk so low that he could scarce be heard to speak ; nature was thoroughly exhausted, and he had lain him down to die. " On a fine, mild, autumn day, when all was tranquil and at peace, when the soft, sweet air crept in at the open window of the quiet room, and not a sound Avas heard but the gentle rustling of the leaves, Nicholas sat in his old place by the bedside, and knew that the time was nearly come. So very still it was, that, every now and then, he bent down his ear to listen for the breathing of him who lay asleep, as if to assure himself that life was still there, and that he had not fallen into that deep slumber from which on earth there is no Avaking. '^ While he was thus employed, the closed eyes opened, and on the pale face there came a placid smile. " ' That's well,' said Nicholas. ' The sleep has done you good.' " ' I have had such pleasant dreams ! ' was the answer, . — " such pleasant, happy dreams ! ' " ' Of what ? ' said Nicholas. " The dying boy turned towards him, and, putting hia CHARLES DICKENS. 137 arm about his neck, made answer, ' I shall soon be there ! ' " After a short silence he spoke again. " ' I am not afraid to die,' he said : ' I am quite con- tented. I almost think, that, if I could rise from this bed quite well, I v/ould not wish to do so now. You have so often told me we shall meet aG:ain, — so verv often, lately, — and now I feel the truth of that so strongly, that I can even bear to part from you.' " The trembling voice and tearful eye, and the closer grasp of the arm, which accompanied these latter words, showed how they filled the speaker's heart ; nor were there wanting indications of how deeply they had touched the heart of him to whom they were ad- dressed. " ' You say well,' returned Nicholas at length, ' and comfort me very much, dear fellow. Let me hear you say you are happy, if you can.' " ' You must tell me something first. I should not have a secret from you. You will not blame me at a time like this, I know." '' ' / blame you ! ' exclaimed Nicholas. " ' I am sure you will not. You asked me why I was so changed, and — and sat so much alone. Shall I tell you why ? ' " ' Not if it pains you,' said Nicholas. ' I only asked, that I might make you happier if I could.' " * I know. I felt that at the time.' Hp drew hia 138 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF friend closer to him. ' You will forgive me : I could not help it ; but, though I would have died to make her happy, it broke my heart to see — I know he loves he r dearly — oh ! who could find that out so soon as I? ' " The words which followed were feebly and faintly uttered, and broken by long pauses; but from them Nicholas learned, for the first time, that the dying bo /, with all the ardor of a nature concentrated on one absorbing, ho})eless, secret passion, loved his sister Kate. " He had procured a lock of her hair, which hung at his breast, folded in one or two slight ribbons she had worn. He prayed, that, when he was dead, Nicholas would take it off, so that no eyes but his might see it, and that, when he was laid in his coffin and about to be placed in the earth, he would hang it round his neck again, that it might rest with him in the grave. " Upon his knees, Nicholas gave him this pledge, and promised again that he should rest in the spot he had pointed out. They embraced, and kissed each other on the cheek. " ' Now,' he murmured, ' I am happy.' " He fell into a light slumber, and, waking, smiled as before : then spoke of beautiful gardens, which he said stretched out before him, and were filled with figures of men, Avomen, and many children, all with light upon their faces ; then whispered that it was Eden ; and so died." CHARLES DICKENS. 139 From these extracts it may be seen, that, as a writer in " The Edinburgh Review " says, — *• There is no misanthropy in his satire, and no coarse- ness in his descriptions, — a merit enhanced by the na- ture of his subjects. His works are clnefly pictures of humble life, — frequently of the humblest. The reader is led through scenes of poverty and crime, and all the characters are made to discourse in the appropriate lan- guage of their respective classes ; and yet we recollect no passage which ought to cause pain to the most sensi- tive delicacy, if read aloud in female society. We have said that his satire was not misanthropic. This is emi- nently true. One of the qualities we the most admire in him is his comprehensive spirit of humanity. The tendency of his writings is to make ns practically be- nevolent ; to excite our sympathy in behalf of the aggrieved and suffering in all classes, and especially in those who are most removed from observation. He especially directs our attention to the helpless victims of untoward circumstances or a vicious system, — to the imprisoned debtor, the orphan pauper, the parish ap- prentice, the juvenile criminal, and to the tyranny, which, under the combination of parental neglect v/ith the mercenary brutality of a pedagogue, may be exer- cised with impunity in schools. His humanity is plain, practical, and manly. It is quite untainted with senti- me-ntality. There is no monkish wailing for ideal dis- 140 LIFE AND WRITINGS. tresses ; no morbid exaggeration of the evils incident to our lot ; no disposition to excite unavailing discontent, or to turn our attention from remedial grievances to those which do not admit a remedy. Though he ap- peals much to our feelings, we can detect no instance in Avhich he has employed the verbiage of a spurious phi- lanthropy. He is equally exempt from the meretricious cant of a spurious philosophy." * • Edinburgh Review, Ixviii. 77, October, 1838. CHAPTER VL OTHER NOVELS. Blaster Humphrey'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 Grunaldi. " A blessing on the printer's art I Books are the Mentors of the heart." Mrs. Hale. "Of making many books there is no end." — Eccr.ES. xii. 12. HE busy pen moved on. After " Nicholas Nickleby " came a series of tales, or nov- els, published in weekly numbers, under the general title of " Master Humphrey's Clock." In this series, " Barnaby Rudge " and " The Old Curiosity Shop " appeared. It was in April, 1840, that the first number of this serial was written. The thirty years which have since passed have only added to the author's reputation, which was even til en so far established, that, of the three-penny num- bers containing his " Master Humphrey's Clock," there were no less than forty thousand copies when first is- sued; and to this were soon added twenty thousand 141 142 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF more. Yet the work, as first designed, was not a de- cided success. It failed to meet the demand of the public, which desired the long stories, and not frag- ments. Therefore Mr. Dickens wrote "The Old Curi- osity Shop," and " Barnaby Rudge;" which are novels purely, and not, like his previous stories, righteous as- saults on abuses and social wrongs. The latter, as one biographer says, " is one of his two historical novels, and shows a respectable degree of power in that depart- ment of fiction. But Mr.. Dickens's peculiar gift, and his best gift, was not the accumulation and delineation of such items as paint a past period, — costume, anti- quarian lexicography, archaeology generally. These are transitory, and are already dead. There have been great masters in the art of grouping and painting them, no doubt. But the art of this master was in painting the qualities of humanity, not of its costume ; the feelings, sentiments, and passions, that are everlasting as man. It might, therefore, have been expected that this part of the work would usurp upon the other in the compo- sition of historical fiction ; and so it was accordingly. The ignoblenesses of Miggs and Tappertit ; the brutali- ties of Dennis and Hagh ; the gross, stolid obstinacy of old Willetts ; the steadfast goodness of Varden ; the bright, loving sweetness of Dolly ; the misery of the Widow Rudge ; the fantastic, innocent vagaries of her crack-brained darling ; and we may, perhaps, add to this catalogue of human quahties those which Grip, the CHARLES DICKENS. 143 raven, had acquired from human teaching, — these are the staple of the story." From " Barnaby Radge " a few extracts may properly here be given. The first gives a graphic picture of Lon- don in days gone by, wherein Dickens says, — " A series of pictures representing the streets of Lon- don in the night, even at the comparatively recent date of this tale, would present to the eye something so very different in character from the reality which is witnessed in these tim^s, that it would be difficult for the beholder to recognize his most familiar walks in the altered aspect of little more than half a century ago. " They were, one and all, from the broadest and best to the narrowest and least frequented, very dark. The oil and cotton lamps, though regularly trimmed twice or thrice in the long winter nights, burnt feebly at the best ; and at a late hour, when they were unassisted by the lamps and candles in the shops, cast but a narrow track of doubtful light upon the footway, leaving the projecting doors and house-fronts in the deepest gloom. Many of the courts and lanes were left in total dark- ness ; those of the meaner sort, where one glimmering light twinkled for a score of houses, being favored in no slight degree. Even in these places, the inhabitants had often good reason for extinguishing their lamp as soon as it was lighted ; and, the watch being utterly ineffi- 144 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF cient and powerless to prevent them, tliey did so at their pleasure. Thus, in the lightest thoroughfares, there was, at every turn, some obscure and dangerous spot whither a thief might fly for shelter, and few would care to follow; and the city, being belted round by lields, green lanes, waste grounds, and lonely roads, dividing it at that time from the suburbs that have joined it since, escape, even where the pursuit was hot, was rendered easy. "It is no wonder, that, with these favoring circum- stances in full and constant operation, street robberies, often accompanied by cruel wounds, and not unfre- quently by loss of - life, should have been of nightly occurrence in the ver}^ heart of London, or that quiet folks should have had great dread of traversing its streets after the shops were closed. It was not unusual for those who wended home alone at midnight, to keep the middle of the road, the better to guard against surprise from lurking footpads. Few would venture to repair at a late hour to Kentish Town or Hampstead, or even to Kensington or Chelsea, unarmed and unattended ; while he who had been loudest and most vaUant at the sup- per-table or the tavern, and had but a mile or so to go, wan glad to fee a link-boy to escort liim home. "There were many. other characteristics — not quite so disagreeable — about the thoroughfares of London then, with which they had been long familiar. Some of the shops, especially those to the eastward of Temple CHARLES DICKENS. 145 Bar, still adhered to the old practice of hanging out a sign ; and the creaking and swinging of these boards in their iron frames, on windy nights, formed a strange and mournful concert for the ears of those who lay awake in bed, or hurried through the streets. Long stands of hackney- chairs, and groups of chairmen, — compared with whom the coachmen of our day are gentle and polite, — obstructed the way, and filled the air with clamor; night-cellars, indicated by a little stream of light crossing the pavement, and stretching out half- way into the road, and by the stifled roar of voices from below, yawned for the reception and entertainment of the most abandoned of both sexes ; under every shed and bulk small groups of link-boys gamed away the earnings of the day ; or one, more weary than the rest, gave way to sleep, and let the fragment of his torch fall hissing on the puddled ground. " Then there was the watch, with staff and lantern, crying the hour, and the kind of weather; and those who woke up at his voice, and turned them round in bed, were glad to hear it rained, or snowed, or blew, or froze, for very comfort's sake. The solitary passenger was startled by the chairmen's cry of ' By your leave, there I ' as two came trotting past him with their empty vehicle, — carried backwards to show its being disen- gaged, — and hurried to the nearest stand. Many a private chair, too, enclosing some fine lady, monstrously hooped and furbelowed, and preceded by running foot- 10 146 LIFE AND WHITINGS OF men bearing flambeaux, — for which extinguishers are yet suspended before the doors of a few houses of the better sort, — made the way gay and light as it danced along, and darker and more dismal when it had passed. It was not unusual for these running gentry, who carried it with a very high hand, to quarrel in the servants' hall while waiting for their masters and mistresses ; and, fall- ing to blows either there or in the street without, to strew the place of skirmish with hair -powder, frag- ments of bag-wigs, and scattered nosegays. Gaming, the vice which ran so high among all classes (the fashion being of course set by the upper), was generally the cause of these disputes ; for cards and dice were as openly used, and worked as much mischief, and yielded as much excitement, below stairs as above. While inci- dents like these, arising out of drums and masquerades and parties at quadrille, were passing at the west end of the town, heavy stage-coaches, and scarce heavier wagons, were lumbering slowly towards the city, the coachmen, guard, and passengers armed to the teeth ; and the coach — a day or so, perhaps, behind its time, but that was nothing — despoiled by highwaymen, who made no scruple to attack, alone and single-handed, a whole caravan of goods and men, and sometimes shot a passenger or two, and were sometimes shot themselves, just as the case might be. On the morrow, rumors of this new act of daring on the road yielded matter for a few hours' conversation through the town ; and a Public CHARLES DICKENS. 147 Progress of some fine gentlemen (half drunk) to Ty- burn, dressed in the newest fashion, and damning the ordinary with unspeakable gallantry and grace, fur- nished to the populace at once a pleasant excitement, and a wholesome and profound example." The next extract is a country picture, and exhibits the minuteness of a close observer, while it conveys re- ligious lessons of hope and comfort, proving that the writer believed in the everlasting^ love of God. In the picture of the poor, weak-minded Barnaby, we have a vivid sketch of one, who, witless himself, was under the protection of the Infinitely Wise ; and it calls to mind what Lucy Larcom wrote of Larkin Moore, — " And so he wandered east and west, And up and down the land ; But where he paused for food or rest, 'Twas hard to understand. He surely had one sheltering nest, — The hollow of God's hand." Poor Barnaby Rudge and his mother are thus de- scribed : — " Leaving the favored and weU- received and flat- tered of the world, — him of the world most worldly, who never compromised himself by an ungentlemanly action, and never was guilty of a manly one, — to lie smilingly asleep ; for even sleep, working but little 148 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF change in his dissembling face, became with him a piece of cold, conventional hypocrisy, — we follow in the steps of two slow travellers on foot, making towards Chigwell. " Barnaby and his mother. Grip in their company, of course. "The widow, to whom each painful mile seemed longer than the last, toiled wearily along ; while Bar- naby, yielding to every inconstant impulse, fluttered here and there, now leaving her far behind, now linger- ing far behind himself, now darting into some by-lane or path, and leaving her to pursue her way alone until he stealthily emerged again, and came upon her with a wild shout of merriment, as his wayward and capricious na- ture prompted. Now he would call to her from the top- most branch of some high tree by the roadside ; now, using his tall staff as a leaping-pole, come flying over ditch or hedge or five-barred gate ; now run with sur- prising swiftness for a mile or more on the straight road, and, halting, sport upon a patch of grass with Grip till she came up. These were his delights ; and when his patient mother heard his merry voice, or looked into his flushed and healthy face, she would not have abated them by one sad word or murmur, though each had been to her a source of suffering in the same degree as it was to him of pleasure. " It is something to look upon enjoyment, so that it be free and wild, and in the face of Nature, though it is CHARLES DICKENS. * 149 bat the enjoyment of an idiot ; it is something to know that Heaven has left the capacity of gladness in such a creature's breast ; it is something to be assured, that, however lightly men may crush that faculty in their fel- lows, the great Creator of mankind imparts it even to his despised and slighted work. Who would not rather see a poor idiot happy in the sunlight than a wise man pining in a darkened jail ? " Ye men of gloom and austerity, who paint the face of Infinite Benevolence with an eternal frown, read in the everlasting book wide open to your view, the les- son it would teach. Its pictures are not in black and sombre hues, but bright and glowing tints ; its music, save when ye drown it, is not in sighs and groans, but songs and cheerful sounds. Listen to the million voices in the summer air, and find one dismal as your own. Remember, if ye can, the sense of hope and pleasure which every glad return of day awakens in the breast of all your kind who have not changed their na- ture ; and learn some wisdom, even from the witless, when their hearts are lifted up, they know not why, by all the mirth and happiness it brings. " The widow's breast was full of care, was laden heavily with secret dread and sorrow ; but her boy's gayety of heart gladdened her, and beguiled the long journey. Sometimes he would bid her lean upon hia arm, and would keep beside her steadily for a short dis- tanc-e ; but it was more his nature to be rambling to and 150 LIFE A^'D WRITINGS OF fro : and she better liked to see him free and happy even than to have him near her, because she loved him better than herself. " She had quitted the place to which they were trav- elling, directly after the event which had changed her whole existence, and for two and twenty years had never had courage to revisit it. It was her native ^-il- lage. How many recollections crowded on her mind when it appeared in sight ! " Two and twenty years, — her boy's whole life and history. The last time she looked back upon those roofs among the trees, she carried him in her arms, an infant. How often since that time had she sat be- side him night and day, watching for the dawn of mind that never came ! how had she feared and doubted, and yet hoped, long after conviction forced itself upon her ! The little stratagems she had devised to try him, the little tokens he had given in his childish way, — not of dulness, but of something infinitely worse, so ghastly and ujicMldlike in its cunning, — came back as vividly as if but yesterday had intervened. The room in which they used to be ; the spot in which his cradle stood ; he old and elfin-like in face, but ever dear to her, gazing at her with a wild and vacant eye, and crooning some un- couth song as she sat by and rocked liim, — every cir- cumstance of his infancy came thronging back ; and the most trivial, perhaps, the most distinctly. "His older childhood too; the strange imaginings he CHARLES DICKENS. 161 had ; his terror of certain senseless tilings, — familiar objects he endowed with life ; the slow and gradual breaking-out of that one horror, in w^hich, before his birth, his darkened intellect began ; how, in the midst of all, she had found some hope and comfort in his being unhke another child, and had gone on almost belie^T.ng in the slow development of his mind, until he grew a man, and then his childhood was complete and lasting, — one after another, all these old thoughts sprung up within her, strong after their long slumber, and bitterer than ever. " She took his arm ; and they hurried through the vil- lage street. It was the same as it was wont to be in old times, yet different too, and wore another air. The change was in herself, not it ; but she never thought of that, and wondered at its alteration, — where it lay, and what it was. " The people all knew Barnaby ; and the children of the place came flocking round him, as she remem- bered to have do^e with their fathers and mothers, round some silly beggar -man, when a child herself. None of them knew her. They passed each well-remem- bered house and yard and homestead, and, striking inio the fields, were soon alone again." In after-time, Barnaby and his mother are described as being at home in the country, where she gives him some wholesome lessons ; which he receives to the best 152 LIFE AND WKITINGS OF of his ability, and whicli would benefit many others, if they would receive them. " While the worst passions of the worst men were thus working in the dark, and the mantle of religion, assumed to cover the ughest deformities, threatened to become the shroud of all that was good and peaceful in society, a circumstance occurred which once more altered the position of two persons from whom this history has long been separated, and to whom it must now retm^n. " In a small English country town, the inhabitants of which supported themselves by the labor of their hands in plaiting and preparing straw for those who made bonnets and other articles of dress and ornament from that material, — concealed imder an assumed name, and, living in a quiet poverty which knew no change, no pleasures, and few cares but that of struggling on from day to day in the one great toil for bread, — dwelt Bar- naby and his mother. Their poor cottage had known no stranger's foot since they sought the shelter of its roof five years before ; nor had they in all that time held any commerce or communication with the old world from which they had fled. To labor in peace, and de- vote her labor and her life to her poor son, was all the widow sought. If happiness can be said at any time to be the lot of one on whom a secret sorrow preys, she was happy now. Tranquillity, resignation, and her strong love of him who needed it so much, formed the CHARLES DICKENS. lo3 small circle of her quiet joys ; and, while that remained unbroken, she was contented. " For Barnaby himself, the time which had flown by had passed him hke the wind. The daily suns of years had shed no brighter gleam of reason on his mind : no dawn had broken on his long, dark night. He would sit sometimes, often for days together, on a low seat by the fire or by the cottage-door, busy at work (for he had learnt the art his mother plied), and listening (God help him !) to the tales she would repeat as a lure to keep him in her sight. He had no recollection of these little nar- ratives (the tale of yesterday was new upon the mor- row) ; but he liked them at the moment, and, when the humor held him, would remain patiently within doors, hearing her stories like a little child, and working cheer- fully from sunrise until it was too dark to see. "At other times, and then their scanty earnings were scarcely sufficient to furnish them with food, though of the coarsest sort, he would wander abroad from dawn of day until the twilight deepened into night. Few in that place, even of the children, could be idle ; and he had no companions of his own kind. Indeed, there were not many who could have kept up with him in his rambles, had there been a legion. But there were a score of vagabond dogs belonging to the neighbors, who served his purpose quite as well. With two or three of these, or sometimes with a full half-dozen, bark- ing at his heels, he would sally forth on some long expe- 154 LIFE AND WETTINGS OF dition that consumed the day; and though, on their return at nightfall, the dogs would come home limping and sore-footed, and almost spent with their fatigue, Barnaby was up and oE again at sunrise with some new attendants of the same class, with whom he would re- turn in like manner. On all these travels. Grip, in his little basket at his master's back, was a constant member of the party ; and, when they set off in fine weather and in high spirits, no dog barked louder than the raven. " Their pleasures on these excursions were simple enough. A crust of bread and scrap of meat, with water from the brook or spring, sufficed for their repast. Barnaby 's enjoyments were to walk and run and leap till he was tired ; then to lie down on the long grass, or by the growing corn, or in the shade of some tall tree, looking upward at the light clouds as they floated over the blue surface of the sky, and listening to the lark as she poured out her brilliant song. There were wild- flowers to pluck, — the bright-red poppy, the gentle harebell, the cowslip, and the rose. There were birds to watch, fish, ants, worms ; hares or rabbits, as they darted across the distant pathway in the wood, and so were gone ; millions of living things to have an interest in, and lie in wait for, and clap hands and shout in memory of when they had disappeared. In default of these, or when they wearied, there was the merry sun- light to hunt out, as it crept in aslant through leaves and boughs of trees, and hid far down — deep, deep in hoi- CHARLES DICKENS. 155 low places — like a silver pool, where nodding brandies seemed to bathe and. sport ; sweet scents of summer air breathing over fields of beans or clover ; the perfume of wet leaves or moss ; the life of waving trees, and shadows always changing. When these or any of them tired, or, in excess of pleasing, tempted him to shut his eyes, there was slumber in the midst of all these soft delights, with the gentle wind murmuring like music in his ears, and every thing around melting into one de- licious dream. " Their hut, for it was little more, stood on the outskirts of the town, at a short distance from the high- road, but in a secluded place, where few chance passen- gers strayed at any season of the year. It had a plot of garden-ground attached, which Barnab}^, in fits andr starts of working, trimmed, and kept in order. Within doors and without, his mother labored for their common good ; and hail, rain, snow, or sunshine found no differ- ence in her. " Though so far removed from the scenes of her past life, and with so little thought or hope of ever visiting them again, she seemed to have a strange desire to know what happened in the busy world. Any old newspapers or scrap of intelligence from London, she caught at with avidity. The excitement it produced was not of a pleas- urable kind, for her manner at such times expressed the keenest anxiety and dread ; but it never faded in the least degree. Then, and in stormy winter nights, when 156 LIFE AND WRJ TINGS OF the wind blew loud and strong, tlie old expression came into her face ; and she would be seized with a fit of trembling, like one who had an ague. But Barnaby noted little of this ; and, putting a great constraint upon herself, she usually recovered her accustomed manner before the change had caught his observation. " Grip was by no means an idle or unprofitable mem- ber of the humble household. Partly by dint of Bar- naby's tuition, and partly by pursuing a species of self- instruction common to his tribe, and exerting his powers of observation to the utmost, he had acquired a degree of sagacity which rendered him famous for miles round. His conversational powers and surprising performances were the universal theme ; and as many persons came to see the wonderful raven, and none left his exertions unrewarded (when he condescended to exhibit, which was not always ; for genius is capricious), his earnings formed an important item in the common stock. Indeed, the bird himself appeared to know his value well ; for, though he was perfectly free and unrestrained in the presence of Barnaby and his mother, he maintained in public an amazing gravity, and never stooped to any other gratuitous performances than biting the ankles of vagabond boys (an exercise in which he much delighted), killing a fowl or two occasionally, and swallowing the dinners of various neighboring dogs, of whom the bold- est held him in great awe and dread. " Time had glided on in this way, and nothing had CHARLES DICKENS. 157 happened to disturb or change their mode of life, when, one summer's night in June, they were in their little garden, resting from the labors of the day. The widow's work was yet upon her knee, and strewn upon the ground about her; and Barnaby stood leaning on his spade, gazing at the brightness in the west, and singing softly to himself. " ' A brave evening, mother I If we had, chinking in our pockets, but a few specks of that gold which is piled up yonder in the sky, we should be rich for life.' " ' We are better as we are,' returned the widow with a quiet smile. ' Let us be contented, and we do not want and need not care to have it, though it lay shining at our feet.' " ' Ay ! ' said Barnaby, resting with crossed arms on his spade, and looking wistfully at the sunset, 'that's well enough, mother ; but gold's a good thing to have. I wish that I knew where to find it I Grip and I could do much with gold, be sure of that.' " ' What would you do ? ' she asked. '' ' What ? A world of things. We'd dress finely, — you and I, I mean, not Grip, — keep horses, dogs, wear bright colors and feathers, do no more work, live deli- cately and at our ease. Oh ! we'd find uses for it, mother, and uses that would do us good. I would I knew where gold was buried ! How hard I'd work to dig it up ! ' " ' You do not know,' said his mother, rising from her seat, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, ' what men 158 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF have done to win it, and how they have found, too late, that it glitters brightest at a distance, and turns quite dim and dull when handled.' " ' Ay, ay I so you say, so you think/ he answered, still looking eagerly in the same direction. ' For all that, mother, I should like to try.' " ' Do you not see,' she said, * how red it is ? Noth- ing bears so many stains of blood as gold. Avoid it. None have such cause to hate its name as we have. Do not so much as think of it, dear love. It has brought such misery and suffering on your head and mine as few have known, and God grant few may have to undergo. I would rather we were dead, and laid down in our graves, than you should ever come to love it.' " For a moment, Barnaby withdrew his eyes, and looked at her with wonder. Then, glancing from the redness in the sky to the mark upon his wrist, as if he would compare the two, he seemed about to question her with earnestness, when a new object caught his wandering attention, and made him quite forgetful of his purpose." "The Old Curiosity Shop" brought to the public view that dear Little Nell,* who has henceforth " a name to live." The first mention of this sweet child, who was one of the most beautiful creations of Dickens, ia in the following form : — * A fine cast of Little Nell, in a sitting posture, may be Been among the statuary tX the Boston Athenaeum. CHARLES DICKENS. 159 " One night, I had roamed into the city, and was walldng slowly on in my usual way, musing upon a great many things, when I was arrested by an inquiry, the purport of which did not reach me, but which seemed to be addressed to myself, and was preferred in a soft, sweet voice, that struck me very pleasantly. I turned hastily round, and found at my elbow a pretty little girl, who begged to be directed to a certain street at a considerable distance, and indeed in quite another quarter of the town. " 'It is a very long way from here,' said I, ' my child.' " ' I know that, sir,' she replied timidly. ' I am afraid it is a very long way ; for I came from there to-night.' " 'Alone ? ' said I in some surprise. " ' Oh, yes ! I don't mind that. But I am a little frightened now ; for I have lost my road.* "'And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I should tell you wrong ? ' * " ' I am sure you will not do that,' said the little creature : 'you are such a very old gentleman, and walk so slow yourself.' " I cannot describe how much I was impressed by this appeal, and the energy with which it was made, wliich brought a tear into the child's clear eye, and made her slight figure tremble as she looked up into my face. " ' Come,' said I : ' I'll take you there.' 160 LITE A^'D WRITINGS OF " She put her hand in mine as confidingly as if she had known me from her cradle, and we trudged away together ; the little creature accommodating her pace to mine, and rather seeming to lead and take care of me than I to be protecting her. I observed that every now and then she stole a curious look at my face, as if to make quite sure that I was not decei^-ing her, and that these glances (very sharp and keen they were too) seemed to mcrease her confidence at every repetition. " For my part, my curiosity and interest were, at least, equal to the child's ; for child she certainly was, although I thought it probable, from what I could make out, that her very small and delicate frame imparted a peculiar youthfulness to her appearance. Though more scantily attired than she might have been, she was dressed with perfect neatness, and betrayed no mark of poverty or neglect. '' ' Who has sent you so far by yourself ? ' said I. " ' Somebody who is vary kind to me, sir.' " ' And what have 3'ou been doing ? ' " ' That I must not tell,' said the child. " There was something in the manner of this reply, which caused me to look at the little creature with an involuntary expression of surprise ; for I wondered what kind of errand it might be that occasioned her to be prepared for questioning. Her quick eye seemed to read my thoughts. As it met mine, she added, that there was no harm in what she had been doing ; but it CHARLES DICKENS. 161 was a great secret, — a secret which she did not even IvQOw herself. '' This was said with no appearance of cunning or de- ceit, but with an unsuspicious frankness that bore the impress of truth. She walked on as before, growing more familiar with me as we proceeded, and talldng cheerfully by the way ; but she said no more about her home, beyond remarking that we were going quite a new road, and asking if it were a short one. " While we were thus engaged, I revolved in m}^ mind a hundred explanations of the riddle, and rejected them every one. I really felt ashamed to take advantage of the inggtiuousness or grateful feeling of the child for the purpose of gratifjdng my curiosity. I love these little people ; and it is not a slight thing when they who are so fresh from God love us. As I had felt pleased, at first, by her confidence, I determined to deserve it, and to do credit to the natiu-e which had prompted her to repose it in me. " There was no reason, however, why I should refrain from seeing the person who had inconsiderately sent her to so great a distance by night, and alone ; and as it was not improbable, that, if she found herself near home, she might take farewell of me, and deprive me of the opportunity, I avoided the most frequented ways, and took the most intricate. Thus it was not until we arrived in the street itself that she knew where we were. Clapping her hands with pleasure, and running 11 162 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF on before me for a short distance, my little acquaintance stopped at a door, and, remaining on the step till T came up, knocked at it when I joined her. "A part of this door was of glass, unprotected by any shutter, which I did not observe at first ; for all was very dark and silent within, and I was anxious (as indeed the child was also) for an answer to her sum- mons. When she had knocked twice .or thrice, there was a noise as if some person were moving inside ; and at length a faint light appeared through the glass, which, as it approached very slowly, — the bearer having to make his way through a great many scattered articles, — enabled me to see both what kind of person it was who advanced, and what kind of place it was through which he came. " He was a little old man, with long gray hair, whose face and figure, as he held the light above his head, and looked before him as he approached, I could plamly see. Though much altered by age, I fancied I could recog- nize in his spare and slender form something of that delicate mould which I had noticed in th^ child. Their bright blue eyes were certainly alike ; but his face was so deepl}^ furrowed, and so very full of care, that here all resemblance ceased. " The place, through which he made his way at leis- ure, was one of those receptacles for old and curious things wliich seem to crouch in odd corners of this town, and to hide their musty treasures from the public CHARLES DICKENS. 163 eye in jealousy and distrust. There were suits of mail standing, like ghosts in armor, here and there ; fantastic carvings brought from monkish cloisters ; rusty weapons of various kinds ; distorted figures in china and wood and iron and ivory ; tapestry, and strange furniture that might have been designed in dreams. The haggard as- pect of the Httle old man was wonderfully suited to the place : he might have groped among old churches and tombs and deserted houses, and gathered all the spoils with liis own hands. There was nothing in the whole collection but was in keeping with himself ; nothing that looked older or more worn than he. " As he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed me with some astonishment, which was not diminished when he looked from me to my companion. The door being opened, the child addressed him as her grandfather, and told him the little story of our com- panionship. " ' Why, bless thee, child ! ' said the old man, patting her on the head, ' how couldst thou miss thy way ? What if I had lost thee, Nell ? ' " ' I would have found my way back to you^ grand- father,' said the child boldly : ' never fear. ' " The old man kissed her ; then turned to me, and begged me to walk in. I did so. The door was closed and locked. Preceding me with the liglit, he led me through the place I had already seen from without, into a small sitting-room behind, in which was another dooi 164 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF opening into a kind of closet, where I saw a little bed that a fairy might have slept in, it looked so very small, and was so prettily arranged. The child took a candle, and tripped into this little room, leaving the old man and me together. " ' You must be tired, sir,' said he as he placed a chair near the fire. ' How can I thank you ? ' " ' By taking more care of your grandchild another time, my good friend,' I replied. " ' More care ! ' said the old man in a shrill voice ; * more care of Nelly I Why, who ever loved a child as I love Nell?' " He said this with such evident surprise, that I was perplexed what answer to make ; the more so, because, coupled with something feeble and wandering in his manner, there were, in his face, marks of deep and anx- ious thought, which convinced me that he could not be, as I had been at first inclined to suppose, in a state of dotage or imbecility. '^ ' I don't think you consider ' — I began. " ' I don't consider ! ' cried the old man, interrupting me, — ' I don't consider her ! Ah, how little you know of the truth I Little Nelly, Little Nelly ! ' "It would be impossible for any man — I care not what his form of speech might be — to express more af- fection than the dealer in curiosities did in these four words. I waited for him to speak again ; but he rested bis chin upon his hand, and, shaking his head twice ot thrice, fixed his eyes upon the fire. CHARLES DICKENS. 165 " While we were sitting thus, in silence, the door ot the closet opened, and the child returned, her light brown hair hanging loose about her neck, and her face flushed with the haste she had made to rejoin us. She busied herself immediately in preparing supper. While she was thus engaged, I remarked that the old man took an opportunity of observing me more closely than lie had done yet. I was surprised to see, that, all this time, every thing was done by this child, and that there appeared to be no other persons but ourselves in the house. I took advantage of a moment, when she was absent, to venture a hint on this point, to which the old man rephed that there were few grown persons as tn:^t- worthy or as careful as she. " ' It always grieves me,' I observed, roused by what I took to be his selfishness : ' it always grieves me to contemplate the initiation of children into the ways of life when they are scarcely more than infants. It checks their confidence and simplicity, — two of the best qualities that Heaven gives them, — and demands that they share our sorrows before they are capable of entering into our enjoyments.' " ' It will never check hers,' said the old man, looldng steadily at me : ' the springs are too deep. Besides, the children of the poor know but few pleasures. Even the cheap dehghts of childhood must be bought and paid for.' " . 166 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF On Mr. Dickens's first visit to this country, he made a speech at the dinner given him in Boston ; in which he thus alluded to Little Nell : — " ' There is one other point connected with the labors, if I may call them so, that you hold in such generous esteem, to which I cannot help adverting. I cannot help expressing the delight, the more than happiness, it was to me to find so strong an interest awakened on this side of the water in favor of that little heroine of mine to whom your president has made allusion ; who died in her youth. I had letters about that child, in England, from the dwellers in log-huts among the morasses and swamps, and densest forests, and deep solitudes of the Far West. Many a sturdy hand hard with the axe and spade, and browned by the summer's sun, has taken up the pen, and written to me a little history of domestic joy or sorrow, always coupled, I am proud to say, with something of interest in that little tale, or some comfort or happiness derived from it ; and the writer has always addressed me, not as a writer of books for sale, resident some four or five thousand miles away, but as a friend to whom he might fi-eely impart the joys and sorrows of l]is own fireside. Many a mother — I could reckon them now by dozens, not by units — has done the like ; and has told me how she lost such a child at such a time, and where she lay buried, and how good she was, and how, in this or that respect, she resembled Nell. I do assure CHARLES DICKENS. 167 you that no circumstance of my life has given me one- hundredth part of the gratification 'I have derived from this source. I was wavering at the time, whether or not to wind up my clock, and come and see this country ; and this decided me. I feel as if it were a positive duty ; as if I were bound to pack up my clothes, and come and see my friends ; and even now I have such an odd sensation in connection with these tilings, that you have no chance of spoiling me. I feel as though we were agreeing — as indeed we are, if we substitute for fictitious characters the classes from which they are drawn — about third parties in whom we had a com- mon interest. At every new act of kindness on your part, I say it to myself, ' That's for Oliver ; I should not wonder if that was meant for Smike ; I have no doubt that it was intended for Nell ; ' and so become a much happier, certainly, but a more sober and retiring man, than ever I was before.' " Every reader of Dickens feels as if Little Nell was almost a reality, and takes, therefore, a sad interest in recalling the final scene of her life. Thus pathetically does the author of that sweet character depict the death of Little NeU: — " She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and 168 LIFE AND WBITINGS OF waiting for the breath of life ; not one who had lived, and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green leaves, gath- ered in a spot she had been used to favor. ' When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always.' These were her words. '' She was dead ! — dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird, a poor, slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed, was stirring nimbly in his cage ; and the strong heart of its child-mis- tress was mute and motionless forever ! Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues ? All gone. Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her; but peace and perfect happiness were born, imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. " And still her former self lay there, unaltered in its change. Yes, the old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face. It had passed like a dream through the haunts of misery and care. At the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening; before the fur- nace-fire upon the cold, wet night ; at the still bedside of the dying boy, — there had been the same mild and lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty after death. " The old man held one languid arm in his, and the small, tight hand folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile, — the hand that had led him on through all their CHARLES DICKENS. 169 wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips , then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now : and, as he said it, he looked in agony to those v^'ho stood around, as if imploring them to help her. "She was dead, and ^ past all help, or need of help. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast ; the garden she had tended ; the eyes she had gladdened ; the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtless hour ; the paths she had trodden, as it were, but yesterday, — could know her no more. "'It is not,' said the schoolmaster, as^he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, — ' it is not in this world that Heaven's justice ends. Think what it is, compared with the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight ; and say, if one deliberate wish, expressed in solemn tones above this bed, could call her back to life, which of us would utter it?' " She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night ; but, as the hours crept on, she sank to sleep. They could tell, by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings with the old man. They were of no painful scenes, but of those who had helped them, 170 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF and used them kindly ; for she often said, ' God bless you ! ' with great fervor. " Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once ; and that was at beautiful music, which, she said, was in the air. God knows. It may have been. Opening her eyes at last from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man, with a lovely smile upon her face, such, they said, as they had never seen, and could never for- get, and clung with both arms about his neck. She had never murmured or complained, but with a quiet mind, and a manner quite unaltered, save that she every day became more earnest and more grateful to them, faded like the light upon the summer's evening." In its most pathetic and beautiful passages, the prose of Dickens runs easily and naturally into rhyme and metre, and shows him to be a poet, no less than a novel- ist, of a high order. This tendency of his writing is very vividly illustrated by the account of the funeral of Little Nell in " The Old Curiosity Shop; " which is ap- pended exactly as it stands in the book, with the excep- tion of three slight verbal alterations : — " And now the bell — tlie bell She had so often heard by night and day, And listened to with solemn pleasure, E'en as a living voice — Bung its remorseless toll for her, So young, so beautiful, so good. CHARLES DICKENS. 171 ** Decrepit age, and vigorous life, And blooming youth, and helpless infancy, Poured forth — on crutches, in the pride of strength And health, in the full blush Of promise, the mere dawn of life — To gather round her tomb. Old men were there, Whose eyes were dim. And senses failing ; Grandames, who might have died ten years ago, And still been old ; the deaf, the blind, the lame, The palsied, — The living dead in many shapes and forms, — To see the closing of this early grave. What was the death it would shut in To that which still could crawl and keep above it 1 Along the crowded path they bore her now, Pure as the new-fallen snow That covered it, whose day on earth Had been as fleeting. Under that porch where she had sat when Heaven In mercy brought her to that peaceful spot. She passed again ; and the old church Received her in its quiet shade.'* In Forster's " Life of Landor," light is thrown on tho manner in which the fancy which gave us Little Nell took form in the mind of Mr. Dickens. This is the testimony of that biographer : — " When I first visited Landor in Bath, the city was only accessible by coach ; and no coach left after eight o'clock in the morning. But these difficulties in the 172 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF way of intercourse soon disappeared ; and the travelling that had occupied two entire days took up little more than double the same number of hours. The first time Mr. Dickens went with me, the railroad was open ; and it had become possible to leave in the afternoon, dine and pass the evening with Landor, and breakfast the next morning in London. Still vividly remembered by both are such evenings, when a night's sleep pur- chased for us cheaply the pleasure of being present with him on his birthday ; and I think it was at the first celebration of the kind, in the first of his Bath lodgings (35 St. James Square), that the fancy which took the form of Little Nell in "The Curiosity Shop" first dawned on the genius of its creator. No character in prose-fiction was a greater favorite of Landor. He thought that upon her Juliet might for a moment have turned her eyes from Romeo ; and that Desdemona might have taken her hair-breadth escapes to heart, so interesting and pathetic did she seem to him : and when, some years later, the circumstance I have named was re- called to him, he broke into one of those whimsical bursts of comical extravagance out of which arose the fancy of Boythorn. With tremendous emphasis, he confirmed the fact, and added, that he had never in his life regretted any thing so much as his having failed to carry out an intention he had formed respecting it ; for he meant to have purchased that house (35 St. James Square), and then and there to have burned it to the ground, to chakl.es dickens. 173 the end that no meaner association should ever dese- crate the birthplace of Nell. Then he would pause a little, become conscious of our sense of his absurdity, and break into a thundering peal of laughter." In America, the admiration of the sketches drawn of children by Mr. Dickens reached so great a pitch of en- thusiasm, that there was a demand for those pictures in separate form ; and, accordingly, a neat Iktle book, called " Child-Pictures from Dickens," v/as issued by his Bos- ton publishers, well illustrated ; and of which he said himself, — " These chapters, as being especially associated with children, have been selected from my various books for separate publication, under the title appended to the volume. ... The compilation is made for American chil- dren, with my consent." They are the stories of " Lit- tle Nell," '' Paul and Florence," " The Fat Boy," and others. " Master Humphrey's Clock" ticked on but a short time. In the introductory framework of the tales from which we have made extracts, Mr. Pickwick, with Sam Weller and his father, was brought in, but scarcely successfully. Several small contributions to " Bentley's Miscellany " are not to be found in Mr. Dickens's collected works, as too large a sum was required for permission to reprint them. During Mr. Dickens's connection with Bentley, he 174 LIFE AND WHITINGS. compiled " Memoirs of Joseph Grimaldi," illustrated by Cruiksliank, from a sort of autobiography which the great clown had written, at immense length, before his death. It is as good a theatrical biography as the aver- age, which is not saying much, and was with the com- piler mainly a labor of love. It was published in 1840, in two volumes, and shows, at least, that the rising author was not afraid of hard work. "It is said, that when Dickens saw a strange or odd name on a shop-board, or in walldng through a village or country town, he entered it in his pocket-book, and added it to his reserve list. Then, runs the story, when he wanted a striking surname for a new character, he had but to take the first half of one real name, and to add to it the second half of another, to produce the exact effect upon the eye and ear of the reader he desired." CHAPTER VII. FIRST VISIT TO THE UNITED STATES. Testimony of "The New-York Tribune." — American Notes for General Circular tiou. — Wholesome Truths for a Nation. — Slavery. — Bad Manners. — AUegha- nies. — Niagara. *' There is no other land like thee, No dearer shore ; Thou art the shelter of the free : The home, the port, of liberty, Thou hast been, and shalt ever be Till time is o'er." Percivax.- " God that made the world . . . hath made of one blood aU nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth."— Acts xvu. 26. ELL does "The New-York Tribune" de- clare that, — " It will be the glory of Charles Dickens, when his fame comes to be fairly weighed, not that he has created some of the most beautiful and by far the most humorous characters in English fiction, not that he has drawn scenes of real life with a vividness no artist ever attained before, but that he has acquired such an absolute mastery over the human heart, that we take his ideal men and women at once to 176 176 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP our bosoms, and make every one of his books a galleiy of our personal friends. Little Nell is not the most beautiful creation in our literature by any means ; but is there any loved so well ? ' Oliver Twist ' is not re- markably good as a novel ; but ever since we read it, — thirty years ago, — we have been crying ' for more.' Bob Cratchit and his lame child. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Ben- jamin Micawber, Pickwick, — dear old monarch of them all, — these are not for us the airy fictions of the brain, but flesh-and-blood friends, whom we love with all our hearts, and hope to meet some day in this very world. It is the greatness of Dickens, that he can inspire us with feelings like these ; and no other man has ever done it in an equal degree. " Ten or twenty millions of people keep a corner in their hearts for Dickens, because he has seen so perfectly the poetry, the beauty, the hundred lessons, which the life of the masses contains ; and in all that he has done he has striven for their good. ' I have always had, and always shall have,' said he on his first visit to this coun- try, ' an earnest and true desire to contribute, as far as in me lies, to the common stock of healthful cheerfulness and enjojrment. I believe that Virtue shows quite as well in rags and patches as she does in purple and fine linen. I believe that she, and every beautiful object in external Nature, claims some sympathy in the breast of the pooresfc man who breaks his scanty loaf of daily bread.' So, in the faith that literature was not for the CHARLES DICKERS. 177 rich alone, and the noblest work was the work done for the poor, he bent 'himself bravely to his splendid task. Whether battling with the weapons of his wit for the release of poor prisoners or poor schoolboys, or humanity for almshouse paupers, or relief for befogged and plun- dered clients and a public ridden to death by aristo- cratic office-holders, or founding a great liberal news- paper in the interest of popular government and free education, or refusing with dignity an invitation to attend as an actor the court where he could not be re- ceived as a private man, Charles Dickens, without a suspicion of demagogism, without the affectation of condescending, without uttering one insincere or flatter- ing word, made himself as truly the poet and prophet of the people in prose as Burns was their chosen singer in verse. It is for this reason, that, wherever the English language is spoken, Charles Dickens was cherished as a friend. It is for this reason, that his death awakens such universal sorrow, and that his name will be held in sincerely affectionate remembrance to the latest gen- erations." According to Mr." Perkins, — " By the time that ' Barnaby Rudge ' was finished, during the year 1841, even the vigorous and enduring frame of the new novelist was sensibly fatigued. No wonder. In six years, he had fully established a new department of romance, erecting a reputation which 12 178 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF would have remained a lasting one without anothei word or volume ; and had proved himself, besides his unquestioned supremacy as a novelist, a laborious and able workman in three other departments of literary labor, — reporting, editing, and biography. The exer- tion thus invested was intense as well as enjoyable ; for no quahty of genius is more invariable than the in- tensity which marks its activity. No human standard of measurement can estimate the total of labor repre- sented by the twenty volumes, or thereabouts, which the young man of twenty-nine had produced in six years. The very penmanship of so many pages is no inconsiderable accumulation of labor. The contrivance of all these stories, the adaptation to them of the char- acters and groups supplied by the mind, the shaping-out of plot and dialogue, situation and catastrophe, consti- tute another far higher and immeasurably greater body of labor; and behind all these was that vast mass of seeing, understanding, and remembering, which may be called the professional training and experience of the author, and which was really the whole of ids past life, including both the circumstances of his own home and social position, and the extraordinary series of researches and studies that he was always making into the actuali- ties of the humanity around him. The mere quantity of labor involved in all this, leaving its quahty out of the question, and treating it merely as an enterprise in acquiring and recording knowledge, is something tie- CHARLES DICKENS. 179 mendous. The liigher mental operations are not less exhausting, but more so, than the lower ; and it is not wonderful, but natural, that by this time a vacation was necessary even to this vividly -energetic, swift, and en- during organism." Therefore Mr. Dickens decided to visit America, and embarked with his wife in January, 1842, for " The land of the free, and the home of the brave." They reached Boston on the 22d ; went by New York to Baltimore, Washington, and Richmond; then by York, Penn., and Pittsburg, down the Ohio to Cincin- nati, Cairo, and St. Louis ; thence back to Cincinnati, northward to the Lakes, to Niagara, and down the St. Lawrence to Montreal and Quebec ; and thence by Lake Champlain back to New York ; from which he re- em- barked for England, June 7 of the same year. Mr. Dickens was desirous of securing an international copyright law, in which he, as an author, was specially interested, but did not succeed. On his return to England, he published a book con- taining some account of his travels and adventures, and conveying his impressions of the country and its people. This book was received in America with great dis- pleasure. The popularity of the author sank far below any zero of agreeable measurement. All but the truly discriminating cried out against him ; for he assailed the .180 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF iniquitous system of American slavery, he exposed the yileness of politics and the craftiness of politicians, and he showed how the public press catered too often to public vices. Time has wiped away some of these stains from the brow of America; and the red hand of War has slain the foe of our prosperity. Slavery no longer exists ; and the nation confesses, by its action towards the black man, that the strictures of Charles Dickens were deserved. Yet much remains to be done before the land shall be free from reproach, and its people from objectionable habits. God speed the day when it shall be wholly " a nation whose God is the Lord " ! With all its faults, we love it ; and its truest friends pray for its peace and prosperity, and for the time when its sons and daughters in home and Church and State shall labor together for its permanent welfare. Extracts from '' The American Notes " will be of in- terest; and the following portrays a portion of the voyage hither : — " It is the third morning. I am awakened out of my sleep by a dismal shriek from my wife, who demands to know whether there's any danger. I rouse myself, and look out of bed. The water-jug is plunging and leaping like a lively dolphin ; all the smaller articles are afloat, except my shoes, which are stranded on a carpet-bag high and dry, like a couple of coal-barges. Suddenly I see them spring into the air, and behold the looldng- CHARLES DICKENS. 181 glass, which is nailed to the wall, sticking fast upon the ceiling. At the same time, the door entirely disappears, and a new one is opened in the floor. Then I begin to comprehend that the state-room is standing on its head. " Before it is possible to make any arrangement at all compatible with this novel state of things, the ship rights. Before one can say, ' Thank Heaven ! ' she wrongs again. Before one can cry, ' She is wrong ! ' she seems to have started forward, and to be a creature ac- tively running of its own accord, with broken knees and failing legs, through every variety of hole and pitfall, and stumbling constantly. Before one can so much as wonder, she takes a high leap into the air. Before she has well done that, she takes a deep dive into the water. Before she has gained the surface, she throws a somer- set. The instant she is on her legs, she rushes backward. And so she goes on, staggering, heaving, wrestling, leap- ing, diving, jumping, pitching, throbbing, rolling, and rocldng, and going through all these movements, some- times by turns, and sometimes all together, until one feels disposed to roar for mercy. " A steward passes. ' Steward ! ' — ' Sir ? ' — ' What is the matter ? What do you call this ? ' — ' Eather a heavy sea on sir, and a head wind.' '' A head wind ! Imagine a human face upon the vessel's prow, with^ fifteen thousand Samsons in one, bent upon driving her back, and hitting her exactly between the eyes whenever she attempts to advance an 182 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF inch ; imagine the ship herself, with every pulse and artery of her huge body swollen and bursting undel this maltreatment, sworn to go on or die ; imagine the wind howhng, the sea roaring, the rain beating, all in furious array against her; picture the sky both dark and wild, and the clouds, in fearful sympathy with the waves, making another ocean in the air ; add to all this the clattering on deck and down below, the tread of hurried feet, the loud, hoarse shouts of seamen, the gurgling in and out of water through the scuppers, with every now and then the striking of a heavy sea upon the planks above, with the deep, dead, heavy sound of thunder heard within a vault, — and there is the head wind of that January morning. " I say nothing of what may be called the domestic noises of the ship, — such as the breaking of glass and crockery, the tumbling-down of stewards, the gambols overhead of loose casks and truant dozens of bottled porter, and the very remarkable and far from exhilarat- ing sounds raised in their various state-rooms by the seventy passengers who were too ill to get up to break- fast, — I say nothing of them ; for, although I lay listen- ing to this concert for three or four days, I don't think I heard it for more than a quarter of a minute, at the expiration of which term I lay down again excessively seasick. . . . " It was materially assisted, I have no doubt, by a heavy gale of wind, which came slowly up at sunset, CHARLES DICKENS. 183 when we were about ten days out, and raged with grad- ually-increasing fury until morning, saving that it lulled for an hour a little before midnight. There was some- thing in the unnatural repose of that hour, and in the after-gathering of the storm, so inconceivably awful and ti'emendous, that its bursting into full violence was almost a relief. " The laboring of the ship in the troubled sea on this night I shall never forget. ' Will it ever be worse than this ? ' was a question I had often heard asked when every thing was sliding and bumping about, and when it certainly did seem difficult to comprehend the possibility of any thing afloat being more disturbed, without top- pling over, and going down. But what the agitation of a steam-vessel is, on a bad winter's night in the wild Atlantic, it is impossible for the most vivid imagination to conceive. To say that she is flung down on her side in the waves, with her masts dipping into them, and that, springing up again, she rolls over on the other side, until a heavy sea strikes her with the noise of a hundred great guns, and hurls her back ; that she stops and staggers and shivers, as though stunned, and then, with a violent throbbing at her heart, darts on- ward like a monster goaded into madness, to be beaten down and battered and crushed and leaped on by the angry sea ; that thunder, hghtning, hail, and rain and wind, are all in fierce contention for the mastery ; that everj' plank has its groan, every nail its shriek, and every 184 LIFE AND WAITINGS OF drop of water in the great ocean its howling voi(3e, — k notliing. To say that all is grand, and all appalling and horrible in the last degree, is notliing. Words cannot express it. Thoughts cannot convey it. Only a dream can call it up again in all its fury, rage, and passion. " And yet, in the very midst of these terrors, I was placed in a situation so exquisitely ridiculous, that even then I had as strong a sense of its absurdity as I have now, and could no more help laughing than I can at any other comical incident happening under circum- stances the most favorable to its enjoyment. About midnight, we shipped a sea, which forced its way through the skylights, burst open the doors above, and came raging and roaring down into the ladies' cabin, to the unspeakable consternation of my wife and a little Scotch lady, who, by the way, had previously sent a message to the captain by the stewardess, requesting him, with her compliments, to have a steel conductor immediately attached to the top of every mast, and to the chimney, in order that the ship might not be struck by lightnino-. They, and the handmaid before mentioned, being in such ecstasies of fear that I scarcely knew what to do with them, I naturally bethought myself of some restorative or comfortable cordial ; and, nothing better occurring to me at the moment than hot brandy and water, I pro- cured a tumblerful without delay. It being impossible to stand or sit without holding on, they were all heaped together in one corner of a lon^ sofa, — a fixture ex- CHARLES DICKENS. 185 tending entirely across the cabin, — where they clung to each other in momentary expectation of being drowned. When I approached this place with my specific, and was about to administer it, with many conciliatory ex- pressions, to the nearest sufferer, what was my dismay to see them all roll slowly down to the other end ! And when I staggered to that end, and held out the glass once more, how immensely baffled were my good inten- tions by the ship giving another lurch, and their all rolling back again ! I suppose I dodged them up and down this sofa for at least a quarter of an hour, without reaching them once ; ?ind, by the time I did catch them, the brandy and water was diminished, by constant spilling, to a teaspoonful. To complete the group, it is necessary to recognize in this disconcerted dodger an individual very pale from sea-sickness, who had shaved his beard and brushed his hair last at Liverpool, and whose only articles of dress (linen not included) were a pair of dreadnought trousers, a blue jacket formerly admired upon the Thames at Richmond, no stockings, and one slipper. " Of the outrageous antics performed by that ship next morning, which made bed a practical joke, and getting up, by any process short of falling out, an im- possibility, I say nothing ; but any thing like the utter dreariness and desolation that met my eyes when I lit- erally ' tumbled up ' on deck, at noon, I never saw. Ocean and sky were all of one dull, heavy, uniform lead-color. 186 LIFE AND -WKITINGS OF There was no extent of prospect, even over the dreary waste that lay around us ; for the sea ran high, and the horizon encompassed us like a large black hoop. Viewed from the air, or some tall bluff on shore, it would have been imposing and stupendous, no doubt; but, seen fi-om the wet and rolling decks, it only impressed one giddily and painfully. In the gale of last night, the life- boat had been crushed by one blow of the sea, like a walnut-shell ; and there it hung danghng in the air, a mere fagot of crazy boards. The planking of the paddle- boxes had been torn sheer away. The wheels were ex- posed and bare ; and they whirled and dashed their spray about the decks at random. Chimney white with crusted salt, topmast struck, storm-sails set, rigging all knotted, tangled, wet, and drooping, — a gloomier picture it would be hard to look upon." Mr. Dickens touched Boston first, and, of course, vis- ited Boston's famous institutions, — among them that for the blind, at South Boston, which was then, as now, presided over by his personal friend, that world ~ re- nowned philantlu-opist, Dr. Samuel G. Howe. Mr. Dickens says, — " I went to see this place one very fine winter morn- ing, an Italian sky above, and the air so clear and bright on every side, that even my eyes, which are none of the best, could follow the minute lines and scraps of tracery CHARLES DICKENS. 187 in distant buildings. Like most other public institutions in America, of the same class, it stands a mile or two without the town, in a cheerful, healthy spot ; and is an airy, spacious, handsome edifice. It is built upon a height commanding the harbor. "When I paused for a moment at the door, and marked how fresh and free the whole scene was, — what sparkling bubbles glanced upon the waves, and welled up every moment to the surface, as though the world below, like that above, were radiant with the bright day, and gushing over in its fulness of light ; when I gazed from sail to sail away upon a ship at sea, a tiny speck of shining white, the only cloud upon the still, deep, distant blue, — and, turning, saw a blind boy with his sightless face addressed that way, as though he, too, had some sense within him of the glorious distance, I felt a kind of sorrow that the place should be so very light, and a strange wish that for his sake it were darker. It was but momentary, of course, and a mere fancy; but I felt it keenly for all that. " The children were at their daily tasks in different rooms, except a few who were already dismissed, and were at play. Here, as in many institutions, no uniform is worn ; and I was very glad of it for two reasons. Firstly, because I am sure that nothing but senseless custom, and want of thought, would reconcile us to the liveries and badges we are so fond of at home. Sec- ondly, because the absence of these things presents each child to the visitor in his or her own proper character, 188 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF with its individuality unimpaired, — not lost in a dull, ugly, monotonous repetition of the same unmeaning garb, which is really an important consideration. The wisdom of encouraging a little harmless pride in per- sonal appearance, even among the blind, or the whimsi- cal absurdity of considering charity and leather breeches inseparable companions, as we do, requires no comment. " Good order, cleanliness, and comfort pervaded every corner of the building. The various classes, who were gathered round their teachers, answered the questions put to them with readiness and intelligence, and in a spirit of cheerful contest for precedence which pleased me very much. Those who were at play were gleesome and noisy as other children. More spiritual and affec- tionate friendships appeared to exist among them than would be found among other young persons suffering under no deprivation ; but this I expected, and was prepared to find. It is a part of the great scheme of Heaven's merciful consideration for the afflicted. " In a portion of the building set apart for that pur- pose are workshops for blind persons whose education is finished,' and who have acquired a trade, but who can- not pursue it in an ordinary manufactory, because of their deprivation. Several people were at work here, making brushes, mattresses, &c. ; and the cheerfulness, industry, and good order discernible in every other part of the building, extended to this department also. " On the ringing of a bell, the pupils all repaired. CHARLES DICKENS. 189 without any guide or leader, to a spacious music-hall, where they took their seats iu an orchestra erected for that purpose, and listened with manifest delight to a voluntary on the organ, played by one of themselves. At its conclusion, the performer, a Loy of nineteen or twenty, gave place to a girl ; and to her accompaniment they all sang a hymn, and afterwards a sort of chorus. It was very sad to look upon and hear them, happy though their condition unquestionably was ; and I saw that one blind girl, who (being for the time deprived of the use of her limbs -by illness) sat close beside me, with her face towards them, wept silently the while she listened. " It is strange to watch the faces of the blind, and see how free they are from all concealment of what is pass- ing in their thoughts ; observing which, a man with his eyes may blush to contemplate the mask he wears. Al- lowing for one shade of anxious expression, which is never absent from their countenances, and the like of which we may readily detect in our own faces if we try to feel our way in the dark, every idea, as it rises within them, is expressed with the lightning's speed and Na- ture's truth. If the company at a rout, or di-awing-room at court, could only for one time be as unconscious of the eyes upon them as blind men and women are, what secrets would come out ! and what a worker of hypoc- risy this sight, the loss of which we so much pity, would appear to be ! 190 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " The thought occurred to me as I sat down in another room before a girl, blind, deaf, and dumb, destitute of smell, and nearly so of taste, — before a fair young creature with every human faculty and hope, and powei of goodness and affection, enclosed within her delicate frame, and but one outward sense, — the sense of touch. There she was before me ; built up, as it were, in a mar- ble cell, impervious to any ray of light or particle of sound ; with her poor white hand peeping through a chink in the wall, beckoning to some good man for help, that an immortal soul might be awakened. " Long before I looked upon her, the help had come Her face was radiant with intelligence and pleasure ; her hair, braided by her own hands, was bound about a head whose intellectual capacity and development were beau- tifully expressed in its graceful outline and its broad, open brow ; her dress, arranged by herself, was a pat- tern of neatness and simplicity ; the work she had knit- ted lay, beside her; her writing-book was on the desk she leaned upon. From the mournful ruin of such be- reavement, there had slowly risen up this gentle, tender, guileless, grateful-hearted being. " Like other inmates of that Jioase, she had a green ribbon bound round her eyelids. A doll she had dressed lay near upon the ground. I took it up, and saw that she had made a green fillet, such as she wore herself, and fastened it about its mimic eyes. " She was seated in a little enclosure made by school- CHARLES DICKENS. 191 desks and forms, writing her daily journal. But, soon finishing this pursuit, she engaged in an animated com- munication with a teacher who sat beside lier. This was a favorite mistress with the poor pupil. If she could see tlie face of her fair instructress, she would not love hei less, I am sure." Dr. Howe was the good genius who unlocked the treasures of the mind and soul to that poor benighted » child. As Dickens said, — " Well may this gentleman call that a delightful mo- ment, in which some distant promise of her present state first gleamed upon the darkened mind of Laura Bridg- man. Throughout his life, the recollection of that mo- ment will be to him a source of pure, unfading happi- ness ; nor will it shine least brightly on the evening of his days of noble usefulness. " The affection that exists between these two — the master and the pupil — is as far removed from all ordi- nary care and regard as the circumstances in which it has had its growth are apart from the common occur- rences of life. He is occupied now in devising means of imparting to her higher knowledge, and of conveying to her some adequate idea of the great Creator of that universe, in which, dark and silent and scentless though it be to her, she has such deep delight and glad enjoy- ment. 192 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP " Ye wlio have eyes, and see not ; and have ears, and hear not ; ye who are as the hj^pocrites of sad counte- nances, and disfigure your faces that ye may seem unto men to fast, — learn healthy cheerfulness, and mild con- tentment from the deaf and dumb and blind ! Self- elected saints with gloomy brows, this sightless, care- less, voiceless child may teach you lessons you will do well to follow. Let that poor hand of hers lie gently on your hearts ; for there may be something in its heal- ing touch akin to tliat of the great Master, whose pre- cepts you misconstrue, whose lessons you pervert, of whose charity and sympathy with all the world not one among you in his daily practice knows as much as many of the worst among those fallen sinners to whom you are liberal in nothing but the preaclmient of perdition. " As I rose to quit the room, a pretty little child of one of the attendants came running in to greet his father. Fnr the moment, a child with eyes, among the sightless crowd, impressed me almost as painfully as the blind boy in the porch had done two hours ago. Ah ! how much brighter and more deeply blue, glowing and rich though it had been before, was the scene without, contrasting with the darkness of so many youthful lives within ! " While describing his ride to Lowell, Mr. Dickens paints a picture which travellers will readily recog- nize : — CHARLES DICKENS. 193 " Except when a branch-road joms the main one, there is seldom more than one track of rails ; so that the road is very narrow, and the view, where there is a deep cutting^, by no means extensive : vrhen there is not, the character of the scenery is always the same, — mile after mile of stunted trees, some hewn down by the axe, some blown down by the wind, some half fallen, and resting on their neighbors, many mere logs half hidden in the swamp, others mouldered away to spongy chips. The very soil of the earth is made up of minute fragments such as these. Each pool of stagnant water has its crust of vegetable rottenness : on every side, there are the boughs and trunks and stumps of trees in every possible stage of decay, decomposition, and neg- lect. Now you emerge for a few brief minutes on an open countr}^, glittering with some bright lake or pool, broad as many an English river, but so small here, that it scarcely has a name ; now catch hasty glimpses of a distant town, with its clean white houses and their cool piazzas, its prim New-England church and schoolhouse ; when, whi-r-r-r! almost before you have seen them, comes the same dark screen, the stunted trees, the stumps, the logs, the stagnant water, — all so like the last, that you seem to have been transported back again by magic. " The train calls at stations in the woods, where the wild impossibility of anybody having the smallest reason to get out is only to be equalled by the apparently des- 194 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF perate hopelessness of there being anybody to get in It rushes across the turnpike-road, where there is no gate, no policeman, no signal, nothing but a rough wooden arch, on which is painted, ' When the bell RINGS, LOOK OUT FOR THE LOCOMOTIVE.' On it wllirls lieadlong, dives through the woods again, emerges in the light, clatters over frail arches, rumbles upon the heav}' ground, shoots beneath a wooden bridge which intercepts the light for a second like a Avink, suddenly awakens all the slumbering echoes in the main street of a large town, and dashes on hap-hazard, pell-mell, neck-or-nothing, down the middle of the road. There, — with mechanics working at their trades, and people leaning from their doors and windows, and boys flying kites and playing marbles, and men smoking, and women talking, and children crawling, and pigs burrowing, and unaccustomed horses plunging and rearing, close to the very rails, — there, on, on, on, tears the mad dragon of an engine with its train of cars ; scattering in all directions a shower of burning sparks from its wood- fire, screeching, hissing, yelling, panting, until at last the thirsty monster stops beneath a covered way to drink, the people cluster round, and you have time to breathe again." Mr. Dickens paid due tribute to the industry, energy, and intelhgence of the factory-operatives then in Lowell, most of whom were Americans. He was here in tho CHARLES DICKENS. 195 palni}^ days of " The Lowell Offering," and carried home with him four hundred pages of proof that the factory-girls of New England were both moral and literarj'. Of Now Haven, he Avrote thus : — "New Haven, known also as the ' City of Elms,' is a fine town. Many of its streets (as its alias sufficiently imports) are planted with rows of grai^d old elm-trees ; and the same natural ornaments surround Yale Colleoe, — an establishment of considerable eminence and reputation. The various departments of this institution are erected in a kind of park, or common, in the middle of the town, where they are dimly visible among the shadowing trees. The effect is very like that of an old cathedral-yard in England, and, when their branches are in full leaf, must be extremely picturesque. Even in the winter-time, these groups of well-grown trees, clustering among the busy streets and houses of a thriving city, have a very quaint appearance ; seeming to bring about a kind of compromise between town and country, as if each had met the other half-way, and shaken hands upon it ; which is at once novel and pleasant." With a natural and righteous disgust at the practice which Mr. Dickens so sharply reproves, and whose reproof the author of this volume, and every other true woman in the land, fully indorses, the follow- 196 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ing quotation is given. Said Mr. Dickens in the " Notes," — " As Washington may be called the headquarters of tobacco-tinctured saliva, the time is come when I must confess, without any disguise, that the prevalence of those two odious p^ctices, of chewing and expecto- rating, began about this time to be any thing but agree- able, and soon became most offensive and sickening. In all the public places of America, this filthy custom is recognized. In the courts of law, the judge has his spit- toon, the crier his, the witness his, and the prisoner his ; while the jurymen and spectators are provided for, as so many men, who, in the course of nature, must desire to spit incessantly. In the hospitals, the students of medicine are requested, by notices upon the wall, to eject their tobacco-juice into the boxes provided for that purpose, and not to discolor the stairs. In public build- ings, visitors are implored, through the same agency, to squirt the essence of their quids, or ' plugs,' as I have heard them called by gentlemen learned in this kind of sweetmeat, into the national spittoons, and not about the bases of the marble columns. But, in some parts, this custom is inseparably mixed up with every meal and morning call, and with all the transactions of social life. The stranger who follows in the track I took myself will find it in its full bloom and glory, luxuriant in all its alarming recklessness, at Washington ; and let him CHARLES DICKENS. 197 not persuade himself (as I once did, to my shame) that previous tourists have exaggerated its extent. The thing itself is an exaggeration of nastiness which cannot be outdone. " On board this steamboat, there were two young gentlemen, with shirt-collars reversed, as usual, and armed with very big walking-sticks, who planted two seats in the middle of the deck, at a distance of some four paces apart, took out their tobacco-boxes, and sat down opposite each other to chew. In less than a quar- ter of an hour's time, these hopeful youths had shed about them on the clean boards a copious shower of yellow rain ; clearing, by that means, a kind of magic circle, within whose limits no intruders dared to come, and which they never failed to refresh and re-refresh, before a spot was dry. This, being before breakfast, rather disposed me, I confess, to nausea ; but, looking attentively at one of the expectorators, I plainly saw that he was young in chewing, and felt inwardly uneasy himself. A glow of delight came over me at this dis- covery ; and as I marked his face turn paler and paler, and saw the ball of tobacco in his left cheek quiver with his suppressed agony, while yet he spat and chewed, and spat again, in emulation of his older friend, I could have fallen on his neck, and implored him to go on for hours." The little touches of description given by Dickens aa be passed along by canal, and afterward by railroad, 198 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF towards and over the Alleghanies, are worth perusal He says, — " There was much in this mode of travellino^ which I heartily enjoyed at the time, and look back upon with great pleasure. Even the runfiing-up, bare-necked, at five o'clock in the mornino', from the tainted cabin to the dirty deck, scooping up the icy water, plunging one's head into it, and drawing it out all fresh and glowing Avith the cold, was a good thing. The fast, brisk walk upon the towing-path, between that time and breakfast, when every vein and artery seemed to tingle with health ; the exquisite beauty of the opening day, when light came gleaming off from every thing ; the lazy motion of the boat, when one lay idly on the deck, looking through, rather than at, the deep-blue sky; the gliding-on at night, so noiselessl}^, past frown- ing hills sullen with dark trees, and sometimes angry in one red, burning spot high up, where unseen men lay crouching round a fire : the shining-out of the bright stars, undisturbed by noise of Avheels or stream, or any other sound than the liquid rippling of the water as the boat went on, — all these were pure delights. '^ Then there were new settlements, and detached log- cabins and frame-houses, full of interest for strangers from an old country, — cabins with simple ovens out- side, made of clay ; and lodgings for the pigs nearly as good as many of the human quarters ; broken wdndowa CHARLES DICKENS. 199 patched with worn-out hats, old clothes, old boards, fragments of blankets, and paper; and home-made dressers standing in the open air witliout the door, whereon was ranged the household store, not hard to count, of earthen jars and pots. The eye w^as pained to see the stumps of great trees thickly strewn in every field of wheat, and seldom to lose the eternal swamp and dull morass, with hundreds of rotten trunks and twisted branches steeped in its unwholesome waters. It was quite sad and oppressive to come upon great tracts where settlers had been burning down the trees, and where their wounded bodies lay about, like those of murdered creatures ; while here and there some charred and blackened giant reared aloft two withered arms, and seemed to call down curses on his foes. Sometimes, at night, the way wound through some lonely gorge, like a mountain-pass in Scotland, shining and coldly glitter- ing in the light of the moon, and so closed in by high, steep hills all round, that there seemed to be no egress, save through the narrower paths by which we had come, until one rugged hillside seemed to open, and, shutting out the moonlight as we passed into its gloomy throat, wrapped our new course in shade and darkness. " We had left Harrisburg on Friday. On Sunday morning, we arrived at the foot of the mountain, which is crossed by railroad. There are ten inclined planes ; five ascending, and five c?escending. The carriages are di-agged up the former, and let slowly down the latter, ^'^ LIFE AND WBITINGS OF • by means of stationary engines; the comparatively level spaces between being traversed, sometimes by horse, and sometimes by engine-power, as the case demands. Oc- casionally, the rails are laid upon the extreme verge of a giddy precipice; and, looking from the carriage-window the traveller gazes sheer down, without a stone, or scrap of fence, between, into the mountain - depths below The journey is very carefully made, however (only two carnages travelling together), and, while proper pre- cautions are taken, is not to be dreaded for its dangers "It was very pretty, travelling thus at a rapid^pace along the heights of the mountain in a keen wind to look down into a valley full of light and softness; catchmg glimpses, through the tree-tops, of scattered cabms; children running to the doors; dogs burstin<. out to bark, whom we could see without hearing; tert nfied pigs scampering homewards ; families sittincr out m their rude gardens; cows gazing upward with a' stupid mcufference; men in their shirt- sleeves look- ing on at their unfinished houses, planning out to- morrow's work; and we riding onward, high above them, like a whirlwind. It was amusing, too, when we l-ad dined, and rattled down a steep pass, havincr no other moving-power than the weight of thfe carrLc^es themselves, to see the engine, released long after us come buzzing down alone, like a great insect; its back of green and gold so shining in the sun, that, if it had spread a pair of wings, and soared away, no one would CHARLES DICKENS. 201 have had occasion, as I fancied, for the least surprise. But it stopped short of us, in a very business-like man- ner, when we reached the canal, and, before we left the wharf, went panting up this hill again, with the passen- gers who had waited our arrival for the means of trav- ersing the road by which we had come." Mr. Dickens was not favorably impressed with the Mississippi ; and his description is fraught with horror, and would drive away from the great river those who wished to see only pleasant sights. He says, — '' Nor was the scenery, as we approached the junction of the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, at all inspiriting in its influence. The trees were stunted in their growth ; the banks were low and flat ; the settlements and log- cabins fewer in number, their inhabitants more wan and wretched, than any we had encountered yet. No songs of birds were in the air, no pleasant scents, no moving lights and shadows from swift-passing clouds. Hour after hour, the changeless glare of the hot, unwink- ing sky, shone upon the same monotonous objects. Hour after hour, the river rolled along as wearily and slowly as the time itself. '' At length, upon the morning of the third day, we arrived at a spot so much more desolate than any we had yet beheld, that the forlornest places we had passed were, in comparison with it, full of interest. At the 202 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF junction of the two rivers, on ground so flat and low and marshy, that, at certain seasons of the year, it ig inundated to the house-tops, Ues a breeding - place for fever, ague, and death ; vaunted in Enghmd as a mine of golden hope, and speculated in, on the faith of mon- strous representations, to many people's ruin. A dismal swamp, on which the half-built houses rot away, cleared here and there for the space of a few yards, and teem- ing then with rank, unwholesome vegetation, in whose baleful shade the wretched wanderers who are tempted hither droop and die, and lay their bones ; the hateful Mississippi circling and eddying before it, and turning off upon its southern course, a slimy monster hideous to behold ; a hotbed of disease ; an ugly sepulchre ; a grave uncheered by any gleam of promise ; a place without one single quality in earth or air or water to commend it, — such is this dismal Cairo. '^ But what words shall describe the Mississi^Dpi, the great 'Father of Rivers,' who (praise be to Heaven !) has no young children like him I An enormous ditch, some- times two or three miles wide, running liquid mud six miles an hour ; its strong and frothy current choked and obstructed everyAvhere by huge logs and whole forest- trees, — now twining themselves together in gieat rafts, from the interstices of which a sedgy, lazy foam works up to float upon the water's top ; now rolling past, like monstrous bodies, their tangled roots showing like mat- ted hair; now glancing singly by, like giant leeches, C'HAr.LES DICKENS. 208 and now Avritliing round and round in the vortex of some small whirlpool, like wounded snakes ; — the banks low ; the trees dwarfish ; the marshes swarming with frogs ; the wretched cabins few and far apart, their in- mates hollow-cheeked and pale ; the weather very hot ; mosquitoes penetrating into every crack and crevice of the boat ; mud and slime on every thing ; nothing pleas- ant in its aspect but the harmless lightning, which flick- ers every night upon the dark horizon. '' For two days, we toiled up this foul stream, striking constantly against the floating timber, or stopping to avoid those more dangerous obstacles, the snags, or saw- yers, which are the hidden trunks of trees that have their roots below the tide. When the nights are very dark, the lookout stationed in the liead of the boat knows by the rippUng of the water if any great impedi- ment be near at hand, and rings a bell beside him, which is the signal for the engine to be stopped : but always in the night this bell has work to do ; and, after every ring, there comes a blow which renders it no easy matter to remain in bed. " The decline of day here was very gorgeous, tinging the firmament deeply with red and gold up to the very keystone of the arch above us. As the sun went down behind the bank, the slightest blades of grass upon it seemed to become as distinctly visible as the arteries in the skeleton of a leaf ; and when, as it slowly sank, the red and golden bars upon the water grew dimmer and 204 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF dimmer yet, as if they were sinking too, and all the glowing colors of departing day paled, inch by inch, before the sombre night, the scene became a thousand times more lonesome aiid more dreary than before, and all its influence darkened with the sky. " We drank the muddy water of this river wliilc we were upon it. It is considered wholesome by the na- tives, and is something more opaque than gruel." But one thing, at least, Mr. Dickens enjoyed as well as the Americans do, — and that was our cataract. From " The Notes," one would judge that lie did not visit Goat Island ; and one cannot but regret that he did not, and there view the marvellous rapids, whose grandeur is scarcely surpassed by that of the great falls them- selves. Mr. Dickens thus refers to his visit : — " It was a miserable day, — cliilly and raw, a damp mist falling, and the trees in that northern region quite bare and wintry. AYhenever the train halted, I listened for the roar, and v/as constantly straining my eyes in the direction where I knew the falls must be from seeing the river rolling on towards them ; every moment ex- pecting to behold the spray. Within a few minutes of our stopping, not before, I saw two great white clouds rising up slowly and majestically from the depths of the earth : that was all. At length we alighted ; and then, for the first time, I heard the mighty rush pf water, and felt the ground tremble underneath my feet. CHARLES DICKENS. 205 " The bank is very steep, and was slippery with rain and half-melted ice. I hardly know how I got down ; but I was soon at the bottom, and climbing, with two English officers who were crossing, and had joined me, over some broken rocks, deafened by the noise, half blinded by the spray, and wet to the skin. We were at the foot of the American Fall. I could see an immense (orient of water tearing headlong down from some great height, but had no idea of shape or situation or any thing but vague immensity. " When we were seated in the little ferry-boat, and were crossing the swollen river immediately before both cataracts, I began to feel what it was ; but I was in a manner stunned, and unable to comprehend the vastness of the scene. It was not until I came on Table Rock, and looked, — great Heaven, on what a fall of bright green water! — that it came upon me in its full might and majesty. Then, when I felt how near to my Creator I was standing, the first effect, and the enduring one, — in- stant and lasting, — of the tremendous spectacle, was peace, — peace of mind, tranquillity, calm recollections of the dead, great thoughts of eternal rest and happiness, nothing of gloom or terror. Niagara was at once stamped upon my heart an image of beauty, to re- niaiii there, changeless and indelible, until its pulsea cease to beat forever. " Oh ! how the strife and trouble of daily life receded 206 LIFE AND WRITINGS uF from my M]c.vr, and lessened in the distance, during the ten memorable days we passed on that enchanted ground ! What voices spoke from out the thundering water! what faces, faded from the earth, looked out upon me from its gleaming depths ! what heavenly promise glistened in those angels' tears, the drops of many hues, that showered around, and twined them- selves about the gorgeous arches which the changing rainbows made ! " I never stirred in all that time from the Canadian side, whither I had gone at first. I never crossed the river again : for I knew there were people on the other shore ; and, in such a place, it is natural to shun strange company. To wander to and fro all day, and see the cataracts from all points of view ; to stand upon the edge of the great Horseshoe Fall, marking the hurried water gathering strength as it approached the verge, yet seeming, too, to pause before it shot into the gulf below ; to gaze from the river's level up at the torrent as it came streaming down ; to climb the neighboring heights, and watch it through the trees, and see the wreathing water in the rapids hurrying on to take its fearful plunge ; to linger in the shadow of the solemn rocks three miles below, watching the river, as, stirred by no visible cause, it heaved and eddied, and awoke the echoes, being trou- bled yet far down beneath the surface by its giant leap ; to have Niagara before me, lighted by the sun and by the moon, red in the day's decline, and gray as even- CHARLES DICKENS. 20T ing slowly fell upon it ; to look upon it every day, and "wake up in the night, and hear its ceaseless voice, — this was enough. "I think in every quiet season now, still do those waters roll and leap and roar and tumble all day long ; still are the rainbows spanning them a hrmdred feet belcw ; still, when the sun is on them, do they shine aiid glow like molten gold ; still, when the day is gloomy, do they fall like snow, or seem to crumble away like the front of a great chalk-cliff, or roll down the rock like dense white smoke : but always does the mighty stream appear to die as it comes down ; and always from its unfathomable grave arises that tremendous ghost of spray and mist which is never laid, which has haunted this place with the same dread solemnity since darkness brooded on the deep, and that first flood before the Deluge — light — came rushing on creation at the word of God. CHAPTER VIII. CHRISTMAS CAROLS. t£artin Chuzzlewit. — Pictures from Italy. — First Carol. — TliiyTim.— The Chimea — Cricket on the Ilearth. ♦' O lovely voices of the sky, Which hymned the Saviour's birth ! Are ye not singing still on high, Ye that sang, ' Peace on earth ' ? To us yet speak the strains Wherewith, in times gone by, Ye blessed the Syrian swains, O voices of the sky I '" Mrs. Hemans. " Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace, good-will toward men."— Lusi U. 14. OLLOWING his "Notes," on his return from America, Mr. Dickens wrote a novel called " Martin Chuzzlewit," which, like "The Notes," created great excitement on this side of the water ; and they who had been fulsome in their adulation of the novelist were extremely indignant that he should repay, as they felt, their kind welcome with abuse and sarcasm. This book appeared in numbers during 1844. A writer in " The Illustrated London News" thinks that Mr. Dickens's 308 CHARLES DICKENS. 209 "method of composing and publishing his tales in monthly parts, or sometimes in weekly parts, aided the experience of this immediate personal companionship be- tween the writer and the reader. It was just as if we received a letter or a visit, at regular intervals, from a kindly observant gossip, who was in the habit of watch- ing Lhe domestic life of the Nicklebys or the Chuzzlewits, and who would let us know from time to time how they were going on. There was no assumption, in general, of having a complete and finished history to deliver : he came at fixed periods, merely to report what he had per- ceived since his last budget was opened for us. The course of his narrative seemed to run on, somehow, al- most simultaneously with the real progress of events, only keeping a little behind, so that he might have time to write down whatever happened, and to tell us. This periodical and piece-meal form of publication, being at- tended by a fragmentary manner of composition, was not at all fl^vorable to the artistic harmony of his work as a whole. But few persons ever read any of Dickens's sto- ries as a whole for the first time, because every one was eager to enjoy the parts as they were printed ; going on a twelve-month or twenty months in due succession, and growing in popularity as the pile of them increased. The obvious effect was to inspire all his constant readers — say a million or two — with a sense of habitual dependence on their contemporary, the man Charles Dickens, for a continued supply of the entertainment which he alone 14 lilO LIFE AND WRITINGS OF could furnisli. He was personally indispensable to them, as a favorite actor might be to the inveterate playgoers of a former age, who lived upon their Gai- lick or their Kemble. If each of his stories had ap- peared complete in three octavo volumes, with the lapse oT a couple of years between one work and another, the feeling of continual dependence on the living author would have been less prevalent among us. *' ]jut it was not by dint of this mechanical contrivance of publishing, and the corresponding talent of quick and manifold invention, presenting novel scenes and inci- dents, with a crowd of new figures, in each section of a story, that Charles Dickens obtained his immense com- mand over the minds of the English people. Other novelists have shown the same power of inventing a multiplicity of incidents to strike the fanc}^ and filling every corner with countless persons or personal names, intended to represent the diversities of human life and character. The result is bewildering and fatiguing, if we should attempt to read any of those second-rate serial novels as a connected story. They found accept- ance in monthly morsels ; there v/as some vitality in their scattered limbs : but, when the body is put to- gether, we find it is dead, so that it lies shut between the boards of the bound volume, as though enclosed in a coffin, extinct to the end of time. Such would have been the fate, likewise, of these stories of Dickens's, if he had been merely a writer of extraordinary talent and CHARLES DICKENS. 211 skill ; but he was also a man of genius, — let us say, a prose poet. The genius of the poet, in which term we beg leave to include that of the genuine humorist, who is equally the man of imagination, cannot die, and be shut up in a coffin, and so buried and forgotten. Try to dispose of your Shakspeare in that manner I The forms of poetry may pass out of fashion ; they may change or perish ; they may have been imperfect at their best, for they were borrowed from the custom of the day : but the spirit of poetry is immortal. And we reckon true humor as a peculiar exhibition of this spirit ; and we esteem Dickens, next after Shakspeare, as the greatest of English humorists, — that is to say, with ref- erence to literary history, the greatest of all humorists ; for none of the foreigners, ancient or modern, — Aris- tophanes, Boccaccio, Rabelais, Cervantes, or Jean Paul, — have come near Shakspeare in this faculty, though possessing it in a large measure. That none of the 'English humorists of the eighteenth century' — not even Swift or Fielding, much less Smollett or Sterne — is to be compared with Dickens in this respect, we be- lieve Thackeray himself would have been ready to admit. Hogarth, if the two arts of painting and novel- writing allow their comparison, may be deemed a pre- cursor of Dickens. Many of our poets, from Chaucer onwards, — we cannot, indeed, name Milton or Words- worth, but Robert Burns and Walter Scott on the north side of the Tweed, — have been richly endowed with 212 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF humor. It is a British or English gift ; and Washing- ton Irving has shown that it flourishes in transplantation to America. With the spirit of sympathetic fun and gonial caprice is allied the special power of imagination that enters into the motives of eccentric characters, and of whimsical or absurd actions and behavior. This be- longs to poetry, and chiefly to dramatic poetry, qaite as much as those other special faculties of imagination which go to the conception and representation of ex- alted passions, or to the ideal combination of sublime and beautiful forms. Shakspeare's clowns, and his fool- ish varlets or blundering louts, are, equally with his heroes, the creation of a great poet. Shall we not say the same of Pickwick, of Sam Weller, of Pecksniff, of Mrs. Gamp, and of many other queer characters which only a mighty creative imagination could have formed ? " His genius was the gift of Nature ; but, for his art as a writer, he seems to have early studied two of the best examples in our language, — Henry Fielding and Washinoton Irving:. The mock-heroic strain of his pi gambles to many chapters of ' Pickwick,' ' Nicholas Nickleby,' and ' Martin Chuzzlewit,' was tuned in the key of similar diversions attending the history of Tom Jones ; and the shrewd, sly commentary, enlivened by a variety of playful fancies and whimsical conceits, Avith which Dickens peeps into the minutest details of scenery and costume, reminds us of ' The Sketch Book,' and of CHARLES DICKENS. 213 * Bracebridge Hall.' His propensity to indulge in tho use of irony, almost too persistently, and sometimes to dwell upon a single witty caprice, turned all manner of ways, through several paragraphs or pages, is one of those splendid faults of excess from Avhich even Shakspeare is not wholly free. We know what Avas said of him who had never blotted out a line of his writing, ' Oh that he had blotted out a thousand ! ' Dickens, if we re- member rightly, made an express acknowledgment, when he first visited America, of his oblisrations to Washington Irving as a literary model ; and he could scarcely have chosen a better, for style, tone, and man- ner, amongst the prose-writers of the age. The inclina- tion, encouraged by Thackeray, to go fartlier back — namely, to Swift and Addison — for patterns of good English thinking and writing, has nearly worn itself out ; and we again recognize in the best of our nine- teenth-century authors a style of greater energy and capacity than that of the eighteenth, with equal clear- ness and easy grace. Dickens possessed as full command of all the resources of our lanG^uacre as Ruskin ; and he coidd, when it suited his purpose, write with as much force and precision as Macaulay. A volume of ' elegant extracts ' might be gathered from his works to exemplify the rules of idiomatic English prose-composition." From " Martin Chuzzlewit," a few extracts are here given. The following presents a vivid picture of an autumnal sunset and the autumn breeze : — 214 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " It was pretty late in the autumn of the year, when the declining sun, struggling through the mist which had obscured it all day, looked brightly down upon a little Wiltshire village, within an easy journey of the fair old town of Salisbury. " Like a sudden flash of memory or spirit kindling up I lie mind of an old man, it shed a glory upon the scene, in which its departed youth and freshness seemed to live again. The wet grass sparkled in the light ; the scanty patches of verdure in the hedges — where a few green twigs yet stood together bravely, resisting to the last the tyranny of nipping winds and early frosts — took heart, and brightened up ; the stream, which had been dull and sullen all day long, broke out into a cheerful smile ; the birds began to chirp and twitter on the naked boughs, as though the hopeful creatures half believed that winter had gone by, and spring had come already ; the vane upon the tapering spire of the old church glistened from its lofty station in sympathy with the general gladness ; and from the ivy-shaded windows such gleams of light shone back upon the glowing sky, Ihat ifc seemed as if the quiet buildings v/ere the hoard- ing-place of twenty summers, and all their ruddiness and warmth were stored within. *' Even those tokens of the season which emphatically whispered of the coming winter graced the landscape, and, for the moment, tinged its livelier features with no oppressive air of sadness. The fallen leaves, with which CHARLES DICKENS. 215 the ground was strewn, gave forth a pleasant fragrance, and, subduing all harsh sounds of distant feet and wheels, created a repose in gentle unison with the light scatter- ing of seed hither and thither by the distant husband- man, and with the noiseless passage of the plough as it turned up the rich brown earth, and wrought a graceful pattern in the stubbled fields. On the motionless branches of some trees, autumn berries hung like clus- ters of coral beads, as in those fabled orchards where the fruits were jewels ; others, stripped of all their gar- niture, stood, each the centre of its little heap of bright red leaves, watching their slow decay ; others again, still wearing theirs, had them all crunched and crackled up, as though they had been burnt ; about the stems of some were piled in ruddy mounds the apples they had borne that year; while others (hardy evergreens this class) showed somewhat stern and gloomy in their vigor, as charged by Nature with the admonition, that it is not to her more sensitive and joyous favorites she grants the longest term of life. Still, athwart their darker boughs, the sunbeams struck out paths of deeper gold ; and the red light, mantling in among their swarthj^ branches, used them as foils to set its brightness off, and aid the lustre nf the dying day. " A moment, and its glory was no more. The sun went down beneath the long dark lines of hill and cloud which piled up in the west an airy city, wall heaped on wall, and battlement on battlement ; the light was all *2Hi LIFE AND WRITINGS OF withdrawn ; the shining church turned cold and dark the stream forgot to smile ; the birds were silent ; and the gloom of winter dwelt on every thing. " An evening wind uprose too ; and the slighter branches cracked and rattled as they moved, in skeleton dances, to its moaning music. The withering leaves, no longer quiet, hurried to and fro in search of shelter from its chill pursuit ; the laborer unyoked his horses, and, with head bent down, trudged briskly home beside them ; and from the cottage-windows lights began to glance and wink upon the darkening fields. " Then the village forge came out in all its bright importance. The lusty bellows roared, ' Ha, ha ! ' to the clear fire, which roared in turn, and bade the shining sparks dance gayly to the merry clinking of the hammers on the anvil. The gleaming iron, in its emulation, sparkled too, and shed its red-hot gems around pro- fusely. The strong smith and his men dealt such strokes upon their work as made even the melancholy night rejoice, and brought a glow into its dark face as it hov- ered about the door and windows, peeping curiously in above the shoulders of a dozen loungers. As to this idle company, there they stood, spell-bound by the place, and, casting now and then a glance upon the darkness in their rear, settled their lazy elbows more at '^ase upon the sill, and leaned a little further in, no more disposed to tear themselves away than if they had been born to cluster round the blazing hearth like so many crickets. 1 CHARLES DICK'ENS. 217 " Out upon the angry wind ! how, from sighing, it began to bluster round the merry forge, banging at the wicket, and grumbling in the chimney, as if it bullied the jolly bellows for doing any thing to order. And what an impotent swaggerer it was too, for all its noise I for, if it had any influence on that hoarse companion, it was but to make him roar his cheerful song the louder, and, by consequence, to make the fire burn the brighter, and the sparks to dance more gayly yet : at length, they whizzed so madly round and round, that it was too much for such a surly wind to bear : so off it flew with a howl, giving the old sign before the ale-house door such a cuff as it went, that the Blue Dragon was more rampant than usual ever afterwards, and, indeed, before Christmas, reared clean out of its crazy frame. " It was small tyranny for a respectable wind to go wreaking its vengeance on such poor creatures as the fallen leaves ; but this wind, happening to come up with •I great heap of them just after venting its humor on the insulted Dragon, did so disperse and scatter them, that they fled away, pell-mell, some here, some there, rolling over each other, whirling round and round upon their thin edges, taking frantic flights into the air, and playing all manner of extraordinary gambols in the extremity of their distress. Nor w^as this enough for its malicious fury ; for, not content with driving them abroad," it; charged small parties of them, and hunted them into the wheelwright's saw-pit, and below the planks and timbers 218 LIFE AlSTD WRITINGS OF in tlie yard, and, scattering the sawdust in tlie air, it looked for them underneath ; and, when it did meet with any, whew ! how it drove them on, and followed at their heels ! " The scared leaves only flew the faster for all this, and a giddy chase it was ; for they got into unfrequented places, where there was no outlet, and where their pur- suer kept them eddying round and round at his pleasure ; and tliey crept under the eaves of houses ; and clung tightly to the sides of hay-ricks, like bats ; and tore in at open chamber- windows ; and cowered close to hedges ; and, in short, went anywhere for safety. But the oddest feat they achieved was to take advantage of the sudden opening of Mr. Pecksniff's front-door, to dash wildly into his passage, whither the wind, following close upon them, and finding the back-door open, incontinently blew out the lighted candle held by Miss Pecksniff, and slammed the front-door against Mr. Pecksniff, who was at that moment entering, with such violence, that, in the twinkling of an eye, he lay on his back at the bottom of the steps. Being by this time weary of such trifling per- formances, the boisterous rover hurried away rejoicing, roaring over moor and meadow, hill and flat, until it got out to sea, where it met with other winds similarly dis- posed, and made a night of it." A fine word-picture, too, is the opening of that chap- ter, " the burden whereof is, ' Hail, Columbia I ' " CHARLES DICkENS. 219 Thus it reads : — " A dark and dreary night ; people nestling in their beds, or circling late about the fire ; Want, colder than Charity, shivering at the street-corners ; church-towers humming with the faint vibration of their own tongues, but newly resting from the ghostly preachment ' One ! ' the earth covered with a sable pall as for the burial of yesterday ; the clumps of dark trees, its giant plumes of funeral-feathers, waving sadly to and fro, — all hushed, all noiseless, and in deep repose, save the swift clouds that skim across the moon, and the cautious wind, as, creep- ing after them upon the ground, it stops to listen, and goes rustling on, and stops again, and follows, like a savao^e on the trail. " Whither go the clouds and wind so eagerly ? If, like guilty spirits, they repair to some dread conference with powers like themselves, in what wild regions do the elements hold council, or where unbend in terrible disport ? *' Here, free from that cramped prison called the earth, and out upon the waste of waters. Here, roar- ing, raging, shrieking, howling, all night long. Hither come the sounding voices from the caverns on the coast of that small island, sleeping, a thousand miles away, so quietly in the midst of angry waves ; and hither, to meet them, rush the blasts from unknown desert places of the world. Here, in the fury of their unchecked liberty, they storm and buffet with each other until the 220 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF sea, lashed into passion like their own, leaps up in ravings mightier than theirs, and the whole scene ia madness. ' " On, on, on, over the countless miles of angry space, roll the long, heaving billows. Mountains and caves are here, and yet are not ; for what is now the one is now the other ; then all is but a boiling heap of rushing water. Pursuit and flight, and mad return of wave on wave, and savage struggle, ending in a spouting-up of foam that whitens the black night; incessant change of place and form and hue, constancy in nothing, but eternal strife ; on, on, on, they roll, and darker grows the night, and louder howls the wind, and more clam- orous and fierce become the million voices in the sea, when the wild cry goes forth upon the storm, ' A ship ! ' " Onward she comes, in gallant combat with the ele- ments, her tall masts trembling, and her timbers starting on the strain ; onward she comes, now high upon the curling billows, now low down in the hollows of the sea, as hiding for the moment from its fury ; and every storm-voice in the air and water cries more loudly yet, ' A ship ! ' " Still she comes striving on ; and, at her boldness and the spreading cry, the angry waves rise up above each other's hoary heads to look ; and round about the vessel, far as the mariners on the decks can pierce into the gloom, they press upon her, forcing each other down, and starting up, and rushing forward from afar, in CHARLES DICKENS. 221 dreadful curiosity. High over her they break, and round her surge and roar, and, giving place to others, moaningly depart, and dash themselves to fragments in their baffled anger. Still she comes onward bravely ; and though the eager multitude crowd thick and fast upon her all the night, and dawn of day discovers the untiring train yet bearing down upon the ship in an eternity of troubled water, onward she comes, with dim lights burning in her hull, and people there asleep ; as if no deadly element were peering in at every seam and chink, and no drowned seaman's grave, with but a plank to cover it, were yawning in the unfathomable depths below." Sairey Gamp appears in " Martin Chuzzlewit ; " and as the author of this memorial volume had the great pleasure of hearing Mr. Dickens read this himself in Tremont Temple, Boston, a place is here assigned to this humorous sketch with more than usual satisfaction. " Mr. Pecksniff, in the innocence of his heart, apphed himself to the knocker ; but, at the first double knock, every window in the street became alive with female heads ; and, before he could repeat the performance, whole troops of married ladies (some about to trouble Mrs. Gamp themselves very shortly) came flocking round the steps, all crying out with one accord, and with uncommon interest, ' Knock at the winder, sir, 222 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF knock at the winder! Lord bless you, don't lose no more time than you can help : knock at the winder ! ' "Acting upon this suggestion, and borrowing the driver's whip for the purpose, Mr. Pecksniff soon made a commotion among the first-floor flower-pots, and roused Mrs. Gamp, whose voice — to the great satisfac- tion of the matrons — was heard to say, ' I'm coming.' " ' He's as pale as a muffin,' said one lady, in allusion to Mr. Pecksnife. " ' So he ought to be, if he's the feelings of a man,' observed another. " A thhd lady (with her arms folded) said she wished he had chosen any other time for fetching Mrs. Gamp ; but it always happened so with lier, " It gave Mr. Pecksniff much uneasiness to find, from these remarks, that he was supposed to have come to Mrs. Gamp upon an errand touching, not the close of life, but the other end. Mrs. Gamp herself was under the same impression ; for, throwing open the window, she cried behind the curtains, as she hastily attired her- self, — " ' Is it Mrs. Perkins ? ' " ' No ! ' returned Mr. Pecksniff sharply. ' Nothing of the sort.' '' ' What, Mr. Whilks ! ' cried Mrs. Gamp. ' Don't say it's you, Mr. Whilks, and that poor creetur Mrs. Whilks with not even a pincushion ready. Don't sa^ it's you, Mr. Whilks I ' CHARLES DICKENS. 223 " ' It isn't Mr. Wliilks,' said Pecksniff. ' I don't know the man. Nothing of the kind. A gentleman is dead ; and, some person being wanted in the house, you have been recommended by Mr. Mould the undertaker.' " As she w^as by this time in a condition to appear, Mrs. Gamp, Avho had a face for all occasions, looked out of the window with her mourning-countenance, and said she would be down directly. But the matrons took it very ill, that Mr. Pecksniff 's mission was of so unimportant a kind : and the lady with her arms folded rated him in good round terms, signifjdng that she would be glad to know what he meant by terrifying delicate females ' with his corpses ; ' and giving it as her opinion that he was quite ugly enough to know better. The other ladies were not at all behindhand in expressing similar sentiments ; and the children, of whom some scores had now collected, hooted and defied Mr. Peck- sniff quite savagel}^ So, when Mrs. Gamp appeared, the unoffending gentleman was glad to hustle her with very little ceremony into the cabriolet, and drive off, overwhelmed with popular execration. " Mrs. Gamp had a large bundle with her, a pair of pattens, and a species of gig-umbrella; the latter ar- ticle in color like a faded leaf, except where a circular patch of a lively blue had been dexterously let in at the top. She was much flurried by the haste she had made, and labored under the most erroneous views of cabrio- lets, which she appeared to confound with mail-coachea 224 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF or stage-wagons ; inasmucli as she was constantly en- deavoring for the first half-mile to force her luggage through the little front- window, and clamoring to the driver to ' put it in the boot.' When she was disabused of this idea, her whole being resolved itself into an ab- sorbing anxiety about her pattens, with which she played innumerable games at quoits on Mr. PecksnifT's legs. It was not until they were close upon the house of mourning, that she had enough composure to observe, — " ' And so the gentleman's dead, sir ? Ah ! The more's the pity.' She didn't even know his name. ' But it's what we must all come to. It's as certain as being born, except that we can't make our calculations as exact. Ah! Poor dear!' *' She was a fat old woman, this Mrs. Gamp, with a husky voice and a moist eye, which she had a remarka- ble power of turning up, and only showing the white of it. Having very little neck, it cost her some trouble to look over herself, if one may say so, at those to whom she talked. She wore a very rusty black gown, rather the worse for snuff, and a shawl and bonnet to correspond. In these dilapidated articles of dress, she had, on principle, arrayed herself, time out of mind, on such occasions as the present ; for this at once expressed a decent amount of veneration for the deceased, and in- vited the next of kin to present her with a fresher suit of weeds, — an appeal so frequently successful, that the very fetch and ghost of Mrs. Gamp, bonnet and all, CHARLES DICKENS. 225 might be seen hanging up, any hour in the day, in at least a dozen of the second-hand-clothes shops about Holborn. The face of Mrs. Gamp — the nose in par- ticular — was somewhat red and swollen; and it was difficult to enjoy her society without becoming conscious of a smell of spirits. Like most persons who have at- tained to great eminence in their profession, she took to hers very kindly ; insomuch, that, setting aside her natural predilections as a woman, she went to a lying-ia or a laying-out with equal zest and relish. " ' Ah ! ' repeated Mrs. Gamp ; for it was always a safe sentiment in cases of mourning, — ' ah, dear ! When Gamp was summoned to his long home, and I see him a- lying in Guy's Hospital with a penny-piece on each eye, and his wooden leg under his left arm, I thought I should have fainted away ; but I bore up.' " If certain whispers current in the Kingsgate-street circles had any truth in them, she had indeed borne up surprisingly, and had exerted such uncommon fortitude as to dispose of Mr. Gamp's remains for the benefit of science. But it should be added, in fairness, that this had happened twenty years before ; and that Mr. and Mrs. Gamp had long been separated, on the ground of incompatibility of temper in their drink. " ' You have become indifferent since then, I sup- pose ? ' said Mr. Pecksniff. ' Use is second nature, Mrs. Gamp.' " ' You may well say second nater, sir,' returned that 16 226 LIFE AND ^HITINGS OV lady. * One's first ways is to find sich things a trial to the feelings, and so is one's lasting custom. If it wasn't for the nerve a little sip of liquor gives me (I never was able to do more than taste it), I never could go through with what I sometimes has to do. " Mrs. Harris," I says at the very last case as ever I acted in, which it was but a young person, — '' Mrs. Harris," I says, " leave the bottle on the chimney-piece, and don't ask me take none, but let me put my lips to it when I am so dispoged ; and then I will do what I'm engaged to do, according to the best of my ability." — " Mrs. Gamp," she says in answer, " if ever there was a sober creetur to be got at eighteen pence a day for working-people, and three-and-six for gentlefolks," — night- watching,' said Mrs. Gamp with emphasis, ' being a extra charge, — " you are that in- wallable person." — " Mrs. Harris," I says to her, '' don't name the charge ; for, if I could afford to lay all my feller- creeturs out for nothink, I would gladly do it, sich is the love I bears 'em. But what I always says to them as has the management of matters, Mrs. Harris " (here she kept her eye on Mr. Pecksniff) " be they gents, or be they ladies, is. Don't ask me whether I won't take none, or whether I will, but leave the bottle on the chimney- piece, and let me put my lips to it when I am so dis- poged." ' " The conclusion of this affecting narrative brought them to the house. In the passage, they encountered Mr. Mould the undertaker, — a little elderly gentleman, CHARLES DICKENS. 227 bald, and in a suit of black, with a note-book in his hand, a massive gold watch-chain dangling from his fob, and a face in which a queer attempt at melanchol}^ Avas at odds with a smirk of satisfaction ; so that he looked as a man might, who, in the very act of smacking his lips over choice old wine, tried to make believe it was physic. " ' Well, Mrs. Gamp ; and how are t/ou, Mrs. Gamp ? ' said this gentleman in a voice as soft as his step. " ' Pretty well, I thank you, sir,' dropping a courtesy. " ' You'll be very particular here, Mrs. Gamp. This is not a common case, Mrs. Gamp. Let every thing be very nice and comfortable, Mrs. Gamp, if you please,' said the undertaker, shaking his head with a solemn air. " ' It shall be, sir,' she replied, courtesying again. ' You knows me of old, sir, I hope.' " ' I hope so too, Mrs. Gamp,' said the undertaker ; 'and I think so also.' Mrs. Gamp courtesied again. ' This is one of the most impressive cases, sir,' he con- tinued, addressing Mr. Pecksniff, ' that I have seen in the whole course of my professional experience.' " ' Indeed, Mr. Mould ! ' cried that gentleman. " ' Such affectionate regret, sir, I never saw. There is no limitation, there is positively no limitation,' — open- ing his eyes wide, and standing on tiptoe, — ' in point of expense. I have orders, sir, to put on my whole estab- lishment of mutes, — and mutes come very dear, Mr. Peck- sniff, not to mention their drink, — to provide silver- 228 LIFE AND WBITINGS OF plated handles of the very best description, ornamented with angels' heads from the most expensive dies ; to be perfectly profuse in feathers ; in short, sir, to turn out something absolutely gorgeous.' " ' My friend Mr. Jonas is an excellent man,' said Mr. Pecksniff. " ' I have seen a good deal of what is filial in my time, sir,' retorted Mould, ' and what is unfilial too. It is our lot. We come into the knowledge of those secrets. But any thing so filial as this, any thing so honorable to human nature, so calculated to reconcile all of us to the world we live in, never yet came under my observation. It only proves, sir, what was so forcibly observed by the lamented theatrical poet, — buried at Stratford, — that there is good in every thing.' " ' It is very pleasant to hear you say so, Mr. Mould,' observed Pecksniff." . . . " Mrs. Gamp, with the bottle on one knee, and a glass on the other, sat upon a stool, shaking her head for a long time, until, in a moment of abstraction, she poured out a dram of spirits, and raised it to her lips. It was succeeded by a second, and by a third ; and then her eyes — either in the sadness of her reflections upon life and death, or in her admiration of the liquor — were so turned up as to be quite invisible. But she shook her head still." Mrs. Gamp's failmgs evidently did not J' lean to vir- CHARLES DICKENS. 229 tue's side," or to the side of temperance, if we may judge from facts rather than her own statements. When she called afterwards at Mr. Mould's, a glass of rum is offered her. '•' Mrs. Gamp took the chair that was nearest the door, and, casting up her eyes towards the ceiling, feigned to be wholly insensible to the fact of a glass of rum being in preparation, until it was placed in her hand by one of the young ladies ; when she exhibited the greatest surprise. " ' A thing,' she said, ' as hardly ever, Mrs. Mould, occurs with me, unless it is when I am indispoged, and find my half a pint of porter settling heavy on the chest. Mrs. Harris often and often says to me, '' Sairey Gamp," she says, "you raly do amaze me I " — '' Mrs. Harris," I says to her, " why so ? Give it a name, I beg." — " Telling the truth, then, ma'am," says Mrs. Harris, and " shaming him as shall be nameless betwixt you and me, never did I think, till I know'd you, as any woman could sick- nurse and monthly like ways, on the little that you takes to drink." — "Mrs. Harris," I says to her, "none on us knows what we cai^ do till we tries ; and wunst, when me and Gamp kept ouse, I thought so too. But now," I says, " my half a pint of porter fully satisfies, perwisin', Mrs. Harris, that it is brought reg'lar, and draw'd mild. Whether I sicks or monthlies, ma'am, I hope I does my duty ; but I am but a poor woman, and I earns my living L'30 LIFE AND WAITINGS OF hard : therefore I do require it, which I makes confession^ to be brought reg'lar, and draw'd mild." ' " The precise connection between these observations and the glass of rum did not appear ; for Mrs. Gamp, proposing as a toast, ' The best of lucks to all ! ' took off the dram in quite a scientific manner, without any further remarks. " ' And what's your news, Mrs. Gamp ? ' asked Mould again, as that lady wiped her lips upon her shawl, and nibbled a corner off a soft biscuit, which she appeared to carry in her pocket as a provision against contingent drams. ' How's Mr. Chuffey ? ' " ' Mr. Chuffey, sir,' she replied, ' is jest as usual : he an't no better, and he an't no worse. I take it very kind in the gentleman to have wrote up to you, and said, '^ Let Mrs. Gamp take care of him till I come home ; " but ev'ry think he does is kind. There an't a many like him : if there was, we shouldn't Avant no churches.' '' ' What do you want to speak to me about, Mrs. Gamp ? ' said Mould, coming to the point. •" ' Jest this, sir,' Mrs. Gamp returned, ' with thanks to you for asking. There is a gent, sir, at the Bull in Holborn, as has been took ill there, and is bad abed. They have a day-nurse as was recommended from Bar- tholomew's ; and well I knows her, Mr. Mould, her name bein' Mrs. Prig, — the best of creeturs. But she is other- ways engaged at night ; and they are in wants of night- watching : consequent she says to them, having reposed CHARLES DICKENS. 231 tlie greatest friendliness in me for twenty year, " The soberest person going, and the best of blessings in a sick- room, is Mrs. Gamp. Send a boy to Kingsgate Street," she .says, " and snap her up at any price; for Mrs. Gamp is worth her weight and more in goldian guineas." My landlord brings the message down to me, and says, " Bein' in a light place where you are, and this job promising so well, why not unite the two ? " — " No, sir," I says, " not unbeknown to Mr. Mould ; and therefore do not think it. But I will go to Mr. Mould," I says, " and a.«k him, if you like." ' Here she looked sideways at the under- taker, and came to a stop. " ' Night- watching, eh ? ' said Mould, rubbing his chin. " ' From eight o'clock till eight, sir. I will not deceive you,' Mrs. Gamp rejoined." The undertaker consented ; and Sairey Gamp went to the place indicated. Arrived, she felt the necessity of advancing, bundle in hand, and introducing herself. " ' The night-nurse,' she observed, ' from Kingsgate Street, well beknown to Mrs. Prig, the day-nurse, and the best of creeturs. How is the poor dear gentleman, to-night ? If he an't no better yet, still that is what must be expected and prepared for. It an't the fust time by a many score, ma'am,' dropping a courtesy to the landlady, ' that Mrs. Prig and me has nussed together, turn and turn about, — one off, one on. We knows each 232 LIFE AND WETTINGS OF other's ways, and often gives relief when others fail. Our charges is but low, sir,' Mrs. Gamp addressed her- self to John on this head, ' considerin' the nater of our painful dooty. If they wos made accordin' to our wishes, they would be easy paid.' " Regarding herself as having now delivered her inau- guration-address, Mrs. Gamp courtesied all round, and signified her wish to be conducted to the scene of her official duties. The chambermaid led her through a va- riety of intricate passages, to the top of the house, and, pointing at length to a solitary door at the end of a gallery, informed her that yonder was the chamber where the patient lay. That done, she hurried off with all the speed she could make. " Mrs. Gamp traversed the gallery in a great heat from having carried her large bundle up so many stairs, and tapped at the door, which was immediately opened by Mrs. Prig, bonneted and shawled, and all impatience to be gone. Mrs. Prig was of the Gamp build, but not so fat ; and her voice was deeper, and more like a man's. She had also a beard. " ' I began to think you warn't a-coming,' Mrs. Prig observed, in some displeasure. " ' It shall be made good to-morrow night,' said Mrs. Gamp, ' honorable. I had to go and fetch my things.' She had begun to make signs of inquiry in reference to the position of the patient, and his overhearing them, — for there was a screen before the door, — when Mrs. Prig settled that point easily. CHARLES DICKENS. 233 " ' Oh ! ' she said aloud, ' he's quiet ; but his wits ia gone. It an't no matter wot you say.' " ' Any thin' to tell afore you goes, my dear ? ' asked Mrs. Gamp, setting her bundle down inside the door, and looking affectionately at her partner. *' ' The pickled salmon,' Mrs. Prig replied, ' is quite delicious. I can partick'ler recommend it. Don't have nothink to say to the cold meat; for it tastes of the stable. The drinks is all good.' " Mrs. Gamp expressed herself much gratified. " ' The physic and them things is on the drawers and manldeshelf,' said Mrs. Prig cursorily. ' He took his last slime-draught at seven. The easy-chair an't soft enough. You'll want his piller.' " Mrs. Gamp thanked her for these hints, and, giving her a friendly good-night, held the door open until she had disappeared at the other end of the gallery. Hav- ing thus performed the hospitable duty of seeing her safely off, she shut it, locked it on the inside, took up her bundle, walked round the screen, and entered on her occupation of the sick-chamber. " ' A little dull, but not so bad as might be,' Mrs. Gamp remarked. ' I'm glad to see a parapidge, in case of fire, and lots of roofs and chimney-pots to walk upon.' " It will be seen, from these remarks, that Mrs. Gamp w^as looldno: out of window. When she had exhausted the prospect, she tried the easy-chair, which she indig- Dantly declared was ' harder than a brickbadge.' Next •J34 LIFE AND WKITINGS OF she pursued her researches among the physic bottles, glasses, jugs, and tea-cups ; and, when she had entirely satisfied her curiosity on all these subjects of investiga- tion, she untied her bonnet-strings, and strolled up to the bedside to take a look at the patient. " A young man, dark, and not ill-looking, with long black hair, that seemed the blacker for the whiteness of the bed-clothes. His eyes were partly open ; and he never ceased to roll his head from side to side upon the pillow, keeping his body almost quiet. He did not utter. words ; but every now and then gave vent to an expres- sion of impatience or fatigue, sometimes of surprise ; and still his restless head — oh, weary, weary hour ! — went to and fro without a moment's intermission. " Mrs. Gamp solaced herself with a pinch of snuff, and stood looking at him with her head inclined a little side- ways, as a connoisseur might gaze upon a doubtful work of art. By degrees, a horrible remembrance of one branch of her calling took possession of the woman ; and, stooping down, she pinned his wandering arms against his sides to see how he would look if laid out as a dead man. Hideous as it may appear, her fingers itched to compose his Umbs in that last marble attitude. " ' Ah ! ' said Mrs. Gamp, walking away from the bed, '" he'd make a lovely corpse.' " She now proceeded to unpack her bundle ; lighted a candle with the aid of a fire-box on the drawers ; filled a small kettle as a prehminary to refresliing her- CHARLES DICKENS. 235 self with a cup of tea in the course of the night ; laid what she called ' a little bit of fire,' for the same philan- thropic purpose ; and also set forth a small teaboaid, that nothing might be wanting for her comfortable en- joyment. These preparations occupied so long, that, when they were brought to a conclusion, it was high time to think about supper : so she rang the bell, and ordered it. *' ' I think, young woman,' said Mrs. Gamp to the as- sistant chambermaid, in a tone expressive of weakness, '• that I could pick a little bit of piclded salmon, with a nice little sprig of fennel, and a sprinkling of white pep- per. I takes new bread, my dear, with jest a little pat of fresh butter, and a mossel of cheese. In case there should be such a thing as a cowcumber in the 'ouse, will you be so kind as bring it? for I'm rather partial to 'em ; and they does a world of good in a sick-room. If they draws the Brighton Old Tipper here, I takes that ale at night, my love ; it bein' considered wakeful by the doc- tors. And whatever you do, young woman, don't bring more than a shilling's-worth of gin and water warm when I rings the bell a second time ; for that is always my allowance, and I never takes a drop beyond.' " Having preferred these moderate requests, Mrs. Gamp observed, that she would stand at the door until the order was executed, t.o the end that the patient might not be disturbed by her opening it a second time ; and therefore she would thank the young woman to ' look sharp.' 236 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " A tray was brought with every thing upon it, even to the cucumber ; and Mrs. Gamp accordingly sat down to eat and drink in high good-humor. The extent to which she availed herself of the vinegar, and supped up that refreshing fluid with the blade of her knife, can scarcely be expressed in narrative. " ' Ah ! ' sighed Mrs. Gamp, as she meditated over the warm shilling's-worth, ' what a blessed thing it is — liv- ing in a wale — to be contented ! What a blessed thing it is to make sick people happy in their beds, and never mind one's self as long as one can do a service ! I don't believe a finer cowcumber Avas every grow'd. .I'm sure' I never see one.' " She moralized in the same vein until her glass was empty, and then administered the patient's medicine by the simple process of clutching his windpipe to make him gasp, and immediately pouring it down his throat. " ' I a'most forgot the piller, I declare I ' said Mrs. Gamp, drawing it away. ' There ! Now he's comforta- ble as he can be, 7'm sure ! I must try to make myself as much so as I can.' " With this view, she went about the construction of an extemporaneous bed in the easy-chair, with the addi- tion of the next easy one for her feet. Having formed the best couch that the circumstances admitted of, she took out of her bundle a yellow nightcap, of prodigious size, in shape resembling a cabbage ; which article of dress she fixed and tied on with the utmost care, pre* CHARLES DICKENS. 237 viously divesting herself of a row of bald old curls that could scarcely be called false, they were so very inno- cent of any thing approaching to deception. From the same repository she brought forth a night -jacket, in which she also attired herself. Finally, she produced a watchman's coat, which she tied around her neck by the sleeves, so that she became two i^eople, and looked, be- hind, as if she were in the act of being embraced by one of the old patrol. "All these arrangements made, she lighted tJie rush- light, coiled herself up on her couch, and went to sleep. Ghostly and dark the room became, and full of lowering shadows. The distant noises in the streets were gradu- ally hushed ; the house was quiet as a sepulchre ; the dead of night was coffined in the silent city. " Oh, weary, weary hour ! Oh, haggard mind, grop- ing darkly through the past ; incapable of detaching itself from the miserable present ; dragging its heavj^ chain of care through imaginary feasts and revels, and scenes of awful pomp ; seeking but a moment's rest among the long-forgotten haunts of childhood, and the resorts of yesterday ; and dimly finding fear and horror ever}^ where I Oh, weary, weary hour ! — what were the wanderings of Cain to tliese ! " Still, without a moment's interval, the burning head tossed to and fro. Still, from time to time, fatigue, im- patience, suffering, and su];prise found utterance upon that rack, and plainly too, though never once in words. 238 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF At length, in the solemn hour of midnight, he began to talk, waiting awfully for answers sometimes, as though invisible companions were about his bed, and so reply- ing to then' speech, and questioning again. " Mrs. Gamp awoke, and sat up in her bed, present- ing on the wall the shadow of a gigantic night-constable struggling with a prisoner. " ' Come ! Hold your tongue ! ' she cried in sharp reproof. ' Don't make none of that noise here ! ' " There was no alteration in the face, or in the inces- sant motion of the head ; but he talked on wildly. " 'Ah ! ' said Mrs. Gamp, coming out of the chair with an impatient shiver, 'I thought I was a-sleepin' too pleasant to last. The Devil's in the night, I think, it's turned so chilly.' " ' Don't drink so much ! ' cried the sick man. ' You'll ruin us all. Don't you see how the foui.taiu sinks ? Look at the mark where the sparkling water was just now ! ' " ' Sparkling water, indeed I ' said Mrs. Gamp. ' I'll have a sparkling cup o' tea, I think. I wish you'd hold your noise I ' " He burst into a laugh, which, being prolonged, fell off into a dismal wail. Checking himself, with fierce inconstancy he began to count, fast. " ' One — two — three — four — five — six.' " ' " One, two, buckle my shoe," ' said Mrs. Gamp, who was now on her knees, lighting the fire ; ' " three, CHARLES DICKENS. 230 four, shut the door," ; — I wish you'd shut your mouth, young man ; " five, six, picldng up sticks." If I'd got a few handy, I should have the kettle biling all the sooner.' " Awaiting this desirable consummation, she sat down so close to the fender (which was a high one), that her nose rested upon it ; and for some time she drowsily amused herself by sliding that feature backwards and forwards along the brass top, — as far as she could with- out changing her position to do it. She maintained, all the while, a running commentary upon the wanderings of the man in bed. " ' That makes five hundred and twenty-one men, all dressed alike, and with the same distortion on their faces, that have passed in at the window, and out at the door,' he cried anxiously. ' Look there ! Five hundred and twenty-two — twenty-three — twenty-four. Do you see them ? ' '''Ah! J see 'em,' said Mrs. Gamp. 'All the whole kit of 'em numbered like hackney-coaches ; an't they ? ' " ' Touch me ! Let me be sure of this. Touch me ! ' " ' You'll take your next draught when I've made the kettle- bile,' retorted Mrs. Gamp composedly ; ' and you'll be touched then. You'll be touched up, too, if you don't take it quiet.' " ' Five hundred and twenty-eight, five hundred and twenty-nine, five hundred and thirty, — look here I ' ^' ' What's the matter now ? ' said Mrs. Gamp. 240 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' They're coming four abreast, — each man with his arm intwinecl in the next man's, and his hand upon his shoulder. What's that upon the arm of every man, and on the flag ? ' " ' Spiders, p'raps,' said Mrs. Gamp. " ' Crape ! — black crape ! Good God ! why do they wear it outside ? ' " ' Would you have 'em carry black crape in their in- sides ? ' Mrs. Gamp retorted. ' Hold your noise ! hold your noise ! ' " The fire beginning by this time to impart a grateful warmth, Mrs. Gamp became silent, gradually rubbed her nose more and more slowly along the top of the fender, and fell into a heavy doze. She was awakened by the room ringing (as she fancied) with a name she knew, — " ' Chuzzlewit ! ' " The sound was so distinct and real, and so full of agonized entreaty, that Mrs. Gamp jumped up in terror, and ran to the door. She expected to find the passage filled with people come to tell her that the house in the city had taken fire: but the place was empty; not a soul was there. She opened the window, and looked out. Dark, dull, dingy, and desolate housetops. As she passed to her seat again, she glanced at the patient. Just the same, but silent. Mrs. Gamp was so warm now, that she threw off the watchman's coat, and fanned herself. CHARLES DICKENS. 241 " ' It seemed to make the wery bottles ring,' she said. * What could I have been a-dreaming of ? That dratted Chuffey, I'll be bound ! ' " The supposition was probable enough. At any rate, a pinch of snuff, and the song of the steaming kettle, quite restored the tone of Mrs. Gamp's nerves, which were none of the weakest. She brewed her tea, made some buttered toast, and sat down at the tea-board, with her face to the fire ; when once again, in a tone more terrible than that which had vibrated in her slum- bering ear, these words were shrieked out, — " ' Chuzzlewit ! Jonas ! No ! ' " Mrs. Gamp dropped the cup she was in the act of raising to her lips, and turned round with a start that made the little tea-board leap. The cry had come from the bed. " It was bright morning the next time Mrs. Gamp looked out of the windoAv ; and the sun was rising cheer- fully. Lighter and ligliter grew the sky, and noisier the streets ; and high into the summer air uprose the smoke of newly-kindled fires, until the busy day was broad awake. " Mrs. Prig relieved punctually, having passed a good night at her other patient's. Mr. Westlock came at the same time ; but he was not admitted, the disorder being infectious. The doctor came too. The doctor shook his head. It was all he could do, under the circum- stances; and he did it well. Id 242 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' What sort of a night, nurse ? ' " ' Restless, sir,' said Mrs. Gamp. " ' Talk much ? ' " ' Middling, sir,' said Mrs. Gamp. " ' Nothing to the purpose, I suppose ? ' " ' Oh, bless you, no, sir ! Only jargon.' " ' Well,' said the doctor : ' we must keep him quiet j Keep the room cool, give him his draughts regularly, and see that he's carefully looked too. That's all ! ' " ' As long as Mrs. Prig and me waits upon him, sir, no fear of that,' said Mrs. Gamp. " ' I suppose,' observed Mrs. Prig, when they had courtesied the doctor out, ' there's nothin' new ? ' " ' Nothin' at all, my dear,' said Mrs. Gamp. ' He's rather wearin' in his talk from making up a lot of names : elseways you needn't mind him.' " ' Oh ! I sha'n't mind him,' Mrs. Prig returned. ' I have some thin' else to think of.' " ' I pays my debts to-night, you know, my dear, and comes afore my time,' said Mrs. Gamp. ' But Betsey Prig,' — speaking with great feeling, and laying her hand upon her arm, ' try the cowcumbers, God bless you ! ' " In the summer of 1844, Mr. Dickens, with his family, went to Italy, and remained there about a year, having Genoa for his headquarters. On his return, he published a volume of very readable sketches, entitled " Pictures CHARLES DICKENS. 243 from Italy." The following extract from this book gives a fine picture of his palatial home in Genoa, and the view from thence : — " There is not in Italy, they say (and I believe them), a lovelier residence than the Palazzo Peschiere, or Palace of the Fishponds, whither we removed as soon as our three months' tenancy of the Pink Jail at Albaro had ceased and determined. " It stands on a height within the walls of Genoa, but aloof from the town, surrounded by beautiful gardens of its own, adorned with statues, vases, fountains, marble basins, terraces, walks of orange-trees and lemon-trees, groves of roses and camellias. All its apartments are beautiful in their proportions and decorations ; but the great hall, some fifty feet in height, with three large windows at the end, overlooking the whole town of Genoa, the harbor, and the neighboring sea, affords one of the most fascinating and delightful prospects in the world. Any house more cheerful and habitable than the great rooms are within, it would be difficult to con- ceive ; and certainly nothing more delicious than the scene without^ in sunshine or in moonlight, could be imagined. It is more like an enchanted palace in an Eastern story than a grave and sober lodging. " How you may wander on, from room to room, and never tire of the wild fancies on the walls and ceilings, as bright in their fresh coloring as if they had been 244 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP painted yesterday ; or how one floor, or even the great hall which opens on eight other rooms, is a spacious promenade ; or how there are corridors and bed-cham- bers above, which we never use, and rarely visit, and scarcely know the way through ; or how there is a view of a perfectly different character on each of the four sides of the building, — matters little. But that prospect from the hall is like a vision to me. I go back to it in fancy, as I have done in calm reality, a hundred times a day, and stand there, looking out, with the sweet scents from the garden rising up about me, in a perfect dream of happiness. " There lies all Genoa, in beautiful confusion, with its many churches, monasteries, and convents pointing up into the sunny sky ; and down below me, just where the roofs begin, a solitary convent-parapet, fashioned like a gallery, with an iron cross at the end, where sometimes, early in the morning, I have seen a little group of dark- veiled nuns ghding sorrowfully to and fro, and stopping now and then to peep down upon the waking world in which they have no part. Old Monte Faccio, brightest of hills in good weather, but sulkiest when storms are coming on, is here, upon the left. The fort within the walls (the good king built it to command the town, and beat the houses of the Genoese about their ears, in case they should be discontented) commands that height upon the right. The broad sea lies beyond, in front there ; and that line of coast, beginning by the light-house, and CHARLES DICKENS. 245 tapering away, a mere speck in the rosy distance, is the beautiful coast-road that leads to Nice. The garden near at hand, among the roofs and houses, — all red with roses, and fresh with little fountains, — is the Acqua Sola, a public promenade, where the military band plays gayly, and the white veils cluster thick, and the Genoese nobil- ity ride round and round and round, in state-clothes and coaches at least, if not in absolute wisdom. Within a stone's-throw, as it seems, the audience of the day-theatre sit ; their faces turned this way. But, as the stage is hidden, it is very odd, without a knowledge of the cause, to see their faces change so suddenly from earnestness to laugh- ter, and odder still to hear the rounds upon rounds of applause, rattling in the evening air, to which the cur- tain falls. But, being Sunday night, they act their best and most attractive play. And now the sun is going down in such magnificent array of red and green and golden light, as neither pen nor pencil could depict ; and, to the ringing of the vesper-bells, darkness sets in at once, without a twilight. Then lights begin to shine in Genoa, and on the country-road ; and the revolving lantern out at sea there, flashing for an instant on this palace front and portico, illuminates it as if there were a bright moon bursting from behind a cloud, then merges it in deep obscurity. And this, so far as I know, is the only reason why the Genoese avoid it after dark, and think it haunted. " My memory will haunt it, many nights, in time to 246 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF come, but nothing worse, I will engage. The same ghost will occasionally saU away, as I did one pleasant autumn evening, into the bright prospect, and snuff the morning air at Marseilles." A graphic portraiture of Rome, and of Mr. Dickens's emotions on viewing the Coliseum, is in the following words : — " We entered the Eternal City at about four o'clock in the afternoon, on the 30th of January, by the Porta del Popolo, and came immediately (it was a dark, muddy day, and there had been heavy rain) on the skirts of the Carnival. We did not then know that we were only looking at the fag-end of the masks, who were driving slowly round and round the Piazza until they could find a promising opportunity for falling into the stream of carriages, and getting, in good time, into the thick of the festivity ; and coming among them so abruptly, all travel-stahied and weary, was not coming very well prepared to enjoy the scene. " We had crossed the Tiber by the Ponte Molle, two or three miles before. It had looked as yellow as it ought to look, and, hurrying on between its worn-away and miry banks, had a promising aspect of desolation and ruin. The masquerade dresses on the fringe of the ' Carnival did great violence to this promise. There were no great ruins, no solemn tokens of antiquity, to CHARLES DICKENS. 247 be seen : they all lie on the t ther side of the city. There seemed to be long streets of commonplace shops and houses, such as are to be found in any European town : there were busy people, equipages, ordinary walkers to and fro, a multitude of chattering strangers. It was no more m^ Rome — the Rome of anybody's fancy, man or boy, degraded and fallen and lying asleep in the sun among a heap of ruins — than the Place de la Concorde in Paris is. A cloudy sky, a dull, cold rain, and muddy streets, I was prepared for, but not for this ; and I confess to having gone to bed that night in a very indifferent humor, and with a very considerably quenched enthusiasm. '^ Immediately on going out next day, we hurried off to St. Peter's. It looked immense in the distance, but distinctly and decidedly small, by comparison, on a near approach. The beauty of the piazza in which it stands, with its clusters of exquisite columns, and its gushing fountains, — so fresh, so broad and free and beautiful, — nothing can exaggerate. The first burst of the inte- rior, in all its expansive majesty and glory, and, most of all, the looking-up into the dome, is a sensation never to be forgotten. But there were preparations for a festa. The pillars of stately marble were swathed in some im- pertinent frippery of red and . yellow ; the altar, and entrance to the subterranean chapel, — which is before it, in the centre of the church, — were hke a goldsmith's Bhop, or one of the opening scenes in a very lavish panto- 248 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF mime. And, though I had as high a sense of the beauty of the building (I hope) as it is possible to entertain, I felt no very strong emotion. I have been infinitely more af- fected in many English cathedrals, when the organ has been playing, and in many English country churches, when the congregation have been singing. I had a much greater sense of mystery and wonder in the Ca- thedral of San Mark at Venice. " When we came out of the church again (we stood nearly an hour staring up into the dome, and would not have 'gone over 'the cathedral then for any money), we said to the coachman, ' Go to the Coliseum.' In a quarter of an hour or so, he stopped at the gate, and we went in. " It Js no fiction, but plain, sober, honest truth, to say, — so suggestive and distinct is it at this hour, — that, for a moment, — actually in passing in, — they who will may have the whole great pile before them, as it used to be, with thousands of eager faces staring down into the arena, and such a whirl of strife and blood and dust going on there as no language can describe. Its soli- tude, its awful beauty, and its utter desolation, strike upon the stranger the next moment like a softened sor- row ; and never in his life, perhaps, will he be so moved and overcome by any sight not immediately connected with his own affections and afflictions. " To see it crumbling there, an inch a year, its walls and arches overgrown with green ; its corridors open CHARLES DICKENS. 249 to the day; the long" grass growing m its porches; young trees of yesterday springing up on its ragged parapets, and bearing fruit (chance produce of the seeds dropped there by the birds who build their nests within its chinks and crannies) ; — to see its Pit of Fight filled up with earth, and the peaceful Cross planted in the centre ; to climb into its upper halls, and look down on ruin, ruin, ruin, all about it ; the triumphal arches of Constantine, Septimus Severus, and Titus ; the Roman Forum ; the Palace of the Ccesars ; the tem- ples of the old religion, — fallen down and gone, — is to see the ghost of old Rome — wicked, wonderful old city — haunting the very ground on which its people trod. It is the most impressive, the most stately, the most solemn, grand, majestic, mournful sight conceiv- able. Never, in its bloodiest prime, can the sight of the gigantic Coliseum, full and running over with the lustiest life, have moved one heart as it must move all who look upon it now, a ruin. God be thanked ! a ruin ! " As it tops the other ruins, standing there, a moun- tain among graves, so do its ancient influences outlive all other remnants of the old mythology and old butchery of Rome, in the nature of the fierce and cruel Roman people. The Italian face changes as the visitor ap- proaches the city: its beauty becomes devilish; and there is scarcely one countenance in a hundred, among the common people in the streets, that would not be 250 LIFE AND WHITINGS OF at home and happy in a renovated Coliseum to-mor* row. " Here was Rome indeed, at last, and such a Rome as no one can imagine in its full and awful grandeur. We wandered out upon the Appian Way, and then went on, through miles of ruined tombs and broken walls, with here and there a desolate and uninhabited house, — past the Circus of Romulus, where the course of the chariots, the stations of the judges, competitors, and spectators, are yet as plainly to be seen as in old time ; past the tomb of Cecilia Metella; past all enclosure, hedge or stake, wall or fence ; away upon the open Campagna, where, on that side of Rome, nothing is to be beheld but ruin. Except where the distant Apennines bound the view upon the left, the whole wide prospect is one field of ruin. Broken aqueducts left in the most picturesque and beautiful clusters of arches, broken temples, broken tombs, — a desert of decay, sombre and desolate beyond all expression, and with a history in every stone that strews the ground." " Pictures from Italy " closes with the following allu sion to beautiful Florence, and words of hope concern ing Italy, which are characteristic of Dickens. He says, — •" But how much beauty is there, when, on a fair, clear morning, we look from the summit of a hill on CHARLES DICKENS. 251 Florence ! See where it lies before us in a sun-liglited valley, bright with the winding Arno, and shut in by swelling hills ; its domes and towers and palaces rising from the rich country in a glittering heap, and shining in the sun like gold ! " Magnificently stern and sombre are the streets of Ljcautiful Florence ; and the strong old j)iles of building make such heaps of shadow on the ground and in the river, that there is another and a different city of rich forms and fancies always lying at our feet. Prodigious palaces, constructed for defence, with small, distrustful windows heavily barred, and walls of great thickness, formed of huge masses of rough stone, frown in their old sulky state on every street. In the midst of the city — in the piazza of the grand duke, adorned with beautiful statues and the Fountain of Neptune — rises the Palazzo Vecchio, with its enormous overhano^incr battlements, and the Great Tower that watches over the whole town. In its court-yard, worthy of the Castle of Otranto in its ponderous gloom, is a massive staircase, that the heaviest wagon and the stoutest team of horses might be driven up. Within it is a great saloon, faded and tarnished in its stately decorations, and mouldering by grains, but recording yet, in pictures on its walls, the triumphs of the Medici and the wars of the old Florentine people. The prison is hard by, in an adjacent court-yard of the building, — a foul and dismal place, where some men are shut up close in small cells 252 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF like ovens, and where others look through bars, and beg ; where some are playing draughts, and some are talking to their friends, who smoke, the wliile, to purify the air ; and some are buying fruit and wine of women-venders ; and all are squalid, dirty, and vile to look at. ' They are merry enough, signore,' says the jailer. ' They are all blood-stained here,' he adds, indicating with his hand three-fourths of the whole building. Before the hour is out, an old man, eighty years of age, quarrelling over a bargain with a young girl of seventeen, stabs her dead, in the market-place full of bright flowers, and is brought in prisoner to swell the number. " Among the four old bridges that span the river, the Ponte Vecchio, that .bridge which is covered with the shops of jewellers and goldsmiths, is a most enchant- ing feature in the scene. The space of one house in the centre, being left open, the view beyond is shown as in a frame ; and that precious glimpse of sky and water and rich buildings, shining so quietly among the huddled roofs and gables on the bridge, is exquisite, Above it, the gallery of the grand duke crosses the river. It was built to connect the two great palaces by a secret passage ; and it takes its jealous course among the streets and houses with true despotism, going where it lists, and spurning every obstacle away be- fore it. "The grand duke has a worthier secret passage through the streets, in his black robe and hood, as a CHARLES DICKENS. 253 member of the Compagnia clella Misericordia ; which brotherhood includes all ranks of men. If an accident take place, their office is to raise the sufferer, and bear him tenderly to the hospital. If a fire break out, it is one of their functions to repair to the spot, and render their assistance and protection. It is also among their commonest offices to attend and console the sick ; and they neither receive money, nor eat, nor drink, in any house they visit for this purpose. Those who are on duty for the time are called together, on a moment's notice, by the tolling of the great bell of the tower ; and it is said that the grand duke has been seen, at this sound, to rise from his seat at table, and quietly with- draw to attend the summons. '' In this other large piazza, where an irregular kind of market is held, and stores of old iron and other small merchandise are set out on stalls or scattered on the pave- ment, are grouped together the cathedral with its great dome, the beautiful Italian Gothic tower, the cam- panile, and the baptistery with its wrought bronze doors. And here, a small untrodden square in the pavement, is ' the stone of Dante,' where (so runs the story) he was used to bring his stool, and sit in contem- plation. I wonder was he ever, in his bitter exile, with- held from cursing the very stones in the streets of Florence the ungrateful, by any kind remembrance of this old musing-place, and its association with gentle thoughts of little Beatrice. 254 LIFE AND WKITINGS OF " The Chapel of the Medici, the good and bad angels of Florence ; the Church of Santa Croce, where Michael Angelo lies buried, and where every stone in the clois- ters is eloquent on great men's deaths ; innumerable churches, often masses of unfinished heavy brickwork externally, but solemn and serene within, — arrest our lingering steps in strolling through the city. " In keeping with the tombs among the cloisters is the Museum of Natural History, famous through the world for its preparations in wax, beginning with the models of leaves, seeds, plants, inferior animals, and gradually ascending, through separate organs of the human frame, up to the whole structure of that won- derful creation, exquisitely presented, as in recent death. Few admonitions of our frail mortality can be more solemn and more sad, or strike so home upon the heart, as the counterfeits of youth and beauty that are lying there upon their beds in their last sleep. " Beyond the walls, the whole sweet Valley of the Arno, the convent at Fiesole, the Tower of Galileo, Boccaccio's house, old villas and retreats, innumerable spots of interest, — all glowing in a landscape of sur passing beauty steeped in the richest light, — are spread before us. Returning from so much brightness, how solemn and how grand the streets again, with their great, dark, mournful palaces, and many legends, not of siege and war and might, and iron hand alone, but of the triumphant growth of peaceful arts and sciences ! CHAKLES DICKENS. 255 "What light is shed upon the world, at this day, from amidst these rugged palaces of Florence ! Here, open to all comers, in their beautiful and calm retreats, the ancient sculptors are immortal, side by side with Michael Angelo, Canova, Titian, Rembrandt, Raphael, poets, historians, philosophers, — those illustrious men of history, beside whom its crowned heads and har- nerssed warriors show so poor and small, and are so soon forgotten. Here the imperishable part of noble minds survives, placid and equal, when strongholds of assault and defence are overthrown ; when the tyranny of the many or the few, or both, is but a tale ; when pride and power are so much cloistered dust. The fire within the stern streets, and among the massive palaces and towers, kindled by rays from heaven, is still burning brightly when the flickering of war is extinguished, and the household-fires of generations have decayed ; as thousands upon thousands of faces, rigid with the strife and passion of the hour, have faded out of the old squares and public haunts, while the nameless Floren- tine lady, preserved from oblivion by a painter's hand, yet lives on in enduring grace and youth. " Let us look back on Florence while we may, and, when its shining dome is seen no more, go travelling through cheerful Tuscany with a bright remembrance of it ; for Italy will be the fairer for the recollection. The summer-time being come, and Genoa and Milan, and the Lake of Como, lying far behind us, and we rest- 256 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ing at Faido, a Swiss village, near the awful rocks and mountains, the everlasting snows and roaring cataracts, of the Great St. Gothard, hearing the Italian tongue for the last time on this journey, — let us part from Italy, with all its miseries and wrongs, affectionately, in our admiration of the beauties, natural and artificial, of which it is full to overflowing, and in our tenderness towards a people naturally well disposed and patient and sweet-tempered. Years of neglect, oppression, and misrule, have been at work to change their nature, and reduce their spirit; miserable jealousies, fomented by petty princes to whom union was destruction, and di- vision strength, have been a canker at the root of their nationality, and have barbarized their language : but the good that was in them ever is in them yet, and a noble people may be one day raised up from these ashes. Let us entertain that hope ! And let us not remember Italy the less regardfully, because in every fragment of her fallen temples, and every stone of her deserted palaces and prisons, she helps to inculcate the lesson that the wheel of time is rolling for an end, and that the world is, in all great essentials, better, gentler, more forbearing, and more hopeful, as it rolls ! " For several years, at the merry Christmas-time, Mr. Dickens furnished to his admiring readers some brief romances, which greatly added to his fame. There were five in the series. They were " The Christmas Carol," CHARLES DICKENS. 257 published in 1843 ; " The Chimes," 1844 ; " The Cricket on the Hearth," 1845 ; " The Battle of Life," 1846 ; and *' The Haunted Man," 1847. " Some critics," it is said, *' have supposed that the last one or two of these series showed evidences of a fatigued mind. This may le true ; in which case, it was evidence of practical sense and self-knowledge to discontinue them." In the peroration of the concluding lecture which Thackeray gave on " English Humorists of the Eigh- teenth Century," he paid an eloquent and toucliing trib- ute to the genius of Mr. Dickens, and said, — " As for the charities of Mr. Dickens, multiplied kind- nesses which he has conferred upon us all, — upon our children, upon people educated and uneducated, upon the myriads here and at home who speak our common tongue, — have you not, have not I, all of us, reason to be thankful to tliis kind friend, who soothed and charmed so many hours, brought pleasure and sweet laughter to so many homes, made such multitudes of children hap- py, endow^ed us with such a sweet store of gracious thoughts, fair fancies, soft sympathies, hearty enjoy- ments? There are creations of Mr. Dickens's Avhich seem to me to rank as personal benefits ; figures so de- lightful, that one feels happier and better for knowing them, as one does for being brought into the society of very good men and women. The atmosphere in which these people live is wholesome to breathe in ; you feel, It 258 LIFE AND WEITINGS OF that to be allowed to speak to them is a personal kind ness ; you come away better for your contact with them ; your hands seem cleaner from having the privilege of shaking theirs. Was there ever a better charity-sermon preached in the world than Dickens's ' Christmas Carol " ? I believe it occasioned immense hospitality throughout England ; was the means of lighting up hundreds of kind fires at Christmas-time ; caused a wonderful out- pouring of Christmas good feehng, of Christmas punch- brewing ; an awful slaughter of Christmas turkeys, and roasting and basting of Christmas beef." Thackeray's private library was sold after his death ; and a copy of " The Christmas Carol," presented him by the author, with a note, sold for twenty-five pounds. The following is the closing portion of the first "Christmas Carol:" — " Yes ! and the bedpost was his own ; the bed was Ms own ; the room was his own ; best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own, to make amends in. " ' I will live in the past, the present, and the future,' Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. ' The spirits of all three shall strive witliin me. O Jacob Marley! Heaven and the Christmas-time be praised for this ! I say it on my knees, old Jacob, — on my knees ! '■ " Hfi was so fluttered, and so glowing with his good CHARLES DICKENS. 259 Intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his con- flict with the spirit ; and his face was wet with tears. " ' They are not torn down! ' cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, — ' they are not torn down, rings and all. They are here, — I am here. The shadows of the things that would have been may be dis- pelled. They will be : I know they will ! ' " His hands were busy with his garments all this time, turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them par- ties to every kind of extravagance. " 'I don't know what to do!' cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath, and making a perfect Laocoon of himself with his stockings. ' I am as light as a feather ; I am as happy as an angel ; I am as merry as a school-boy ; I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody ! A happy New -Year to all the world ! Halloo, here ! Whoop ! Halloo ! ' " He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there, perfectly winded. " ' There's the saucepan that the gruel was in ! ' cried Scrooge, starting off again, and going round the fire- place. ' There's the door by which the ghost of Jacob Marley entered ! There's the corner where the ghost of Christmas Present sat ! There's the window where I saw the wandering spirits ! It's all right, it's all true, it all happened. Ha, ha, ha ! ' 260 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " Eeally, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh, — the father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs. " ' I don't know what day of the month it is,' said Scrooge ; ' I don't know how long I have been among the spirits. I don't know any thing. I'm quite a baby. Never mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hal- loo ! Whoop ! Halloo, here 1 ' " He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clang, hammer ; ding, dong, bell. Bell, dong, ding ; hammer, clang, clash ! Oh, glorious, glorious ! " Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist ; clear, bright, jovial, stir- ring, cold ; cold, piping for the blood to dance to ; golden sunlight ; heavenly sky ; sweet, fresh air ; merry bells. Oh, glorious, glorious ! " ' What's to-day ? ' cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who, perhaps, had loitered in to look about him. " ' Eh ? ' returned the boy, with all his might of wonder. " ' What's to-day, my fine fellow ? ' said Scrooge. " ' To-day I ' replied the boy. ' Why, Christmas Day ! ' " ' It's Christmas Day ! ' said Scrooge to himself. ' I haven't missed it. The spirits have done it all in one night. They can do any thing they like. Gf course, they can. Halloo, my fine fellow ! ' CHARLES DICKENS. 261 " ' Halloo ! ' ije turned the boy. " ' Do you know the poulterer's, in the next street but one, at the corner ? ' Scrooge inquired. " ' I should hope I did,' replied the lad» " ' An intelligent boy ! ' said Scrooge, — ' a remarkable boy ! Do you know whether they've sold the prize-tur- key that was hanging up there ? — not the little prize- turkey, the big one ? ' " ' What, the one as big as me ? ' returned the boy. " ' What a delightful boy ! ' said Scrooge. ' It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck ! ' " ' It's hanging there now,' replied the boy. " ' Is it ? ' said Scrooge. ' Go and buy it.' " ' Walk-ER ! ' exclaimed the boy. " ' No, no,' said Scrooge : ' I am in earnest. Go, and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that I may give them the directions where to take it. Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes, and I'll give half a crown I ' " The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a Steady hand at a trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast. " ' I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's,' whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. ' He sha'n't know who sends it. It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be ! ' *iQ2 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one; but write it he did, somehow, and went down stairs to open the street door, ready for the com- ing of the poulterer's man. As he stood there, waiting liis arrival, the knocker caught his eye. " ' I shall love it as long as I live ! ' cried Scrooge, patthig it with his hand. ' I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it has in- its face! It's a wonderful knocker ! Here's the turkey. Halloo ! Whoop ! How are you ? Merry Christmas ! ' " It was a turkey ! He never could have stood upon his legs, that bird. He would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax. " ' Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden Town,' said Scrooge. ' Yoa must have a cab.' " The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breath- less in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried. " Shaving was not an easy task : for his hand con- tinued to shake very much ; and shaving requires at- tention, even when you don't dance while you are at it. But, if h -^ had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a pie'.e of sticking-plaster over it, and been quite satisfied. " He dressed himself ' all in his best,' and at last got CHARLES DICKENS. 263 out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them witli the ghost of Christmas Present ; and, walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delightful smile. He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humored fellows said, ' Good-morning, sir ! A merry Christmas to you ! ' And Scrooge said often afterwards, that, of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears. " He had not gone far, when, coming on towards him, he beheld the portly gentleman who had walked into his counting-house the day before, and said, ' Scrooge and Marley's, I believe ? ' It sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met ; but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it. " ' My dear sir,' said Scrooge, quickening his pace, and taking the old gentleman by both his hands. ' Plow do you do ? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A merry Christmas to you, sir ! ' "'Mr. Scroooje?' '• ' Yes,' said Scrooge. ' That is my name ; and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness?' — here Scrooge whispered in his ear. " ' Lord bless me ! ' cried the gentleman, as if his breath were taken away. ' My dear Mr. Scrooge, are you serious ? ' 264 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' If you please,' said Scrooge. ' Not a farthing less. A great many back-payments are included in it, I assure. Will you do me that favor ? ' " ' My dear sir,' said the other, shaking hands with him. ' I don't know what to say to such munifi ' — " ' Don't say any thing, please,' retorted Scrooge. * Come and see me. Will you come and see me ? ' " ' I will,' cried the old gentleman. And it was clear he meant to do it. " ' Thank'ee,' said Scrooge. ' I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you ! ' " He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted the children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows, and found that every thing could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk, that any tiling, could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon, he turned his steps towards his nephew's house. " He passed the door a dozen times before he had the courage to go up and knock ; but he made a dash, and did it. " ' Is your master at home, my dear ? ' said Scrooge to the girl. ' Nice girl. Very.' " ' Yes, sir.' " ' Where is he, my love ? ' said Scrooge. " ' He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. I'll show you up stairs, if you please.' CHARLES DICKENS. 265 " ' Thank'ee. He knows me,' said Scrooge, with his hand already on the dining-room lock. ' I'll go in here, my dear.' '' He turned it gently, and sidled his face in round the door. They were looking at the table (which was spread out in great array) ; for these young housekeep- ers are always nervous on such points, and like to see that every thing is right. " ' Fred ! ' said Scrooge. " Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started ! Scrooge had forgotten, for the moment, about her sitting in the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have done it, on any account. " ' Why, bless my soul ! ' cried Fred. ' Who's that ? ' " ' It's I, — your Uncle Scrooge. I have come to din- ner. Will you let me in, Fred ? ' " Let him in ! It's a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. So did Topper when he came. So did the plump sister when she came. So did every one when they came. Wonder- ful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won- derful happiness. " But he was early at the office next morning. Oh ! he was early there. If he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late I — that was the thing he had set his heart upon. " And he did it ; yes, he did ! The clock struck nine. 266 lilFE AND WRITINGS OF No Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. He was full eigh- teen minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the Tank. "His hat was off before he opened the door; his comforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy, driving away with his pen as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock. " ' Halloo ! ' growled Scrooge in his accustomed voice, as near as he could feign it. ' What do you mean by coming here at this time of day ? ' " ' I am very sorry, sir,' said Bob. ' I am behind my time.' " ' You are ! ' repeated Scrooge. ' Yes, I think you are. Step this way, sh, if you please.' " It's only once a year, sir,' pleaded Bob, appearing from the Tank. ' It shall not be repeated. I was mak- ing rather merry, yesterday, sir.' " ' Now, I tell you what, my friend,' said Scrooge. 'I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer; and therefore,' he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the Tank again, — ' and therefore I am about to raise your salary ! ' " Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocldng Scrooge down with it, holding him, and calling to the people in the court for help and a strait-waistcoat. CHARLES DICKENS. 267 " ' A merry Christmas, Bob ! ' said Scrooge, witli an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. ' A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year ! I'll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling family ; and we will discuss your affairs this very after- noon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop. Bob ! Make up the fires, and buy another coal-scuttle, before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit ! ' " Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more ; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him : but he let them laugh, and little heed- ed them ; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and, knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed; and that was quite enough for him. " He had no further intercourse with spirits, but lived upon the total-abstinence principle ever afterwards ; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the 268 LIFE AND WHITINGS OF knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us ! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, ' God bless uS; every one ! ' " The following is from " The Chimes," and conveys a solemn lesson to the soul : — " This was the belfry, where the ringers came. He had caught hold of one of the frayed ropes which hung down through apertures in the oaken roof. At first, he started, thinking it was hair ; then trembled at the very thought of waking the deep bell. The bells themselves were higher. Higher, Trotty, in his fascination, or in working out the spell upon him, groped his way, — by ladders new and toilsomely ; for it was steep, and not too certain holding for the feet. " Up, up, up ; and climb and clamber : up, up, up, — higher, higher, higher up ! " Until, ascending through the floor, and pausing with his head just raised above its beams, he came among the bells. It was barely possible to make out their great shapes in the gloom ; but there they were, shadowy and dark and dumb. " A heavy sense of dread and loneliness fell instantly upon him as he climbed into this airy nest of stone and metal. His head went round and round. He listened, and then raised a wild ' Halloo ! ' " ' Halloo I ' was mournfully protracted by the echoes. CHARLES DICKENS. 269 " Giddy, confused, and out of breath, and frightened, Trotty looked about liim vacantly, and sunk down in a swoon. " Black are the brooding clouds, and troubled the deep waters, when the sea of thought, first heaving from a calm, gives up its dead. Monsters uncouth and wild arise in premature, imperfect resurrection ; the several parts and shapes of different things are joined and mixed by chance : and when and how, and by what wonderful degrees, each separates from each, and every sense and object of the mind resumes its usual form, and lives again, no man — though every man is every day the casket of this type of the great mystery — can tell. " So when and how the darkness of the night-black steeple changed to shining light ; when and how the soli- tary tower was peopled with a myriad figures ; when and how the whispered ' Haunt and hunt him,' breathing monotonously through his sleep or swoon, became a voice exclaiming in the waking ears of Trotty, ' Break his slumbers ; ' when and how he ceased to have a sluggish and confused idea that such things were companioning a host of others that were not, — there are no dates or means to tell. But awake, and standing on his feet upon the boards where he had lately lain, he saw this goblin sight. " He saw the tower, whither his charmed footsteps had brought him, swarming with dwarf phantoms, spirits, elfin creatures of the bells. He saw them leaping, flying, 270 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF dropping, pouring, from the bells without a pause. He saw them round him on the ground, above him in the air, clambering from him by the ropes below, looking down upon him from the massive iron-girded beams, peeping in upon him through the chinks and loopholes in the walls, spreading away and away from him in en- larging circles, as the water-ripples give place to a huge stone that suddenly comes plashing in among them. He saw them of all aspects and all shapes ; he saw them ugly, handsome, crippled, exquisitely formed ; he saw them young ; he saw them old ; he saw them kind ; he saw them cruel ; he saw them merry ; he saw them grin ; he saw them dance, and heard them sing ; he saw them tear their hair, and heard them howl; he saw the air thick with them ; he saw them come and go incessant- ly ; he saw them riding downward, soaring upward, sailing ofP afar, perching near at hand, — all restless, and all violently active. Stone and brick and slate and tile became transparent to him as to them. He saw them in the houses, busy at the sleepers' beds ; he saw them soothing people in their dreams ; he saw them beating them with knotted whips ; he saw them j^elling in their ears ; he saw them playing softest music on their pillows ; he saw them cheering some with the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers; he saw them jflashing awful faces on the troubled rest of others, from enchanted mirrors which they carried in their hands. " He saw these creatures, not only among sleeping , CHARLES DICKENS. 27] men, but waking also ; active in pursuits irreconcilable with one another, and possessing or assuming natures the most opposite. He saw one buckling on innumera- ble wings to increase his speed, another loading him- self with chains and weights to retard his. He saw some putting the hands of clocks forward, some putting the hands of clocks backward, some endeavoring to stop the clock entirely. He saw them representing, here a marriage-ceremony, there a funeral ; in this chamber an election, in that a ball. He saw, everywhere, restless and untiring motion. " Bewildered by the host of shifting and extraordinary figures, as well as by the uproar of the bells, which all this while were ringing, Trotty clung to a wooden pillar for support, and turned his white face here and there in mute and stunned astonishment. " As he gazed, the chime stopped. Instantaneous change ! The whole swarm fainted : their forms col- lapsed, their speed deserted them, they sought to fly, but, in the act of falling, died, and melted into air. No fresh supply succeeded them. One straggler leaped down pretty briskly from the surface of the great beU, and alighted on his feet ; but he was dead and gone before he could turn round. Some few of the late company who had gambolled in the tower remained there, spin- ning over and over a little longer ; but these became at every turn more faint and few and feeble, and soon went the way of the rest. The last of all was one small 272 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF huncliback, who had got into an echoing corner, where he twirled and twirled, and floated by himself a long time ; showing such perseverance, that at last he dwin- dled to a leg, and even to a foot, before he finally retired : but he vanished in the end, and then the tower was silent. " Then, and not before, did Trotty see in every bell a bearded figure of the bulk and stature of the bell, — in- comprehensibly, a figure and the bell itself, — gigantic, grave, and darkly watchful of him, as he stood rooted to the ground. " Mysterious and awful figures, resting on nothing ; poised in the night-air of the tower, with their draped and hooded heads merged in the dim roof; motionless and shadowy, — shadowy and dark, although he saw them by some light belonging to themselves (none else was there), each with its muffled hand upon its goblin mouth. " He could not plunge down wildly through the open- ing in the floor ; for all power of motion had deserted him : otherwise he would have done so, — ay, would have thrown himself head foremost from the steeple- top, rather than have seen them watching him with eyes tliat would have waked and watched, although the pupils liad been taken out. "Again, again, the dread and terror of the lonely place, and of the wild and fearful night that reigned there, touched him like a spectral hand. His distance from all help ; the long, dark, winding, ghost-beleaguered charleS dickens. 273 way tliat lay between Mm and the earth on which men lived ; his being high, high, high, up there, where it had made him dizzy to see the birds fly in the day, cut off from all good people, who at such an hour were safe at home, and sleeping in their beds, —all this struck coldly through him, not as a reflection, but a bodily sensation. Mean- time his eyes and thoughts and fears were fixed upon the watchful figures, which, rendered unlike any figures of this world by the deep gloom and shade inwrapping and infolding them, as well as by their looks and forms, and supernatural hovering above the floor, were, never- theless, as plainly to be seen as were the stalwart oaken frames, cross-pieces, bars, and beams set up there to support the bells. These hemmed them in a very forest of hewn timber, from the entanglements, intricacies, and depths of which, as from among the boughs of a dead wood blighted for their phantom use, they kept their darksome and unwinking watch. " A blast of air — how cold and shrill ! — came moan- ino- throujrh the tower. As it died away, the great bell, or the goblin of the great bell, spoke. " ' What visitor is this ? ' it said. The voice was low and deep ; and Trotty fancied that it sounded in the other figures as well. "'I thought my name was called by the chimes,' said Trotty, raising his hands in an attitude of supplica- tion. ' I hardly know why I am here, or how I came. I have Hstened to the chimes these many years. They have cheered me often.' 274 LIFE AND WAITINGS OF " ' And you have thanked them ? ' said the bell. " ' A thousand times ! ' cried Trottj. " ' How ? ' " ' I am a poor man,' faltered Trottj, ' and could only thank them in words.' " 'And always so ? ' inquired the goblin of the bell. ' Have you never done us wrong in words ? ' " ' No ! ' cried Trotty eagerly. " ' Never done us foul and false and wicked wrong in words ? ' pursued the goblin of the bell. " Trotty was about to answer, ' Never ! ' But he stopped, and was confused. '' ' The voice of Time,' said the phantom, ' cries to man. Advance ! Time is for his advancement and im- provement, for his greater worth, his greater happiness, his better life, his progress onward to that goal within its knowledge and its view, and set there in the period when Time and he began. Ages of darkness, wicked- ness, and violence, have come and gone, millions un- countable, have suffered, lived, and died, to point the way before him. Who seeks to turn him back, or stay him on liis course, arrests a mighty engine which will strike the meddler dead, and be the fiercer and the wilder ever for its momentary check.' " ' I never did so to my knowledge, sir,' said Trotty. ' It was quite by accident if I did. I wouldn't go to do it, I'm sure.' " ' Who puts into the mouth of Time, or of its ser- CHARLES DICKENS. 275 v^ants,' said the goblin of the bell, ' a cry of lamentation for daj^s which have had their trial and their failure, and have left deep traces of it which the blind may see, — a cry that only serves the present time, by showing men how much it needs their help Vvdien any ears can listen to regrets for such a past, — who does this, does a wrong. And you have done that wrong to us, the chimes.' " Trotty's first excess of fear was gone. But he had felt tenderly and gratefully towards the bells, as you have seen ; and, when he heard himself arraigned as one who had offended them so weightily, his heart was touched with penitence and grief. " ' If you knew,' said Trotty, clasping his hands ear- nestly, — ' or perhaps you do knovv^, — if you knew how often you have kept me company, how often you have cheered me up when I've been low, how you were quite the plaything of my little daughter Meg (almost the only one she ever had) when first her mother died, and she and me were left alone, you won't bear malice for a hasty word ! ' " ' Who hears in us, the chimes, one note bespeaking disregard, or stern regard, of any hope or joy or pain 01 sorrow of the many-sorrowed throng ; who hears us make response to any creed that gauges human passions and affections as it gauges the amount of miserable food on which humanity may pine and wither, — does us wrong. That wrong you have done us,' said the bell. " ' I have ! ' said Trotty. ' Oh, forgive me ! ' 276 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' Who hears us echo the dull vermin of the earth ; the putters-down of crushed and broken natures, formed to be raised up higher than such maggots of the time can crawl or can conceive,' pursued the goblin of the bell, — ' who does so, does us wrong. And you have done us wrong.' " ' Not meaning it,' said Trotty. ' In my ignorance. Not meaning it ! ' " ' Lastly, and most of all,' pursued the bell, ' who tui-ns his back upon the fallen and disfigured of his kind, abandons them as vile, and does not trace and track with pitying eyes the unfenced precipice by which they fell from good, — grasping in their fall some tufts and shreds of that lost soil, and clinging to them still when bruised and dying in the gulf below, — does wrong to Heaven and man, to time, and to eternity. And you have done that wrong.' " From the opening pages of the sweet faiiy-tale of home, " The Cricket on the Hearth," the following is taken : — " The kettle began it ! Don't tell me what Mrs. Peerybingle said. I know better. Mrs. Peerybingle may leave it on record to the end of time that she couldn't say which of them began it ; but I say the kettle did. I ought to know, I hope. The kettle be- gan it full five minutes by the little waxy-faced Dutch clock in the corner before the cricket uttered a chirp. CHARLES DICKENS. • 277 "As if the clock hadn't finished striking, and the convulsive little haymaker at the top of it, jerking away right and left with a scythe in front of a Moorish palace, hadn't mowed down half an acre of imaginary grass before the cricket joined in at all ! " Why, I am not naturally positive. Every one knows that. I wouldn't set my own opinion against the opinion of Mrs. Peerybingle, unless I were quite sure, on any ac- count whatever. Nothing should induce me ; but this is a question of fact. And the fact is, that the kettle began it, at least five minutes before the cricket gave any sign of being in existence. Contradict me, and I'll say ten. " Let me narrate exactly how it happened. I should have proceeded to do so in my very first word, but for this plain consideration, — if I am to tell a story, I must begin at the beginning ; and how is it possible to begin at the beginning without beginning at the kettle ? " It appeared as if there were a sort of match, or trial of skill, you must understand, between the kettle and the cricket. And this is what led to it, and how it came about. " Mrs. Peerybingle, going out into the raw twilight, and clicking over the wet stones in a pair of pattens that worked innumerable rough impressions of the first proposition in Euclid all about the yard, — Mrs. Peery- bingle filled the kettle at the water-butt. Presently re- turning, less the pattens (and a good deal less ; for they 278 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF were tall, aud Mrs. Peerybingle was but short), she set the kettle on the fire ; in doing which, she lost her tem- per, or mislaid it for an instant ; for the water, being uncomfortably cold, and in that slippy, slushy, sleety sort of state wherein it seems to penetrate through every kind of substance, patten-rings included, had laid hold of Mrs. Peerybingle's toes, and even splashed her legs. And when we rather plume ourselves (with reason too) upon our legs, and keep ourselves particu- larly neat in point of stockings, we find this, for the moment, hard to bear. " Besides, the kettle was aggravating and obstinate. It wouldn't allow itself to be adjusted on the top bar; it wouldn't hear of accommodating itself kindly to the knobs of coal ; it luould lean forward with a drunken air, and dribble — a very idiot of a kettle — on the hearth ; it was quarrelsome, and hissed and spluttered morosely at the fire. To sum up all, the lid, resisting Mrs. Peery- bingle's fingers, first of all turned topsy-turvy, and then, with an ingenious pertinacity deserving of a better cause, dived sideways in, — down to the very bottom of the kettle. And the hull of ' The Ptoyal George,' has never made half the monstrous resistance to coming out of the water which the lid of that kettle employed against Mrs. Peerybingle before she got it up again. " It looked sullen and pig-headed enough, even then ; carrying its handle with an air of defiance, and cocking its spout pertly and mockingly at Mrs. Peerybingle, CHARLES DICKENS. 279 as if it said, ' I won't boil. Nothing shall induce me!' " But Mrs. Peerybingie, with restored good-humor, dusted her chubby little hands against each other, and sat down before the kettle, laughing. Meantime, the jolly blaze uprose and fell, flashing and gleaming on the little haymaker at the top of the Dutch clock, until one might have thought he stood stock still before the Moor- ish palace, and nothing was in motion but the flame. ^' He was on the move, however, and had his spasms, two to the second, all right and regular. But his suffer- ings when the clock was going to strike were frightful to behold ; and when a cuckoo looked out of a trap- door in the palace, and gave note six times, it shook him, each time, like a spectral voice, — or like a some- thing wiry, plucking at his legs. " It was not until a violent commotion, and a whir- ring noise among the weights and ropes below him, had quite subsided, that this terrified haymaker became himself again. Nor was he startled without reason ; for these rattling, bony skeletons of clocks are very dis- concerting in their operation, and I wonder very much how any set of men, but, most of all, how Dutchmen, can have had a liking to invent them. There is a popu- lar belief that Dutchmen love broad cases, and much clothing for their own lower selves; and they miglit know better than to leave their clocks so very lank and unprotected surely. 280 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP " Now it was, you observe, that tlie kettle began to spend the evening. Now it was, that the kettle, grow- ing mellow and musical, began to have irrepressible gurglings in its throat, and to indulge in short vocal snorts, which it checked in the bud, as if it hadn't quite made up its mind yet to be good company. Now it was, that, after two or three such vain attempts to stifle its convivial sentiments, it threw off all moroseness, all reserve, and burst into a stream of song so cosey and hilarious, as never maudlin nightingale yet formed the least idea of. " So plain too ! Bless you, you might have under- stood it like a book, — better than some books you and I could name, perhaps. With its warm breath gushing forth in a light cloud which merrily and gracefully as- cended a few feet, then hung about the chimney-corner as its own domestic heaven, it trolled its song with that strong energy of cheerfulness, that its iron body hummed and stirred upon the fire ; and the lid itself, the recent rebellious lid, — such is the influence of a bright exam- ple, — performed a sort of jig, and clattered like a deaf and dumb young cymbal that had never knoT\^ the use of its twin brother. " That this song of the kettle's was a song of invita- tion and welcome to somebody out of doors, — to some- body at that moment coming on towards the snug, small home and the crisp fire, — there is no doubt whatever. Mrs. Peerybingle knew it perfectly, as she sat mnsing CHARLES DICKENS. 281 before the hearth. It's a dark night, sang the kettle, and the rotten leaves are lying by the way ; and, above, all is mist and darkness, and, below, all is mire and clay: and there's only one relief in all the sad and murky air ; and I don't know that it is one ; for it's nothing but a glare of deep and angry crimson, where the sun and wind together set a brand upon the clouds for being guilty of such weather ; and the widest open country is a long, dull streak of black ; and there's hoar- frost on the finger-post, and thaw upon the track ; and the ice it isn't Avater, and the water isn't free ; and you couldn't say that any thing is what it ought to be. But he's coming, coming, coming ! — "And here, if you like, the cricket did chime in with a chirrup, chirrup, chirrup, of such magnitude, by way of chorus ; with a voice so astoundingly dispropor- tionate to its size, as compared with the kettle, (size ! you couldn't see it ! ) that if it had then and there burst itself like an overcharged gun, if it had fallen a victim on the spot, and chirruped its little body into fifty pieces, it would have seemed a natural and inevitable consequence, for which it had expressly labored. " The kettle had had the last of its solo performance. It persevered with undiminished ardor ; but the cricket took first fiddle, and kept it. Good heaven, how it chirped ! Its shrill, sharp, piercing voice resounded through the house, and seemed to twinkle in the outer darkness like a star. There was an indescribable littla 282 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF trill and tremble in it at its loudest, which suggested its being carried off its legs, and made to leap again, by its own intense enthusiasm. Yet they went very well to- gether, the cricket and the kettle. The burden of the song was still the same ; and louder, louder, louder still, they sang it in their emulation. v " The fair little listener — for fair she was, and young, though something of what is called the dumpling shape ;, but I don't myself object to that — lighted a candle, glanced at the haymaker on the top of the clock, who was getting in a pretty average crop of minutes, and looked out of the window, where she saw nothing, owing to the darkness, but her own face imaged in the glass. And my opinion is (and so would yours have been) that she might have looked a long way, and seen noth- ing half so agreeable. When she came back, and sat down in her former seat, the cricket and the kettle were still keeping it up with a perfect fury of competition ; the kettle's weak side clearly being, that he didn't know when he was beat. '" There was all the excitement of a race about it. Chirp, chirp, chirp ! Cricket a mile ahead. Hum, hum, hum — m — m! Kettle making play in the distance, like a great top. Chirp, chirp, chirp ! Cricket round the corner. Hum, hum, hum — m — m I Kettle stick- mg to him in his own wa}^, — no idea of giving in. Chirp, chirp, chirp ! Cricket fresher than ever. Hum, hum, hum — m — m ! Kettle slow and steady. Chirp, CHARLES DICKENS. 283 chirp, chirp ! Cricket going in to finish him. Hum, hum, hum — m — m ! Kettle not to be finished. Until at last, they got so jumbled together in the hurry-skur- ry, helter-skelter, of the match, that whether the ket- tle chirped and the cricket hummed, or the cricket chirped and the kettle hummed, or they both chirped and both hummed, it would have taken a clearer head than yours or mine to have decided with any thing like certainty. But of this there is no doubt, — that the kettle and the cricket, at one and the same moment, and by some power of amalgamation best known to them- selves, sent each his fireside song of comfort streaming into a ray of the candle that shone out through the win- dow, and a long way down the lane. And this light, bursting on a certain person, who, on the instant, ap- proached towards it through the gloom, expressed the whole thing to him, literally in a twinkling, and cried, ' Welcome home, old fellow ! Welcome home, my boy!' " This end attained, the kettle, being dead beat, boiled over, and was taken off the fire." One brief passage from '' The Battle of Life " is all which can here be given ; but this is significant in a time like this nineteenth century, fraught with " wars, and rumors of wars," on the battle-fields of the Old World and the New, and more full than ever of moral confiicta and victories. 284 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' I've a great mind to say it's a ridiculous world altogether, and there's nothing serious in it," observed the poor old doctor. " ' You might take twenty afi&davits of it, if you chose, Anthony," said his sister ; ' but nobody would believe you with such eyes as those.' " ' It's a world full of hearts,' said the doctor, hugging his younger daughter, and bending across her to hug Grace (for he couldn't separate the sisters), ' and a serious world, with all its folly, — even with mine, which was enough to have swamped the whole globe ; and it is a world on which the sun never rises but it looks upon a thousand bloodless battles that are some set-off against the miseries and wickedness of battle-fields ; and it is a world we need be careful how we libel, — Heaven forgive us ! — for it is a world of sacred mysteries ; and its Creator only knows what lies beneath the surface of his lightest image." This chapter, though already so long, cannot be closed without a few words fi'om " The Haunted Man," which are dear to all those parents who have angels in the skies ; who say with " Mabelle," * that — " In that land where sin can ne'er defile, There waits for me this joy, — To find, amid that bright and glittering host, My angel blue-eyed boy. * Mrs. Moses Q-. Farmer. CHARLES DICKENS. 285 A little wave thrown on the sea of life, But not its storms to breast ; Only a day to struggle with the tide, And then to be at rest." " In the few moments that elapsed while Milly silently took him to the gate, the chemist dropped into his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Seeing him thus when she c^me back, accompanied by her husband and his father (who were both greatly concerned for him), she avoided disturbing him, or permittijig him to be dis- turbed, and kneeled down near the chair to put some warm clothing on the boy. " ' That's exactly where it is : that's what I always say, father,' exclaimed her admiring husband, — ' there's a motherly feeling in Mrs. William's breast that must and will have went ! ' " ' Ay, ay,' said the old man : ' you're right. My son William's right.' " ' It happens all for the best, Milly dear, no doubt,' said Mr. William tenderly, ' that we have no children of our own ; and yet I sometimes wish you had one to love and cherish. Our little dead child that yo:i built such hopes upon, and that never breathed the breath of life, — it has made you quiet-like, MiUy.' " ' I am very happy in the recollection of it,' William dear,' she answered. ' I think of it every day.' " ' I was afraid you thought of it a good deal.' " ' Don't say afraid. It is a comfort to me, it speaks 286 LIFE AND WEITINGS OF to me in so many different ways. The innocent tiling that never lived on earth is like an angel to me, Wil- liam.' " ' You are like an angel to father and me,' said Mr. William softly. ' I know that.' "• 'When I think of all those hopes I built upon it, and the many times I sat and pictured to myself the little smiling face upon my bosom that never lay there, and the sweet eyes turned up to mine that never opened to the light,' said Milly, ' I can feel a greater tenderness, I think, for all the disappointed hopes in which there is no harm. When I see a beautiful child in its fond mother's arms, I love it all the better, thinking that my child might have been like that, and might have made my heart as proud and happy.' " Redlaw raised his head, and looked towards her. " ' All through life, it seems by me,' she continued, ' to tell me something. For poor neglected children, my little child pleads as if it were alive, and had a voice I knew, with which to speak to me. When I hear of youth in suffering or shame, I think that my child might have come to that, perhaps, and that God took it from me in his mercy. Even in age and gray hair, such as father's, it is present, saying that it, too, might have lived to be old, long and long after you and I were gone, and to have needed the respect and love of younger people.' " Her quiet voice was quieter than ever as she took her husband's arm, and laid her head against it. CHARLES DICKENS. 287 " ' Children love me so, that sometimes I half fancy — it's a silly fancy, AVilliam — they have some way I don't know of, of feeling for my little child and me, and un- derstanding why their love is precious to me. If I have been quiet since,' I have been more happy, William, in a hundred ways ; not least hapjoy, dear, in this, that even when my little child was born and dead but a few days, and I was weak and sorrowful, and could not help grieving a little, the thought arose, that, if I tried to lead a good life, I should meet in heaven a bright creature who would call me mother.' " Redlaw fell upon his knees with a loud cry. " ' O Thou,' he said, ' who, through the teaching of pure love, hast graciously restored me to the memory which was the memory of Christ upon the cross, and of all the good who perished in his cause, receive my thanks, and bless her I " " Then he folded her to his heart ; and Milly, sobbing more than ever, cried, as she laughed, ' He is come back • to himself ! He likes me very much indeed too ! Oh, dear, dear, dear me, here's another! ' " Then the student entered, leading by the hand a lovely girl, who was afraid to come. And Redlaw, so changed towards him, seeing in him and in his youthful choice the softened shadow of that chastening passage in his own life, to which, as to a shady tree, the dove so long imprisoned in his solitary ark might fly for rest and company, fell upon his neck, entreating them to be his children. 288 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " Then, as Christmas is a time in which, of all times in the year, the memory of every remediable sorrow, wrong, and trouble in the world around us, should be active with us, not less than our own experiences for all good, he laid his hand upon the boy, and silently call- ing Him to witness who laid his hand on children in old time, rebuking, in the majesty of his prophetic knowl- edge, those who kept them from him, vowed to protect him, teach him, and reclaim him." No wonder, that, after reading these sweet Christmas- carols, the Rev. Mr. Murray thus apostrophized the de- parted author, and that tens of thousands echo his words : — " Nevermore will the bells ring at Christmas Eve but that to me a note of sadness will mingle with their chimes : for he who taught the world the lesson of the festival ; who, using it as a text, preached as no pulpit ever preached, a sermon of charity and love ; the hand that touched the bells of England, and made the whole world melodious with Christian chimes, — is cold and motionless forever. Farewell, gentle spirit ! thou wast not perfect until now. Thou didst have thy passions, and thy share of human errors; but death has freed thee. Thou art no longer trammelled. Thou art de- livered out of bondage; and thy freed spirit walks in glory. Though dead, thou speakest. Thy voice is CHARLES DICKENS. 289 universal in its reacli. The ages will be thy audience. Thy memory will be as a growing wreath above thy grave : it will take root in the soil that covers thee, and with the years renew its blossoms and its leaves perennially." CHAPTER IX. WHAT ARE THE WILD WAVES SAYING? The Daily News. — Dombey aud Son. — Death of Little Paiil. '* 'Tis the voice of the great Creator That dwells in tliat mighty tone." Anonyjiods. " The Lord on high ia mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than th# mighty waves of the sea." — Ps. xciii. 4. HEN Mr. Dickens returned to London from Italy, he tried the experiment of publishing a daily newspaper. He gath- ered about him a brilliant staff of writers, of whom he was the chief, and issued on Jan. 21, 1846, the first number of " The Daily News,'' a paper liberal in its politics, and of high literary character. In this paper he published a column a day ot" his sketches from Italy. But this new speculation did not prove a success, and soon passed into the hands of another. The vocation of Mr. Dickens was that of a novelist ; and the drudgery of a daily editor's life was not so pleasant or so profitable for him. The chief editor of " The Daily News " could not find time oi 290 CHARLES DICKENS. 291 strengtli for new novels, and therefore it was well for the world of readers when the novel-writer returned to the vocation for which he was specially fitted ; and during the years 1847 and 1848 appeared " Dealings with the Firm of Dombey and Son.". This interesting novel was written during a sojourn in Switzerland and France ; and the closing paragraph of its preface is a con- fidential reminiscence which is now tenderly cherished. " I began this book," Mr. Dickens says, after an obser- vation upon the character of Mr. Dombey, " by the Lake of Geneva, and went on with it for some months in "France. The association between the writing and the place of writing is so strong in my mind, that at this day, although I know every chair in the little midship- man's house, and could swear to every pew in the church in which Florence was married, or to every young gentleman's bedstead in Dr. Blimber's establish- ment, I yet confusedly imagine Capt. Cuttle as seclud- ing himself from Mrs. Mac Stinger among the moun- tains of Switzerland. Similarly, when I am reminded by any chance of what it was that the waves were always saying, I wander in my fancy for a whole win- ter night about the streets of Paris, — as I really did, with a heavy heart, on the night, when my little friend and I parted forever.' " Mr. Perkins, in his biography of Mr. Dickens, thus 292 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF refers to " Dombej and Son," and says, that, " like ' Martin Chuzzlewit,' it has what may be called a distinct moral unity, resulting from the shaping of the characters and the story so as to teach a definite moral lesson. In ' Chuzzlewit,' this lesson is the evil of selfishness ; and in the combining of this one quality with all the other qualities of so many of the characters, so that it colors both what is good and what is bad in them, very great power and skill are shown " The place of selfishness in ' Martin Chuzzlewit ' is occupied by pride in ' Dombey and Son ; ' and although the evil quality is not exhibited in so many phases and persons, yet its power and its unhaj)py consequences are developed, in the frightful strife between the ill-matched Dombey and his wife, with a gloomy intensity that teaches its lesson most effectively." The account which Mr. Dickens gave of the sisterly kindness of Florence Dombey has proved an incentive to many a young heart, as it has felt itself called to assist others in the family circle. This is it : — " O Saturdays ! O happy Saturdays ! when Flor- ence always came at noon, and never would, in any weather, stay away, though Mrs. Pipchin snarled and growled and worried her bitterly. Those Saturdays were sabbaths for at least two little Christians among all the Jews, and did the holy sabbath-work of strength- ening and knitting up a brother's and a sister's love. CHARLES DICKENS. 293 " Not even Sunday nights — the heavy Sunday nights, whose shadow darkened the first waking burst of light on Sunday mornings — could mar those precious Satur- days. Whether it was the great seashore, where they sat and strolled together, or whether it was only Mrs. Pipchin's dull back-room, in which she sang to him so softly, Avith his drows}^ head upon her arm, Paul never cared. It was Florence : that was all he thought of. So on Sunday nights, when the doctor's dark door stood agape to swallow him up for another week, the time was come for taking leave of Florence, — no one else. . . . " Miss Nipper had returned one Sunday night with Florence, from walking back with Paul to the doc- tor's, when Florence took from her bosom a little piece of paper on which she had pencilled down some words. " ' See here, Susan,' she said. ' These are the names of the little books that Paul brings home to do those long exercises with when he is so tired. I copied them last night while he was writing.' " ' Don't show 'em to me. Miss Floy, if you please,' returned Nipper. ' I'd as soon see Mrs. Pipchin.' " ' I want you to buy them for me, Susan, if you will, to-morrow morning. I have money enough,' said Flor- ence. • • . " ' Well, miss, and why do you want 'em ? ' replied Nipper ; adding, in a lower voice, ' if it was to fling at Mrs. Pipchin's head, I'd buy a cart-load.' 294 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' I think I could, perhaps, give Paul some help, Susan, if I had these books,' said Florence, ' and make the coming week a little easier to him. At least, I want to try. So buy them for me, dear, and I will never for- get how kind it was of you to do it.' " It must have been a harder heart than Susan Nip- per's that could have rejected the little purse Florence held out with these words, or the gentle look of entreaty with which she seconded her petition. Susan put the purse in her pocket without reply, and trotted out at once upon her errand. " The books were not easy to procure ; and the an- swer at several shops was, either that they were just out of them, or that they never kept them, or they had had a great many last month, or that they expected a great many next week. But Susan was not easily baffled in such an enterprise ; and having entrapped a white- haired youth, in a black calico apron, from a library where she was known, to accompany her in her quest, she led him such a life in going up and down, that he exerted himself to the utmost, if it were only to get rid of her, and finally enabled her to return home in triumph. " With these treasures, then, after her own daily les- sons were over, Florence sat down at night to track Paul's footsteps through the thorny ways of learning ; and being possessed of a naturally quick and sound capacity, and taught by that most wonderful of mas- CHARLES DICKENS. 295 ters, love, it was not long before slie gained upon Paul's heels, and caught and passed him. " Not a word of this was breathed to Mrs. Pipchin : but many a night when they were all in bed ; and when Miss Nipper, with her hair in papers and herself asleep in some uncomfortable attitude, reposed unconscious by her side ; and when the chinking ashes in the grate were cold and gray ; and when the candles were burnt down and guttering out, — Florence tried so hard to be a sub- stitute for one small Dombey, that her fortitude and perseverance might have almost won her a free right to bear the name herself. " And high was her reward, when one Saturday even- ing, as little Paul was sitting down as usual to ' resume his studies,' she sat down by his side, and showed him all that was so rough made smooth, and all that was so dark made clear and plain before him. It was nothing but a startled look in Paul's wan face, — a flush, a smile, and then a close embrace ; but God knows how her heart leaped up at this rich payment for her trouble. ^ " ' O Floy ! ' cried her brother. ' How I love you ! How I love you, Floy ! ' " ' And I you, dear ! ' " ' Oh! I am sure of that, Floy.' " He said no more about it ; but all that evening sat close by her, very quiet ; and in the night he called out from his little room within hers, three or four times, that he loved her. 296 LIFE AND AYRITINGS OF " Regularly, after that, Florence was prepared to sit down with Paul on Saturday night, and patiently assist him through so much as they could anticipate together of his next week's work." The chapter treating of little Paul's last hours is very touching and solemn. It is as follows : — " Paul had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, listening to the noises in the street, quite tran- quilly ; not caring much how the time went, but watch- ing it, and watching every thing about him, with ob- serving eyes. " When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew that evening was coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflec- tion died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen, into night. Then he thought how the long streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was flowing through the great city ; and now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would look reflecting the hosts of stars, and, more than all, how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea. •" As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so rare that he could hear them coming, CHARLES DICKENS. 297 count tliem as tliey passed, and lose them in tlie hollow distance, he would" lie and count the many-colored rings around the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only trouble was the swift and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it, — to stem it with his childish hands, or choke its way with sand ; and, when he saw it coming on resistless, he cried out. But a word from Florence, who was always at his side, re- stored him to himself ; and, leaning his poor head upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled. When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun ; and, when its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself —pictured ! he saw — the high church-toAvers rising up into the morning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees into the street below ; the servants in the house were roused and busy ; faces looked in at the door ; and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered for himself, ' I am better : I am a great deal better ! thank you. Tell papa so.' By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, — the noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing, — and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again — the child could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or waking mo- ments — of that rushing rivei. 'Why will it never 'Z9S LIFE AND WRITINGS OF stop, Floy ? ' he would sometimes ask her. ' It is bearing me away, I think.' " But Floy could always soothe and re-assure him ; and it was his daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest. " ' You are always watching me, Floy : let me watch ^ou now.' They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed; and there he would recline the while she lay beside him, bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near, that she was tu'cd, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him. Thus the flush of the day, in its heat and its light, would gradually decline ; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall. " He was visited by as many as three grave doctors (they used to assemble down stairs, and come up to- gether) ; and the room was so quiet, and Paul Avas so observant of them (though he never asked of anybody what they said), that he even knew the difference in the sound of their watches. But his interest centred in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat on the side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say, long ago, that the gentleman had been with his mamma when she clasped Florence in her arms and died ; and he could not forget it now. He liked him for it. He was not afraid. " The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first night at Dr. Blimber's (except Florence ; CHARLES DICKENS. 299 Florence never changed) ; and what had been Sir Par- ker Peps was now his father, sitting with his head upon his hand. Old Mrs. Pipchin, dozing in an easy-chair, often changed to Miss Fox or his aunt ; and Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again, and see what hap- pened next without emotion. But this figure, with its head upon its hand, returned so often, and remained so long, and sat so still and solemn, never speaking, never being spoken to, and rarely lifting up its face, that Paul began to wonder languidly if it were real, and in the night-time saw it sitting there with fear. " ' Floy,' he said, ' what is that ? ' " ' Where, dearest ? ' " ' There, at the bottom of the bed.' " ' There's nothing there, except papa.' " The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and, coming to the bedside, said, ' My own boy, don't you know me?' " Paul looked it in the face, and thought. Was this his father? But the face so altered, to his thinking, thrilled, as he gazed, as if he were in pain ; and before he coujd reach out both his hands to take it between them, and draw it toAvards him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed, and went out at the door. " Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart ; but he knew what she Avas going to say, and stopped her with his face against her lips. The next time he ob- served the figure sitting at the bottom^ of the bed, he called to it, — 300 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' Don't be sorry for me, dear papa ! Indeed, I am quite happy ! ' "His father, coming, and bending down to him, which he did quickly, and without first pausing by the bedside, Paul held him round the neck, and repeated those words to him several times, and very earnestly ; and Paul never saw him in his room at any time, whether it were day or night, but he called out, ' Don't be so sorry for me ! Indeed, I am quite happy ! ' This was the beginning of his alwaj^s saying in the morning that he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so. " How many times the golden water danced upon the wall, how many nights the dark, dark river rolled to- wards the sea in spite of him, Paul never counted, never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful, every day ; but whether they Avere many days or few appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy. " One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in the drawing-room down stairs, and thought she must have loved sweet Florence better than his father did, to have held her in her arms when she thought she was dying ; for even he, her brother, who had such dear love for her, could have no greater wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother ; for he could CHARLES DICKENS. 301 not remember whether they had told him yes or no, the river running very fast, and confusing his mind. " ' Floy, did I ever see mamma ? ' " ' No, darling, why ? ' " ' Did I ever see any kind of face like mamma's look- ing at me when I was a baby, Floy ? ' " He asked incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him. " ' Oh, yes, dear ! ' *' ' Whose, Floy ? * " ' Your old, old nurse's : often.' " ' And where is my old nurse ? ' said Paid. ' Is she dead too ? Floy, are we all dead except you ? ' " There was a hurry in the room for an instant, — longer, perhaps ; but it seemed no more, — then all still again ; and Florence, with her face quite colorless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm trembled very much. " ' Show me the old nurse, Floy, if you please ? ' " ' She is not here, darling. She shall come to- morrow.' " ' Thank you, Floy ! ' " Paul closed his eyes with these words, and fell asleep. When he awoke, the sun was high, and the broad day was clear and warm. He lay a little while, looking at the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in the air, and waving to and fro ; then he said, ' Floy, is it to-morrow ? Is she come ? ' 302 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " Some one seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. Paul thought he heard her telling him, when he closed his eyes again, that she would soon be back ; but he did not open them to see. She kept her word, — perhaps she had never been away; but the next thing that happened was a noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul woke, — woke mind and body, — and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There was no gray mist before them, as there had been sometimes in the night. He knew them every one, and called them by their names. " ' And who is this ? Is this my old nurse ? ' said the child, regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming in. " Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at the sight of him, and called him her boy, her pretty boy, her own poor slighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast as one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody else but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. " ' Floy, this is a kind, good face,' said Paul. ' I am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse ; stay here.' " His senses were all quickened ; and he heard a name he knew. " ' Who was that who said, " Walter " ? ' he asked, and CHARLES DICKENS. 303 looked around. ' Some one said, " Walter." Is lie here ? I should like to see him very much.' ' " Nobody replied directly ; but his father soon said to Susan, ' Call him back, then ; let him come up.' After a short pause of expectation, during which he looked with smiling interest and wonder on his nurse, and saw that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought into the room. His open face and manner, and his cheerful eyes, had alwaj^-s made him a favorite with Paul ; and, when Paul saw him, he stretched out his liand, and said, ' Good-by ! ' " ' Good-by, my child ! ' cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's head. ' Not good by ? ' " For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which he had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. ' Ah, yes ! ' he said placidly, ' good- by 1 Walter, dear, good-by I ' turning his head to where he stood, and putting out his hand again. ' Where is papa ? ' " He felt his father's breath upon his cheek before the words had parted from his lips. " ' Remember Walter, dear pa^Da,' he whispered, look- ing in his face. ' Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter.' The feeble hand in the air, as if it cried ' Good-by ! ' to Walter once again. " ' Now lay me down again,' he said ; ' and, Floy, come close to me, and let me see you.' "Sister and brother woimd their arms around each 304 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF other ; and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them locked together. " ' How fast the river runs between its green banks and the rushes, Floy ! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves. They always said so.' " Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now ! how bright the flow^ers growing on them ! and how tall the rushes ! Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on ; and now there was a shore before him. Who stood on the bank ? " He put his hands together as he had been used to do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it ; but they saw him fold them so behind her neck. " ' Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face. But tell them that the print upon the stairs of school is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining as I go.' " The golden ripple of the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion, — the fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged uuitil our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll; the old, old fashion, — death ! " Oh ! thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, — immortality. And look upon us, angels of young children, with regard not quite estranged, when the Bwift river bears us to the ocean.'* CHARLES DICKENS. 305 The chapter containing the foregoing is headed in the novel, '' What are the wild waves saying ? " A beautiful song has been Avritten by some one with that title, which is twined w4th the memory of Dickens and little Paul. It will fitly close this chapter. * What are the wild waves saj'ing, Sister, the whole day long, That ever, amid our playing, I hear but their Ioav, lone song ? Not by the seaside only (There it sounds wild and free) ; But at night, when 'tis dark and lonely In dreams it is still with me. * Brother, I hear no singing. 'Tis but the rolling wave, Ever its lone course winging Over some ocean cave : *Tis but the noise of water Dashing against the shore ; A wind from some bleaker quarter Mingling with its roar. "No : it is something greater, That speaks to the heart alone. *Tis the voice of the great Creator That dwells in that mighty tone. " Yes : but the waves seem ever Sin^ring the same sad thing ; And vain is my weak endeavor To guess what the surges sing. 20 LIFE AND WRITINGS. What is that voice repeating Ever by night and day ? Is it a friendly greeting, Or a warning that calls away? " Brother, the inland mountain, Hath it not voice and sound ? Speaks not the dripping fountain As it bedews the ground ? E'en by the household ingle, Curtained and closed and warm, Do not our voices mingle With those of the distant storm ? ** Yes ; but there's something greater That speaks to the heart alone : *Tis the voice of the great Creator That dwells in that mighty tone.** CHAPTER X. HIS MASTERPIECE. The Reality of Fiction. — David Copperfield. — Opinion of Eraser's Magazine The Shipwreck. — Uriah Heap. — Little Era'ly. — A Lone, Lorn Creetur. " The gnasliing billows heaved and fell; Wild shrieked the midniglit gale; Far, far beneath the morning swell , "Were pennant, spar, and sail." O. W. Holmes. " There is sorrow on the sea."- Jer. xlix. 23. SENSIBLE writer in " The Christian Ex- aminer" for September, 1863, discusses the utility and moral effect of the drama and the novel ; and, according to his method of argument, Charles Dickens was a bene- factor to the readers of " David Copperfield," and to those who have witnessed the touching drama of " Lit- tle Em'ly," founded upon the same. The story-telling and the story-reading propensity are utterly indestructible ; and the following passages from that excellent article on " The Reality of Fiction " show where lies the danger in the literature of the imagina- tion : — 807 308 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " This ever-increasing enlargement of tlie domain of that imaginative literature which already exists, or is to be given to the world, refutes all the fears and lamenta- tions about its decay and disappearance ; as if it were to be submerged and lost under the flooding sweep of a despotic and universal utilitarianism ; as if He who made the soul would allow its finest and most delicate powers to lie dormant, and rust out ; as if, under the Providence which arrays the lilies, piles up the splen- dors of ever-changing cloud-scenery, flashes across the north and up to the zenith the mystic brilliancy of the aurora, bends the rainbow-hues of hope, and garlands our daily bread with flowers, — as if, under this Provi- dence, so prodigal in dispensations of beauty, and ever revelling in infinite forms of grace, man will be suffered to degenerate into a worshipper of machinery, and an idolater of the golden calf. " When the parables are stricken from the Bible, when the story of Joseph ceases to be told, and David's lyrics are no longer chanted, then the curtain will fall upon the last drama, and the poet sing his last note to the deaf, and the novelist write his last romance for the blind. The realm of imagination to be annihilated ! — why, it came into existence when order came out of chaos, and was in the joyous song the morning stars sang together. All races and all climes have colonized it. It is the realm of the spirit, wherein the spirit often lives its purest life, gets its sweetest expression, and CHARLES DICKENS. 309 learns to transfigure the drudgery of the work-day world. It shares the spirit's immortality, and can never cease to be." "David Copperfield" is one of the greatest of the novels of Dickens. A writer in " Fraser's Magazine " for December, 1850, indicates the opinion of the Eng- lish concerning it. He says, " This, the last, is, in our opinion, the best of all the author's fictions. The plot is better contrived, and the interest more sustained, than in any other. Here there is no sickly sentiment, no prolix description, and scarcely a trace of exaggerated passion. The author's taste has become gradually more and more refined : his style has got to be more easy, graceful, and natural. The principal groups are delin- eated as carefully as ever ; but, instead of the elaborate Dutch painting to which we had been accustomed in his backgrounds and accessories, we have now a single vigorous touch here and there, which is far more artis- tic and far more effective. His winds do not howl, nor his seas roar, through whole chapters, as formerly: he has become better acquainted with his readers, and ven- tures to leave more to their imagination. This is the first time that the hero has been made to tell liis own stor}', — a plan which generally insures something like epic unit}^ for the tale. AVe have several reasons for suG:2:estinL!: that here and there, under the name of 'David Copperfield,' we have been favored with pas- I SIO LIFE AND WRITINGS OF sages from the personal history, adventures, and expe- riences of Charles Dickens. Indeed, this conclusion is in a manner forced upon us by the peculiar professions selected for the ideal character, who is first a news- paper-reporter, and then a famous novelist. There is, moreover, an air of reality pervading the whole book, to a degree never attained in any of his previous works, and which cannot be entirely attributed to the mere form of narration. . . . David Copperfield the younger was born at Blunderstone, near Yarmouth, — there is really a village of that name. We do not know whether Charles Dickens was born there too ; at all events, the number and minuteness of the local details indicate an intimate knowledge of and fondness for Yarmouth and its neighborhood." The only quotation from " David Copperfield " which will be given here is that portion where the wreck is described in language which will call up similar sights to many dwellers by the sea : — "It was broad day, — eight or nine o'clock; the storm raging in lieu of the batteries, and some one knocking and calling at my door. " ' What is the matter ?' I cried. " ' A wreck, — close by ! ' " I sprung out of bed, and asked, ' What wreck ? ' " ' A schooner from Spain or Portugal, laden with CHARLES DICKENS. 311 fruit and wine. Make haste, sir, if you want to see her ! It's thought, down on the beach, she'll go to pieces every moment.' " The excited voice went clamoring along the stak- case ; and I wrapped myself in my clothes as quicQdy as I could, and ran into the street. " Numbers of people were there before me, all run- ning in one direction, — to the beach. I ran the same way, outstripping a good many, and soon came facing the wild sea. '' The wind might by this time have lulled a little, though not more sensibly than if the cannonading I had dreamed of had been diminished by the silencing of half a dozen guns out of hundreds. But the sea, having upon it the additional agitation of the whole night, was infinitely more terrific than when I had seen it last. Every appearance it had then presented bore the ex- pression of being sivelled ; and the height to which the breakers rose, and, looking over one another, bore one another dowa, and rolled in in interminable hosts, was most appalling. " In the difficulty of hearing any thing but wind and waves, and in the crowd, and the unspeakable confu- sion, and my first breathless efforts to stand against the weather, I was so confused, that I looked out to sea for the wreck, and saw nothing but the foaming heads of the great waves. A half-dressed boatman standing next me pointed with his bare arm (a tattooed arrow on 312 LIFE AND WETTINGS OF it pointing in tlie same direction) to tlie left. Then, O great Heaven ! I saw it close in upon us. " One mast was broken short off six or eight feet from tlie deck, and lay over the side, entangled in a maze of sails and rigging; and all that ruin, as the ship rolled and beat, — which she did without a moment's pause, and with a violence quite inconceivable, — beat the side as if it would stave it in. Some efforts were even then being made to cut this portion of the wreck away ; for as the ship, which was broadside on, turned towards us in her rolling, I plainly descried her peo- ple at work with axes, — especially one active figure with long curling hair, conspicuous among the rest. But a great cry, which was audible even above the wind and water, rose from the shore at this moment. The sea, sweeping over the rolhng wreck, made a clean breach, and carried men, spars, casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of such toys, into the boiUng surge. *' The second mast was yet standing, with the rags of a rent sail, and a wild confusion of broken cordage flapping to and fro. 'The ship had struck once,' the same boatman hoarsely said in my ears, ' and then lifted, and struck again.' I understood him to add, that she was parting amidships ; and I could readily suppose so, for the rolling and beating were too tremendous for any human work to suffer long. As he spoke, there was another great cry of pity from the beach : four men arose with the wreck out of the deep, clinging to CHARLES DICKENS. 313 the rigging of the remaining mast, — uppermost , the active fic»-urc with the curlinor hair. " There was a bell on board ; and as the ship rolled and dashed, like a desperate creature driven mad, — now sliowing us the whole sweep of her deck, as she turned on her beam-ends towards the shore ; now nothing but her keel, as she sprang wildly over, and turned towards the sea, — the bell rang ; and its sound, the knell of those unhappy men, was borne towards us on the wind. Again we lost her, and again she rose. Two men were gone. The agony on the shore increased ; men groaned, and clasped their hands ; women shrieked, and turned away their faces. Some ran wildly up and down along the beach, crying for help where no help could be. I found myself one of these, frantically imploring a knot of sailors whom I knew, not to let those two lost crea- tures perish before our eyes. " They were making out to me in an agitated way, — I don't know how ; for the little I could hear I was scarcely composed enough to understand, — that the life-boat had been bravely manned an hour ago, and could do nothing ; and that, as no man would be so desperate as to attempt to wade off with a rope, and establish a communication with the shore, there was nothing left to try : when I noticed that some new sensation moved the people on the beach, and saw them part, and Ham come breaking through them to the front. I ran to him, as well as I know, to repeat my appeal for 314 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF help. But distracted though I was by a sight so new to me, and terrible, the determination in his face, and his look out to sea, — exactly the same look as I remem- bered in connection with the morning after Em'ly's flight, — awoke me to a knowledge of his danger. I held him back with both arms, and implored the men with whom I had been speaking not to listen to him, not to do murder, not to let him stir off that sand. " Another cry arose on shore ; and, looking to the wreck, we saw the cruel sail, with blow on blow, beat off the lower of the two men, and fly up in triumph around the active figure left alone upon the mast. " Against such a sight, and against such determination as that of the calmly-desperate man who was already accustomed to lead half the people present, I might as hopefully have entreated the wind. ' Mas'r Davy,' he said, cheerily grasping me by both hands, ' if my time is come, 'tis come : if 't'aint, I'll bide it. Lord above, bless you, and bless all ! Mates, make we ready ! I'm agoing off ! ' " I was swept away, but not unkindly, to some distance, where the people around me made me stay ; urging, as I confusedly perceived, that he was bent on going, with help or without, and that I should endanger the precau- tions for his safety by troubling those with whom they rested. I don't know what I answered, or what they rejoined ; but I saw hurry on the beach, and men run- ning with ropes from a capstan that was there, and pene- CHARLES DICKENS. 815 trating into a circle of figures that hid him from me. Then I saw him standing alone, in a seaman's frock and trou- sers, a rope in his hand or slung to his wrist, another round his body, and several of the best men holding, at a little distance, to the latter, which he laid out himself, slack upon the shore, at his feet. '^ The wreck, even to my unpractised eye, was break- ing up. I saw that she was parting in the middle, and that the life of the* solitary man upon the mast hung by a thread. Still he clung to it. He had a singular red cap on, — not like a sailor's cap, but of a finer color ; and as the few yielding planks between him and destruc- tion rolled and bulged, and his anticipative death-knell rung, he was seen by all to wave it. I saw him do it now, and thought I was going distracted, when his action brought an old remembrance to my mind of a once dear friend. '' Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the silence of suspended breath behind him, and the storm before, until there was a great retiring wave, when, with a backward glance at those who held the rope, which was made fast round his body, he dashed in after it, and in a moment was buffeting with the water ; rising with the hills, falling with the valleys, lost be- neath the foam, then drawn again to land. They hauled in hastily. *^ He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from where I stood ; but ho took no thought of that. He seemed 316 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF hurriedly to give them some directions for leaving him more free, or so I judged from the motion of his arm, and was gone as before. " And now he made for the wreck, rising with the hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the rugged foam, borne in towards the shore, borne on towards the ship, striving hard and valiantly. The distance was nothing ; but the power of the sea and wind made the strife deadly. At length he neared the wreck. He was so near, that, with one more of his vigorous strokes, he would be clinging to it, when a high, green, vast hillside of water, moving on shoreward from beyond the ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a mighty bound, and the ship was gone ! " Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a mere cask had been broken in running to the spot where they were hauling in. Consternation was in every face. They drew him to my very feet, insen- sible, dead. He was carried to tlie nearest house ; and, no one preventing me now, I remained near him, busy, while every means of restoration were tried : but he had been beaten to death by the great wave ; and his generous heart was stilled forever. " As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned, and all was done, a fisherman, who had known me when Em'ly and I were children, and ever since, whispered my name at the door. CHARLES DICKENS. 317 " ' Sir,' said he, Avith tears starting to his weather- beaten face, which, with his trembling lips, was ashy pale, ' will you come over yonder ? ' " The old remembrance that had been recalled to me was in his look. I asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm he held out to support me, — " ' Has a body come ashore ? * " He said, ' Yes.' " ' Do I know it ? ' I asked then. " He answered nothing. " But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where she and I had looked for shells, two children, — on that part of it where some lighter fragments of the old boat, blown down last night, had been scattered by the wind; among the ruins of the home he had wronged, — I saw him lying with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school." The whole story of "David Copperfield" deserves perusal before any decision as to its real merits can be rendered ; and then one ought to see it dramatized, that the mean, cringing, despicable Uriah Heep, and the self-reliant, decided Betsey Trotwood, the great-hearted Peggotty, the lilial Agnes, and the poor Little Em'ly, might be fully comprehended. Nor should the " lone, lorn creetur," nor the irrepressible Mr. Micawber, evei looking for something to "turn up," be overlooked. 818 LIFE AND WHITINGS. Both novel and drama will make one bless the name of Charles Dickens, and write his name — " Among the few, the immortal names That were not born to die." fl CHAPTER XL KETURNS TO HIS EARLY PRACTICE. Bleak House. — Death of Poor Jo. — Uncommercial Traveller. ** Ay ! idleness I The rich folks never fail To find some reason why the poor deserve Their miseries." SOUTHEY. " For the oppression of the poor, for the sighing of the needy, now will I arise, Baith the Lord : I will set him in safety from him that puffeth at him." — Ps. xii. 5. WO 3^ears after " David Copperfield " found a warm greeting from the public, Mr. Dickens gave " Bleak House " to the world; which novel met a cooler recep- tion. In this book, Mr. Dickens seemed to return to his early practice of writing with some definite purpose ; and, " though Skimpole and Boy thorn were genial caricatures of the external peculiarities and individual mannerisms of Leigh Hunt and Walter Sav- age Landor, the purpose of the novel was to satirize the dilatory procedure of the court of chancery." So says one writer ; and another adds, " It was thought by many that this work was of a second grade ; that it did 819 320 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF not show so much force of thought, strength of repre- sentation, brilliancy of fancy and of style, in sliort, not so much of any of its author's great qualities, as the previous novels. Yet, if any distinction can be drawn between the two series of works, it is probably only in the quantity of gayety and humor in them. Whatever the power of the serious characters of the later novels, as compared with the earlier, the mirthful element is far less frequent in the later." C. C. Terry, in " The Christian Leader," thus refers to Mr. Dickens and to " Bleak House." " The gTeat secret of the success of Dickens was, that all of his characters were human and real. . . . " Dickens was the foe of all shams ; but instead of using the keen blade of satire, like his great contem- porary, Thackeray, he brought to bear the sunshine of his humor on the wrongs of his times. . . . Shakspeare, in the whole range of his delineation of character, has produced no creation like Little Nell or Paul Dom- bey ; nor has Sir Walter Scott, with the splendor of kings and princes, and the pomp of tournaments, in all the pages of his productions written a scene Hke the death of Poor Jo, in ' Bleak House.' " ' It's time for me to go to that there berryin'-ground, Bir,' he returns, with a wild look. "'Lie down, and tell me. What burying-ground, Jo?' CHARLES DICKENS. 321 " ' Where they laid him as was wery good to me ; wery good to me indeed, he was. It's time for me to o-o down to that there berryin'-ground, sir, and ask to to be put along with him.' " ' By and by, Jo, by and by.' " ' Ah ! p'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go my- self. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and have me laid along with him ? ' " ' I will, indeed.' "'Thankee, sir, thankee, sir ! They'll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in ; for it's alius locked. And there's a step there, as I used for to clean with my broom. It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a-comin' ? ' " ' It is coming fast, Jo. '"Fast! The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end.' " ' Jo, my poor fellow 1 ' "'I hear you, sir, in the dark; but I'm a-gropin', a-gropin' : let me catch hold of your hand.' " ' Jo, can you say what I say ? ' " ' I'U say any think as you say, sir; for I know it's good.' " ' Our Father.' « ' Our Father, — yes, that's wery good, sir.' " ' Which art in heaven.' " ' Art in heaven, — is the light a-comin', sir ? ' ^^ u ' It is close at hand. HaUowed be thy name." 21 322 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF " ' Hallowed be — thy — name.' " The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead ! " ' Dead, 3^our Majesty ; dead, my lords and gentle- men; dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order ; dead, men and women born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.' " "Well does Mr. Terry say, " Two nations mourn for the loss of Charles Dickens ; but we cannot miss him now as much as we shall when Christmas comes. When the snow is on the ground, and tlirough the naked branches of the trees the red light of Christmas Eve fades slowly away, and darkness settles down, and the great stars come out one by one, we shall ask for the enchantment of his genius ; and the only answer will be the gloom of the night that has gathered around his tomb in Westminster Abbey. But when the Christmas chimes are rung, and the glad notes of the bells peal out upon the frosty air, let us not forget the lessons of Christian charity that Charles Dickens has taught to the world." Very sensibly does " The Boston Journal " remark, — " We trust, that, amid all the dispute which has raged as to the religious and other peculiarities of Charles CHARLES DICKENS. 323 Dickens, the true example of his life as a conscientious and indefatigable worker will not be lost upon the young of this generation. . . . His habits of labor were regu- lar as those of a book-keeper or a bank-clerk, and certainly no less arduous. An artist who occupied the same room with him for some time was surprised at the anxious assiduity with which he prosecuted his writing. Said he, ' I looked in his face, and watched the anxiety and care. I saw the blotting and the re-writing of his works ; and I was astonished to find how much he owed to his indomitable perseverance.' " CHAPTER XII. LATER WORKS. Uttle Dorritt. — Hard Times. —Dr. Marigold. •' And the winds and the waters In pastoral measures Go winding around us, with roll upon roll, Till the soul lies within In a circle of pleasures, Which hideth the soul." Miss Barrett. • As the mountains are round about Jerusalem ; so the Lord is round about his people from henceforth, even forever." — Ps. cxv. 2. FTER "Bleak House" came "Little Dorritt," not so attractive as some of Mr. Dickens's books, but yet full of its own peculiar interest. It contains some fine descriptions, among which is one of a scene amid the Alps, for which we would gladly find space if possible. Among the serials afterwards published was one called " Hard Times ; " the first book of which is called " Sowing," the next " Reaping," the third " Garner- ing," and wherein Mr. Gradgrind achieves his immor- tality, — "a man of realities, a man of facts and 824 CHARLES DICKENS. 325 calculations." In this occur the thrilling passages de- scribing poor Stephen's fall into the pit, and his rescue. Very touching are Stephen's words concerning the star which shone into the pit where he lay. And thus the tale concludes : — " The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and the surgeon being anxious for his removal, those who had torches or lanterns prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it was raised, and while they were arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward at the star, — " ' Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on me down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided to our Saviour's home. I awmust think it be the very star.' " They lifted him up ; and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead. " ' Rachael, beloved lass, don't let go my hand. We may walk toogether t'night, my dear.' " ' I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all the way.' '' ' Bless thee ! Will soombody be pleased to coover my face ? ' " They carried him very gently along the fields, and down the lanes, and over the wide landscape ; Rachael always holding the hand in hers. Very few whispers 326 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF broke the mournful silence. It was soon a funeral- procession. The star had shown him where to find the God of the poor; and, through humility and sorrow and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeemer's rest." Among the shorter sketches by Dickens, gathered into one volume in some editions of his works, as " Addi- tional Christmas Stories," was one which the Writer of this memorial volume had the delight of hearing him read to his last Boston audience. It is called " Dr. Marigold," and is a mixture of humor and pathos. After telling of the deaf-and-dumb girl whom he adopted, and of her refusal to go away with her lover, Dr. Marigold pleasantly concludes with a narration of his peculiar manner of giving consent to the marriage ; then tells how lonely he was without Sophy ; and then, one Christmas Eve, how he ate his lonely dinner, and sat dreamily by his fireside. Then he says, — " Sophy's books so brought up Sophy's self, that I saw her touching face quite plainly before I dropped off dozing by the fire. This may be a reason why Sophy, with her deaf-and-dumb child in her arms, seemed to stand silent by me all through my na]3. I was on the road, off the road, in all sorts of places, — north and south and west and east ; winds liked best, and winds liked least ; here and there, and gone astray ; over the hills, and far away, — and still she stood silent by me, with CHARLES DICKENS. 327 her silent child in her arms. Even when I woke with a start, she seemed to vanish, as if she had stood by me in that very place only a single instant before. " I had started at a real sound ; and the sound was on the steps of the cart. It was the light, hurried tread of a child coming clambering up. That tread of a child had once been so familiar to me, that, for half a moment, I believed I was going to see a little ghost. " But the touch of a real child was laid upon the outer handle of the door ; and the handle turned, and the door opened a little way, and a real child peeped in, — a bright little comely girl with large dark eyes. " Looking full at me, the tiny creature took off her mite of a straw hat ; and a quantity of dark curls fell all about her face. Then she opened her lips, and said in a pretty voice, — " ' Grandfather ! ' " ' Ah, my God ! ' I cries out. ' She can speak ! ' "'Yes, dear grandfather; and I am to ask - you whether there was ever any one that I remind you of.' " In a moment, Sophy was round my neck, as well as the child ; and her husband was a-wringing my hand with his face hid, and we all had to shake ourselves together before we could get over it. And when we did begin to get over it, and I saw the pretty child a-talking, pleased and quick and eager and busy, to her mother in the signs that I had first taught her mother, the happj; and yet pitying tears fell rolling down my face." CHAPTER XIII. AS AN EDITOR. Household "Words.— All the Year Round. — Great Expectations. — Tale of Tw« Cities. " Nor need we power or splendor, "Wide hall or lordly donoe : The good, the true, the tender, — These form the wealth of home." Mrs. Hale. " Let your speech he always with grace." — Col. iv. 6. EARTH and home has need of pleasant "words, and "words of wisdom. These Mr. Dickens sought to give in the periodicals of which he was editor. In 1850, he took charge of a weekly literary paper called " Household Words ;" and it became exceedingly popular. He showed that he was " abundantly competent to super- intend a periodical with regularity and efficiency ; to write, select, and edit with practical and workmanlike skill ; and to select judiciously, and conduct with kind- ness and decision, the necessary staff of subordinates." In 1857, owing to a disagreement with his publishers, Mr. Dickens discontinued " Household Words," and 828 CHARLES DICKENS. 829 established " All the Year Round" instead; having his old publishers, — Messrs. Chapman & Hall. His eldest son became chief assistant on this periodical shortly be- fore his death. Mr. Dickens was, in some sense, his own publisher. Mr. Smalley, in " The New- York Tribune," thus notices the fact : — *' Messrs. Chapman & Hall's names appear on the titlepages of his books ; but they have been only Mr. Dickens's agents. He owned the copyright of every one of his novels. In early days, it is true, before his fame had increased, and before the property in any one of his novels had become a fortune, he had sold his rights as author in a considerable number of his books. All these he repurchased ; often by dint of great trouble, and by difficult negotiations, always at a price far beyond that which they had brought in the beginning. It was not only a matter of calculation with Mr. Dickens, it was a matter of pride. His books are his children : he did not want them in a stranger's hand, nor subject to the authority of anybody but their author. The copy- rights were much dispersed; and, when it became known that Mr. Dickens was bent on buying them up, the price, which was already high, advanced very considerably. The British book-publisher is just as capable of driving a hard bargain as his American rival ; and Mr. Dickens had to pay dearly for his discovery of that interesting fact. At last he carried his point, and 830 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF held ill liis own grasp, by a good legal title, all his earliei writings. With the latter he had never parted ; with none, I suppose, during the last twent}^ years. Every six. months, Messrs. Chapman & Hall handed in their accounts. It was Mr. Dickens who settled the terms of publication, the form in which each successive edition should appear, and all other details. What is called the ' Charles Dickens Edition ' was his idea, and his favorite, — not on account of its beauty or readableness, for it is print- ed compactly, in small type, but on account of its cheap- ness. What pleased him was, that everybody should be able to buy a complete set of liis writings ; and so he had them all condensed into, I think, seventeen volumes, sepa- rately published, and sold at three shillings and six- pence each. He understood the market, studied it, and adapted the supply of his books to the demand. He told me, four years ago, that the copyright of each one of his books became every year more valuable ; that is, brought in more actual money." Of Mr. Dickens as an editor, " The London Daily News " says, " We believe we are correct in stating, that every article in ' Household Words ' and ' All the Year Round' passed under the conductor's eye, and that every proof was read and corrected by him. It was at one time the fashion to assume that ' conducted by Charles Dickens ' meant little more than a sleeping partnership, — as if Dickens could have been a sleeping CHARLES DICKENS. 331 partner in any undertaking under the sun. But those behind the scenes knew better ; and the readers of ' All the Year Round' may assure themselves that every word in it was, up to this date, read before publication by the great master whose name it bears. At this moment, the ' Particulars for next number, ' in the neat yet bold handwriting which it is impossible to mistake hang by the side of the empty office-desk." " His editorial position," Mr. Perkins says, " afforded him many opportunities of aiding authors of all kinds ; and very gladly and generously he used them. The rule of contributing anonymously had its disagreeable side ; and it prevented (for instance) Douglas Jerrold from writing for the weekly. ' But the periodical is anony- mous throughout,' remonstrated Dickens, one day, when he had been suggesting to Mr. Jerrold to write for it. ' ' Yes,' replied the caustic wit, opening a number, and reading the title, ' " Conducted by Charles Dickens." I see it is — mo^ionjmons throughout.' There was some reason for this ; for Jerrold's name was worth money. ... To young writers, the great novehst was acces- sible, and as kind as his exacting employments rendered it possible for him to be ; and very many are the papers to which he gave many a grace by the judicious touches of his magical pen." Mr. Dickens wrote a " Child's History of England," which is a well-prepared compendium for the young stu- 332 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF dent, and may be read with advantage by older persons. The miscellaneous sketches prepared for these papers were published together by the name of " The Un- commercial Traveller," and met with a warm recep- tion. " Great Expectations," and " A Tale of Two Cities," also appeared first as serials ; and the latter is counted the most intellectual of any of the works of Dickens. From the " Tale of Two Cities," there is only space here to present a slight sketch, which conveys a sweet and holy picture of childhood, and refutes the idea that Mr. Dickens thought irreverently of the Sa- viour : — " A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, — that corner where the doctor lived. Ever busily wind- ins: the o^olden thread which bound her husband and her father and herself, and her old directress and com- panion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house, in the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of years. " At first there were times, though she was a perfect- ly happy young wife, when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be dimmed; for there was something coming in the echoes, something light, afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much. Fluttering hopes and doubts — hopes of a love as yet unknown to her, doubts of her remain- CHARLES DICKENS. 333 ing upon earth to enjay that new delight — divided her breast. Among the echoes, then, there would arise the sound of footsteps at her own early grave ; and thoughts of the husband who would be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her eyes, and broke like waves. " That time passed ; and her little Lucie lay on her bo- som. Then, among the advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of her prattHng words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young mother at the cradle-side could always hear those coming. They came, and the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh ; and the divine Friend of children, to whom, in her trouble, she had confided hers, seemed to take her child in his arms as he took the child of old, and made it a sacred joy to her. " Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together, weaving the service of her happy in- fluence through the tissue of all their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the echoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her hus- band's step was strong and prosperous among them ; her father's firm and equal. Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting, and pawing the earth under the plane-tree in the garden ! " Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not harsh nor cruel. Even when golden 334 LIFE AND WRITINGS. hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said with a radiant smile, ' Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to leave my pretty sister ; but I am called, and I must go ! ' — those Avere not tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek as the spirit departed from her embrace that had been intrusted to it. Suffer them, and forbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words ! " Thus the rustling of an angel's wings got blended with the other echoes ; and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath of heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were mingled with them also ; and both were audible to Lucie in a hushed murmur, — like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore, — as the little Lucie, com- ically studious at the task of the morning, or dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of the two cities that were blended in her life." CHAPTER XIV. AMERICAN POPULARITY. The Diamond Edition. — Portraits of Mr. Dickens. — Our Mutual Friend. " Give me the boon of love : Renown is but a breath, Whose loudest echo ever floats From out the halls of death." H. T. TUCKEKMAN. " A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver or gold." — Prov. xxii. 1. N America, the popularity of Mr. Dickens is now as great, probably, as in his own country. The picture-stores present his portrait in an endless variety of forms, — standing, sitting, writing. Magazines and weekly literary periodicals are illustrated with pictures of him and of his place of residence. The rich and the poor respect his memory ; for hearts everywhere in our broad land have been cheered and blessed by the writings of Charles Dickens. Even the prisoner in his cell has been blessed with the memory of his sweet, ennobling words. At the State Prison in Massachusetts, the convicts once S35 336 LIFE AND WRITINGS OT were allowed a Christmas festival, when the warden,* read to them in the chapel from Dickens's " Christmas Carol." James T. Fields, his Boston publisher, bears testimony of Mr. Dickens, which would lead one to suppose this reading of his " Carol " to prisoners would especially delight his benevolent heart ; for as Mr. Fields testi fies : — " When he came into the presence of squalid or de graded persons, such as one sometimes encounters in almshouses or prisons, he had such soothing words to scatter here and there, that those who had been ' most hurt by the archers' listened gladly, and loved him with- out knowing who it was that found it in his heart to speak so kindly to them." Various editions of the works of Dickens have been published in this country, of which the diamond edi- tion is perhaps the most popular. The books are small enough to take witli one on a journey, and well illustrated ; while the type, though small, is clear, and easily read. " Of the many portraits of Charles Dick- ens, that which has the approval of Dickens himself is by Eytinge, the illustrator of the diamond edi- tion, and published by Ticknor & Fields. The por- ♦ Hon. Q-ideon Haynes, author of Prison- Life. CHARLES DICKENS. 337 trait is as near faultless as art can make one. As the picture represents him, he is at his desk, pen in hand, the head turned a little one side, wonderfully expres- sive of the state of mind when considering ' how to do it.'" The first volume given to readers in that elegant little diamond edition, was "• Our Mutual Friend." This con- tains many fine passages, exquisite in expression, and of lofty sentiment. One of those sentences which shines like a diamond among pebbles is this : " Evil often stops short at itself, and dies with the doer of it ; but good, never." When one reads the inimitable stories of Dickens with an unprejudiced mind and liberal heart, one must adopt the language of Thackeray, and say, — " I ma}^ quarrel with Mr. Dickens's art a thousand times ; I delight and wonder at his genius ; I recognize in it — I speak with awe and reverence — a commis- sion from that divine Beneficence whose blessed task we know it will one day be to wipe every tear from every eye. '' Thankfully I take my share of the feast of love and kindness which this gentle and generous ahd charitable soul has contributed to the happiness of the world. I take and enjoy my share, and say a benediction for the meal." In order to pass rapidly on to a mention of Mr. Dick- 22 S38 LIFE AND WHITINGS OF ens as a reader, only a brief extract from " Our Mutual Friend " is here inserted. It is the close of the chapter speaking of little Johnny's death at the children's hos pital : — " The family whom God had brought together were not all asleep, but were all quiet. From bed to bed, a light womanly tread, and a pleasant fresh face, passed in the silence of the night. A little head would lift itself up into the softened light here and there, to be kissed as the face went by, — for these httle patients are very loving, — and would then submit itself to be composed to rest again. The mite with the broken leg was rest- less, and moaned, but, after a while, turned his face towards Johnny's bed to fortify himself with a view of the ark, and fell asleep. Over most of the beds, the toys were yet grouped as the children had left them when they last laid themselves down ; and, in their inno- cent grotesqueness and incongruity, they might have stood for the children's dreams. " The doctor came in, too, to see how it fared with Johnny. And he and Rokesmith stood together, look- ing down with compassion upon him. " * What is it, Johnny ? ' Rokesmith was the ques- tioner, and put an arm round the poor baby as he made a struggle. " ' Him I ' said the little fellow. ' Those I ' " The doctor was quick to understand children, and CHARLES DICKENS. 339 taking the horse, the ark, the yellow-bird, and the man in the guards, from Johnny's bed, softly placed them on that of his next neighbor, — the mite with the bro- ken leg. " With a weary and yet a pleased smile, and with an action as if he stretched his little finger out to rest, the child heaved his body on the sustaining arm, and, seek- ing Rokesmith's face with his lips, said, — " ' A kiss for the boofer lady.' " Having now bequeathed all he had to dispose of, and arranged his affairs m this world, Johnny, thus speaking, left it." CHAPTER XV. SECOND VISIT TO AMERICA. Dickens as a Reader and Actor, —His First Appearance in Boston.— His Last Reading in Boston. " Land of the forest and the rock, Of dark blue lake and mighty river, Of mountains reared on high to mock The storm's career and lightning's shock, My own green land forever 1 " WHITTrER. " And he took the hook . . , and read in the audience of the people." — ExoD. xxiv. 7. N December, 1867, Mr. Dickens made his second visit to America. His fault in writing the "Notes" had been forgiven, since the common sense and Christian sen- timent of the people acknowledged him to be right in most, if not all, his criticisms ; and when he came as a reader he was warmly welcomed. The news- paper accounts of his appearance and readings will give the best idea of them. Of his first reading, " The Bos- ton Journal " says, — " Tremont Temple was completely filled ; every seat, 840 CHARLES DICKENS. ^41 and nearly every standing-place, front of the platform, except the central aisles, having an occupant. The wealth, beauty, fashion, and intellect of the city, were present in great numbers. Longfellow, Holmes, Lowell, Quincy, and a host of others of our most eminent citi- zens, attended to greet the inimitable ' Boz ' in his new cliaracter of reader of his own works. The audience began to assemble as early as seven o'clock ;, but not all were seated by eight o'clock: when this was accom- plished, the hall presented a magnificent appearance, there were so many splendidly-dressed ladies present. " The arrangements for the reading were somewhat peculiar. On the rear of the platform was a maroon- colored screen about fifteen feet long by seven high, and a carpet of the same color spread in front. Along the front of the platform was a high framework of gas-pipe, with burners upon the inner side, and a narrow screen to cast the light upon the distinguished reader. In the centre of the platform stood a little crimson-colored stand, festooned with a bright fringe, with a tiny desk, which an open book more than covered, on one corner. Upon one side was a shelf, on which stood a glass de- canter of water and a tumbler. " This purple-hued paraphernalia interested the curi- ous and expectant audience till three minutes past eight o'clock ; when a slight clapping of hands, like the first drops of a shower, announced the coming of ' Boz ' from the ante-room. With an elastic step he ascended the plat- 342 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF form, and moved quickly to his crimson throne ; the ap* plause, meanwhile, spreading and deepening till the whole audience joined in one universal and enthusiastic plaudit, which continued for several minutes. It was as cordial a welcome as heart could wish ; and, had Mr. Dickens been doubtful about his reception, every ai>pre- hension must have vanished as the swelling tide of friendly greeting poured its music upon his ear. Al- though time has laid a frosting upon his well-kept and trimly-shaped beard, and thinned the locks that cover his head, Mr. Dickens has still the air and port of a young man, — his step firm and free, his bearing erect and assured, and his dress the pink of propriety, though pervaded by a touch of dandyism. Dressed in a suit of faultless black, with two small flowers — one white, the other red — deftly attached to his left lappel, a profusion of gold chains festooned across his vest, his long goatee spreading like a fan beneath his chin, his ear-locks standing almost straight from his head, and with a countenance still fresh, though no longer youthful, Charles Dickens stood, with book in hand, before his audience, and gracefully acknowledged the hearty greet- ings bestowed upon him. Those who saw him for the first time last night hardly realized, we think, their ideal of this gifted author. His countenance has not that soft, refined, pre-eminently intellectual look which one who so deeply stirs the finer feelings of our nature would naturally be thought to present. The mark of CHARLES DICKENS. 343 genius is not so obvious, at least by gas-light, as an ad- mirer would expect. A dashy, good-natured, shrewd English face it is, — one that would be associated with the out-door life of a smart man of business not particu- larly troubled with fine sentiments, and not unmindful of good cheer ; brusque, not beautiful, wide awake, and honest." A lady writer in " The Chicago Advance " thus graphically speaks of Dickens at Boston : — " On Tuesday evening, I climbed, for the sake of Da- vid Copperfield, and Mr. Bob Sawyer's party, the end- less stairs of the Tremont Temple. The kindly fates had wafted my ticket to the floor of. the house, and to the centre of the floor, and so near the platform, ex- actly as one would wish to be : so I had but to open my eyes, and I saw ; and my ears, and I heard. It is said Mr. Dickens's voice by no means fills the hall : the back galleries lost a large proportion of his words, and were obliged to follow the libretto closely, to understand him. " The arrangements on the platform are fresh. A large sci'een, of a rich maroon-color, stands as a back- ground for the reader. In front of it is a dainty little crimson-velvet desk, with a tumbler, and decanter of water. Mr. Dickens desires that every one be in his seat, and the house still, at ten minutes before eight. A 344 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF fair approach towards meeting the request is made. At eight precisely, the hush deepens. There is a stir, and a gush of applause, and we have an idea of a tall gentle- man walking very fast across the stage ; and, before we have a moment to find out what manner of man he is, he has made his bow, and is already telling us in a quick voice, with the rising inflection at his commas, about those contrivances on Mr. Peggotty's table which kept the Bible from tumbling down ; and how the Bible, if it had tumbled down, would have broken the tea- cups. For an instant, the effect is rather funny ; and one can think only that he is determined to be on time, and let us out at ten o'clock, according to agreement. " Then we begin to look at him, — a florid-faced, keen- looking Englishman, with a bald forehead, — not a re- markable forehead, indeed. At first sight, there seems to be nothing remarkable about him. Two funny little tufts of hair over each ear, and a gray goatee and mus- tache ; dress-coat ; immaculate large shirt-front ; a suffi- cient display of studs, and watch-chain, and diamond rings ; white tie ; white kids, m, not on, his hand ; rose- buds, red and white, in his buttonhole ; and red ribbons on the little red-bevelled ' Condensed Copperfield,' which lies upon the desk, scarcely referred to throughout the evening. At the first glance, I think quite as much of rosebuds and ribbon and watch-guard as of the man's face. In three minutes, he might be all rosebuds, and I should see only the face. CHARLES DICKENS. 345 " The trouble with Mr. Dickens's books is, that it is next to impossible to accomplish such a thing as a selec- tion from them. It is like a choice of pearls and opals. Here in ' David Copperfield,' we must have Steerforth and Little Em'ly, Ham, Mr. Peggotty, Dora, and Mr. Micawber; and where are Peggotty and Barkis and Aunt Trotwood and Uriah Heep ? and how in the world are we ever going to spare Agnes, with her little keys and her quiet eyes ? and how could any other scene be chosen before that of the night when Dora and the lit- tle spaniel die ? But of course, in two hours, he cannot suit everybody ; and we must beheve that Mr. Dickens made the selections best adapted to dramatic purposes, and be content. '' It is not his voice, but his acting, which is the won- der about Mr. Dickens. His voice is not what a public speaker's voice should be : it has no ring to it, and, as I said, cannot fill a large hall. But it is a fact scarcely disputed, that there is no living actor to be found his equal. What is art, and what is felt to be art, upon the stage, is nature in him. He invests himself completely with each of his characters in turn. They are the chil- dren of his brain, a part of himself, dear to him. He knows them through : he has wept with them, laughed with them, suJffered with them, joyed with them, borne their temptations, moulded their fortunes, lived their lives. They may be fireside friends to his audience* they are more than that to him. 346 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF * " He is Steerforth, the gentleman, the villain, at hia best, at his worst ; he is simple-minded, true-hearted Ham, — poor Ham! — saying in his awkward, honest way, ' There's not a gentleman in all the land could love his lady truer than I love her, sir.' He is Mrs. Gummidge, lisping out, that ' every think goes con- trairy with her.' Shut your eyes, and you would assert that it was an old woman without teeth or hoops, chat- tering up there behind the crimson desk. He is dainty Dora, drawing a pencil-mark down her husband's nose, and declaring in a little petulant sob, that she ' didn't marry to be reasoned with, and he is a cruel, cruel boy ! ' He is Mr. Sawyer, and Mr. Sawyer's landlady, and Mrs. Sawyer's stupid servant, as flawlessly as he is Mr. Peg- gotty, searching the world over for his lost Em'ly, and rubbing the tears out of his eyes as he tells the story. " It is noticeable, that, whatever few mistakes of tone or gesture he may make, his face is invariably true. His face is a marvel. His audience sit as one man, with their eyes upon it. It unfolds, like a panorama, soul upon soul, life upon life, crisis upon crisis. It scarcely misin- terprets a pain, and always fairly bubbles over with a joke. It is a face at prayer one instant ; it lights lu- ridly with his wicked smile — his veri/ wicked smile — the next. It is oftener said of him, perhaps, than of any other living man, ' He is a master.' The common words come up in threefold force as we watch and CHARLES DICKENS. 347 listen. A master he. certainly is ; and the world haa not many. " He has laid Steerforth solemnly dead upon the beach, taken his five-minutes' recess, come back with the rosebuds superseded by a large red carnation, engi- neered poor, Mr. Sawyer satisfactorily through his party, and punctually at ten o'clock vanished — he and the two breathless, bright hours — like a beautiful dream from before us." » Of his last reading in Boston, " The Boston Tran- script " thus speaks ; and the account is inserted here with a vivid remembrance of the pleasure with which that evening was spent : — " The Final Reading. — When Mr. Dickens came upon the stage last evening, to be greeted by a house as packed and as appreciative as that which welcomed his first appearance in this city, he found his table covered with floral offerings, rare and beautiful as they were abundant. He characteristically acknowledged this compliment by saying, — " ' Before allowing Dr. Marigold to tell his story in his own peculiar way, I kiss the kind, fair hands, un- known, which have so beautifully decorated my table this evening.' " The performance that followed was, or many fan- cied it was, given with more feeling, especially in the 348 LIFE AND WHITINGS OF pathetic portions, than on previous occasions. Be tMs as it may, it is certain that Cheap Jack, quaint, kindly, and tender, even in a sleeve-waistcoat, will ever be a reality now to those who have heard his autobiography from his own lips ; and Mrs. Gamp will remain here, for a generation at least, as any thing but a model monthly- nurse. " The prolonged and enthusiastic applause at the close of the reading compelled Mr. Dickens, as he was retiring, to turn and come back, and make this graceful and feeling speech: — " ' Ladies and Grentlemen^ — My gracious and generous welcome in America, which can never be obliterated from my remembrance, began here. My departure be- gins here too ; for I assure you that I have never until this moment really felt that I am going away. In this brief life of ours, it is sad to do almost any thing for the last time ; and I cannot conceal from you, although my face will so soon be turned towards my native land, and to all that makes it dear, that it is a sad consideration with me, that, in a very few moments from this time, this brilliant hall and all that it contains will fade from my view forevermore. But it is my consolation, that the spirit of the bright faces, the quick perception, the ready response, the generous and the cheering sounds, that have made this place delightful to me, will remain ; and you may rely upon it, that that spirit will abide with me as long as I have sense and sentiment left. CHARLES DICKENS. 349 " * I do not say this with any limited reference to private friendships that have for years upon years made Boston a memorable and beloved spot to me ; for such private references have no business in this public place. I say it purely in remembrance of and in homage to the great public heart before me. " ' Ladies and gentlemen, I beg most earnestly, most gratefully, and most affectionately, to bid you each and all farewell.' "With heartiest rounds of applause, 'mingled with cheers, and waving of handkerchiefs, the great assembly bade adieu to Mr. Dickens, and gave expression to their thanks for the rich enjoyment he had afforded them. Thus ended a series of entertainments, of which it is enough to say that the expectations raised before they began have not been disappointed. The readings have proved to be all that was claimed for them ; and for their peculiar characteristics, — elaborateness, truth- fulness, and finish, as impersonations, — they have stood the test of criticism, and been occasions of dehght to thousands. " Mr. Dickens came to this country as an artist, and in a professional capacity, to present himself to the public as the reciter of his own stories. He has labored assiduously in his vocation ; and his visit has proved an entn-e success. His interpretations of his writings will increase their already wonderful and deserved popu- larity, win to them multitudes of readers to be delighted 350 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF with their wit, characterizations, and pictures of life among the lowly. Meanwhile, on account of the hu- manity in his works, their appeals to every home and every heart, the man as well as the author will continue to be the object of warm regard, as one whose genius has been consecrated to the service of generous, liberal, and unostentatious philanthropy. He will not only be cherished as an unequalled humorist and a popular novelist, but he will also be held in honor as a genial reformer, and the advocate of the largest and truest fraternal charity." The Dickens excitement was as strong in Philadel- phia as it was elsewhere. The speculators mustered in force at eleven o'clock, p.m., to secure the tickets which were offered at nine the next morning. Before leaving America, Mr. Dickens was entertained at a handsome banquet at Delmonico's, New York, on the evening of April 18, 1868 ; and, in responding to an eloquent speech from Mr. Greeley, the distinguished guest bore strong and honest testimony to the change which twenty-five years had wrought in his estimate of America. He said, — " This is the confidence I seek to place in you, that on my return to England, in my own English journal, manfully, promptly, plainly, in my own person to bear, for the behoof of my countrymen, such testimony to CHARLES DICKENS. 351 tlie gigantic changes in this country as I have hinted at to-niglit. Also to recall, that wherever I have been, in the smallest places equally with the largest, I have been received with unsurpassable politeness, delicacy, sweet temper, hospitality, consideration, with unsurpassable respect for the privacy daily enforced upon me by the nature of my avocation here, and the state of my health. " This testimony, so long as I live, and so long as my descendants have any legal right in my books, I shall cause to be republished as an appendix to every copy of those two books of mine in which I have referred to America. And this I will do, and cause to be done, not in my loving-thankfulness, but because I regard it as an act of plain justice and honor." Taking leave of his last American audience, in New York, April 20, 1868, Mr. Dickens closed his reading with this touching speech : — " Ladies and Crentlemen, — The shadow of one word has impended over me all the evening ; and the time has come at last when that shadow must fall. It is but a very short one ; but the weight of such things is not measured by their length : and two much shorter words express the whole realm of our human existence. When I was reading ' David Copperfield ' here last Thursday night, I felt that there was more than usual significance for me in Mr. Peggotty's declamation, ' My future life 352 LIFE AND WRITINGS. lies over the sea.' And, when I closed this book just now, I felt keenly that I was shortly to establish such an alibi as would even have satisfied the elder Mr. Weller himself. The relations that have been set up between us here — relations sustained on my side, at least, by the most earnest devotion of myself to my task; sustained by yourselves, on your side, by the readiest sympathy and kindliest acknowledgment — must now be broken forever. But I entreat you to be- lieve, that, in passing from my sight, you will not pass from my memory. I shall often, often recall you as I see you now, equally by my winter fire, and in the green English summer weather. I shall never recall you as a mere public audience, but rather as a host of personal friends, and ever with the greatest gratitude, tenderness, and consideration. Ladies and gentlemen, I beg to bid you farewell. And I pray God bless you, and God bless the land in which I have met you ! "' CHAPTER XVI. DICKENS AT HOME. His Domestic Relations. — Q-ad's Hill. — Shakspeare's Mention of it. " 'Mid pleasures and palaces, where'er we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home : A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, home, sweet, sweet home I There's no place like home, oh ! there's no place like home." John Howard Payne, " God setteth the solitary in families." — Ps. Ixviii. 6. N this side the water, at such a dis- tance from the home of Dickens, and with so little real knowledge of the circum- stances relating to his domestic relations, it becomes all to judge charitably of both parties, where there is any disagreement, and, as a general rule, to let such matters alone. Quarrels are always to be deprecated ; but there may be extenuating circumstances on both sides. " The New- York Evening Post " thus refers to the domestic relations of the great novelist ; — 23 858 354 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF "Mr. Dickens's private life was singularly unobtru- sive, and withdrawn from the public eye. Years ago, his domestic troubles made his family circle painfully con- spicuous before the British people ; and censure was freely bestowed upon one or the other party to the deplorable conjugal quarrel by the intimate friends of either. Bat Dickens lived down the scandal; and it is a sufficient refutation of it, perhaps, that his children have alwaj^s manifested for him the tenderest affection. One of these, a son, has grown to man's estate, and is an hon- ored member of society. Another is the wife of Mr. Charles Collins, author of ' After Dark,' ' A Cruise on Wheels,' and other novels, which have been overshad- owed by the greater popularity of the writings of his brother, Mr. Wilkie Collins. " In London, Dickens lived mostly at the Garrick Club, where he filled as large a place as John Dryden used to fill at Will's Coffee-House. There was at one time some alarm created lest he should leave the Gar- rick in consequence, as it was wliispered, of the fact that one of his friends and pubhshers had been blackballed there ; but the trouble was composed, and the Garrick knew him to the last. His tov/n apartments were com- fortably fitted up, but were not in the fashionable quar- ter. They constituted the second floor of the house in Wellington Street, Strand, the lower part of which was occupied by the business-office of ' All the Year Round.' Mayfair saw little of Dickens ; nor was Belgravia one of CHARLES DICKENS. 355 his familiar haunts. We believe he was never presented at court ; but it was not long ago, — since his last return from the United States, — that the queen invited him to come and see her ; and he spent a day at Windsor Castle. " When in London, Dickens might be seen at dinner more frequently than anywhere else, at Verrey's, a i es- taurant in the upper part of Regent Street, where, often with Wilkie Collins, he sat at a little table in the corner reserved for him especially by the maitre dliotel, " Early in life, — just after the publication of 'Pick- wick,' — Mr. Dickens married the daughter of Mr. George Hogarth, the author and critic. He separated from her in 1858 ; and, as the event called forth a great deal of ill-natured comment, the following letter was written for the purpose of being shown to the public : — " ' My Dear -» , Mrs. Dickens and I have lived un- happily together for many years. Hardly any one who has known us intimately can fail to have known that we are, in all respects of character and temperament, won- derfully unsuited to each other. I suppose that no two people, not vicious in themselves, ever were joined to- gether, who had greater difficulty in understanding one another, or who had less in common. An attached woman-servant (more friend to both of us than a ser- vant), who lived with us sixteen years, and is now married, and who was, and still is, in Mrs. Dickens's confidence and mine, who had the closest familiar experience of 856 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF this unhappiness in London, in the country, in France, in Italy, wherever we have been, year after year, month after month, week after week, clay after day, will. bear testimony to this. " ' Nothing has, on many occasions, stood between ns and a separation, but Mrs. Dickens's sister, Georgine Hogarth. From the age of fifteen, she has devoted her- self to our house and children. She has been their playmate, nurse, instructress, friend, protectress, adviser, and companion. In the manly consideration towards Mrs. Dickens which I owe to my wife, I will merely re- mark of her, that the peculiarity of her character has thrown all the care of the children on some one else. I do not know, I cannot by any stretch of fancy imagine, what would have become of them but for tliis aunt, who has grown up with them, to whom they are devoted, and who has sacrificed the best part of her youth and life to them. " * She has remonstrated, reasoned, suffered, and toiled, and come again, to prevent a separation between Mrs. Dickens and me. Mrs. Dickens has often ex- pressed to her her sense of her affectionate care and de- votion in the house, — never more strongly than in the last twelve months. " ' For some years past, Mrs. Dickens has been in the habit of representing to me, that it would be better for her to go away and live apart ; that her always increas- ing estrangement made a mental disorder under which CHARLES DICKENS. 357 she sometimes labors ; more, she felt herself unfit for ttie life she had to lead as my wife, and that she would be far better away. I have uniformly replied, that she must bear our misfortune, and fight the fight out to the end ; that the children were the first consideration ; and that I feared they must bind us together " in appear- ance." " ' At length, within these three weeks, it was sug- gested to me by Forester, that, even for their sakes, it would be better to reconstruct and re-arrange the un- happy home. I empowered him to treat with Mrs. Dickens, as the friend of both us for one and twenty years. Mrs. Dickens wished to add, on her part, Mark Lemon, and did so. On Saturday last, Lemon wrote to Forester, that Mrs. Dickens " gratefully and thankfully accepted " the terms I proposed to her. Of the pecu- niary part of them, I will say, that they are as generous as if Mrs. Dickens were a lady of distinction, and I a man of fortune. " ' The remaining parts of them are easily described, — my eldest boy to live with Mrs. Dickens, and to take care of her ; my eldest girl to keep my house ; both my girls, and all my children but the eldest son, to live with me, in continued companionship of their Aunt Georgine, for whom they have all the tender est affections that I have ever seen among young people, and who has a higher claim (as I have often declared for many years) upon my affection, respect, and gratitude than any* body in this world. 358 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF • " ' I hope that no one who may become acquainted with what I write here can possibly be so cruel and unjust as to put any misconstruction on our separation so far. My older children all understand it perfectly, and all accept it as inevitable; " ' There is not a shadow of doubt or concealment among us. My eldest son and I are one as to it all. " ' Two wicked persons, who should have spoken very differently of me, in consideration of earned respect and gratitude, have (as I am told, and, indeed, to my pesonal laiowledge) coupled with this separation the name of a young lady for whom I have a great attach- ment and regard. I will not repeat the name : I honor it too much. Upon my soul and honor, there is not upon this earth a more virtuous and spotless creature than that young lady. I know her to be innocent and pure, and as good as my own daughters. " ' Further ; I am quite sure that Mrs. Dickens, having received this assurance from me, must now believe it, in the respect I know her to have for me, and in the perfect confidence I know her, in her better moments, to repose in my truthfulness. " ' On this head, again, there is not a shadow of a doubt or concealment between my children and me. All is open and plain among us as though we were brothers and sisters. They are perfectly certain that I would not deceive them ; and the confidence among us is without a fear. C. D.' " CHARLES dickb:ns. 359 One of the sons of Charles Dickens is an officer in the British army ; and another is a student at Trinity Hall, Cambridge. A lady writer in " The New-York Tribune" thus de- scribes a party at the house of Dickens : — '' It was in June, 1852, just eighteen years before the date of his death, that I first saw Charles Dickens in London. I had sent a letter to him from his friend, Mr. G. P. R. James. Mrs. Dickens called, at his request, and invited me to a dinner, kindly promising that I should meet a number of the authors and artists that I most desired to see. I have in my mind still a perfectly dis- tinct picture of the bright, elegant interior of Tavistock House, and of its inmates, — of my host himself, then in his early prime ; of Mrs. Dickens, a plump, rosy, Eng- lish, handsome woman, with a certain air of absent- mindedness, yet gentle and kindly ; Miss Hogarth, a very lovely person, with charming manners ; and the young ladies, then very young, real English girls, fresh and simple" and innocent-looldng as English daisies. I was received in the library. Mr. Dickens — how clearly he stands before me now, with his frank, encouraging smile, and the light of welcome in his eyes ! — was then slight in person, and rather pale than otherwise. The symmetrical form of his head, and the fine, spirited bearing of the whole figure, struck me at once ; then the hearty bonhomie^ the wholesome sweetness of his 360 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF smile, but, more than any thing else, the great beauty of his eyes. They were the eyes of a master, with no consciousness of mastery in them : they were brilliant without hardness, and searching without sharpness. I felt, I always felt, that they read me clearly and deeply, yet could never fear their keen scrutiny. They never made you feel uncomfortable. I can but think it a pity, that, in so many of the pictures we have of him, the effect of his eyes is nearly lost by their being cast down. They had in them all the humor and all the humanity of the man. You saw in them all the splendid possibilities of his genius, all the manly tenderness of his nature. " Approaching Mr. Dickens as I did, with what he would have considered extravagant hero-worship, I was surprised to find myself speedily and entirely at my ease. Still he seemed to put forth no effort to make me feel so. In manner he was more quiet than I expected, — simple, and apparently unconscious. In conversation he was cer- tainly not brilliant, after the manner of a professional talker. His talk did not bubble with puns, nor scintil- late with epigrams ; but it was racy and suggestive, with a fine flavor of originality and satire ; and the effect of every thing he said was doubled by the expression of those wonderful eyes. They were great listening eyes. When I remember how they would kindle at even my crude criticisms, my awkward attempts to convey to him the ideas and emotions which my visit to the Old World had called out, I can imagine the eager look, the kindred CHARLES DICKENS. 361 flash, with which they -must have responded to the won- derful talk of Douglas Jerrold and the lightning-like play of his wit, to the splendid cynicism of Carlyle, to the titanic fancies of Landor, to the dramatic word- painting of Browning. At such times, the whole sym- pathetic, mobile face must almost have worn the look of that of * Some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken.* " So completely, in his generous appreciation and hos- pitable interest, did Mr, Dickens seem to pass out of himself, that I had strange difficulty in realizing that he was he; that the alert, jaunty figure, dressed with ex- treme nicety, and in a style bordering on the ornate, and with such elegant and luxurious surroundings, was indeed the great friend of the people, the romancer of common life ; that the kindly, considerate host who saw every thing, heard every thing, was the poetic, dramatic novelist, who, next to Shakspeare, had been for years the ' god of my idolatry.' " I need not here describe that dinner-party. A par- tial list of the guests will show how brilliant it must have been: Charles Kemble and his daughter Adelaide (Madame Sartoris) ; Mr. Procter (Barry Cornwall) and his accomplished wife; Emil Devrient, the great German actor ; John Kenyon, the poet-banker ; and his grand friend, Walter Savage Landor. ... " O night of nights ! I had heard Landor talk, and Z62 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF Adelaide Kemble sing, and Charles Dickens handed me to my carriage, taking leave of me with a ' God bless you ! ' and I drove home through the soft summer air with my head among the stars." Charles Dickens's last earthly home was called Gad's Hill. " The London News " tells how he obtained the place : — - " Though not bom at Rochester, Mr. Dickens spent some portion of his boyhood there, and was wont to tell how his father, the late Mr. John Dickens, in the course of a country ramble, pointed out to him as a child the . house at Gad's-hill Place, saying, ' There, my boy, if you work, and mind your book, you will perhaps one day live 'in a house like that.' This speech sunk deep ; and in after -years, and in the course of his many long pedestrian rambles through the lanes and roads of the pleasant Kentish country, Mr. Dickens came to regard this Gad's-hiU house lovingly, and to wish himself its possessor. This seemed an impossibility. The property was so held, that there was no likelihood of its ever coming into the market ; and so Gad's Hill came to be alluded to jocularly as representing a fancy which was pleasant enough in dreamland, but would never be realized. Meanwhile, the years rolled on, and Gad's Hni became almost forgotten ; then a further lapse of time, and Mr. Dickens felt a strong wish to settle in the CHARLES DICKENS. 363 country, and determined to let Tavistock House. About this time, and by the strangest coincidence, his intimate friend and close ally, Mr. W. H. Wills, chanced to sit next to a lady at a London dinner-party, who remarked, in the course of conversation, that a house and grounds had come into her possession, of which she wanted to dispose. The reader will guess the rest. The house was in Kent, was not far from Rochester, had this and that distin- guishing feature which made it like Gad's Hill, and like no other place ; and the upshot of Mr. Wills' s dinner- table chit-chat with a lady whom he had never met before was, that Charles Dickens realized the dream of his youth, and became the possessor of Gad's Hill. It will now be sold, as well as the valuable collection of original pictures which Mr. Dickens gathered together during his life, and many of which are illustrative of his works." Gad's Hill is near Rochester, on the London side, and about twenty-five miles from London. Donald G. Mit- chell, in " Hearth and Home," has given a very pleasant picture of Gad's Hill, and Dickens at home. " Dinner was a gala-time ; but unceremonious, and regardless of dress, as he naight be in the earlier hours of the day, he, in his latter years at least, kept by the old English ceremonial dress for dinner. His butler and servant were also habited conventionally ; and the same notion of conventional requirement, it will be remembered, ha 864 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP observed always in his readings and appearance on public occasions. But the laws of etiquette, however faithfully and constantly followed, did not sit easily on him ; and there is no portrait of him, which, to our mind, is so agreeable as that which represents him in an old loose morning-jacket, leaning against a column of his porch upon Gad's Hill, with his family grouped around him. As dinner came to its close, the little grand- children tottled in, — his ' wenerable ' friends, as he delighted to call them ; and with their advent came always a rollicking time of cheer." Mr. Philp has thus pictured Gad's Hill. "The house is a charming old mansion a little modernized, — the lawn exquisitely beautiful, and illuminated by thousands of scarlet geraniums. The estate is covered with magnificent old trees ; and several cedars of Lebanon I have never seen equalled. In the midst of a small plantation across the road, opposite the house, approached by a tunnel from the lawn under the turn- pike-road, is a French chalet^ sent to Dickens as a pres- ent, in ninety-eight packing-cases. Here Mr. Dickens does most of his writing, where he can be perfectly quiet, and not disturbed by anybody. I^eed scarcely say that the house is crowded with fine pictures, original sketches for his books, choice engravings, &c. ; in fact, one might be amused for a month in looking over the objects of interest, which are numerous and beautiful. CHARLES DICKENS. 365 Inside the hall are portions of the scenery painted by Stanfield for 'The Frozen Deep,' the play in which Dickens and others performed for the benefit of Douglas Jerrold's family ; written by Wilkie Collins. Just as you enter, in a neat frame, written and illuminated by Owen Jones, is the following : ' This house, Gad's-hill Place, stands on the summit of Shakspeare's Gad's Hill, ever memorable for its association, in his noble fancy, with Sir John Falstaff. "But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o'clock, earty at Gad's Hill. There are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offer- ings, and traders riding to London with fat purses. I have visors for you all : you have horses for yourselves.' '* " In the dining-room hangs Frith's original picture of Dolly Varden, and Maclise's portrait of Dickens when a young man ; also Cattermole's wonderful drawings, illustrating some of Dickens's most touching scenes; besides several exquisite works by Marcus Stone (who illustrated ' Our Mutual Friend'), David Roberts, Gal- lon, Stanfield, and others. My bedroom was the per- fection of a sleeping-apartment; the view across the Kentish Hills, with a distant peep at the Thames, charming. The screen shutting off the dressing-room from the bedroom is covered with proof-impressions, neatly framed, of the illustrations to ' Our Mutual Friend,' and other works. In every room, I found a table covered with writing-materials, headed note-paper and envelopes, cut quiU pens, wax, matches, sealing- 366 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF wax ; and all scrupulously neat and orderly. There are magnificent specimens of Newfoundland dogs on the grounds, — such animals as Landseer would love to paint. Ore of them, Bumble, seems to be a favorite with Dickens. They are all named after characters in Dickens's works. Dickens at home seems to be perpet- ually jolly, and enters into the interests of games with all the ardor of a boy. Physically, as well as men- tally, he is immensely strong, having quite regained his wonted health and strength. He is an immense walker, and never seems to be fatigued. He breakfasts at eight o'clock ; immediately after, answers all the letters re- ceived that morning ; writes until one o'clock ; lunches ; walks twelve miles (every day) ; dines at six ; and passes the evening entertaining his numerous friends." In a letter written long ago to a friend in America, he thus describes his home : — ^' Divers birds sing here all day, and the nightingales all night. The place is lovely, and in perfect order. I have .put five mirrors in the Swiss cMlet (where I write), and they reflect and refract, in all kinds of ways, the leaves that are quivering at the windows, and the great fields of waving corn, and the sail-dotted river. My room is up among the branches of the trees ; and the birds and the butterflies fly in and out ; and the green branches shoot in at the open windows ; and the lights CHARLES DICKENS. 367 and shadows of the clouds come and go with the rest of the company. The scent of the flowers, and, indeed, of every thing that is growing for miles and miles, is most delicious." CHAPTER XVII. THE UNFINISHED STORY. Mystery of Edwin Drood. — Sudden Blneas. — Death. " There is no death : what seems so is transition. This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian. Whose portals we call death." LONGFELIiOW. •* O death, where is thy sting ? O grave, where is thy victory ? " — 1 Cor. xv. 55. R. DICKENS'S readings interfered with his writing ; and therefore he gave a long- ing public no other work till the first num- ber of " The Mystery of Edwin Drood," which appeared in March, 1870. It was to be completed in twelve parts, and was published simultaneously in London and in Boston. Only three numbers had been published when he passed away. It is a remarkable coincidence that the last completed work the novelist wrote ended with this paragraph : — "Ow Friday^ the %th of June^ in the present year, Mr. and Mrs. Boffin (in the manuscript-dress of receiv* CHARLES DICKENS. 369 ing Mr. and Mrs. Lammle at breakfast) were in the South-Eastern Railway with me in a terribly destructive accident. When I had done what I could to help oth- ers, I climbed back into my carriage, nearly turned over a viaduct, and caught aslant upon the turn, to extricate the worthy couple. They were much soiled, but other- wise unhurt. The same happy result attended Miss Bella Wilfer on her wedding-day, and Mr. Riderhood inspecting Bradley Headstone's red neckerchief as he lay asleep. I remember with devout thankfulness, that I can never be much nearer parting company with my readers forever than I was then, until there shall be written against my life the two words with which I have closed this book, — the end." After his return from America, he continued to give readings in different parts of England ; but on the even- ing of March 16 last he brought to a close, at St. James' Hall, in London, his series of public readings. He said in his remarks at the close, — " I have thought it well, at the full flood-tide of your favor, to retire upon those older associations between us, which date from much farther back than these, and henceforth to devote myself exclusively to the art that first brought us together. [Great applause.] Ladies and gentlemen, in but two short weeks from tliis time, I hope that you may enter, in your own houses, on a new 24 370 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ' series of readings,' at wHch my assistance will be in- dispensable ; but from this garish light I vanish now forevermore, with a heartfelt, grateful, respectful, and affectionate farewell." Carlyle is " reported as saying, that he never saw nor heard of any thing so extraordinary in its way as the picturesque-dramatic power of Mr. Dickens in his read- ings. ' Mr. Dickens, in some characters,' said his philo- sophic observer, ' costumes Ms mind with a completeness that is so absolutely perfect.' This puts it into my head to tell a little story which I long since heard, — how, one evening, the great novelist was reading, I think the trial- scene in ' Pickwick,' to an audience of rank and fashion, and all that, in London. Presently, rank and fashion began to have their attention drawn to an explosive merriment in one part of the hall. On the front bench sat a tall man, blue-eyed and gray-haired, who ever and anon swung his steeple-crowned felt hat forcibly down on his knees, bursting into peals of such inextinguisha- ble laughter as the gods on Homer's Olympus when they beheld limp-footed Vulcan halting round the circle as cup-bearer. Rank and fashion were inclined to be shocked at this unconventional mirth : but by and by the whisper went round that he of the steeple-hat was no other than Thomas Carlyle of Chelsea ; and for the rest of the evening Mr. Dickens had but a divided attention from his reverently wondering audience." CHARLES DICKENS. 371 Messrs. Cliapman & Hall write, in correction of sundry erroneous reports, to say that three numbers of " The Mystery of Edwin Drood," the novel on which Mr. Dickens was at work when he died, were left com- plete, in addition to those already published ; this being one-half of the story as it was intended to be written. These numbers will be published, and the fragment will remain a fragment. Messrs. Chapman & Hall add, " No other writer could be permitted by us to complete the work which Mr. Dickens has left." Says " The New- York Tribune " very truly, " Ten or twenty millions of people keep a corner in their hearts for Dickens, because he has seen so perfectly the poetry, the beauty, the hundred lessons, which the life of the masses contains ; and in all that he has done he has striven for their good. ' I have always had, and always shall have,' said he on his first visit to this country, 'an earnest and true desire to contribute, as far as in me lies, to the common stock of healthful cheerfulness and enjoyment. I believe that Virtue shows quite as well in rags and patches as she does in purple and fine linen. I believe that she, and every beautiful object in external nature, claims some sympathy in the poorest man who breaks his scanty loaf of daily bread.' So, in the faith that literature was not for the rich alone, and the no- blest work was the work done for the poor, he bent himself bravely to his splendid task." 372 LIFE AND WErriNGS OF Mr. Dickens died on the 9th of June, 1870. " The London News " thus gives particulars : — " He was at Rochester the 7th instant : on Wednes- day, he was employed at his literary labors until dinner. When at dinner, he was seized with a violent pain in the head, and fell down, becoming totally unconscious. He was placed on a sofa in the dining-room, as it was not considered advisable to remove him up stairs. Mr. S. Steele of Strood, his local medical adviser, was sent for, and found him laboring under a severe form of apo- plexy. Stertorous breathing had taken place ; and the extremities very soon became cold. Mr. Steele re- mained with liim until near midnight, when Mr. F. Carr Beard, surgeon, of Welbeck Street, London, an old per- sonal friend of Mr. Dickens, arrived, with Mrs. Collins and Miss Dickens, daughters of the great novelist. Mr. Beard immediately consulted with Mr. Steele ; but they had little hope. Mr. Dickens was still unconscious, and remained in that state up to the time of his death. Mr. Beard remained' with him all night. Dr. J. Russell Reynolds, the eminent physician of Grosvenor Street, was telegraphed for, and arrived on Thursday after- noon. He agreed with Messrs. Beard and Steele in considering the case a hopeless one from the first. His death took place at half-past six o'clock. Mr. Dickens was well on Wednesday, and wrote a great deal during the day. He had lately had no premonitory symptoms CHARLES DICKENS. 373 of an affection of the brain. A post-mortem examination is to be made. A contemporary states, that, when Mr. Dickens sat down to dinner on Wednesday, his sister- in-law. Miss Hogarth, observed an unusual appearance in his face, and became alarmed, and said she feared he was ill, proposing in the same breath to telegraph for med'-cal assistance. Mr. Dickens replied, 'No, no, no: 1 have got the toothache, and shall be better presently.' He then asked that the window might be shut; and almost immediately he lapsed into unconsciousness, from which state he never recovered till the moment of his death. Mr. Charles Dickens, the younger, was tele- graphed for on Wednesday evening ; but the message did not reach London till Thursday morning. He started instantly for liis father's residence, and was present at the death-bedj with two of his sisters. Miss Hogarth, and the medical attendants. The day of his death was, strange to say, the anniversary of the Staplehurst acci- dent, in which, it will be remembered, he was in great peril, and from which some of those nearest to him con- sider he received a physical shock from which he never really recovered. The friends in the habit of meeting Mr. Dickens privately, recall now the energy with which he depicted that dreadful scene, and how, as the climax of his story came, and its dread interest grew, he would rise from the table, and literally act the parts of the sev- eral sufferers to whom he had lent a helping hand. Now that he is gone, it is remembered with absolute pain, 374 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF that one of tlie first surgeons of the day, who was pres ent when this Staplehurst story was told, soon after its occurrence, remarked, that ' the worst of these railway accidents was the difficulty of determining the period at which the system could be said to have survived the shock; and that instances were on record of two or tliree years having gone by before the life-sufferer knew that he was seriously hurt.' But the medical testimony as to the immediate cause of Mr. Dickens's death is definite and precise. Apoplexy, an effusion of blood on the brain, — the cause an overstrained system, and the result one which was only staved off twelve months ago, when he was induced to obey his doctor's injunctions, and sus- pend his readings in public, — has carried him away at a comparatively early age ; and all that remains to his sor- rowing friends is to recall with affection the many tiaits which made this great man so lovable." The cause of the death of Dickens is attributed by a London correspondent of " The Scotsman " to the mental labor of writing " Edwin Drood." The writer says,— " Since his sudden seizure in the midst of his read- ings last year, Mr. Dickens has never been the same man. After a little while, he began to go about as be- fore ; flitted to and fro in his ardent, restless way ; took long walks, after his favorite fashion, starting on the CHARLES DICKENS. 375 whim of the moment, at any hour, for anywhere ; and resumed his writing and other labors, but not with the same lightness and vivacity as before. Though a sturdy walker, there had always been something of a hmp in liis gait ; and this now became more marked. He had more need of his stick, and stooped perceptibly. He grew sooner wearied, both in walking and in work, and complained, at times, of a strange supineness of mind, and labored slowness with the pen. Thos^ who had not seen him for some time were most struck on meet- ing him, within the last few months, with the sudden whiteness of his hair. From gray, he became all at once white, —just as Mr. Bright did not long since. I saw him a few weeks ago, just before he left town ; and his sunburned face seemed set in snow, his beard and hair were bleached so perfectly. Beyond question, I think it was ' Edwin Drood ' that killed him. .He went back to work too soon. He had had the idea of the story for some time in his mind, I believe ; but, after the first impulse of the start was off, he found the de- velopment of the incidents and characters slow and painful. Within the last week or so, he was planning much of this. He seemed to make so little progress, and at the cost of such an effort. Perhaps it was the hot weather, he thought, or he was out of sorts, and would get into better trim by and by. But the disorder was deeper and more fatal. Even before his illness last year, however, he had had warnings of exhaustion. Ho 376 LIFE AND WKITINGS. suffered, at times, from a terrible sleeplessness, which often drove him forth at midnight to walk — his fa- vorite remedy for all troubles — till dawn. Like Wordsworth, he belonged to the school of peripatetics. Much given myself to walking at all hours, I have come across him often in his rambles, always marching swiftly, with earnest, resolute air, as if bound to be at some given spot by the hour and minute ; his quick, glancing eye scanning every thing and everybody. In the story of ' The Two Apprentices,' which he wrote with Wilkie Collins, he described liis own restless, im- petuous activity, — laborious idleness he called it. All this wear and tear of writing, public readings, and per- petual movement, told even on his elastic and vigorous constitution in the end. The American trip brought him close upon thirty thousand pounds ; but, otherwise, I doubt whether it did him much good. Altogether, the strain was, too severe. Then came ' Edwin Drood ' to put the finishing-stroke to the work.*' CHAPTER XVIII. LAST WORDS. Last Letters of Mr. Dickeng. — The Queen's Sorrow. — A Nation moums. — Th« Funeral of the Great Novelist. "There is no name so sweet on earth, No name so sweet in heaven, — The name before his wondrous birth To Christ the Saviour given." Anonymous. *' A name which is above every name." — Piiu.. ii. 9, N the (lay that Mr. Dickens was seized with apoplexy, he wrote the following letter ; — Gad's-Hill Place, Higham by Eochester, Kent, Wednesday, the 8th June, 1870. Dear Sir, — It would be quite inconceivable to me, but for your letter, that any reasonable reader could possibly attach a scriptural reference to a passage in a book of mine, reproducing a much abused social figure of speech, impressed into all sorts of service, on all sorts of inappropriate occasions, without the faintest connection of it with its original source. I am truly 87y 878 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF shocked to find that any reader can make the mistake. I have always striven in my writings to express venera- tion for the life and lessons of our Saviour, because I feel it, and because I re-wrote that history for my chil- dren, — every one of whom knew it, from having it re- peated to them, long before they could read, and almost > as soon as they could speak. But I have never made proclamation of this from the housetops. Faithfully yours, Charles Dickens. He wrote that letter because a friend had written to him, calling attention to a passage in " Edwin Drood," which, to some readers, appeared to savor of irreverence. Charles Dickens, it is said, was never formally con- nected with any religious sect ; but his rule was to wor- ship with the Unitarians. While living in London, he attended one of their places of worship regularly, and had a family-pew there. He held similar views to those of Canon Kingsley, and believed most firmly in the final triumph of the Almighty Power and Goodness over all evil. He wrote his books, as he once told an American whom he met on the Ohio River, to show that there was not one beyond the reach of infinite mercy ; that, to use his own expression, " God never made any thing too bad to be saved." Dean Stanley at the funeral read the following ex- tract from his will, dated May 12, 1869 ; — CHARLES DICKENS. 379 " I direct that my name be inscribed in plain English letters on my tomb. ... I enjoin my friends on no account to make me the subject of any monument, memorial, or testimonial whatever. ... I rest my claims to the remembrance of my country upon my published works, and the remembrance of my friends upon their experience of me in addition thereto. . . . I commit my soul to the mercy of God, through our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ ; and I exhort my dear children to try and guide themselves by the teaching of the New Testament in its broad spirit, and to put no faith in any man's narrow construction of its letter." " In that simple but sufficient faith," said the dean, " Charles Dickens lived and died. In that faith, he would have you all live and die also ; and if you have learned from his words the eternal value of generosity, purity, kindness, and unselfishness, and to carry them out in action, those are the best ' monuments, memo- rials, and testimonials ' which you, his fellow-country- men, can raise to his memory." Well says a writer in " The Gospel Banner," — " When Uncle Tom shall lead some soul away from Christ, or little Eva lead a troop of children to perdi- tion, or Aunt Winnie shut the gates of heaven, which are now ajar, against some struggling spirit, it will be time enough for stupid pharisees to preach against all S80 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF fictitious literature (save what is sanctioned by the pub- lishing committees of large religious book-concerns), and especially against such creations as Little Dorritt, Paul, and Little Nell. We cannot form the acquaint- ance of such characters, whether in real life or romance, witliout being elevated and enriched by the association. He has peopled the world of imagination with visions of immortal worth and beauty ; and they will henceforth be a part of the heart-treasures of mankind. How could he cause his creations to move in the very atmosphere of Christianity, and to be moved by its most elevated motives, if he himself had not bathed in its light, and received its holy influences into his heart ? As well could artist bring forth finished photographs from the dark caverns of the earth, as any man incarnate the very principles and spirit of Christianity in his creations wit li- on t himself having tasted of the word of life." His personal independence was illustrated by his rela- tions with Victoria. The queen was among his admir- ers. As an expression of her appreciation, she invited him to read to her. He declined with a manly spirif, saying that he would not enter any house professionally that he could not socially. Afterwards, the queen, waiving the etiquette of the court, received him as her friend. He could have had a title and high office ; but he refused them. An incident is mentioned as showing in how great re- CHARLES DICKENS. 381 gard Mr. Dickens, as a man and as an author, was held by the Queen of England : shortly before his death, he sent to her Majesty an edition of his collected works ; and when the clerk of the council went to Balmoral last week, the queen, knowing the friendship that ex- isted between Mr. Dickens and Mr. Helps, showed the latter where she had placed the gift of the great novel- ist. This was in her private library ; and her Majesty expressed her desire that Mr. Helps should inform Mr. Dickens of this arrangement. The day after his death, she sent a special messenger with a letter of condolence to his family. Sadly appropriate are his own words now to his friends : — "There is nothing — no, nothing — beautiful and good, that dies, and is forgotten. An infant, a prattling child, dying in its cradle, will live again in the better thoughts of those who loved it, and play its part, though its body be burned to ashes, or buried in the deepest sea. There is not an angel added to the hosts of heaven but does its blessed work on earth in those who loved it here. Dead ! Oh, if the good deeds of human creatures could be traced to their source, how beautiful would even death appear ! for how much charity, mercy, and puri- fied affection, would be seen to have their growth in dusty graves ! " Some one has gathered these sweet flowers from Dick- ens's writings, and strewn them on his giave : — 382 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ..." The spiiit of the child, returning, innocent and radiant, touched the old man with its hand, and beck- oned him away." . . . ... "A cricket sings upon the hearth, a broken child's toy lies upon the ground, and nothing else re- mains." . . . ..." I felt my old self as the dead may feel if they ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to be tenderly remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite for- gotten." . . . ..." When I die, put near me something that has loved the Hght, and had the sky above it always." . . . ..." Lord, keep my memory green ! " . . . . . . " ' Now,' he murmured, ' I am happy.' He fell into a light slumber, and, waking, smiled as before ; then spoke of beautiful gardens, which he said stretched out before him, and were filled with figures of men, women, and many children, all with light upon their faces ; then whispered that it was Eden, — and so died." ... ..." Died like a child that had gone to sleep." . . . . . . "And began the world, — not this world, oh I not this, — the world that sets this right." . . . ..." Gone before the Father, far beyond the twi- light judgment of this world, high above its mists and obscurities." . . . ..." And lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now." . . . ^ CHAELES DICKENS. 383 . "It being high water, lie went out with the " Dickens's obsequies were simple, as he desired. The news that a special train left Rochester at an early hour yesterday morning, and that it carried his remains, was soon telegraphed to London : but every arrangement had been completed beforehand ; and there was no one in the Abbey, no one to follow the three simple mourn- ing-coaches and the hearse ; no one to obtrude upon the mourners. The waiting-room at Charing-cross Station was set apart for the latter for the quarter of an hour they remained there ; the abbey doors were closed di- rectly they reached it ; and even the mourning-coaches were not permitted to wait. A couple of street-cabs, and a single brougham, took the funeral-party away when the last solemn rites were over ; so that passers-by were unaware that any ceremony was being conducted : and it was not until a good hour after that the south transept began to fill. There were no cloaks, no weep- ers, no bands, no scarfs, no feathers, — none of the dismal frippery of the undertaker. Let the reader tura to that portion of ' Great Expectations ' in which the funeral of Joe Gargery's wife is described, he will there find full details of the miserable things omitted. In the same part of the same volume, he will find rever- ent allusion to the time when ' these noble passages are read which remind humanity how it brought nothing 384 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF into the world, and can take nothing out ; and how it fleeth like a shadow, and never continueth long in one stay ; ' and will think of the solemn scene in Westminster Abbey yesterday morning, with the dean reading our solemn burial-service, the organ chiming in subdued and low, and the vast place empty, save for the little group of heart -stricken people by an open grave. A plain oak coffin, with a brass plate bearing the inscrip- tion, — )..•• CHARLES DICKENS, Born February 7th, 1812. Died June 9th, 1870. a coffin strewed with wreaths and flowers by the female mourners, and then dust to dust, and ashes to ashes, — such was the funeral of the great man who has gone. In coming to the Abbey, in the first coach were the late Mr. Dickens's children, — Mr. Charles Dickens, juii. ; Mr. Harry Dickens ; Miss Dickens ; Mrs. Charles Collins. In the second coach were Mrs. Austin, his sis- ter ; ^Irs. Charles Dickens, jun. ; Miss Hogarth, his sis- ter-in-law ; Mr. John Forster. In the third coach, Mr. Fr^nk Beard, his medical attendant ; Mr. Charles Col- lins, his son-in-law ; Mr. Ouvry, his solicitor ; Mr. Wilkie Collins ; Mr. Edmund Dickens, his nephew. " Charles Dickens lies surrounded by poets and men CHARLES DICKENS. 385 of genius. Shakspeare's marble effigy looked yesterday into his open grave ; at his feet are Dr. Johnson and David Garrick ; his head is by Addison and Handel ; while Oliver Goldsmith, Rowe, Southey, Campbell, Thomson, Sheridan, Macaulay, and Thackeray, or their memorials, encircle him ; and ' Poets' Corner,' the most faDiiliar spot in the whole Abbey, has thus received an illustrious addition to its peculiar glory. Separated from Dickens's grave by the statues of Shakspeare, Southey, and Thomson, and close by the door to ' Poets' Corner,' are the memorials of Ben Jonson, Dr. Samuel Butler, Milton, Spenser, and Gray ; while Chaucer, Dry- den, Cowley, Mason, Shadwell, and Prior are hard by, and tell the bystander, with their wealth of great names, how — " ' These poets near our princes sleep, And in one grave tlieir mansion keep,* ** CHAPTER XIX. America's sympathy. How the News of Mr. Dickens's Death was received.— Henry "Ward Beecher's Ser» men. — The Voice of the Press. " Man is one ; And he hath one great heart. It is thus we feel, With a gigantic throb athwart the sea, Each other's rights and wrongs : thus are we men ! " Bailey's Festus. "And whether one member suffer, all the members suflfer with it." — 1 Cor. xli. 28. ITH simple truth " The Monthly Rehgious Magazine " remarks, — " It was a great surprise of grief which fell upon men of letters, and upon the multitude to whom the name of Mr. Dickens had long been a synonyme for all that is most charming in the literature of fiction, when it was announced that he had suddenly ceased from his labors, and fallen asleep. The press of two continents, of all shades of opinion, politi- cal and religious, though almost stunned by the tidings, quickly ralhed, as under one universal inspiration, with 886 CHARLES DICKENS. 387 only here and there a. dismal exception, to utter its grateful memory, and to pour out its mighty sorrow. " No single quality so much distinguishes the pages of this admired and lamented child of genius as their natural, broad, genial, exquisitely delicate and tender humanity. Indeed, this is not so much a quality as the animating spirit of them, glowing in all their descrip- tions, in their incomparable humor, their ready, ingenuous wit, their tearful but quiet pathos. Mankind is his debtor, not only for the healthful pleasure which has sprung up under the magic of his pen in thousands of homes and millions of hearts, but for putting into forms so attractive and fascinating so much of the finest essence of Christianity. We say this with careful deliberation. In all the volumes which Mr. Dickens has given to the world, we remember nothing which should make a Christian blush or grieve ; whilst we do discover pervading them, as electricity the atmosphere, the humanities, the charities, the noble aspirations, the enriching faiths, the tender and soothing hopes, which are the sweet and beautiful vintage of the True Vine. . . . Religion, in the restricted sense of the word, is not the only chord in the many-stringed harp of human- ity which may lawfully be touched with Christian fingers ; but he who brings forth dulcet sounds in due proportion from each, blending them all, is master of the divine harmonies, and the true ' man of God.' He is the real artist, trained for his calling by apprentice- LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ship to truth, beauty, and love. In the roll of such artists, representatives of the best literature, with the heartfelt assent of their readers, have hastened to place the brilliant and beloved name of Charles Dickens. He is at rest ' with kings and counsellors of the earth.' All ranks, from the most humble to the most exalted, mourn for him, even as they have rejoiced in him ; but they mourn, not as though he had just begun his splendid career of beneficent ministration to human happiness, but as for one who has finished well the tasks of life ; for he had done enough for his fame, and far more than his part for humanity ; and, after all, he has left the most and the best of himself behind. Let his requiem be the thanksgiving-psalms of the vast multitude whose eyes have glistened, and whose hearts have thi-obbed, under the wondrous spell of his creative fancy. His ' funeral anthem,' let it be ' the glad evangel ' of sym- pathy with man in his lonehness, want, struggle, sorrow, and sin, which his silent word shall preach from genera- tion to generation." " The Boston Transcript " publishes this extract from a private letter from Jean Ingelow: "You know by this time the loss we have sustained in the death of Charles Dickens. Literature seems to have lost her king, and one to whom almost all were loyal. He was the lord of laughter and of tears. The old dress in which mortals used to be presented to us by authors CHARLES DICKENS. 389 had grown shabby ; but he dressed human nature anew, showed it to us as we had never seen it before. He made what was homely and lowly draw near to be looked at and loved." Thus echoes Henry Ward Beecher the cry of mourn- ing from across the sea : — " His works generally produced a powerful impression upon the many wrongs and vices which they sought to remedy. " And while the question of Mr. Dickens's spiritual work is perhaps one that we are not authorized to de- cide, and must not decide, and while, certainly, we can- not reckon him as among the highest natures, we cannot withhold from him our gratitude ; and we cannot but be grateful to God for the fact that he was raised up to do in a lower sphere a greatly needed work ; which he did well. " And, having done his work, he passed from the stage of life as one might wish to die, — one moment in the full enjoyment of his faculties, and the next moment gone, as it were. I will still cling to that old heresy, the Episcopal prayer-book to the contrary notwithstanding. I should never pray to God to keep me from sudden death. Instead of that, my prayer to God is, that he will cut me off suddenly. I do not want to be like an old harness that is always broken, that always has to be tied up 390 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP with strings, or that is always being carried to the shop for repairs, and is always good for nothing. At the full of life, while yet his mind was vigorous, he was stricken down. And he has died at the right time, — at the right time for himself, and at the right time for the world. He had done his work ; and, such as it was, he had done it well. I, for one, thank God for the life of Charles Dickens ; and I thank God for his work. Though I do not regard it as the highest, I regard it as eminently noble and useful. " It will always be a pleasant thing for me to remem- ber that he spoke in our church, using it as a reading- hall." A beautiful tribute is that of George William Curtis in " Harper's Weekly : " — " The great story-teller is the personal friend of the world ; and, when he dies, a shadow faUs upon every home in which his works were familiar, and his name tenderly cherished. When the news came that Dickens was dead, it was felt that the one man who was more beloved than any of his contemporaries by the English- speaking race of to-day was gone. While he yet lay in his own house, unburied, the thoughts of the whole civihzed world turned solemnly to the silent chamber, and gratefully recalled his immense service to mankind. What an amazing fame I What a feeling to inspire I CHARLES DICKEKS. 391 When Walter Scott drew near his end, he said to his son-in-law, Lockhart, as if it were the chief lesson of his accumulated experience, ' Be a good man, my dear.' Nothing else seemed important then. Charity, patience, love, — these he saw, in the dawn of heavenly light, to be the only true possessions, the sole real successes. And who of all men that ever lived has done more to make men good than Charles Dickens ? and what praise so pure as that simple truth spoken by his open grave ? . . . " Even at the very moment that the cunning hand was suddenly stilled forever, how many thousands of readers in England and America, as they finished the beautiful tenth chapter of ' Edwin Drood,' were declaring that Dickens was never so deUghtful as in his latest work ! " And so our friend — the friend of all honest men and women stumbling and struggling in the great battle — sud- enly ceases from among us, — how much happier for him, and for all of us, than the sad decline of the good Sir Walter, whose powers were slowly extinguished, star by star, before the eyes of all men, who therefore could not hear of the end but with a tear of relief ! Now we can perceire how prophetic was the feeling of sadness with which we watched Dickens withdrawing from the plat- form at his last reading in Steinway Hall. All the evening, as he said, the shadow of one word had im- pended over us. He had not faltered for a moment ; but, stvangely, even Pickwick did not seem gay. The 392 . LIFE AND WRITINGS OF feeling of deep and inexpressible affection for the man who had so nobly made his talent ten talents, and who, evidently ill, was now passing from our sight forever, overpowered all other emotion. The vast audience stood cheering and tearful, as, gravely bowing, and refusing all assistance, as if in that 'final moment he wished to confront us alone, the master lingered and lingered, and slowly retired. In that moment, after the long misunderstanding of years between him and this country, and after his wholly manly and generous speech at the press dinner, our hearts clasped his, as he and Mark Lemon grasped hands over the grave of Thack- eray; and henceforward, and for all the future, there was to be nothing in American hearts but boundless love and gratitude for Charles Dickens." " The Overland Monthly " contained a poetic tribute of rare beauty, entitled « DICKENS m CAMP. ** Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting ; The river sang below ; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. " The roaring camp-fire with rude humor painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form, that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth, CHARLES DICKENS. 393 « Till one arose, and from Lis pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew ; And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew. « And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the master Had writ of Little Nell. « Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, for the reader Was youngest of them all ; But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall. " The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray ; While the whole camp, with Nell, on English meadows Wandered, and lost their way. « And so in mountain solitudes o'ertaken, As by some spell divine, Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. « Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire ; And he who wrought that spell — Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire I Ye have one tale to tell. « Lost is that camp ; but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills, With hop-vines' incense, all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. 394 LIFE AND WRITINGS. « And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel-wreaths intwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly. This spray of Western pine." CHAPTER XX, THE INFLUENCE OF CHARLES DICKENS. Sympathy for the Poor. — Love for the Toung. — The Golden Rule. ** Rugged strength and radiant beauty, These were one in Nature's plan : Humble toil and heavenward duty, These will form the perfect man." Mrs. Haxe. " Love worketh no ill to his neighbor : therefore love is the fulfilling of the law." •Rom. xiii. 10. AMES T. FIELDS bears testimony to the unvarying kindness and sympathy, both of heart and manner, which were charac- teristic of Charles Dickens, and says, — " It was his mission to make people happy. Words of good cheer were native to his lips ; and he was always doing what he could to lighten the lot of all who came into his beautiful presence. His talk was simple, natural, and direct, never dropping into circum- locution nor elocution. " Now that he has gone, whoever has known him in- 895 396 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF timately for any considerable period of time will linger over his tender regard for, and his engaging manner with, children ; his cheery ' Good-day ! ' to poor people whom he happened to be passing in the road ; his trust- ful and earnest ' Please God ! ' when he was promising himself any special pleasure, like rejoining an old friend, or returning again to scenes he loved. At such times, his voice had an irresistible pathos in it, and his smile diffused a sensation like music." The beautiful tribute which Lydia Maria Child paid to Charles Dickens in her " Letters from New York," so long ago as 1844, deserves a place here. Speaking of " Tlie Christmas Carol," she says, — " It is a most genial production, — one of the sunniest bubbles that ever floated on the stream of light litera- ture. The ghost is nothing more nor less than memory. " About this ' Carol,' I will tell you ' a merry joy,' as Jeremy Taylor was wont to say. Two friends of mine proposed to give me a New- Year's present, and asked me to choose what it should be. I had certain projects in my head for the benefit of another person ; and I an- swered, that the most acceptable gift would be a dona- tion to carry out my plans. One of the friends whom I addressed was ill pleased with my request. She either did not like the object, or she thought I had no right thus to change the appropriation of their intended CHARLES DICKENS. 397 bounty. She at once said in a manner extremely la- conic and decided, ' I won't give one cent ! ' Her sister remonstrated, and represented that the person in ques- tion had been very unfortunate. ' There is no use in talking to me,' she replied : ' I won't give one cent ! ' " Soon after, a neighbor sent in Dickens's ' Christmas Carol,' saying it was a new work, and perhaps the ladies would like to read it. When the story was carried home, the neighbor asked, ' How did you like it ? ' — 'I have not much reason to thank you for it,' said she ; ' for it has cost me three dollars.' — ' And pray, how is that ? ' — 'I was called upon to contribute towards a charitable object which did not in all respects meet my approbation. I said I wouldn't give one cent. Sister tried to coax me ; but I told her it was of no use, for I wouldn't give one cent. But I have read " The Christ- mas Carol," and now I am obliged to give three dollars.' " It is indeed a blessed mission to write books which abate prejudices, unlock the human heart, and make the kindly sympathies flow freely." Useless is it, and worse than useless is it, to attempt to gauge the character of Charles Dickens by his pro- fession or non-profession of religion. His life and works attest that he believed in the golden rule. Well says a Chicago writer in '' The Liberal Christian," — " Wherever the English tongue is spoken, he has S9S LIFE AKD WRITINGS OF gone, helping to make the world brighter and better bj the gift of his peerless genius ; and the whole world is in mourning because he is not. The rare old motto, ' Speak nought but good of the dead,' comes before us now ; and for the sake of all he has been, for the sake of all he must continue to be, it were only a loving- kmdness that can now find expression in no other way, to speak nought but good of the great soul that was too human to be faultless, but so tender and pitying, that it is the least tribute that can be given to him to see through our tears nothing but his virtues. He was the children's friend ; and none loved them so well or appre- ciated them so well as he. And in that home whither he has gone from out our longing hold, there must have been a great chorus of sweet child-voices welcoming their friend; and Little Nell and Walter, Paul Dombey, and all the dear children that owed their place in the world to him, were realities that welcomed him to that fairer home. "To us who are left, there is only a memory and the priceless creations of his pen ; for there can never be another to wear his mantle of genius, or to hold us cap- tive as he has done." " Let us do him no injustice," adds " The Independ- ent." " We content ourselves with what he was, — a lover of his kind, a friend of the friendless, a champion CHARLES DICKENS. 399 of the poor, the degraded, the outcast, the forlorn. His career was a prolonged beneficence to his fellow-beings. It may be said of his books that they made ' a circum- navigation of charity.' " We have a special love for each particular one. They form a library of remembrance that fills an inner niche in our heart of hearts. It is hard to realize that the world is to have no more droppings from the same pen, which are now ended in the dropping of the pen itself." Of the many friends of Dickens, perhaps the most intimate was Mr. John Forster, the biographer of Gold- smith and Landor, to whom Mr. Dickens dedicated the last editions of his works ; and it seems likely that upon Mr. Forster will devolve the duty of writing the life of his friend. Meanwhile, this memorial volume, by an American woman, though but a compilation, will pre- sent him in a pleasant light to the homes of America into which it shall enter. It shall be closed with a few grand words from the eloquent discourse of Rev. Wil- liam R. Alger, of Boston, as follows : — " Dickens has ever been pre-eminently distinguished for the democratic breadth of his affections, which irra- diate all his works like a divine sunshine, revealing the most beautiful qualities in the lowliest places. He 400 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF spread his heart out to embrace all that was human, and to lift it up for the admiring recognition of the highest. His writings honor human nature, and will for ages be an influence to increase the sum of human kindness and enjoyment. " His task is done. It is all peaceful and well with him. Advanced above pale envy's threatening reach, he recks not how they rave. His works will live ; and, his name and fame are safe. He who has done so much to unfreeze the hearts of the upper classes ; he who has written so many passages of tenderness which none can read without tears, and thousands have read with convulsive sobs, — will never fail to be remembered with affectionate honor. He did well to refuse to be baroneted. Kings take not rank from their inferiors: they bestow it. "I am glad they laid him in Westminster Abbey with such democratic simplicity, on that June day, when, as their reverential hands bore him through the low arch- way, the same English birds that sang to Chaucer, Shakspeare, and Milton were warbling from every branch and coigne of vantage. With instinctive fitness, they buried him in the corner of the poets ; for he, too, was a great poet, whose words will make millions enjoy nature more, and love men better. How sweet sleep was to the worn and sensitive worker ! How unspeak- ably welcome was every soothing tone or touch of love I CHAELES DICKENS. 401 And now, deeply and forever, the weary child rests in the embrace of the Infinite Father, where the perfect intercommunication of spirits supersedes every symbol, martial and ecclesiastical and literary alike, and all truth is at once its own pulpit and preacher." TliE LIFE OF GEORGE PEABODY: CONTAINING • A RECORD OF THOSE PRINCELY ACTS OF BENEVOLENCE WHICH ENTITLE HIM TO THE ESTEEM AND GRATITUDE OF ALL FRIENDS OF EDUCATION, AND THE DESTITUTE, BOTH IN AMERICA, THE LAND OF HIS BIRTH, AND IN ENGLAND, THE PLACE OF HIS DEATH. BY PHEBE A. HANAFORD, Member op the Essex Institute, and Authob op "The Life of Lincoln," etc. WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY DR. JOSEPH H. HANAFORD. 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