This is a modern-English version of The Letters of Charles Dickens. Vol. 1, 1833-1856, originally written by Dickens, Charles.
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THE LETTERS
OF
THE LETTERS
OF
CHARLES DICKENS.
EDITED BY
HIS SISTER-IN-LAW AND HIS ELDEST DAUGHTER.
In Two Volumes.
VOL. I.
1833 to 1856.
London:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.
1880.
[The Right of Translation is Reserved.]
CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.
KATE PERUGINI,
THIS MEMORIAL OF HER FATHER
IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED
BY HER AUNT AND SISTER.
PREFACE.
Our request for the loan of letters was so promptly and fully responded to, that we have been provided with more than sufficient material for our work. By arranging the letters in chronological order, we find that they very frequently explain themselves and form a narrative of the events of each year. Our collection dates from 1833, the commencement of Charles Dickens's literary life, just before the starting of the "Pickwick Papers," and is carried on up to the day before his death, in 1870.[viii]
Our request to borrow the letters was answered so quickly and thoroughly that we have more than enough material for our work. When we arrange the letters in chronological order, they often explain themselves and create a narrative of the events of each year. Our collection starts from 1833, the beginning of Charles Dickens's literary career, just before the launch of the "Pickwick Papers," and continues up until the day before his death in 1870.[viii]
We find some difficulty in being quite accurate in the arrangements of letters up to the end of 1839, for he had a careless habit in those days about dating his letters, very frequently putting only the day of the week on which he wrote, curiously in contrast with the habit of his later life, when his dates were always of the very fullest.
We have some trouble being completely accurate with the organization of letters up to the end of 1839 because he had a careless habit back then regarding the dates on his letters, often just writing the day of the week he wrote them. This is in sharp contrast to his later habit, when he always included the most detailed dates.
A blank is made in Charles Dickens's correspondence with his family by the absence of any letter addressed to his daughter Kate (Mrs. Perugini), to her great regret and to ours. In 1873, her furniture and other possessions were stored in the warehouse of the Pantechnicon at the time of the great fire there. All her property was destroyed, and, among other things, a box of papers which included her letters from her father.
A gap exists in Charles Dickens's letters to his family because there isn't any letter addressed to his daughter Kate (Mrs. Perugini), which is a disappointment for both her and us. In 1873, her furniture and other belongings were stored at the Pantechnicon warehouse during the major fire there. Everything she owned was destroyed, including a box of papers that contained her letters from her father.
It was our intention as well as our desire to have thanked, individually, every one—both living friends and representatives of dead ones—for their readiness to give us every possible help to make our work complete. But the number of such friends, besides correspondents hitherto unknown, who have volunteered contributions of letters, make it impossible in our space to do otherwise than to express, collectively, our earnest and heartfelt thanks.
It was our goal and our wish to personally thank each one of our friends—both the living and those represented by the deceased—for their willingness to help us in every way to complete our work. However, the sheer number of friends, along with previously unknown correspondents who have offered letters, makes it impossible for us to do anything other than express our sincere and heartfelt thanks collectively.
A separate word of gratitude, however, must be given by us to Mr. Wilkie Collins for the invaluable help which we have received from his great knowledge and experience, in the technical part of our work, and for the[ix] deep interest which he has shown from the beginning, in our undertaking.
A special thank you must be given to Mr. Wilkie Collins for the invaluable help we've received from his extensive knowledge and experience in the technical aspects of our work, as well as the[ix] deep interest he has shown from the beginning in our project.
It is a great pleasure to us to have the name of Henry Fielding Dickens associated with this book. To him, for the very important assistance he has given in making our Index, we return our loving thanks.
It gives us great joy to have the name of Henry Fielding Dickens connected to this book. We extend our heartfelt thanks to him for the significant help he provided in creating our Index.
In writing our explanatory notes we have, we hope, left nothing out which in any way requires explanation from us. But we have purposely made them as short as possible; our great desire being to give to the public another book from Charles Dickens's own hands—as it were, a portrait of himself by himself.
In writing our explanatory notes, we hope we've covered everything that needs clarification. However, we've intentionally kept them as brief as possible, as our main goal is to provide the public with another book directly from Charles Dickens—essentially, a self-portrait by him.
Those letters which need no explanation—and of those we have many—we give without a word from us.
Those letters that don’t need any explanation—and there are many of those—we give without saying a word.
In publishing the more private letters, we do so with the view of showing him in his homely, domestic life—of showing how in the midst of his own constant and arduous work, no household matter was considered too trivial to claim his care and attention. He would take as much pains about the hanging of a picture, the choosing of furniture, the superintending any little improvement in the house, as he would about the more serious business of his life; thus carrying out to the very letter his favourite motto of "What is worth doing at all is worth doing well."
In sharing the more personal letters, we aim to reveal his everyday, home life—showing how, despite his ongoing and demanding work, no household task was seen as too small to deserve his care and attention. He put just as much effort into hanging a picture, picking out furniture, or overseeing any minor improvements in the house as he did into the more significant aspects of his life; thus fully embodying his favorite motto, "If something is worth doing, it's worth doing well."
Georgina Hogarth.
London: October, 1879.
London: October 1879.
ERRATA.
VOL. I.
| Page | 111, | line 6. For "because if I hear of you," read "because I hear of you." |
| " | 114, | line 24. For "any old end," read "or any old end." |
| " | 137. | First paragraph, second sentence, should read, "All the ancient part of Rome is wonderful and impressive in the extreme, far beyond the possibility of exaggeration. As to the," etc. |
| " | 456, | line 11. For "Mr." read "Mrs." |
Book I.
1833 to 1842.
THE
LETTERS OF CHARLES DICKENS.
1833 or 1834, and 1835, 1836.
NARRATIVE.
The first letter of this book is addressed to Henry Austin, a friend from his boyhood, who afterwards married his second sister Letitia. It bears no date, but must have been written in 1833 or 1834, during the early days of his reporting for The Morning Chronicle; the journey on which he was "ordered" being for that paper.
The first letter of this book is addressed to Henry Austin, a childhood friend who later married his second sister, Letitia. It has no date, but it was likely written in 1833 or 1834, during the early days of his reporting for The Morning Chronicle; the trip he was "assigned" to was for that paper.
Furnivall's Inn, Wednesday Night, past 12.
I have just been ordered on a journey, the length of which is at present uncertain. I may be back on Sunday very probably, and start again on the following day. Should this be the case, you shall hear from me before.
I’ve just been told to go on a trip, and I’m not sure how long it will last. I might be back on Sunday for sure, and then leave again the next day. If that happens, I’ll reach out to you beforehand.
Don't laugh. I am going (alone) in a gig; and, to quote the eloquent inducement which the proprietors of Hampstead chays hold out to Sunday riders—"the gen'l'm'n drives himself." I am going into Essex and Suffolk. It strikes me I shall be spilt before I pay a turnpike. I have a presentiment I shall run over an only child before I reach Chelmsford, my first stage.
Don't laugh. I'm going on a trip (by myself), and to quote the enticing offer from the owners of Hampstead chays for Sunday riders—"the gentleman drives himself." I'm heading to Essex and Suffolk. I have a feeling I'll end up in a wreck before I even reach a toll booth. I have a hunch that I'll accidentally hit an only child before I get to Chelmsford, my first stop.
Let the evident haste of this specimen of "The Polite Letter Writer" be its excuse, and
Let the obvious rush of this example of "The Polite Letter Writer" be its justification, and
Believe me, dear Henry, most sincerely yours,
Believe me, dear Henry, truly yours,
Note.—To avoid the monotony of a constant repetition, we propose to dispense with the signature at the close of each letter, excepting to the first and last letters of our collection. Charles Dickens's handwriting altered so much during these years of his life, that we have thought it advisable to give a facsimile of his autograph to this our first letter; and we reproduce in the same way his latest autograph[3].
Note.—To keep things from getting boring with constant repetition, we suggest removing the signature from the end of each letter, except for the first and last letters in our collection. Charles Dickens’s handwriting changed a lot during these years, so we decided to include a facsimile of his signature with this first letter, and we’re also including a reproduction of his most recent signature[3].
Furnival's Inn, Wednesday Evening, 1835.
The House is up; but I am very sorry to say that I must stay at home. I have had a visit from the publishers this morning, and the story cannot be any longer delayed; it must be done to-morrow, as there are more important considerations than the mere payment for the story involved too. I must exercise a little self-denial, and set to work.
The house is ready, but I'm really sorry to say that I have to stay home. I had a visit from the publishers this morning, and the story can't be put off any longer; it has to be finished by tomorrow, as there are more important factors at play than just the payment for the story. I need to practice some self-discipline and get to work.
They (Chapman and Hall) have made me an offer of fourteen pounds a month, to write and edit a new publication they contemplate, entirely by myself, to be published monthly, and each number to contain four woodcuts. I am to make my estimate and calculation, and to give them a decisive answer on Friday morning. The work will be no joke, but the emolument is too tempting to resist.
They (Chapman and Hall) have offered me fourteen pounds a month to write and edit a new publication that they’re planning, all on my own, to be published monthly, with each issue containing four woodcuts. I need to do my calculations and give them a final answer by Friday morning. The work won’t be easy, but the pay is too tempting to turn down.
Sunday Evening.
I have at this moment got Pickwick and his friends on the Rochester coach, and they are going on swimmingly, in company with a very different character from any I have yet described, who I flatter myself will make a decided hit. I want to get them from the ball to the inn before I go to bed; and I think that will take me until one or two o'clock at the earliest. The publishers will be here in the morning, so you will readily suppose I have no alternative but to stick at my desk.
I currently have Pickwick and his friends on the Rochester coach, and they’re doing great, along with a very different character than anyone I've described so far, who I believe will be a big hit. I want to get them from the ball to the inn before I head to bed, and I think that’ll take me until at least one or two o'clock. The publishers will be here in the morning, so you can easily guess I have no choice but to stay at my desk.
1837.
NARRATIVE.
The first letters which we have been able to procure to Mr. Macready and Mr. Harley will be found under this date. In January, 1837, he was living in Furnival's Inn, where his first child, a son, was born. It was an eventful year to him in many ways. He removed from Furnival's Inn to Doughty Street in March, and here he sustained the first great grief of his life. His young sister-in-law, Mary Hogarth, to whom he was devotedly attached, died very suddenly, at his house, on the 7th May. In the autumn of this year he took lodgings at Broadstairs. This was his first visit to that pleasant little watering-place, of which he became very fond, and whither he removed for the autumn months with all his household, for many years in succession.
The first letters we were able to get to Mr. Macready and Mr. Harley will be found under this date. In January 1837, he was living at Furnival's Inn, where his first child, a son, was born. It was a significant year for him in many ways. He moved from Furnival's Inn to Doughty Street in March, and here he experienced the first major loss of his life. His young sister-in-law, Mary Hogarth, to whom he was deeply attached, died very suddenly at his house on May 7th. In the autumn of that year, he found a place to stay at Broadstairs. This was his first visit to that charming little seaside town, which he came to love, and he moved there for the autumn months with his whole family for many years in a row.
Besides the monthly numbers of "Pickwick," which were going on through this year until November, when the last number appeared, he had commenced "Oliver Twist," which was appearing also monthly, in the magazine called "Bentley's Miscellany," long before "Pickwick" was completed. And during this year he had edited, for Mr. Bentley, "The Life of Grimaldi," the celebrated clown. To this book he wrote himself only the preface, and altered and rearranged the autobiographical MS. which was in Mr. Bentley's possession.
Besides the monthly issues of "Pickwick," which continued through this year until November when the final issue came out, he had started "Oliver Twist," which was also being published monthly in the magazine "Bentley's Miscellany," long before "Pickwick" was finished. Throughout this year, he also edited "The Life of Grimaldi," the famous clown, for Mr. Bentley. He only wrote the preface for this book and adjusted and rearranged the autobiographical manuscript that Mr. Bentley had.
The letter to Mr. Harley, which bears no date, but must have been written either in 1836 or 1837, refers to a farce called "The Strange Gentleman" (founded on one of the "Sketches," called the "Great Winglebury Duel"), which he wrote expressly for Mr. Harley, and which was produced[5] at the St. James's Theatre, under the management of Mr. Braham. The only other piece which he wrote for that theatre was the story of an operetta, called "The Village Coquettes," the music of which was composed by Mr. John Hullah.
The letter to Mr. Harley, which has no date but must have been written either in 1836 or 1837, mentions a farce called "The Strange Gentleman" (based on one of the "Sketches," titled the "Great Winglebury Duel"), which he wrote specifically for Mr. Harley and which was performed[5] at the St. James's Theatre, managed by Mr. Braham. The only other work he wrote for that theatre was a story for an operetta called "The Village Coquettes," with music composed by Mr. John Hullah.
48, Doughty St., Saturday Morning.
I have considered the terms on which I could afford just now to sell Mr. Braham the acting copyright in London of an entirely new piece for the St. James's Theatre; and I could not sit down to write one in a single act of about one hour long, under a hundred pounds. For a new piece in two acts, a hundred and fifty pounds would be the sum I should require.
I’ve thought about the conditions under which I could sell Mr. Braham the acting copyright in London for a completely new play for the St. James's Theatre; and I couldn’t write a one-act play that lasts about an hour for less than a hundred pounds. For a new two-act play, I would need a hundred and fifty pounds.
I do not know whether, with reference to arrangements that were made with any other writers, this may or may not appear a large item. I state it merely with regard to the value of my own time and writings at this moment; and in so doing I assure you I place the remuneration below the mark rather than above it.
I’m not sure if this seems like a big deal compared to what was agreed with other writers. I mention it only to reflect the value of my own time and work right now; and in doing so, I want to assure you that I'm rating the payment lower rather than higher.
As you begged me to give you my reply upon this point, perhaps you will lay it before Mr. Braham. If these terms exceed his inclination or the ability of the theatre, there is an end of the matter, and no harm done.
As you asked me to give you my response on this matter, maybe you can share it with Mr. Braham. If these terms are too much for him or the theater can’t handle it, then that’s that, and no harm done.
48, Doughty St., Wednesday Evening.
There is a semi-business, semi-pleasure little dinner which I intend to give at The Prince of Wales, in Leicester Place, Leicester Square, on Saturday, at five for half-past precisely, at which only Talfourd, Forster, Ainsworth, Jerdan, and the publishers will be present. It is[6] to celebrate (that is too great a word, but I can think of no better) the conclusion of my "Pickwick" labours; and so I intend, before you take that roll upon the grass you spoke of, to beg your acceptance of one of the first complete copies of the work. I shall be much delighted if you would join us.
I’m hosting a small dinner that’s part business, part pleasure at The Prince of Wales in Leicester Place, Leicester Square, on Saturday at five, for a 5:30 start. Only Talfourd, Forster, Ainsworth, Jerdan, and the publishers will be there. It’s[6] to mark the end of my work on "Pickwick"; maybe “celebrate” is a bit much, but it’s the best word I can find. Before you go take that walk on the grass you mentioned, I’d like to give you one of the first complete copies of the book. I’d be really happy if you could join us.
I know too well the many anxieties that press upon you just now to seek to persuade you to come if you would prefer a night's repose and quiet. Let me assure you, notwithstanding, most honestly and heartily that there is no one I should be more happy or gratified to see, and that among your brilliant circle of well-wishers and admirers you number none more unaffectedly and faithfully yours than,
I understand the many worries that are weighing on you right now, so I won’t try to convince you to come if you’d rather have a peaceful night. However, I want to genuinely assure you that no one would make me happier or more grateful to see than you, and among your amazing group of friends and admirers, there’s no one who is more truly and faithfully yours than,
1838.
NARRATIVE.
The first letter which appears under this date, from Twickenham Park, is addressed to Mr. Thomas Mitton, a schoolfellow at one of his earliest schools, and afterwards for some years his solicitor. The letter contains instructions for his first will; the friend of almost his whole life, Mr. John Forster, being appointed executor to this will as he was to the last, to which he was "called upon to act" only three years before his own death.
The first letter dated from Twickenham Park is addressed to Mr. Thomas Mitton, a schoolmate from one of his earliest schools and later his solicitor for several years. The letter includes instructions for his first will, with Mr. John Forster, a lifelong friend, named as the executor, just like he was for the last will, which he was "called upon to act" on only three years before his own death.
The letter which we give in this year to Mr. Justice Talfourd is, unfortunately, the only one we have been able to procure to that friend, who was, however, one with whom he was most intimately associated, and with whom he maintained a constant correspondence.
The letter we’re sharing this year with Mr. Justice Talfourd is, unfortunately, the only one we could get from that friend, who was someone he was very close to and with whom he kept in regular contact.
The letter beginning "Respected Sir" was an answer to a little boy (Master Hastings Hughes), who had written to him as "Nicholas Nickleby" approached completion, stating his views and wishes as to the rewards and punishments to be bestowed on the various characters in the book. The letter was sent to him through the Rev. Thomas Barham, author of "The Ingoldsby Legends."
The letter starting with "Dear Sir" was a response to a young boy (Master Hastings Hughes), who had written to him as "Nicholas Nickleby" was nearing its end, expressing his thoughts and desires about the rewards and punishments that should be given to the different characters in the book. The letter was sent to him via the Rev. Thomas Barham, the author of "The Ingoldsby Legends."
The two letters to Mr. Macready, at the end of this year, refer to a farce which Charles Dickens wrote, with an idea that it might be suitable for Covent Garden Theatre, then under Mr. Macready's management.
The two letters to Mr. Macready, at the end of this year, refer to a comedy that Charles Dickens wrote, thinking it might be a good fit for Covent Garden Theatre, which was then managed by Mr. Macready.
Greta Bridge, Thursday, Feb. 1st, 1838.
I am afraid you will receive this later than I could wish, as the mail does not come through this place until two o'clock to-morrow morning. However, I have availed myself of the very first opportunity of writing, so the fault is that mail's, and not this.
I’m sorry you’ll get this later than I’d like, since the mail doesn’t come through here until two o’clock tomorrow morning. Still, I took the very first chance to write, so it’s the mail’s fault, not mine.
We reached Grantham between nine and ten on Thursday night, and found everything prepared for our reception in the very best inn I have ever put up at. It is odd[8] enough that an old lady, who had been outside all day and came in towards dinner time, turned out to be the mistress of a Yorkshire school returning from the holiday stay in London. She was a very queer old lady, and showed us a long letter she was carrying to one of the boys from his father, containing a severe lecture (enforced and aided by many texts of Scripture) on his refusing to eat boiled meat. She was very communicative, drank a great deal of brandy and water, and towards evening became insensible, in which state we left her.
We arrived in Grantham between nine and ten on Thursday night and found everything ready for us at the best inn I've ever stayed in. It's pretty strange that an old lady, who had been outside all day and came in around dinner time, turned out to be the head of a Yorkshire school returning from a holiday in London. She was quite an eccentric old lady and showed us a long letter she was carrying for one of the boys from his father. The letter contained a serious lecture (backed up with a lot of Bible verses) about his refusal to eat boiled meat. She was very talkative, drank a lot of brandy and water, and by the evening, she was passed out, which is how we left her.
Yesterday we were up again shortly after seven a.m., came on upon our journey by the Glasgow mail, which charged us the remarkably low sum of six pounds fare for two places inside. We had a very droll male companion until seven o'clock in the evening, and a most delicious lady's-maid for twenty miles, who implored us to keep a sharp look-out at the coach-windows, as she expected the carriage was coming to meet her and she was afraid of missing it. We had many delightful vauntings of the same kind; but in the end it is scarcely necessary to say that the coach did not come, but a very dirty girl did.
Yesterday, we got up again shortly after seven AM and continued our journey on the Glasgow mail, which charged us the surprisingly low fare of six pounds for two seats inside. We had a very amusing male companion until seven o'clock in the evening, and a lovely lady's-maid for twenty miles, who begged us to keep a close watch at the coach windows, as she expected the carriage was on its way to meet her and she was worried about missing it. We had many entertaining boasts of that sort; but in the end, it’s hardly necessary to say that the coach didn’t show up, but a very scruffy girl did.
As we came further north the mire grew deeper. About eight o'clock it began to fall heavily, and, as we crossed the wild heaths hereabout, there was no vestige of a track. The mail kept on well, however, and at eleven we reached a bare place with a house standing alone in the midst of a dreary moor, which the guard informed us was Greta Bridge. I was in a perfect agony of apprehension, for it was fearfully cold, and there were no outward signs of anybody being up in the house. But to our great joy we discovered a comfortable room, with drawn curtains and a most blazing fire. In half an hour they gave us a smoking supper and a bottle of mulled port (in which we drank your health),[9] and then we retired to a couple of capital bedrooms, in each of which there was a rousing fire halfway up the chimney.
As we traveled further north, the swamp got thicker. Around eight o'clock, it started to rain heavily, and as we crossed the wild heaths in the area, there was no sign of a path. The mail coach kept moving along well, though, and by eleven, we arrived at a bare spot with a house standing alone in the middle of a gloomy moor, which the guard told us was Greta Bridge. I was in a state of complete anxiety because it was freezing cold, and there were no visible signs of anyone being inside the house. But to our great relief, we found a cozy room with closed curtains and a roaring fire. In half an hour, they served us a hot supper and a bottle of mulled port (during which we toasted to your health),[9] and then we went to two lovely bedrooms, each with a roaring fire halfway up the chimney.
We have had for breakfast, toast, cakes, a Yorkshire pie, a piece of beef about the size and much the shape of my portmanteau, tea, coffee, ham, and eggs; and are now going to look about us. Having finished our discoveries, we start in a postchaise for Barnard Castle, which is only four miles off, and there I deliver the letter given me by Mitton's friend. All the schools are round about that place, and a dozen old abbeys besides, which we shall visit by some means or other to-morrow. We shall reach York on Saturday I hope, and (God willing) I trust I shall be at home on Wednesday morning.
We had toast, cakes, a Yorkshire pie, a piece of beef about the size and shape of my suitcase, tea, coffee, ham, and eggs for breakfast, and now we're getting ready to look around. After we finish our explorations, we'll take a carriage to Barnard Castle, which is just four miles away, and I'll deliver the letter given to me by Mitton's friend. There are several schools nearby and a dozen old abbeys that we'll try to visit tomorrow. I hope we'll get to York on Saturday, and (if all goes well) I trust I'll be home by Wednesday morning.
I wish you would call on Mrs. Bentley and thank her for the letter; you can tell her when I expect to be in York.
I wish you would visit Mrs. Bentley and thank her for the letter; you can let her know when I plan to be in York.
A thousand loves and kisses to the darling boy, whom I see in my mind's eye crawling about the floor of this Yorkshire inn. Bless his heart, I would give two sovereigns for a kiss. Remember me too to Frederick, who I hope is attentive to you.
A thousand loves and kisses to the sweet boy, whom I picture crawling around the floor of this Yorkshire inn. Bless his heart, I would give two pounds for a kiss. Please say hi to Frederick for me; I hope he's taking good care of you.
Is it not extraordinary that the same dreams which have constantly visited me since poor Mary died follow me everywhere? After all the change of scene and fatigue, I have dreamt of her ever since I left home, and no doubt shall till I return. I should be sorry to lose such visions, for they are very happy ones, if it be only the seeing her in one's sleep. I would fain believe, too, sometimes, that her spirit may have some influence over them, but their perpetual repetition is extraordinary.
Isn’t it amazing that the same dreams that have constantly come to me since poor Mary died follow me everywhere I go? Despite all the changes in scenery and my exhaustion, I’ve dreamed of her ever since I left home, and no doubt I will until I return. I would be sad to lose those visions because they’re very happy ones, even if it’s just seeing her in my sleep. I also like to think, sometimes, that her spirit might have some influence over them, but the fact that they keep repeating is pretty extraordinary.
Love to all friends.
Love to all my friends.
Your affectionate Husband.
Twickenham Park, Tuesday Night.
I sat down this morning and put on paper my testamentary meaning. Whether it is sufficiently legal or not is another question, but I hope it is. The rough draft of the clauses which I enclose will be preceded by as much of the fair copy as I send you, and followed by the usual clause about the receipts of the trustees being a sufficient discharge. I also wish to provide that if all our children should die before twenty-one, and Kate married again, half the surplus should go to her and half to my surviving brothers and sisters, share and share alike.
I sat down this morning and wrote out my will. Whether it’s legally binding or not is another matter, but I hope it is. The rough draft of the clauses I’m enclosing will be followed by the fair copy I’m sending you, along with the standard clause stating that the trustees' receipts will be a sufficient discharge. I also want to specify that if all our children die before turning twenty-one, and Kate remarries, half of the remaining assets should go to her, and half to my surviving siblings, equally divided.
This will be all, except a few lines I wish to add which there will be no occasion to consult you about, as they will merely bear reference to a few tokens of remembrance and one or two slight funeral directions. And so pray God that you may be gray, and Forster bald, long before you are called upon to act as my executors.
This is all I have to say, except for a few lines I want to add that you won’t need to discuss with me, as they will just mention a few mementos and a couple of simple funeral instructions. So, I hope that you’re both gray and Forster is bald long before you have to step in as my executors.
I suppose I shall see you at the water-party on Thursday? We will then make an appointment for Saturday morning, and if you think my clauses will do, I will complete my copy, seal it up, and leave it in your hands. There are some other papers which you ought to have. We must get a box.
I guess I’ll see you at the water-party on Thursday? We can then set up a meeting for Saturday morning, and if you think my terms are good, I’ll finish my copy, seal it up, and leave it with you. There are some other papers that you should have. We need to get a box.
Twickenham Park, Sunday, July 15th, 1838.
I cannot tell you how much pleasure I have derived from the receipt of your letter. I have heard little of you, and seen less, for so long a time, that your handwriting[11] came like the renewal of some old friendship, and gladdened my eyes like the face of some old friend.
I can't express how much joy I felt receiving your letter. I’ve heard very little about you and seen even less for such a long time that your handwriting[11] felt like a revival of an old friendship and brightened my day like the face of a long-lost friend.
If I hear from Lady Holland before you return, I shall, as in duty bound, present myself at her bidding; but between you and me and the general post, I hope she may not renew her invitation until I can visit her with you, as I would much rather avail myself of your personal introduction. However, whatever her ladyship may do I shall respond to, and anyway shall be only too happy to avail myself of what I am sure cannot fail to form a very pleasant and delightful introduction.
If I hear from Lady Holland before you get back, I’ll, as I should, go see her when she asks; but just between us and the post, I hope she doesn’t invite me again until I can visit with you, since I’d much rather have your personal introduction. Still, whatever she decides, I’ll respond, and honestly, I’ll be more than happy to take advantage of what I know will be a very nice and enjoyable introduction.
Your kind invitation and reminder of the subject of a pleasant conversation in one of our pleasant rides, has thrown a gloom over the brightness of Twickenham, for here I am chained. It is indispensably necessary that "Oliver Twist" should be published in three volumes, in September next. I have only just begun the last one, and, having the constant drawback of my monthly work, shall be sadly harassed to get it finished in time, especially as I have several very important scenes (important to the story I mean) yet to write. Nothing would give me so much pleasure as to be with you for a week or so. I can only imperfectly console myself with the hope that when you see "Oliver" you will like the close of the book, and approve my self-denial in staying here to write it. I should like to know your address in Scotland when you leave town, so that I may send you the earliest copy if it be produced in the vacation, which I pray Heaven it may.
Your lovely invitation and reminder about our enjoyable conversation during one of our nice rides has cast a shadow over the brightness of Twickenham, as I feel stuck here. It’s absolutely essential that "Oliver Twist" is published in three volumes by next September. I’ve just started the last volume, and with my monthly responsibilities, I’ll be really stressed to finish it on time, especially since I still need to write some key scenes (key to the story, that is). Nothing would make me happier than to spend a week or so with you. I can only partially comfort myself with the hope that when you read "Oliver," you’ll like the end of the book and appreciate my choice to stay here and write it. I’d love to know your address in Scotland when you leave town so I can send you the first copy, if it’s ready during the vacation, which I hope it will be.
Meanwhile, believe that though my body is on the banks of the Thames, half my heart is going the Oxford circuit.
Meanwhile, know that even though my body is by the Thames, half of my heart is on the Oxford circuit.
Mrs. Dickens and Charley desire their best remembrances (the latter expresses some anxiety, not unmixed[12] with apprehension, relative to the Copyright Bill, in which he conceives himself interested), with hearty wishes that you may have a fine autumn, which is all you want, being sure of all other means of enjoyment that a man can have.
Mrs. Dickens and Charley send their best wishes (the latter expresses some concern, mixed with a bit of worry, about the Copyright Bill, which he believes affects him), along with heartfelt hopes that you have a great autumn, which is all you need, since you're already assured of all the other ways to enjoy life that a person can have.
Ever faithfully yours.
P.S.—I hope you are able to spare a moment now and then to glance at "Nicholas Nickleby," and that you have as yet found no reason to alter the opinion you formed on the appearance of the first number.
P.S.—I hope you can take a moment now and then to look at "Nicholas Nickleby," and that you haven't found any reason to change the opinion you formed after seeing the first issue.
You know, I suppose, that they elected me at the Athenæum? Pray thank Mr. Serjeant Storks for me.
You know, I guess, that they elected me at the Athenæum? Please thank Mr. Serjeant Storks for me.
Lion Hotel, Shrewsbury, Thursday, Nov. 1st, 1838.
I received your welcome letter on arriving here last night, and am rejoiced to hear that the dear children are so much better. I hope that in your next, or your next but one, I shall learn that they are quite well. A thousand kisses to them. I wish I could convey them myself.
I got your welcome letter when I arrived here last night, and I’m so happy to hear that the kids are doing much better. I hope that in your next letter, or the one after that, I’ll find out they’re completely well. Sending a thousand kisses to them. I wish I could give them myself.
We found a roaring fire, an elegant dinner, a snug room, and capital beds all ready for us at Leamington, after a very agreeable (but very cold) ride. We started in a postchaise next morning for Kenilworth, with which we were both enraptured, and where I really think we MUST have lodgings next summer, please God that we are in good health and all goes well. You cannot conceive how delightful it is. To read among the ruins in fine weather would be perfect luxury. From here we went on to Warwick Castle, which is an ancient building, newly restored, and possessing no very great attraction beyond a fine view and some beautiful pictures; and thence to[13] Stratford-upon-Avon, where we sat down in the room where Shakespeare was born, and left our autographs and read those of other people and so forth.
We found a roaring fire, a nice dinner, a cozy room, and comfy beds all set up for us at Leamington after a very enjoyable (but very cold) ride. The next morning, we set off in a carriage for Kenilworth, which we were both thrilled about, and I really think we MUST get a place to stay there next summer, God willing that we're in good health and everything goes smoothly. You can’t imagine how lovely it is. Reading among the ruins in nice weather would be pure luxury. From there, we went on to Warwick Castle, which is an old building that’s been recently restored and doesn’t offer much beyond a great view and some beautiful paintings; and then we headed to [13] Stratford-upon-Avon, where we settled in the room where Shakespeare was born, left our signatures, and read those of other people and so on.
We remained at Stratford all night, and found to our unspeakable dismay that father's plan of proceeding by Bridgenorth was impracticable, as there were no coaches. So we were compelled to come here by way of Birmingham and Wolverhampton, starting at eight o'clock through a cold wet fog, and travelling, when the day had cleared up, through miles of cinder-paths and blazing furnaces, and roaring steam-engines, and such a mass of dirt, gloom, and misery as I never before witnessed. We got pretty well accommodated here when we arrived at half-past four, and are now going off in a postchaise to Llangollen—thirty miles—where we shall remain to-night, and where the Bangor mail will take us up to-morrow. Such are our movements up to this point, and when I have received your letter at Chester I shall write to you again and tell you when I shall be back. I can say positively that I shall not exceed the fortnight, and I think it very possible that I may return a day or two before it expires.
We stayed in Stratford all night and, to our immense disappointment, found out that Dad's plan to go via Bridgenorth wasn't possible because there were no coaches available. So, we had to take the route through Birmingham and Wolverhampton, leaving at eight o'clock in the cold, wet fog. When the day cleared up, we traveled through miles of dirt paths, blazing furnaces, and roaring steam engines, witnessing a level of grime, gloom, and misery I'd never seen before. We got settled in here when we arrived at half-past four, and now we’re heading off in a postchaise to Llangollen—thirty miles away—where we'll stay tonight, and the Bangor mail will take us tomorrow. That’s our itinerary so far, and once I get your letter in Chester, I'll write to you again to let you know when I'll be back. I can say for sure that I won’t be gone longer than two weeks, and I think it's quite possible I might return a day or two before that.
We were at the play last night. It was a bespeak—"The Love Chase," a ballet (with a phenomenon!), divers songs, and "A Roland for an Oliver." It is a good theatre, but the actors are very funny. Browne laughed with such indecent heartiness at one point of the entertainment, that an old gentleman in the next box suffered the most violent indignation. The bespeak party occupied two boxes, the ladies were full-dressed, and the gentlemen, to a man, in white gloves with flowers in their button-holes. It amused us mightily, and was really as like the Miss Snevellicci business as it could well be.
We were at a play last night. It was "The Love Chase," a ballet (with a standout performance!), various songs, and "A Roland for an Oliver." It’s a nice theater, but the actors are really funny. Browne laughed so hard at one part of the show that an older gentleman in the next box was extremely offended. Our party took up two boxes, the ladies were dressed to the nines, and all the men wore white gloves with flowers in their buttonholes. It was incredibly amusing, and honestly, it reminded us a lot of the Miss Snevellicci situation.
My side has been very bad since I left home, although[14] I have been very careful not to drink much, remaining to the full as abstemious as usual, and have not eaten any great quantity, having no appetite. I suffered such an ecstasy of pain all night at Stratford that I was half dead yesterday, and was obliged last night to take a dose of henbane. The effect was most delicious. I slept soundly, and without feeling the least uneasiness, and am a great deal better this morning; neither do I find that the henbane has affected my head, which, from the great effect it had upon me—exhilarating me to the most extraordinary degree, and yet keeping me sleepy—I feared it would. If I had not got better I should have turned back to Birmingham, and come straight home by the railroad. As it is, I hope I shall make out the trip.
My side has been really bad since I left home, although[14] I've been really careful not to drink much, staying as sober as usual, and I haven't eaten much because I have no appetite. I was in so much pain all night in Stratford that I felt half dead yesterday, and I had to take a dose of henbane last night. The effect was amazing. I slept well, without any discomfort, and I'm feeling a lot better this morning; also, I don't find that the henbane has affected my mind, which I worried it might since it made me feel incredibly uplifted while keeping me drowsy. If I hadn't felt better, I would have turned back to Birmingham and gone straight home by train. As it is, I hope I can manage the rest of the trip.
God bless you, my darling. I long to be back with you again and to see the sweet Babs.
God bless you, my love. I can’t wait to be back with you and see the sweet Babs.
Doughty Street, London, Dec. 12th, 1838.
I have given Squeers one cut on the neck and two on the head, at which he appeared much surprised and began to cry, which, being a cowardly thing, is just what I should have expected from him—wouldn't you?
I gave Squeers one slash on the neck and two on the head, which really caught him off guard and made him cry. Since that's such a cowardly reaction, it’s exactly what I would have expected from him—wouldn’t you?
I have carefully done what you told me in your letter about the lamb and the two "sheeps" for the little boys. They have also had some good ale and porter, and some wine. I am sorry you didn't say what wine you would like them to have. I gave them some sherry, which they liked very much, except one boy, who was a little sick and choked a good deal. He was rather greedy, and that's the truth, and I believe it went the wrong way, which I say served him right, and I hope you will say so too.
I followed your instructions from your letter about the lamb and the two "sheeps" for the little boys. They've also enjoyed some good ale and porter, as well as some wine. I'm sorry you didn't specify what type of wine you wanted them to have. I gave them some sherry, which they really liked, except for one boy who was a bit sick and ended up choking quite a bit. He was pretty greedy, and that's the truth; I believe it went down the wrong way, and I think he got what he deserved. I hope you feel the same way too.
Nicholas had his roast lamb, as you said he was to, but[15] he could not eat it all, and says if you do not mind his doing so he should like to have the rest hashed to-morrow with some greens, which he is very fond of, and so am I. He said he did not like to have his porter hot, for he thought it spoilt the flavour, so I let him have it cold. You should have seen him drink it. I thought he never would have left off. I also gave him three pounds of money, all in sixpences, to make it seem more, and he said directly that he should give more than half to his mamma and sister, and divide the rest with poor Smike. And I say he is a good fellow for saying so; and if anybody says he isn't I am ready to fight him whenever they like—there!
Nicholas had his roast lamb, just as you said he would, but[15] he couldn't finish it all. He mentioned that if it's okay with you, he would like the leftovers hashed tomorrow with some greens, which he really enjoys, and so do I. He said he didn’t like to have his porter hot because he thought it ruined the flavor, so I let him have it cold. You should have seen him drink it. I thought he would never stop. I also gave him three pounds in all sixpences to make it look like more, and he immediately said he would give more than half to his mom and sister, splitting the rest with poor Smike. I think he's a good guy for saying that, and if anyone says he isn't, I'm ready to fight them anytime—there!
Fanny Squeers shall be attended to, depend upon it. Your drawing of her is very like, except that I don't think the hair is quite curly enough. The nose is particularly like hers, and so are the legs. She is a nasty disagreeable thing, and I know it will make her very cross when she sees it; and what I say is that I hope it may. You will say the same I know—at least I think you will.
Fanny Squeers will definitely be looked after, trust me. Your drawing of her is really close, except I don't think the hair is curly enough. The nose is especially spot on, and so are the legs. She’s a nasty, unpleasant person, and I know it will make her really angry when she sees it; and honestly, I hope it does. I'm sure you feel the same way—I think you will.
I meant to have written you a long letter, but I cannot write very fast when I like the person I am writing to, because that makes me think about them, and I like you, and so I tell you. Besides, it is just eight o'clock at night, and I always go to bed at eight o'clock, except when it is my birthday, and then I sit up to supper. So I will not say anything more besides this—and that is my love to you and Neptune; and if you will drink my health every Christmas Day I will drink yours—come.
I intended to write you a long letter, but I can’t write very quickly when I really like the person I’m writing to. It makes me think about them, and I do like you, so I’m telling you that. Also, it’s just eight o'clock at night, and I always go to bed at eight, except on my birthday when I stay up for supper. So I won’t say anything more except this—and that’s my love to you and Neptune. If you’ll drink to my health every Christmas Day, I’ll drink to yours—deal?
Dear Sir,
Your affectionate Friend.
P.S.—I don't write my name very plain, but you know what it is you know, so never mind[16].
P.S.—I don't write my name very clearly, but you know what it is, so never mind[16].
Doughty St., Monday Morning.
I have not seen you for the past week, because I hoped when we next met to bring "The Lamplighter" in my hand. It would have been finished by this time, but I found myself compelled to set to work first at the "Nickleby" on which I am at present engaged, and which I regret to say—after my close and arduous application last month—I find I cannot write as quickly as usual. I must finish it, at latest, by the 24th (a doubtful comfort!), and the instant I have done so I will apply myself to the farce. I am afraid to name any particular day, but I pledge myself that you shall have it this month, and you may calculate on that promise. I send you with this a copy of a farce I wrote for Harley when he left Drury Lane, and in which he acted for some seventy nights. It is the best thing he does. It is barely possible you might like to try it. Any local or temporary allusions could be easily altered.
I haven't seen you in the past week because I was hoping to bring "The Lamplighter" with me when we next meet. It should have been done by now, but I had to focus first on the "Nickleby" I'm currently working on, and unfortunately, after my intense effort last month, I’m finding it harder to write as quickly as I usually do. I need to finish it by the 24th at the latest (not exactly comforting!), and as soon as I’m done, I’ll dive into the farce. I’m hesitant to give a specific date, but I promise you’ll get it this month, so you can count on that. I’m sending you a copy of a farce I wrote for Harley when he left Drury Lane, where he performed it for about seventy nights. It’s the best thing he does, and you might want to give it a shot. Any local or temporary references can be easily changed.
Believe me that I only feel gratified and flattered by your inquiry after the farce, and that if I had as much time as I have inclination, I would write on and on and on, farce after farce and comedy after comedy, until I wrote you something that would run. You do me justice when you give me credit for good intentions; but the extent of my good-will and strong and warm interest in you personally and your great undertaking, you cannot fathom nor express.
Believe me, I feel both honored and flattered by your inquiry after the performance. If I had as much time as I have desire, I would keep writing, one farce after another and one comedy after the next, until I produced something that would succeed. You give me credit for having good intentions, and that's fair; however, you cannot fully understand or express the depth of my goodwill and my strong, warm interest in you personally and your fantastic undertaking.
Ever faithfully yours.
P.S.—For Heaven's sake don't fancy that I hold "The Strange Gentleman" in any estimation, or have a wish upon the subject[17].
P.S.—Don’t think for a second that I have any regard for "The Strange Gentleman" or that I care about it at all[17].
48, Doughty St., December 13th, 1838.
I can have but one opinion on the subject—withdraw the farce at once, by all means.
I can only have one opinion on the matter—pull the plug on this charade immediately, for sure.
I perfectly concur in all you say, and thank you most heartily and cordially for your kind and manly conduct, which is only what I should have expected from you; though, under such circumstances, I sincerely believe there are few but you—if any—who would have adopted it.
I completely agree with everything you’ve said, and I sincerely thank you for your kind and brave behavior, which is exactly what I would have expected from you; however, in this situation, I honestly believe there are very few people—if any—who would have done the same.
Believe me that I have no other feeling of disappointment connected with this matter but that arising from the not having been able to be of some use to you. And trust me that, if the opportunity should ever arrive, my ardour will only be increased—not damped—by the result of this experiment.
Believe me, I only feel disappointed about this because I haven't been able to help you. And trust me, if the chance ever comes up again, my eagerness to assist will only be stronger—not weaker—because of the outcome of this experience.
Faithfully yours.
1839.
NARRATIVE.
The cottage at Alphington, near Exeter, mentioned in the letter to Mr. Mitton, was hired by Charles Dickens for his parents.
The cottage in Alphington, close to Exeter, referenced in the letter to Mr. Mitton, was rented by Charles Dickens for his parents.
He was at work all through this year on "Nicholas Nickleby."
He was working all year on "Nicholas Nickleby."
We have now the commencement of his correspondence with Mr. George Cattermole. His first letter was written immediately after Mr. Cattermole's marriage with Miss Elderton, a distant connection of Charles Dickens; hence[18] the allusions to "cousin," which will be found in many of his letters to Mr. Cattermole. The bride and bridegroom were passing their honeymoon in the neighbourhood of Petersham, and the letter refers to a request from them for the loan of some books, and also to his having lent them his pony carriage and groom, during their stay in this neighbourhood.
We now begin his correspondence with Mr. George Cattermole. His first letter was written right after Mr. Cattermole married Miss Elderton, a distant relative of Charles Dickens; hence[18] the references to "cousin," which you'll find in many of his letters to Mr. Cattermole. The newlyweds were spending their honeymoon near Petersham, and the letter mentions their request to borrow some books, as well as his loan of his pony carriage and groom while they were in the area.
The first letter in this year to Mr. Macready is in answer to one from him, announcing his retirement from the management of Covent Garden Theatre.
The first letter this year to Mr. Macready is in response to one from him, announcing his decision to step down from managing Covent Garden Theatre.
The portrait by Mr. Maclise, mentioned to Mr. Harley, was the, now, well-known one, which appeared as a frontispiece to "Nicholas Nickleby."
The portrait by Mr. Maclise, mentioned to Mr. Harley, was the now-famous one that served as the frontispiece to "Nicholas Nickleby."
Doughty St., Sunday.
I will have, if you please, three dozen of the extraordinary champagne; and I am much obliged to you for recollecting me.
I would like, if you don't mind, three dozen of the amazing champagne; and I'm very grateful to you for remembering me.
I ought not to be sorry to hear of your abdication, but I am, notwithstanding, most heartily and sincerely sorry, for my own sake and the sake of thousands, who may now go and whistle for a theatre—at least, such a theatre as you gave them; and I do now in my heart believe that for a long and dreary time that exquisite delight has passed away. If I may jest with my misfortunes, and quote the Portsmouth critic of Mr. Crummles's company, I say that: "As an exquisite embodiment of the poet's visions and a realisation of human intellectuality, gilding with refulgent light our dreamy moments, and laying open a new and magic world before the mental eye, the drama is gone—perfectly gone."
I shouldn't be sorry to hear about your resignation, but I truly am, both for myself and for the thousands who now have to settle for less when it comes to a theater—at least not one like the one you provided. I genuinely believe that this wonderful enjoyment has disappeared for a long and dreary time. If I can make light of my misfortunes and reference the Portsmouth critic from Mr. Crummles's company, I would say: "As an amazing representation of the poet's visions and a realization of human intellect, shining a brilliant light on our dreamy moments and opening up a new and magical world before our minds, the drama is gone—completely gone."
With the same perverse and unaccountable feeling which causes a heart-broken man at a dear friend's funeral to[19] see something irresistibly comical in a red-nosed or one-eyed undertaker, I receive your communication with ghostly facetiousness; though on a moment's reflection I find better cause for consolation in the hope that, relieved from your most trying and painful duties, you will now have leisure to return to pursuits more congenial to your mind, and to move more easily and pleasantly among your friends. In the long catalogue of the latter, I believe that there is not one prouder of the name, or more grateful for the store of delightful recollections you have enabled him to heap up from boyhood, than,
With the same strange and inexplicable feeling that makes a heartbroken person find something oddly funny about a red-nosed or one-eyed undertaker at a close friend's funeral, I read your message with a ghostly sense of humor. However, after a moment of thought, I find greater comfort in the hope that, now freed from your most difficult and painful responsibilities, you will have the time to return to activities that truly suit you, and to interact more easily and enjoyably with your friends. Among the long list of friends, I believe there's not one who takes more pride in your name, or feels more grateful for the wonderful memories you’ve helped him create since childhood, than,
Yours always faithfully.
New London Inn, Exeter,
Wednesday Morning, March 6th, 1839.
Perhaps you have heard from Kate that I succeeded yesterday in the very first walk, and took a cottage at a place called Alphington, one mile from Exeter, which contains, on the ground-floor, a good parlour and kitchen, and above, a full-sized country drawing-room and three bedrooms; in the yard behind, coal-holes, fowl-houses, and meat-safes out of number; in the kitchen, a neat little range; in the other rooms, good stoves and cupboards; and all for twenty pounds a year, taxes included. There is a good garden at the side well stocked with cabbages, beans, onions, celery, and some flowers. The stock belonging to the landlady (who lives in the adjoining cottage), there was some question whether she was not entitled to half the produce, but I settled the point by[20] paying five shillings, and becoming absolute master of the whole!
Maybe you heard from Kate that I successfully went for a walk yesterday and rented a cottage in a place called Alphington, just one mile from Exeter. It has a nice parlor and kitchen on the ground floor, and upstairs, there's a large country drawing-room and three bedrooms. In the yard out back, there are plenty of coal holes, chicken coops, and meat safes. The kitchen features a neat little range, and the other rooms have good stoves and cupboards—all for twenty pounds a year, taxes included. There's a nice garden on the side, well-stocked with cabbages, beans, onions, celery, and some flowers. There was some debate about whether the landlady (who lives in the next cottage) was entitled to half the produce, but I settled that by[20] paying five shillings and becoming the sole owner of everything!
I do assure you that I am charmed with the place and the beauty of the country round about, though I have not seen it under very favourable circumstances, for it snowed when I was there this morning, and blew bitterly from the east yesterday. It is really delightful, and when the house is to rights and the furniture all in, I shall be quite sorry to leave it. I have had some few things second-hand, but I take it seventy pounds will be the mark, even taking this into consideration. I include in that estimate glass and crockery, garden tools, and such like little things. There is a spare bedroom of course. That I have furnished too.
I can assure you that I'm really taken with the place and the beauty of the surrounding countryside, even though I haven't seen it in the best conditions. It snowed while I was there this morning, and the wind was bitterly cold from the east yesterday. It's truly delightful, and once the house is all set up and the furniture is in place, I'll be sad to leave. I’ve picked up a few second-hand items, but I estimate it will cost around seventy pounds, even considering that. This estimate includes glassware, dishes, garden tools, and other little things. There's also a spare bedroom, which I've furnished as well.
I am on terms of the closest intimacy with Mrs. Samuell, the landlady, and her brother and sister-in-law, who have a little farm hard by. They are capital specimens of country folks, and I really think the old woman herself will be a great comfort to my mother. Coals are dear just now—twenty-six shillings a ton. They found me a boy to go two miles out and back again to order some this morning. I was debating in my mind whether I should give him eighteenpence or two shillings, when his fee was announced—twopence!
I’m really close with Mrs. Samuell, the landlady, and her brother and sister-in-law, who have a small farm nearby. They’re great examples of country people, and I honestly think the old woman will be a big comfort to my mom. Coal is pretty expensive right now—twenty-six shillings a ton. They found me a boy to go two miles out and back to order some this morning. I was trying to decide if I should give him eighteen pence or two shillings when his fee was announced—two pence!
The house is on the high road to Plymouth, and, though in the very heart of Devonshire, there is as much long-stage and posting life as you would find in Piccadilly. The situation is charming. Meadows in front, an orchard running parallel to the garden hedge, richly-wooded hills closing in the prospect behind, and, away to the left, before a splendid view of the hill on which Exeter is situated, the cathedral towers rising up into the sky in the most picturesque manner possible. I don't think I[21] ever saw so cheerful or pleasant a spot. The drawing-room is nearly, if not quite, as large as the outer room of my old chambers in Furnival's Inn. The paint and paper are new, and the place clean as the utmost excess of snowy cleanliness can be.
The house is on the main road to Plymouth, and even though it's right in the heart of Devonshire, it has as much long-distance and travel activity as you’d find in Piccadilly. The location is delightful. There are meadows in front, an orchard next to the garden fence, beautifully wooded hills framing the view behind, and off to the left, there's a stunning view of the hill where Exeter is located, with the cathedral towers reaching up into the sky in the most picturesque way imaginable. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a cheerful or pleasant spot. The drawing room is nearly, if not quite, as large as the main room of my old place in Furnival's Inn. The paint and wallpaper are fresh, and the place is as clean as the purest white snow can be.
You would laugh if you could see me powdering away with the upholsterer, and endeavouring to bring about all sorts of impracticable reductions and wonderful arrangements. He has by him two second-hand carpets; the important ceremony of trying the same comes off at three this afternoon. I am perpetually going backwards and forwards. It is two miles from here, so I have plenty of exercise, which so occupies me and prevents my being lonely that I stopped at home to read last night, and shall to-night, although the theatre is open. Charles Kean has been the star for the last two evenings. He was stopping in this house, and went away this morning. I have got his sitting-room now, which is smaller and more comfortable than the one I had before.
You would laugh if you could see me busy working with the upholsterer, trying to make all sorts of impossible discounts and amazing arrangements. He has two second-hand carpets, and we're doing the important job of trying them out at three this afternoon. I keep going back and forth. It’s two miles from here, so I’m getting plenty of exercise, which keeps me so occupied that I decided to stay home and read last night, and I’ll do the same tonight, even though the theatre is open. Charles Kean has been the star for the last two nights. He was staying in this house and left this morning. I now have his sitting room, which is smaller but cozier than the one I had before.
You will have heard perhaps that I wrote to my mother to come down to-morrow. There are so many things she can make comfortable at a much less expense than I could, that I thought it best. If I had not, I could not have returned on Monday, which I now hope to do, and to be in town at half-past eight.
You might have heard that I invited my mom to come down tomorrow. She can help make things more comfortable at a much lower cost than I could, so I thought it was a good idea. If I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be able to return on Monday, which I’m now hoping to do, and I plan to be in town by 8:30.
Will you tell my father that if he could devise any means of bringing him down, I think it would be a great thing for him to have Dash, if it be only to keep down the trampers and beggars. The cheque I send you below.
Will you tell my father that if he could come up with any way to bring him down, I think it would be great for him to get Dash, even if it's just to keep the travelers and beggars away. The check is below.
Elm Cottage, Petersham, Wednesday Morning.
Why is "Peveril" lingering on my dusty shelves in town, while my fair cousin and your fair bride remains in blissful ignorance of his merits? There he is, I grieve to say, but there he shall not be long, for I shall be visiting my other home on Saturday morning, and will bring him bodily down and forward him the moment he arrives.
Why is "Peveril" sitting on my dusty shelves in town while my lovely cousin and your beautiful bride have no idea about its worth? It's there, and I'm sorry to say, but it won't be there for long. I'll be going to my other home on Saturday morning, and I'll bring it with me and send it off as soon as I get it.
Not having many of my books here, I don't find any among them which I think more suitable to your purpose than a carpet-bagful sent herewith, containing the Italian and German novelists (convenient as being easily taken up and laid down again; and I suppose you won't read long at a sitting), Leigh Hunt's "Indicator" and "Companion" (which have the same merit), "Hood's Own" (complete), "A Legend of Montrose," and "Kenilworth," which I have just been reading with greater delight than ever, and so I suppose everybody else must be equally interested in. I have Goldsmith, Swift, Fielding, Smollett, and the British Essayists "handy;" and I need not say that you have them on hand too, if you like.
Not having many of my books here, I don’t see any among them that I think would be better for your needs than the selection I’ve sent with this message. It includes the Italian and German novelists (which are convenient because you can easily pick them up and set them down again; and I assume you won’t be reading for long stretches at a time), Leigh Hunt’s “Indicator” and “Companion” (which are just as good), “Hood’s Own” (complete), “A Legend of Montrose,” and “Kenilworth,” which I’ve just read with more enjoyment than ever, so I assume others will feel just as interested. I have Goldsmith, Swift, Fielding, Smollett, and the British Essayists readily available; and I should mention that you can easily access them too if you want.
You know all I would say from my heart and soul on the auspicious event of yesterday; but you don't know what I could say about the delightful recollections I have of your "good lady's" charming looks and bearing, upon which I discoursed most eloquently here last evening, and at considerable length. As I am crippled in this respect, however, by the suspicion that possibly she may be looking over your shoulder while you read this note (I would lay a moderate wager that you have looked round twice or thrice already), I shall content[23] myself with saying that I am ever heartily, my dear Cattermole,
You know everything I would express from the depths of my heart about yesterday's wonderful event; but you have no idea what I could share about the lovely memories I have of your "good lady's" charming looks and demeanor, which I spoke about quite eloquently last night, and at great length. However, I'm a bit hesitant to go into detail since I suspect she might be peeking over your shoulder as you read this note (I would bet that you've already glanced back at her two or three times), so I’ll just say that I am always sincerely, my dear Cattermole,
P.S.—My man (who with his charge is your man while you stay here) waits to know if you have any orders for him.
P.S.—My guy (who, along with his duty, is your guy while you’re here) is waiting to know if you have any instructions for him.
Elm Cottage, Petersham, near Richmond
June 28th, 1839.
My dear Harley,
My dear Harley,
I have "left my home," and been here ever since the end of April, and shall remain here most probably until the end of September, which is the reason that we have been such strangers of late.
I have "left my home," and been here since the end of April, and I will probably stay here until the end of September, which is why we've been such strangers lately.
I am very sorry that I cannot dine with you on Sunday, but some people are coming here, and I cannot get away. Better luck next time, I hope.
I’m really sorry I can’t have dinner with you on Sunday, but some people are coming over, and I can’t leave. Hopefully, we can plan better next time.
I was on the point of writing to you when your note came, to ask you if you would come down here next Saturday—to-morrow week, I mean—and stop till Monday. I will either call for you at the theatre, at any time you name, or send for you, "punctual," and have you brought down. Can you come if it's fine? Say yes, like a good fellow as you are, and say it per post.
I was about to write to you when your note arrived, asking if you could come down here next Saturday—meaning a week from tomorrow—and stay until Monday. I can either pick you up at the theater whenever you choose, or I’ll send someone to bring you down "on time." Can you come if the weather is nice? Just say yes, like the good friend you are, and send it by mail.
I have countermanded that face. Maclise has made another face of me, which all people say is astonishing. The engraving will be ready soon, and I would rather you had that, as I am sure you would if you had seen it.
I have canceled that portrait. Maclise has created another one of me that everyone says is amazing. The engraving will be ready soon, and I’d prefer you to have that, as I know you would if you had seen it.
In great haste to save the post, I am, my dear Harley,
In a rush to save the letter, I am, my dear Harley,
Doughty St., Monday Morning.
On Friday I have a family dinner at home—uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, cousins—an annual gathering.
On Friday, I'm having a family dinner at home—uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, cousins—an annual get-together.
By what fatality is it that you always ask me to dine on the wrong day?
By what bad luck is it that you always ask me to dinner on the wrong day?
While you are tracing this non-consequence to its cause, I wish you would tell Mr. Sydney Smith that of all the men I ever heard of and never saw, I have the greatest curiosity to see and the greatest interest to know him.
While you're figuring out this minor issue, I wish you would let Mr. Sydney Smith know that of all the people I've heard of but never met, I have the most curiosity and interest in getting to know him.
Begging my best compliments at home,
Begging my best regards at home,
Faithfully yours.
Petersham, July 26th, 1839.
Fix your visit for whenever you please. It can never give us anything but delight to see you, and it is better to look forward to such a pleasure than to look back upon it, as the last gratification is enjoyable all our lives, and the first for a few short stages in the journey.
Schedule your visit whenever you like. It’s always a joy to see you, and it’s better to anticipate such happiness than to reminisce about it, as the last enjoyment stays with us for a lifetime, while the first lasts only for a few brief moments along the way.
I feel more true and cordial pleasure than I can express to you in the request you have made. Anything which can serve to commemorate our friendship and to keep the recollection of it alive among our children is, believe me, and ever will be, most deeply prized by me. I accept the office with hearty and fervent satisfaction; and, to render this pleasant bond between us the more complete, I must solicit you to become godfather to the last and final branch of a genteel small family of three which I am told may be looked for in that auspicious month when Lord Mayors are born and guys prevail. This I look upon as a bargain between us, and I have shaken hands with you in spirit[25] upon it. Family topics remind me of Mr. Kenwigs. As the weather is wet, and he is about to make his last appearance on my little stage, I send Mrs. Macready an early proof of the next number, containing an account of his baby's progress.
I feel a lot of genuine and heartfelt joy that I can’t fully express in response to your request. Anything that can help us remember our friendship and keep its memory alive for our children is, believe me, something I deeply appreciate and always will. I gladly accept the role with great satisfaction. And to strengthen this nice bond between us, I must ask you to be the godfather to the latest addition to a small, respectable family of three, which I’ve heard may arrive in that fortunate month when Lord Mayors are born and bonfires are celebrated. I see this as a deal between us, and I’ve spiritually shaken hands with you on it. Speaking of family, I’m reminded of Mr. Kenwigs. Since the weather is rainy and he’s about to make his final appearance on my little stage, I’m sending Mrs. Macready an early proof of the next issue, which includes an update on his baby's development.
I am going to send you something else on Monday—a tragedy. Don't be alarmed. I didn't write it, nor do I want it acted. A young Scotch lady whom I don't know (but she is evidently very intelligent and accomplished) has sent me a translation of a German play, soliciting my aid and advice in the matter of its publication. Among a crowd of Germanisms, there are many things in it which are so very striking, that I am sure it will amuse you very much. At least I think it will; it has me. I am going to send it back to her—when I come to Elstree will be time enough; and meantime, if you bestow a couple of hours upon it, you will not think them thrown away.
I'm going to send you something else on Monday—a tragedy. Don't worry. I didn't write it, nor do I want it performed. A young Scottish woman I don't know (but she clearly seems very smart and talented) has sent me a translation of a German play, asking for my help and advice on its publication. Among a lot of Germanisms, there are many parts that are really striking, and I’m sure you’ll find it quite entertaining. At least I did. I plan to send it back to her—when I get to Elstree will be soon enough; in the meantime, if you spend a couple of hours on it, you won’t regret it.
It's a large parcel, and I must keep it here till somebody goes up to town and can book it by the coach. I warrant it, large as it looks, readable in two hours; and I very much want to know what you think of the first act, and especially the opening, which seems to me quite famous. The metre is very odd and rough, but now and then there's a wildness in it which helps the thing very much; and altogether it has left a something on my mind which I can't get rid of.
It's a big package, and I have to keep it here until someone goes up to the city and can send it by coach. I promise it's readable in two hours, no matter how large it seems, and I'm really curious to hear your thoughts on the first act, especially the opening, which I believe is quite impressive. The rhythm is pretty unusual and jagged, but every now and then, there's a wildness to it that really adds to the piece; overall, it's left an impression on me that I can’t shake off.
Mrs. Dickens joins with me in kindest regards to yourself, Mrs., and Miss Macready. And I am always,
Mrs. Dickens and I send our best regards to you, Mrs. and Miss Macready. And I am always,
Faithfully and truly yours.
P.S.—A dreadful thought has just occurred to me—that this is a quadruple letter, and that Elstree may not be within the twopenny post. Pray Heaven my fears are unfounded[26].
P.S.—A terrifying thought just popped into my mind—that this is a quadruple letter, and that Elstree might not be covered by the two-penny post. I hope my worries are unfounded[26].
40, Albion Street, Broadstairs,
September 21st, 1839.
I am so anxious to prefer a request to you which does not admit of delay that I send you a double letter, with the one redeeming point though of having very little in it.
I’m really eager to make a request that can’t wait, so I’m sending you a double letter, but the one good thing is that it contains very little in it.
Let me prefix to the last number of "Nickleby," and to the book, a duplicate of the leaf which I now send you. Believe me that there will be no leaf in the volume which will afford me in times to come more true pleasure and gratification, than that in which I have written your name as foremost among those of the friends whom I love and honour. Believe me, there will be no one line in it conveying a more honest truth or a more sincere feeling than that which describes its dedication to you as a slight token of my admiration and regard.
Let me add to the last issue of "Nickleby," and to the book, a copy of the page I'm sending you. Trust me when I say there won’t be a page in the book that will bring me more genuine joy and satisfaction in the future than the one where I’ve written your name at the top, among those of my friends whom I cherish and respect. Believe me, there won't be a single line in it that expresses a more honest truth or a truer feeling than the one dedicating it to you as a small sign of my admiration and appreciation.
So let me tell the world by this frail record that I was a friend of yours, and interested to no ordinary extent in your proceedings at that interesting time when you showed them such noble truths in such noble forms, and gave me a new interest in, and associations with, the labours of so many months.
So let me tell the world through this fragile record that I was a friend of yours and deeply interested in what you were doing during that fascinating time when you revealed such amazing truths in such amazing ways, and gave me a new passion for, and connections to, the efforts of so many months.
I write to you very hastily and crudely, for I have been very hard at work, having only finished to-day, and my head spins yet. But you know what I mean. I am then always,
I’m writing to you quickly and roughly because I’ve been really busy. I just finished today, and my head is still spinning. But you know what I mean. I am always,
Faithfully yours.
P.S.—(Proof of Dedication enclosed): "To W. C. Macready, Esq., the following pages are inscribed, as a slight token of admiration and regard, by his friend, the Author."[27]
P.S.—(Proof of Dedication enclosed): "To W. C. Macready, Esq., the following pages are dedicated, as a small gesture of admiration and respect, by his friend, the Author."[27]
Doughty St., Friday Night, Oct. 25th, 1839.
The book, the whole book, and nothing but the book (except the binding, which is an important item), has arrived at last, and is forwarded herewith. The red represents my blushes at its gorgeous dress; the gilding, all those bright professions which I do not make to you; and the book itself, my whole heart for twenty months, which should be yours for so short a term, as you have it always.
The book, the whole book, and nothing but the book (except for the binding, which matters too), has finally arrived and is included here. The red reflects my embarrassment at its beautiful cover; the gold represents all those promises I don’t make to you; and the book itself, my entire heart for the past twenty months, which should be yours for just a short time, since you always have it.
With best regards to Mrs. and Miss Macready, always believe me,
With best wishes to Mrs. and Miss Macready, always trust me,
Your faithful Friend.
Doughty St., Thursday, Nov. 14th, 1839.
Tom Landseer—that is, the deaf one, whom everybody quite loves for his sweet nature under a most deplorable infirmity—Tom Landseer asked me if I would present to you from him the accompanying engraving, which he has executed from a picture by his brother Edwin; submitting it to you as a little tribute from an unknown but ardent admirer of your genius, which speaks to his heart, although it does not find its way there through his ears. I readily undertook the task, and send it herewith.
Tom Landseer—that is, the deaf one, whom everyone loves for his kind nature despite a really unfortunate disability—Tom Landseer asked me if I would present to you the attached engraving from him, which he created from a painting by his brother Edwin. He offers it as a small tribute from an unknown but passionate admirer of your talent, which resonates with him, even though it doesn't reach him through his ears. I gladly took on the task and am sending it along.
I urged him to call upon you with me and proffer it boldly; but he is a very modest and delicately-minded creature, and was shy of intruding. If you thank him through me, perhaps you will say something about my bringing him to call, and so gladden the gentle artist and make him happy.[28]
I encouraged him to come with me to see you and confidently offer it; but he's quite modest and sensitive, so he felt awkward about imposing. If you express your gratitude to him through me, maybe you could mention that I brought him to meet you, which would brighten the gentle artist's day and make him happy.[28]
You must come and see my new house when we have it to rights. By Christmas Day we shall be, I hope, your neighbours.
You have to come and check out my new house once we've gotten everything sorted. By Christmas Day, I hope we'll be your neighbors.
Kate progresses splendidly, and, with me, sends her best remembrances to Mrs. Macready and all your house.
Kate is doing great, and she sends her best wishes to Mrs. Macready and everyone in your household.
Hey Macready,
Faithfully yours.
1840.
NARRATIVE.
The one dated March 9th alludes to short papers written for "Master Humphrey's Clock" prior to the commencement of "The Old Curiosity Shop."
The one dated March 9th refers to short papers written for "Master Humphrey's Clock" before "The Old Curiosity Shop" started.
We have in this year Charles Dickens's first letter to Mr. Daniel Maclise, this and one other being, unfortunately, the only letters we have been able to obtain addressed to this much-loved friend and most intimate companion.
We have this year Charles Dickens's first letter to Mr. Daniel Maclise; unfortunately, this and one other are the only letters we've been able to find addressed to this beloved friend and closest companion.
1, Devonshire Terrace,
Monday, January 13th, 1840.
I am going to propound a mightily grave matter to you. My now periodical work appears—or I should rather say the first number does—on Saturday, the 28th of March; and as it has to be sent to America and Germany, and must therefore be considerably in advance, it is now in[29] hand; I having in fact begun it on Saturday last. Instead of being published in monthly parts at a shilling each only, it will be published in weekly parts at threepence and monthly parts at a shilling; my object being to baffle the imitators and make it as novel as possible. The plan is a new one—I mean the plan of the fiction—and it will comprehend a great variety of tales. The title is: "Master Humphrey's Clock."
I’m about to discuss something very serious with you. My upcoming periodical is set to launch—well, I should say the first issue is—on Saturday, March 28th; and since it has to be sent to America and Germany, it needs to be ready quite a bit in advance, so it’s currently in[29] progress; I actually started it last Saturday. Instead of being published monthly at a shilling each, it will be released weekly at three pence and monthly at a shilling; my goal is to outsmart the imitators and keep it as original as possible. The format is new—I mean the concept of the fiction—and it will include a wide range of stories. The title is: "Master Humphrey's Clock."
Now, among other improvements, I have turned my attention to the illustrations, meaning to have woodcuts dropped into the text and no separate plates. I want to know whether you would object to make me a little sketch for a woodcut—in indian-ink would be quite sufficient—about the size of the enclosed scrap; the subject, an old quaint room with antique Elizabethan furniture, and in the chimney-corner an extraordinary old clock—the clock belonging to Master Humphrey, in fact, and no figures. This I should drop into the text at the head of my opening page.
Now, among other improvements, I have focused on the illustrations, planning to include woodcuts in the text instead of separate plates. I’d like to know if you would mind making me a small sketch for a woodcut—using India ink would be just fine—about the size of the enclosed piece; the subject would be an old, unique room with antique Elizabethan furniture, and in the fireplace corner, an unusual old clock—the clock that belongs to Master Humphrey, in fact, without any numbers. I’d like to place this at the top of my opening page.
I want to know besides—as Chapman and Hall are my partners in the matter, there need be no delicacy about my asking or your answering the question—what would be your charge for such a thing, and whether (if the work answers our expectations) you would like to repeat the joke at regular intervals, and, if so, on what terms? I should tell you that I intend to ask Maclise to join me likewise, and that the copying the drawing on wood and the cutting will be done in first-rate style. We are justified by past experience in supposing that the sale would be enormous, and the popularity very great; and when I explain to you the notes I have in my head, I think you will see that it opens a vast number of very good subjects.
I want to know, since Chapman and Hall are my partners in this, there’s no need for me to be hesitant in asking or for you to be cautious in answering—what would you charge for this kind of project, and whether you’d be interested in doing this again regularly if the work meets our expectations, and if so, on what terms? I should mention that I plan to ask Maclise to join me as well, and that the drawing will be copied onto wood and the cutting will be done expertly. Based on past experiences, we believe the sales will be huge and the popularity will be very high; and when I share the ideas I have in mind, I think you’ll see that it opens up a lot of great subjects.
I want to talk the matter over with you, and wish you[30] would fix your own time and place—either here or at your house or at the Athenæum, though this would be the best place, because I have my papers about me. If you would take a chop with me, for instance, on Tuesday or Wednesday, I could tell you more in two minutes than in twenty letters, albeit I have endeavoured to make this as businesslike and stupid as need be.
I want to discuss this matter with you, and I wish you[30] would choose a time and place—either here, at your house, or at the Athenæum, which would be the best option because I have my papers with me. If you could join me for a meal, for example, on Tuesday or Wednesday, I could share more in two minutes than in twenty letters, even though I’ve tried to make this as straightforward and dull as possible.
Of course all these tremendous arrangements are as yet a profound secret, or there would be fifty Humphreys in the field. So write me a line like a worthy gentleman, and convey my best remembrances to your worthy lady.
Of course, all these amazing plans are still a deep secret, or there would be fifty Humphreys in the field. So, please drop me a line like a true gentleman, and send my best regards to your lovely wife.
Faithfully yours.
Devonshire Terrace, Tuesday Afternoon.
I think the drawing most famous, and so do the publishers, to whom I sent it to-day. If Browne should suggest anything for the future which may enable him to do you justice in copying (on which point he is very anxious), I will communicate it to you. It has occurred to me that perhaps you will like to see his copy on the block before it is cut, and I have therefore told Chapman and Hall to forward it to you.
I believe the drawing is the most famous, and the publishers agree, as I sent it to them today. If Browne has any ideas for the future that might help him do you justice in the copying (which he really wants to get right), I will let you know. I thought you might want to see his copy on the block before it’s carved, so I’ve asked Chapman and Hall to send it to you.
In future, I will take care that you have the number to choose your subject from. I ought to have done so, perhaps, in this case; but I was very anxious that you should do the room.
In the future, I will make sure you have the number to pick your subject from. I should have done that this time; however, I was really eager for you to handle the room.
Perhaps the shortest plan will be for me to send you, as enclosed, regularly; but if you prefer keeping account with the publishers, they will be happy to enter upon it when, where, and how you please.
Perhaps the simplest plan is for me to send you the enclosed regularly; but if you'd rather keep track with the publishers, they will be glad to start whenever, wherever, and however you prefer.
1, Devonshire Terrace,
Monday, March 9th, 1840.
I have been induced, on looking over the works of the "Clock," to make a slight alteration in their disposal, by virtue of which the story about "John Podgers" will stand over for some little time, and that short tale will occupy its place which you have already by you, and which treats of the assassination of a young gentleman under circumstances of peculiar aggravation. I shall be greatly obliged to you if you will turn your attention to this last morsel as the feature of No. 3, and still more if you can stretch a point with regard to time (which is of the last importance just now), and make a subject out of it, rather than find one in it. I would neither have made this alteration nor have troubled you about it, but for weighty and cogent reasons which I feel very strongly, and into the composition of which caprice or fastidiousness has no part.
I’ve decided, after reviewing the "Clock" works, to make a small change in their arrangement. As a result, the story about "John Podgers" will be postponed for a bit, and that short tale you already have will take its place—it’s about the assassination of a young man under particularly distressing circumstances. I’d really appreciate it if you could focus on this last piece as the feature of No. 3, and even more so if you could be flexible with the timing (which is extremely important right now) and create a topic from it, instead of just finding one. I wouldn't have made this change or bothered you about it if it weren't for important and compelling reasons that I feel very strongly about, and there’s no room for whim or fussiness in this decision.
I should tell you perhaps, with reference to Chapman and Hall, that they will never trouble you (as they never trouble me) but when there is real and pressing occasion, and that their representations in this respect, unlike those of most men of business, are to be relied upon.
I should probably mention, regarding Chapman and Hall, that they'll only reach out to you (just like they never do with me) when there's a real and urgent reason, and that their claims in this regard, unlike those of most business people, can be trusted.
I cannot tell you how admirably I think Master Humphrey's room comes out, or what glowing accounts I hear of the second design you have done. I had not the faintest anticipation of anything so good—taking into account the material and the despatch.
I can't express enough how great I think Master Humphrey's room looks, or what amazing feedback I've heard about the second design you've done. I had no idea it would turn out this well—considering the materials and the quick turnaround.
Trust me, dear Cattermole,
Heartily yours.
P.S.—The new (No. 3) tale begins: "I hold a lieutenant's[32] commission in his Majesty's army, and served abroad in the campaigns of 1677 and 1678." It has at present no title.
P.S.—The new (No. 3) tale starts: "I have a lieutenant's[32] commission in His Majesty's army and served overseas in the campaigns of 1677 and 1678." It currently has no title.
1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park,
London, 10th March, 1840.
I will not attempt to tell you how much gratified I have been by the receipt of your first English letter; nor can I describe to you with what delight and gratification I learn that I am held in such high esteem by your great countrymen, whose favourable appreciation is flattering indeed.
I won't try to explain how grateful I was to receive your first English letter; nor can I express how happy and pleased I am to learn that I am held in such high regard by your esteemed countrymen, whose positive recognition is truly flattering.
To you, who have undertaken the laborious (and often, I fear, very irksome) task of clothing me in the German garb, I owe a long arrear of thanks. I wish you would come to England, and afford me an opportunity of slightly reducing the account.
To you, who have taken on the exhausting (and often, I worry, quite annoying) job of dressing me in the German style, I owe a huge debt of gratitude. I wish you would visit England so that I could have a chance to reduce that debt just a little.
It is with great regret that I have to inform you, in reply to the request contained in your pleasant communication, that my publishers have already made such arrangements and are in possession of such stipulations relative to the proof-sheets of my new works, that I have no power to send them out of England. If I had, I need not tell you what pleasure it would afford me to promote your views.
It is with great regret that I have to inform you, in response to your kind message, that my publishers have already made arrangements and hold agreements regarding the proof-sheets of my new works that prevent me from sending them out of England. If I could, I would be more than happy to support your goals.
I am too sensible of the trouble you must have already had with my writings to impose upon you now a long letter. I will only add, therefore, that I am,
I know you've already had a lot of trouble dealing with my writings, so I won't make you read a long letter. I just want to add that I am,
With deep sincerity,
Faithfully yours.
Broadstairs, June 2nd, 1840.
My bath is by the sea,
And, before I take a souse,
Here's a quick note for you.
It merely says that the sea is in a state of extraordinary sublimity; that this place is, as the Guide Book most justly observes, "unsurpassed for the salubrity of the refreshing breezes, which are wafted on the ocean's pinions from far-distant shores." That we are all right after the perils and voyages of yesterday. That the sea is rolling away in front of the window at which I indite this epistle, and that everything is as fresh and glorious as fine weather and a splendid coast can make it. Bear these recommendations in mind, and shunning Talfourdian pledges, come to the bower which is shaded for you in the one-pair front, where no chair or table has four legs of the same length, and where no drawers will open till you have pulled the pegs off, and then they keep open and won't shut again.
It simply states that the sea is incredibly impressive; that this place is, as the Guide Book rightly points out, "unmatched for the healthiness of the refreshing breezes that blow in from the ocean’s wings from far-off shores." That we are all okay after the adventures and dangers of yesterday. That the sea is rolling in front of the window where I’m writing this letter, and everything is as fresh and beautiful as perfect weather and a stunning coastline can make it. Keep these recommendations in mind, and avoiding grand promises, come to the cozy spot that’s waiting for you in the front apartment, where no chair or table has legs of the same length, and where no drawers will open until you pull the pegs off, and then they stay open and won’t close again.
I can no more.
I can't anymore.
Devonshire Terrace, December 21st.
Kit, the single gentleman, and Mr. Garland go down to the place where the child is, and arrive there at night. There has been a fall of snow. Kit, leaving them behind, runs to the old house, and, with a lanthorn in one hand and the bird in its cage in the other, stops for a moment at a little distance with a natural hesitation before he goes up to[34] make his presence known. In a window—supposed to be that of the child's little room—a light is burning, and in that room the child (unknown, of course, to her visitors, who are full of hope) lies dead.
Kit, the single gentleman, and Mr. Garland head to where the child is and arrive there at night. It has just snowed. Kit, leaving them behind, dashes to the old house, and with a lantern in one hand and the bird in its cage in the other, stops for a moment at a slight distance with a natural hesitation before he approaches[34] to announce his presence. In a window—presumably that of the child's little room—a light is glowing, and in that room, the child (unbeknownst to her visitors, who are filled with hope) lies dead.
If you have any difficulty about Kit, never mind about putting him in.
If you have any issues with Kit, don’t worry about including him.
The two others to-morrow.
The two others tomorrow.
Devonshire Terrace, Friday Morning.
I sent the MS. of the enclosed proof, marked 2, up to Chapman and Hall, from Devonshire, mentioning a subject of an old gateway, which I had put in expressly with a view to your illustrious pencil. By a mistake, however, it went to Browne instead. Chapman is out of town, and such things have gone wrong in consequence.
I sent the manuscript of the enclosed proof, marked 2, to Chapman and Hall from Devonshire, mentioning the topic of an old gateway that I included specifically for your skilled drawing. Unfortunately, it was mistakenly sent to Browne instead. Chapman is out of town, and that's why things got mixed up.
The subject to which I wish to call your attention is in an unwritten number to follow this one, but it is a mere echo of what you will find at the conclusion of this proof marked 2. I want the cart, gaily decorated, going through the street of the old town with the wax brigand displayed to fierce advantage, and the child seated in it also dispersing bills. As many flags and inscriptions about Jarley's Wax Work fluttering from the cart as you please. You know the wax brigands, and how they contemplate small oval miniatures? That's the figure I want. I send you the scrap of MS. which contains the subject.
The topic I want to bring to your attention is in an unwritten piece that will follow this one, but it's just a reflection of what you'll find at the end of this proof marked 2. I envision a brightly decorated cart going down the streets of the old town with the wax figure of the brigand on display, and a child sitting in it handing out flyers. Feel free to include as many flags and signs about Jarley's Wax Works fluttering from the cart as you like. You know how the wax brigands look while admiring small oval miniatures? That’s the image I want. I'm sending you the piece of the manuscript that contains the topic.
Will you, when you have done this, send it with all speed to Chapman and Hall, as we are mortally pressed for time, and I must go hard to work to make up for what I have lost by being dutiful and going to see my father.[35]
Will you, once you’ve done this, send it quickly to Chapman and Hall? We’re really short on time, and I need to work hard to make up for the time I lost by being responsible and visiting my father.[35]
I want to see you about a frontispiece to our first "Clock" volume, which will come out (I think) at the end of September, and about other matters. When shall we meet and where?
I want to talk to you about a front cover for our first "Clock" volume, which I believe will be released at the end of September, and some other things. When can we meet and where?
I say nothing about our cousin or the baby, for Kate bears this, and will make me a full report and convey all loves and congratulations.
I won’t say anything about our cousin or the baby, since Kate is handling it and will give me a complete update and share all the love and congratulations.
Could you dine with us on Sunday, at six o'clock sharp? I'd come and fetch you in the morning, and we could take a ride and walk. We shall be quite alone, unless Macready comes. What say you?
Could you join us for dinner on Sunday at six o'clock sharp? I’ll come pick you up in the morning, and we can take a drive and go for a walk. It will just be us, unless Macready decides to come. What do you think?
Don't forget despatch, there's a dear fellow, and ever believe me,
Don't forget to send it out, there's a good guy, and always believe me,
December 22nd, 1840.
The child lying dead in the little sleeping-room, which is behind the open screen. It is winter time, so there are no flowers; but upon her breast and pillow, and about her bed, there may be strips of holly and berries, and such free green things. Window overgrown with ivy. The little boy who had that talk with her about angels may be by the bedside, if you like it so; but I think it will be quieter and more peaceful if she is quite alone. I want it to express the most beautiful repose and tranquillity, and to have something of a happy look, if death can.
The child lies dead in the small bedroom behind the open screen. It’s winter, so there are no flowers; but on her chest and pillow, and around her bed, there might be some holly and berries, and other greenery. The window is covered in ivy. The little boy who talked to her about angels could be by the bedside, if you prefer; but I think it would be quieter and more peaceful if she’s completely alone. I want it to convey the most beautiful sense of rest and calm, and to have a hint of happiness, if death can allow that.
2.
2.
The child has been buried inside the church, and the old man, who cannot be made to understand that she is dead, repairs to the grave and sits there all day long,[36] waiting for her arrival, to begin another journey. His staff and knapsack, her little bonnet and basket, etc., lie beside him. "She'll come to-morrow," he says when it gets dark, and goes sorrowfully home. I think an hourglass running out would help the notion; perhaps her little tilings upon his knee, or in his hand.
The child has been buried in the church, and the old man, who just can't seem to grasp that she's gone, goes to the grave and sits there all day long,[36] waiting for her to show up so they can start another journey together. His staff and backpack, her little bonnet and basket, etc., are next to him. "She'll come tomorrow," he says as it gets dark, then trudges home sadly. I think an hourglass running out would make it easier to understand; maybe her little things on his knee or in his hand.
I am breaking my heart over this story, and cannot bear to finish it.
I’m heartbroken over this story and can’t bring myself to finish it.
Love to Missis.
Love to Missis.
1841.
NARRATIVE.
He was at Broadstairs with his family for the autumn, and at the close of the year he went to Windsor for change of air after a serious illness.
He was in Broadstairs with his family for the fall, and at the end of the year, he went to Windsor to get some fresh air after a serious illness.
On the 17th January "The Old Curiosity Shop" was finished. In the following week the first number of his story of "Barnaby Rudge" appeared, in "Master Humphrey's Clock," and the last number of this story was written at Windsor, in November of this year.
On January 17th, "The Old Curiosity Shop" was completed. The following week, the first issue of his story "Barnaby Rudge" came out in "Master Humphrey's Clock," and the final part of this story was written in Windsor in November of that year.
We have the first letters to his dear and valued friends the Rev. William Harness and Mr. Harrison Ainsworth. Also his first letter to Mr. Monckton Milnes (now Lord Houghton).
We have the first letters to his dear and valued friends, the Rev. William Harness and Mr. Harrison Ainsworth. Also, his first letter to Mr. Monckton Milnes (now Lord Houghton).
Of the letter to Mr. John Tomlin we would only remark, that it was published in an American magazine, edited by Mr. E. A. Poe, in the year 1842.
Of the letter to Mr. John Tomlin, we would only note that it was published in an American magazine edited by Mr. E. A. Poe in 1842.
"The New First Rate" (first letter to Mr. Harrison Ainsworth) must, we think, be an allusion to the outside cover of "Bentley's Miscellany," which first appeared in this year, and of which Mr. Ainsworth was editor.[37]
"The New First Rate" (first letter to Mr. Harrison Ainsworth) likely refers to the outer cover of "Bentley's Miscellany," which was first published this year, and Mr. Ainsworth was the editor.[37]
The two letters to Mr. Lovejoy are in answer to a requisition from the people of Reading that he would represent them in Parliament.
The two letters to Mr. Lovejoy are in response to a request from the people of Reading asking him to represent them in Parliament.
The letter to Mr. George Cattermole (26th June) refers to a dinner given to Charles Dickens by the people of Edinburgh, on his first visit to that city.
The letter to Mr. George Cattermole (June 26th) talks about a dinner hosted for Charles Dickens by the people of Edinburgh during his first visit to the city.
The "poor Overs," mentioned in the letter to Mr. Macready of 24th August, was a carpenter dying of consumption, to whom Dr. Elliotson had shown extraordinary kindness. "When poor Overs was dying" (wrote Charles Dickens to Mr. Forster), "he suddenly asked for a pen and ink and some paper, and made up a little parcel for me, which it was his last conscious act to direct. She (his wife) told me this, and gave it me. I opened it last night. It was a copy of his little book, in which he had written my name, 'with his devotion.' I thought it simple and affecting of the poor fellow."
The "poor Overs," mentioned in the letter to Mr. Macready on August 24th, was a carpenter who was dying of tuberculosis, to whom Dr. Elliotson had shown remarkable kindness. "When poor Overs was dying" (wrote Charles Dickens to Mr. Forster), "he suddenly asked for a pen and ink and some paper, and put together a little package for me, which was his last conscious act to address. She (his wife) told me this and handed it to me. I opened it last night. It was a copy of his little book, in which he had written my name, 'with his devotion.' I thought it was simple and touching of the poor fellow."
"The Saloon," alluded to in our last letter of this year, was an institution at Drury Lane Theatre during Mr. Macready's management. The original purpose for which this saloon was established having become perverted and degraded, Charles Dickens had it much at heart to remodel and improve it. Hence this letter to Mr. Macready.
"The Saloon," mentioned in our last letter of this year, was a notable establishment at Drury Lane Theatre during Mr. Macready's management. The original intent behind the creation of this saloon had become twisted and diminished, and Charles Dickens was very invested in redesigning and enhancing it. This is why he wrote this letter to Mr. Macready.
Devonshire Terrace, Saturday Morning, Jan. 2nd, 1841.
I should have been very glad to join your pleasant party, but all next week I shall be laid up with a broken heart, for I must occupy myself in finishing the "Curiosity Shop," and it is such a painful task to me that I must concentrate myself upon it tooth and nail, and go out nowhere until it is done.
I would have loved to join your nice gathering, but all of next week I'll be stuck at home with a broken heart because I need to focus on finishing the "Curiosity Shop." It's such a tough task for me that I have to concentrate on it completely and not go out anywhere until it's finished.
I have delayed answering your kind note in a vague hope of being heart-whole again by the seventh. The present state of my work, however (Christmas not being a[38] very favourable season for making progress in such doings), assures me that this cannot be, and that I must heroically deny myself the pleasure you offer.
I’ve put off replying to your thoughtful note, hoping to feel completely better by the seventh. However, my current workload (since Christmas isn’t exactly a great time for making progress on things like this) makes it clear that this won’t happen, and I have to bravely turn down the enjoyment you’re offering.
Faithfully yours.
Devonshire Terrace, Thursday, Jan. 14th, 1841.
I cannot tell you how much obliged I am to you for altering the child, or how much I hope that my wish in that respect didn't go greatly against the grain.
I can’t express how grateful I am to you for changing the child, or how much I hope that my request about it wasn’t too difficult for you.
I saw the old inn this morning. Words cannot say how good it is. I can't bear the thought of its being cut, and should like to frame and glaze it in statu quo for ever and ever.
I saw the old inn this morning. Words can't describe how great it is. I can’t stand the idea of it being removed, and I’d love to frame and preserve it in statu quo forever.
Will you do a little tail-piece for the "Curiosity" story?—only one figure if you like—giving some notion of the etherealised spirit of the child; something like those little figures in the frontispiece. If you will, and can despatch it at once, you will make me happy.
Will you create a small illustration for the "Curiosity" story?—just one figure if you prefer— capturing the ethereal spirit of the child; something like those small figures in the frontispiece. If you can do this and send it over quickly, it would make me really happy.
I am, for the time being, nearly dead with work and grief for the loss of my child.
I’m currently overwhelmed with work and heartbroken over the loss of my child.
Heartily yours.
Devonshire Terrace, Thursday Night, Jan. 28th, 1841.
I sent to Chapman and Hall yesterday morning about the second subject for No. 2 of "Barnaby," but found they had sent it to Browne.
I reached out to Chapman and Hall yesterday morning about the second topic for No. 2 of "Barnaby," but I discovered they had sent it to Browne.
The first subject of No. 3 I will either send to you on[39] Saturday, or, at latest, on Sunday morning. I have also directed Chapman and Hall to send you proofs of what has gone before, for reference, if you need it.
The first topic of No. 3 will either be sent to you on[39] Saturday or, at the latest, on Sunday morning. I've also instructed Chapman and Hall to send you proofs of what has come before, in case you need them for reference.
I want to know whether you feel ravens in general and would fancy Barnaby's raven in particular. Barnaby being an idiot, my notion is to have him always in company with a pet raven, who is immeasurably more knowing than himself. To this end I have been studying my bird, and think I could make a very queer character of him. Should you like the subject when this raven makes his first appearance?
I want to know if you generally like ravens and if you'd be interested in Barnaby's raven in particular. Since Barnaby isn’t the sharpest, I thought it would be amusing for him to have a pet raven that's way smarter than he is. I've been observing my bird and I believe I could create a really unique character for him. Would you be interested in the topic when this raven makes his first appearance?
Devonshire Terrace, Saturday Evening, Jan. 30th, 1841.
I send you the first four slips of No. 48, containing the description of the locksmith's house, which I think will make a good subject, and one you will like. If you put the "'prentice" in it, show nothing more than his paper cap, because he will be an important character in the story, and you will need to know more about him as he is minutely described. I may as well say that he is very short. Should you wish to put the locksmith in, you will find him described in No. 2 of "Barnaby" (which I told Chapman and Hall to send you). Browne has done him in one little thing, but so very slightly that you will not require to see his sketch, I think.
I’m sending you the first four pages of No. 48, which include the description of the locksmith's house. I think it will make a great subject, and I believe you'll like it. If you decide to include the apprentice, just show his paper cap, since he’ll be a significant character in the story, and you'll need to know more about him as he's described in detail. I should mention that he’s quite short. If you want to include the locksmith, you can find his description in No. 2 of "Barnaby" (which I asked Chapman and Hall to send you). Browne has sketched him in a small piece, but it’s so minor that I don’t think you’ll need to see his drawing.
Now, I must know what you think about the raven, my buck; I otherwise am in this fix. I have given Browne no subject for this number, and time is flying. If you would like to have the raven's first appearance, and don't object to having both subjects, so be it. I[40] shall be delighted. If otherwise, I must feed that hero forthwith.
Now, I need to know what you think about the raven, my friend; I'm in a bit of a bind. I haven't given Browne any topic for this issue, and time is running out. If you want to include the raven's first appearance and don't mind having both topics, that works for me. I[40] will be thrilled. If not, I need to come up with something for that guy right away.
I cannot close this hasty note, my dear fellow, without saying that I have deeply felt your hearty and most invaluable co-operation in the beautiful illustrations you have made for the last story, that I look at them with a pleasure I cannot describe to you in words, and that it is impossible for me to say how sensible I am of your earnest and friendly aid. Believe me that this is the very first time any designs for what I have written have touched and moved me, and caused me to feel that they expressed the idea I had in my mind.
I can’t wrap up this quick note, my dear friend, without expressing how much I appreciate your incredible and invaluable help with the beautiful illustrations you created for the last story. I look at them with a pleasure I can’t put into words, and I truly can’t convey how grateful I am for your sincere and friendly support. Believe me, this is the very first time any artwork for what I’ve written has touched and inspired me so deeply, making me feel like they capture the idea I had in my mind.
I am most sincerely and affectionately grateful to you, and am full of pleasure and delight.
I am truly and warmly thankful to you, and I feel a lot of joy and happiness.
Always heartily yours.
1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park,
London, Tuesday, Feb. 23rd, 1841.
You are quite right in feeling assured that I should answer the letter you have addressed to me. If you had entertained a presentiment that it would afford me sincere pleasure and delight to hear from a warm-hearted and admiring reader of my books in the backwoods of America, you would not have been far wrong.
You’re absolutely right to feel confident that I would respond to your letter. If you had a feeling that it would genuinely make me happy to hear from a kind and appreciative reader of my books out in the American wilderness, you wouldn’t be mistaken.
I thank you cordially and heartily both for your letter and its kind and courteous terms. To think that I have awakened a fellow-feeling and sympathy with the creatures of many thoughtful hours among the vast solitudes in which you dwell, is a source of the purest delight and pride to me; and believe me that your expressions of affectionate[41] remembrance and approval, sounding from the green forests on the banks of the Mississippi, sink deeper into my heart and gratify it more than all the honorary distinctions that all the courts in Europe could confer.
I sincerely thank you for your letter and its kind words. Knowing that I've stirred a sense of connection and sympathy with the thoughts you’ve shared during your quiet hours in the vast solitude where you live brings me immense joy and pride. Please believe me when I say that your heartfelt remembrance and support, coming from the lush forests along the Mississippi, touch me more deeply and bring me more satisfaction than all the honors that could be awarded by every court in Europe.
It is such things as these that make one hope one does not live in vain, and that are the highest reward of an author's life. To be numbered among the household gods of one's distant countrymen, and associated with their homes and quiet pleasures; to be told that in each nook and corner of the world's great mass there lives one well-wisher who holds communion with one in the spirit, is a worthy fame indeed, and one which I would not barter for a mine of wealth.
It’s these kinds of things that make you hope you’re not living in vain, and they are the greatest reward of an author’s life. Being counted among the beloved figures of your distant countrymen and being linked to their homes and simple joys; hearing that in every nook and cranny of the world's vastness, there’s someone who thinks of you and connects with you in spirit, is truly a worthy fame, one that I wouldn’t trade for a mountain of riches.
That I may be happy enough to cheer some of your leisure hours for a very long time to come, and to hold a place in your pleasant thoughts, is the earnest wish of "Boz."
That I hope to bring you enough happiness to brighten some of your free time for a long time to come, and to remain in your good memories, is the sincere wish of "Boz."
And, with all good wishes for yourself, and with a sincere reciprocation of all your kindly feeling,
And, with all my best wishes for you, and with a genuine return of all your kind thoughts,
Faithfully yours.
Devonshire Terrace, Wednesday, March 10th, 1841.
I thank you very much for the "Nickleby" correspondence, which I will keep for a day or two, and return when I see you. Poor fellow! The long letter is quite admirable, and most affecting.
I really appreciate the "Nickleby" letters. I'll hold on to them for a day or two and return them when I see you. Poor guy! The long letter is truly remarkable and very moving.
I am not quite sure either of Friday or Saturday, for, independently of the "Clock" (which for ever wants winding), I am getting a young brother off to New Zealand just now, and have my mornings sadly cut up in consequence.[42] But, knowing your ways, I know I may say that I will come if I can; and that if I can't I won't.
I’m not really sure about Friday or Saturday because, apart from the "Clock" (which always needs winding), I’m sending a younger brother off to New Zealand right now, and my mornings are really messed up because of it.[42] But, knowing how you are, I can say that I’ll come if I can; and if I can’t, I won’t.
That Nellicide was the act of Heaven, as you may see any of these fine mornings when you look about you. If you knew the pain it gave me—but what am I talking of? if you don't know, nobody does. I am glad to shake you by the hand again autographically,
That Nellicide was an act of God, as you can see any of these beautiful mornings when you look around. If you knew the pain it caused me—but why am I saying this? If you don’t know, then no one does. I'm glad to shake your hand again in writing,
Faithfully yours.
Devonshire Terrace, Tuesday, February 9th.
My notes tread upon each other's heels. In my last I quite forgot business.
My notes are piling up on top of each other. In my last one, I completely forgot about work.
Will you, for No. 49, do the locksmith's house, which was described in No. 48? I mean the outside. If you can, without hurting the effect, shut up the shop as though it were night, so much the better. Should you want a figure, an ancient watchman in or out of his box, very sleepy, will be just the thing for me.
Will you, for No. 49, design the locksmith's house described in No. 48? I mean the exterior. If you can, without ruining the effect, close up the shop as if it were nighttime, that would be even better. If you need a figure, an old watchman either in or out of his box, looking very sleepy, would work perfectly for me.
I have written to Chapman and requested him to send you a block of a long shape, so that the house may come upright as it were.
I wrote to Chapman and asked him to send you a long block, so that the house can stand upright, so to speak.
Old Ship Hotel, Brighton, Feb. 26th, 1841.
I passed your house on Wednesday, being then atop of the Brighton Era; but there was nobody at the door, saving a solitary poulterer, and all my warm-hearted aspirations lodged in the goods he was delivering. No doubt you observed a peculiar relish in your dinner. That was the cause.[43]
I walked by your house on Wednesday while I was up on the Brighton Era; but no one was at the door, just a lone poulterer, and all my heartfelt wishes were stuck in the stuff he was delivering. I’m sure you noticed something unusual in your dinner. That was why.[43]
I send you the MS. I fear you will have to read all the five slips; but the subject I think of is at the top of the last, when the guest, with his back towards the spectator, is looking out of window. I think, in your hands, it will be a very pretty one.
I’m sending you the manuscript. I’m afraid you’ll have to read all five slips, but the topic I have in mind is on the last one, where the guest, facing away from the viewer, is looking out the window. I believe it will turn out quite nicely in your hands.
Then, my boy, when you have done it, turn your thoughts (as soon as other engagements will allow) first to the outside of The Warren—see No. 1; secondly, to the outside of the locksmith's house, by night—see No. 3. Put a penny pistol to Chapman's head and demand the blocks of him.
Then, my boy, once you've done it, focus your thoughts (as soon as your other commitments let you) first on the outside of The Warren—check No. 1; second, on the outside of the locksmith's house at night—check No. 3. Put a penny pistol to Chapman's head and ask him for the blocks.
I have addled my head with writing all day, and have barely wit enough left to send my love to my cousin, and—there's a genealogical poser—what relation of mine may the dear little child be? At present, I desire to be commended to her clear blue eyes.
I’ve muddled my brain with writing all day, and I barely have enough sense left to send my love to my cousin, and—there’s a family question—what relation is the dear little child to me? Right now, I just want to be remembered to her clear blue eyes.
Best regards,
Devonshire Terrace, April 29th, 1841.
With all imaginable pleasure. I quite look forward to the day. It is an age since we met, and it ought not to be.
With every kind of pleasure, I really look forward to that day. It's been ages since we last met, and it shouldn't be that way.
The artist has just sent home your "Nickleby." He suggested variety, pleading his fancy and genius. As an artful binder must have his way, I put the best face on the matter, and gave him his. I will bring it together with the "Pickwick" to your house-warming with me.[44]
The artist just sent your "Nickleby" home. He suggested mixing things up, appealing to his creativity. Since a clever binder needs to keep things interesting, I went along with it and gave him what he wanted. I'll bring it along with the "Pickwick" to your housewarming party.[44]
The old Royal George went down in consequence of having too much weight on one side. I trust the new "First Rate" won't be heavy anywhere. There seems to me to be too much whisker for a shilling, but that's a matter of taste.
The old Royal George sank because it had too much weight on one side. I hope the new "First Rate" won't be heavy in any area. It seems to me that there's too much whisker for a shilling, but that's just my opinion.
1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park,
Monday Evening, May 31st, 1841.
I am much obliged and flattered by the receipt of your letter, which I should have answered immediately on its arrival but for my absence from home at the moment.
I really appreciate and am flattered to receive your letter, which I would have replied to right away upon getting it if I hadn’t been away from home at the time.
My principles and inclinations would lead me to aspire to the distinction you invite me to seek, if there were any reasonable chance of success, and I hope I should do no discredit to such an honour if I won and wore it. But I am bound to add, and I have no hesitation in saying plainly, that I cannot afford the expense of a contested election. If I could, I would act on your suggestion instantly. I am not the less indebted to you and the friends to whom the thought occurred, for your good opinion and approval. I beg you to understand that I am restrained solely (and much against my will) by the consideration I have mentioned, and thank both you and them most warmly.
My principles and instincts would motivate me to pursue the recognition you're encouraging me to seek, if there were any realistic chance of success, and I believe I wouldn't bring shame to such an honor if I achieved it. However, I must add, and I say this without hesitation, that I can't afford the cost of a contested election. If I could, I would act on your suggestion immediately. I'm still very grateful to you and the friends who came up with this idea for your positive opinion and support. Please understand that I'm held back only (and very reluctantly) by the financial consideration I've mentioned, and I sincerely thank both you and them.
Devonshire Terrace, June 10th, 1841.
I am favoured with your note of yesterday's date, and lose no time in replying to it.[45]
I received your note from yesterday, and I'm quick to respond.[45]
The sum you mention, though small I am aware in the abstract, is greater than I could afford for such a purpose; as the mere sitting in the House and attending to my duties, if I were a member, would oblige me to make many pecuniary sacrifices, consequent upon the very nature of my pursuits.
The amount you're talking about, while small in theory, is more than I can spend for this purpose; just being in the House and focusing on my responsibilities, if I were a member, would require me to make a lot of financial sacrifices because of the nature of my work.
The course you suggest did occur to me when I received your first letter, and I have very little doubt indeed that the Government would support me—perhaps to the whole extent. But I cannot satisfy myself that to enter Parliament under such circumstances would enable me to pursue that honourable independence without which I could neither preserve my own respect nor that of my constituents. I confess therefore (it may be from not having considered the points sufficiently, or in the right light) that I cannot bring myself to propound the subject to any member of the administration whom I know. I am truly obliged to you nevertheless, and am,
The course you suggested did cross my mind when I got your first letter, and I have very little doubt that the Government would support me—maybe even fully. But I can't convince myself that entering Parliament under these circumstances would allow me to maintain that honorable independence, which is essential for me to keep both my own respect and that of my constituents. So, I have to admit (it might be because I haven't thought about the points deeply enough or in the right way) that I can't bring myself to raise the topic with any member of the administration I know. I am truly grateful to you, nonetheless, and am,
Faithfully yours.
Devonshire Terrace, Wednesday Evening, July 28th, 1841.
Can you do for me by Saturday evening—I know the time is short, but I think the subject will suit you, and I am greatly pressed—a party of rioters (with Hugh and Simon Tappertit conspicuous among them) in old John Willet's bar, turning the liquor taps to their own advantage, smashing bottles, cutting down the grove of lemons, sitting astride on casks, drinking out of the best punch-bowls, eating the great cheese, smoking sacred pipes, etc. etc.; John Willet, fallen backward in his chair, regarding them[46] with a stupid horror, and quite alone among them, with none of The Maypole customers at his back.
Can you do this for me by Saturday evening—I know it's a tight deadline, but I think you'll find the topic interesting, and I'm really under pressure—a group of rioters (with Hugh and Simon Tappertit standing out among them) in old John Willet's bar, taking advantage of the liquor taps, breaking bottles, chopping down the lemon grove, sitting on barrels, drinking from the best punch bowls, eating the huge cheese, smoking fancy pipes, etc. etc.; John Willet, fallen back in his chair, watching them[46] with a dumbstruck horror, completely alone among them, with none of The Maypole customers supporting him.
It's in your way, and you'll do it a hundred times better than I can suggest it to you, I know.
It's in your way, and you'll do it a hundred times better than I can suggest. I know that.
Broadstairs, Friday, August 6th, 1841.
Here is a subject for the next number; the next to that I hope to send you the MS. of very early in the week, as the best opportunities of illustration are all coming off now, and we are in the thick of the story.
Here’s a topic for the next issue; for the one after that, I hope to send you the manuscript early in the week, since the best chances for illustration are all happening now, and we’re right in the middle of the story.
The rioters went, sir, from John Willet's bar (where you saw them to such good purpose) straight to The Warren, which house they plundered, sacked, burned, pulled down as much of as they could, and greatly damaged and destroyed. They are supposed to have left it about half an hour. It is night, and the ruins are here and there flaming and smoking. I want—if you understand—to show one of the turrets laid open—the turret where the alarm-bell is, mentioned in No. 1; and among the ruins (at some height if possible) Mr. Haredale just clutching our friend, the mysterious file, who is passing over them like a spirit; Solomon Daisy, if you can introduce him, looking on from the ground below.
The rioters left John Willet's bar (where you witnessed their actions) and went straight to The Warren. They looted, ransacked, burned, and tore down as much of it as they could, causing significant damage and destruction. They are believed to have left about half an hour ago. It’s nighttime, and the ruins are still burning and smoking in places. I want—if you get what I mean—to show one of the turrets that was opened up—the turret with the alarm bell mentioned in No. 1; and among the ruins (if possible, at a height) Mr. Haredale is just grabbing our friend, the mysterious file, who is hovering over them like a ghost; Solomon Daisy, if you can include him, watching from the ground below.
Please to observe that the M. F. wears a large cloak and a slouched hat. This is important, because Browne will have him in the same number, and he has not changed his dress meanwhile. Mr. Haredale is supposed to have come down here on horseback, pell-mell; to be excited to the last degree. I think it will make a queer picturesque thing in your hands. I have told Chapman and Hall that[47] you may like to have a block of a peculiar shape for it. One of them will be with you almost as soon as you receive this.
Please notice that the M. F. is wearing a large cloak and a slouched hat. This is important because Browne will have him in the same scene, and he hasn’t changed his outfit in the meantime. Mr. Haredale is supposed to have come here on horseback in a rush, highly agitated. I think it will create a unique and interesting image in your hands. I’ve informed Chapman and Hall that[47] you might want a block of a unique shape for it. One of them will be with you almost as soon as you get this.
We are very anxious to know that our cousin is out of her trouble, and you free from your anxiety. Mind you write when it comes off. And when she is quite comfortable come down here for a day or two, like a bachelor, as you will be. It will do you a world of good. Think of that.
We’re really eager to hear that our cousin is out of her situation and that you’re no longer worried. Make sure to write when it happens. And when she’s feeling better, come down here for a day or two, like a single guy, as you will be. It will do you a lot of good. Just think about that.
Heartily yours.
P.S.—When you have done the subject, I wish you'd write me one line and tell me how, that I may be sure we agree. Loves from Kate.
P.S.—Once you've finished the topic, I’d appreciate it if you'd drop me a line to let me know how it went, so I can be sure we’re on the same page. Love from Kate.
Devonshire Terrace, Thursday, August 13th.
Will you turn your attention to a frontispiece for our first volume, to come upon the left-hand side of the book as you open it, and to face a plain printed title? My idea is, some scene from the "Curiosity Shop," in a pretty border, or scroll-work, or architectural device; it matters not what, so that it be pretty. The scene even might be a fanciful thing, partaking of the character of the story, but not reproducing any particular passage in it, if you thought that better for the effect.
Will you focus on creating a frontispiece for our first volume that will appear on the left side as you open the book, facing a simple printed title? I envision a scene from the "Curiosity Shop," with a nice border, scroll work, or some architectural design; it doesn't really matter what it is, as long as it's attractive. The scene could even be something imaginative that captures the essence of the story, without directly depicting any specific moment from it, if you think that would work better for the overall effect.
I ask you to think of this, because, although the volume is not published until the end of September, there is no time to lose. We wish to have it engraved with great care, and worked very skilfully; and this cannot be done unless we get it on the stocks soon.[48]
I ask you to consider this, because even though the book won't be published until the end of September, we can't afford to waste any time. We want it to be engraved with great care and done very skillfully, and that can't happen unless we get started on it soon.[48]
They will give you every opportunity of correction, alteration, revision, and all other ations and isions connected with the fine arts.
They will give you every opportunity for correction, alteration, revision, and all other actions and revisions related to the fine arts.
Faithfully yours.
Broadstairs, August 19th, 1841.
When Hugh and a small body of the rioters cut off from The Warren beckoned to their pals, they forced into a very remarkable postchaise Dolly Varden and Emma Haredale, and bore them away with all possible rapidity; one of their company driving, and the rest running beside the chaise, climbing up behind, sitting on the top, lighting the way with their torches, etc. etc. If you can express the women inside without showing them—as by a fluttering veil, a delicate arm, or so forth appearing at the half-closed window—so much the better. Mr. Tappertit stands on the steps, which are partly down, and, hanging on to the window with one hand and extending the other with great majesty, addresses a few words of encouragement to the driver and attendants. Hugh sits upon the bar in front; the driver sitting postilion-wise, and turns round to look through the window behind him at the little doves within. The gentlemen behind are also anxious to catch a glimpse of the ladies. One of those who are running at the side may be gently rebuked for his curiosity by the cudgel of Hugh. So they cut away, sir, as fast as they can.
When Hugh and a small group of rioters, separated from The Warren, signaled to their friends, they hurriedly forced Dolly Varden and Emma Haredale into a very unusual post chaise and whisked them away as quickly as possible. One of their crew was driving while the others ran alongside, climbed onto the back, and sat on top, using their torches to light the way, and so on. If you can show the women inside without revealing them completely—like through a fluttering veil or a delicate arm appearing at the half-closed window—that would enhance the scene. Mr. Tappertit is standing on the partly lowered steps, holding onto the window with one hand while dramatically extending the other, offering a few words of encouragement to the driver and helpers. Hugh is seated on the front bar; the driver is positioned like a postilion, turning around to peek through the window at the two ladies inside. The men behind are also eager to get a glimpse of the women. One of those running alongside might be gently scolded for his curiosity by Hugh’s cudgel. So they zoom away, sir, as fast as they can.
P.S.—John Willet's bar is noble.
P.S.—John Willet's bar is classy.
We take it for granted that cousin and baby are hearty. Our loves to them.[49]
We assume that our cousin and baby are doing well. Our love to them.[49]
Broadstairs, Tuesday, August 24th, 1841.
I must thank you, most heartily and cordially, for your kind note relative to poor Overs. I can't tell you how glad I am to know that he thoroughly deserves such kindness.
I really want to thank you, sincerely and warmly, for your thoughtful note about poor Overs. I can't express how happy I am to hear that he truly deserves such kindness.
What a good fellow Elliotson is. He kept him in his room a whole hour, and has gone into his case as if he were Prince Albert; laying down all manner of elaborate projects and determining to leave his friend Wood in town when he himself goes away, on purpose to attend to him. Then he writes me four sides of paper about the man, and says he can't go back to his old work, for that requires muscular exertion (and muscular exertion he mustn't make), what are we to do with him? He says: "Here's five pounds for the present."
What a great guy Elliotson is. He kept him in his room for a whole hour and looked into his case like he was Prince Albert, coming up with all sorts of detailed plans and deciding to leave his friend Wood in town when he heads out, just to take care of him. Then he writes me four pages about the guy and says he can't go back to his old job because it requires physical effort (and he can't do any physical effort), so what are we supposed to do with him? He says, "Here's five pounds for now."
I declare before God that I could almost bear the Jones's for five years out of the pleasure I feel in knowing such things, and when I think that every dirty speck upon the fair face of the Almighty's creation, who writes in a filthy, beastly newspaper; every rotten-hearted pander who has been beaten, kicked, and rolled in the kennel, yet struts it in the editorial "We," once a week; every vagabond that an honest man's gorge must rise at; every live emetic in that noxious drug-shop the press, can have his fling at such men and call them knaves and fools and thieves, I grow so vicious that, with bearing hard upon my pen, I break the nib down, and, with keeping my teeth set, make my jaws ache.
I swear to God that I could almost stand the Joneses for five years just from the satisfaction I get from knowing things like this. And when I think about every nasty stain on the beautiful face of God's creation, writing in a filthy, disgusting newspaper; every slimy lowlife who’s been beaten, kicked, and rolled in the muck, yet still struts around in the editorial “We” once a week; every bum that makes an honest man’s stomach turn; every annoying pest in that toxic drugstore called the press, who can take shots at such people and call them fools and thieves, I get so worked up that I press hard on my pen and break the nib, and by clenching my teeth, I make my jaw ache.
I have put myself out of sorts for the day, and shall go and walk, unless the direction of this sets me up again. On second thoughts I think it will.
I’ve thrown myself off for the day, and I’m going to go for a walk, unless this cheers me up again. On second thought, I think it will.
Your faithful Friend.
Broadstairs, Sunday, September 12th, 1841.
Here is a business letter, written in a scramble just before post time, whereby I dispose of loves to cousin in a line.
Here is a business letter, written in a rush just before sending, where I get rid of feelings for a cousin in a line.
Firstly. Will you design, upon a block of wood, Lord George Gordon, alone and very solitary, in his prison in the Tower? The chamber as ancient as you please, and after your own fancy; the time, evening; the season, summer.
Firstly. Will you create a design on a block of wood, showing Lord George Gordon, alone and very lonely, in his prison in the Tower? The room can be as ancient as you want, and styled however you like; the time is evening; the season is summer.
Secondly. Will you ditto upon a ditto, a sword duel between Mr. Haredale and Mr. Chester, in a grove of trees? No one close by. Mr. Haredale has just pierced his adversary, who has fallen, dying, on the grass. He (that is, Chester) tries to staunch the wound in his breast with his handkerchief; has his snuffbox on the earth beside him, and looks at Mr. Haredale (who stands with his sword in his hand, looking down on him) with most supercilious hatred, but polite to the last. Mr. Haredale is more sorry than triumphant.
Secondly. Will you agree to a scene, a sword duel between Mr. Haredale and Mr. Chester, in a grove of trees? There’s no one nearby. Mr. Haredale has just stabbed his opponent, who is now lying on the grass, dying. Chester tries to stop the bleeding in his chest with his handkerchief; his snuffbox is on the ground next to him, and he looks at Mr. Haredale (who is standing with his sword in hand, looking down at him) with an arrogant hatred, yet remains polite to the very end. Mr. Haredale feels more sorrow than victory.
Thirdly. Will you conceive and execute, after your own fashion, a frontispiece for "Barnaby"?
Thirdly. Will you create and design, in your own style, a cover for "Barnaby"?
Fourthly. Will you also devise a subject representing "Master Humphrey's Clock" as stopped; his chair by the fireside, empty; his crutch against the wall; his slippers on the cold hearth; his hat upon the chair-back; the MSS. of "Barnaby" and "The Curiosity Shop" heaped upon the table; and the flowers you introduced in the first subject of all withered and dead? Master Humphrey being supposed to be no more.
Fourthly. Will you also create an image of "Master Humphrey's Clock" as stopped; his empty chair by the fireplace; his crutch leaning against the wall; his slippers on the cold hearth; his hat on the back of the chair; the manuscripts of "Barnaby" and "The Curiosity Shop" piled on the table; and the flowers you used in the very first image all wilted and dead? Master Humphrey is believed to be gone.
I have a fifthly, sixthly, seventhly, and eighthly; for I[51] sorely want you, as I approach the close of the tale, but I won't frighten you, so we'll take breath.
I have a fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth; for I[51] really want you, as I near the end of the story, but I won't scare you, so let's pause for a moment.
Heartily yours.
P.S.—I have been waiting until I got to subjects of this nature, thinking you would like them best.
P.S.—I’ve been waiting to bring up topics like this, thinking you’d prefer them the most.
Broadstairs, September 21st, 1841.
Will you, before you go on with the other subjects I gave you, do one of Hugh, bareheaded, bound, tied on a horse, and escorted by horse-soldiers to jail? If you can add an indication of old Fleet Market, and bodies of foot soldiers firing at people who have taken refuge on the tops of stalls, bulk-heads, etc., it will be all the better.
Will you, before you move on to the other topics I gave you, create a sketch of Hugh, with no hat on, bound and tied to a horse, being escorted by mounted soldiers to jail? If you can include a hint of old Fleet Market, along with foot soldiers shooting at people who have taken cover on top of stalls, barricades, etc., that would be even better.
Devonshire Terrace, December 16th, 1841.
I should be delighted to come and dine with you on your birthday, and to be as merry as I wish you to be always; but as I am going, within a very few days afterwards, a very long distance from home, and shall not see any of my children for six long months, I have made up my mind to pass all that week at home for their sakes; just as you would like your papa and mamma to spend all the time they possibly could spare with you if they were about to make a dreary voyage to America; which is what I am going to do myself.[52]
I would love to come and celebrate your birthday with you and be as cheerful as I hope you always are; however, since I'm leaving for a long trip away from home just a few days afterward and won’t see any of my kids for six whole months, I’ve decided to spend that entire week at home for their sake. It’s like how you would want your parents to spend as much time with you as they could if they were about to embark on a tough journey to America, which is exactly what I'm about to do.[52]
But although I cannot come to see you on that day, you may be sure I shall not forget that it is your birthday, and that I shall drink your health and many happy returns, in a glass of wine, filled as full as it will hold. And I shall dine at half-past five myself, so that we may both be drinking our wine at the same time; and I shall tell my Mary (for I have got a daughter of that name but she is a very small one as yet) to drink your health too; and we shall try and make believe that you are here, or that we are in Russell Square, which is the best thing we can do, I think, under the circumstances.
But even though I can’t come to see you on that day, you can be sure that I won’t forget your birthday. I’ll raise a glass of wine to your health and wish you many happy returns, filling it as much as it can hold. I’m planning to have dinner at half-past five so that we can both be toasting with our wine at the same time. I’ll tell my Mary (yes, I have a daughter by that name, but she’s still very little) to toast to your health too. We’ll try to pretend you’re here or that we’re in Russell Square, which is the best we can do under the circumstances.
You are growing up so fast that by the time I come home again I expect you will be almost a woman; and in a very few years we shall be saying to each other: "Don't you remember what the birthdays used to be in Russell Square?" and "How strange it seems!" and "How quickly time passes!" and all that sort of thing, you know. But I shall always be very glad to be asked on your birthday, and to come if you will let me, and to send my love to you, and to wish that you may live to be very old and very happy, which I do now with all my heart.
You’re growing up so fast that by the time I come home again, I expect you’ll be almost a woman; and in just a few years, we’ll be saying to each other: “Don’t you remember how birthdays were in Russell Square?” and “How strange it seems!” and “How quickly time flies!” and all that sort of thing, you know. But I will always be really glad to be invited on your birthday, and to come if you’ll let me, and to send my love to you, and to wish that you live to be very old and very happy, which I do now with all my heart.
My dear Mary,
Yours affectionately.
Devonshire Terrace, Tuesday, Dec. 28th, 1841.
This note is about the saloon. I make it as brief as possible. Read it when you have time. As we were the first experimentalists last night you will be glad to know what it wants.[53]
This note is about the bar. I’ll keep it short. Read it when you can. Since we were the first to try things out last night, you’ll be pleased to know what it needs.[53]
First, the refreshments are preposterously dear. A glass of wine is a shilling, and it ought to be sixpence.
First, the refreshments are ridiculously overpriced. A glass of wine is a shilling, and it should be sixpence.
Secondly, they were served out by the wrong sort of people—two most uncomfortable drabs of women, and a dirty man with his hat on.
Secondly, they were served by the wrong type of people—two really unpleasant women and a dirty man with his hat on.
Thirdly, there ought to be a box-keeper to ring a bell or give some other notice of the commencement of the overture to the after-piece. The promenaders were in a perpetual fret and worry to get back again.
Thirdly, there should be someone to ring a bell or provide some other signal to announce the start of the overture to the after-piece. The people walking around were constantly anxious and worried about getting back.
And fourthly, and most important of all—if the plan is ever to succeed—you must have some notice up to the effect that as it is now a place of resort for ladies, gentlemen are requested not to lounge there in their hats and greatcoats. No ladies will go there, though the conveniences should be ten thousand times greater, while the sort of swells who have been used to kick their heels there do so in the old sort of way. I saw this expressed last night more strongly than I can tell you.
And fourthly, and most importantly—if the plan is ever going to work—you need to put up a notice indicating that since this is now a place for ladies, gentlemen are asked not to hang around in their hats and overcoats. No ladies will come here, even if the amenities were a thousand times better, as long as the type of guys who used to just loiter here keep doing it the same old way. I saw this clearly expressed last night in a way I can’t fully explain.
Hearty congratulations on the brilliant triumph. I have always expected one, as you know, but nobody could have imagined the reality.
Hearty congratulations on the amazing victory. I always knew it would happen, as you know, but no one could have predicted how incredible it would turn out.
Affectionately yours.
1842.
NARRATIVE.
During his stay at Broadstairs he was engaged in writing his "American Notes," which book was published in October. At the end of the year he had written the first number of "Martin Chuzzlewit," which appeared in January, 1843.
During his time in Broadstairs, he was busy writing his "American Notes," which was published in October. By the end of the year, he had completed the first installment of "Martin Chuzzlewit," which came out in January 1843.
An extract from a letter, addressed to Messrs. Chapman and Hall before his departure for America, is given as a testimony of the estimation in which Charles Dickens held the firm with whom he was connected for so many years.
An excerpt from a letter addressed to Messrs. Chapman and Hall before he left for America is provided as proof of the high regard Charles Dickens had for the company he was associated with for so many years.
His letters to Mr. H. P. Smith, for many years actuary of the Eagle Insurance Office, are a combination of business and friendship. Mr. Smith gives us, as an explanation of a note to him, dated 14th July, that he alluded to the stamp of the office upon the cheque, which was, as he described it, "almost a work of art"—a truculent-looking eagle seated on a rock and scattering rays over the whole sheet.
His letters to Mr. H. P. Smith, who was the actuary for the Eagle Insurance Office for many years, blend business with friendship. Mr. Smith explains a note he received from him, dated July 14th, mentioning the stamp of the office on the check, which he described as "almost a work of art"—a fierce-looking eagle sitting on a rock and casting rays across the entire sheet.
Of letters written by Charles Dickens in America we have been able to obtain very few. One, to Dr. F. H. Deane, Cincinnati, complying with his request to write him an epitaph for the tombstone of his little child, has been kindly copied for us from an album, by Mrs. Fields, of Boston. Therefore, it is not directly received, but as we have no doubt of its authenticity, we give it here; and there is one to Mr. Halleck, the American poet.
Of the letters written by Charles Dickens in America, we have managed to obtain very few. One letter, addressed to Dr. F. H. Deane in Cincinnati, fulfilling his request for an epitaph for the tombstone of his young child, has been generously copied for us from an album by Mrs. Fields of Boston. So, we didn't receive it directly, but since we are confident in its authenticity, we are including it here; there is also one addressed to Mr. Halleck, the American poet.
At the close of the voyage to America (a very bad and dangerous one), a meeting of the passengers, with Lord Mulgrave in the chair, took place, and a piece of plate and thanks were voted to the captain of the Britannia, Captain Hewett. The vote of thanks, being drawn up by Charles Dickens, is given here. We have letters in this year to Mr. Thomas Hood, Miss Pardoe, Mrs. Trollope, and Mr. W. P. Frith. The last-named artist—then a very young man—had made great success with several charming [55]pictures of Dolly Varden. One of these was bought by Charles Dickens, who ordered a companion picture of Kate Nickleby, from the young painter, whose acquaintance he made at the same time; and the two letters to Mr. Frith have reference to the purchase of the one picture and the commission for the other.
At the end of the voyage to America (which was quite rough and risky), the passengers held a meeting led by Lord Mulgrave, where they voted to give a piece of silver and their thanks to the captain of the Britannia, Captain Hewett. The thanks, prepared by Charles Dickens, are included here. This year, we have letters addressed to Mr. Thomas Hood, Miss Pardoe, Mrs. Trollope, and Mr. W. P. Frith. The last artist mentioned—who was quite young at the time—had achieved great success with several lovely pictures of Dolly Varden. One of these was purchased by Charles Dickens, who also commissioned a companion piece of Kate Nickleby from the young artist, whom he met at that time; the two letters to Mr. Frith pertain to the purchase of one picture and the commission for the other.
The letter to Mr. Cattermole is an acknowledgment also of a completed commission of two water-colour drawings, from the subjects of two of Mr. Cattermole's illustrations to "The Old Curiosity Shop."
The letter to Mr. Cattermole is also an acknowledgment of the finished commission of two watercolor drawings, based on two of Mr. Cattermole's illustrations for "The Old Curiosity Shop."
A note to Mr. Macready, at the close of this year, refers to the first representation of Mr. Westland Marston's play, "The Patrician's Daughter." Charles Dickens took great interest in the production of this work at Drury Lane. It was, to a certain extent, an experiment of the effect of a tragedy of modern times and in modern dress; and the prologue, which Charles Dickens wrote and which we give, was intended to show that there need be no incongruity between plain clothes of this century and high tragedy. The play was quite successful.
A note to Mr. Macready at the end of this year talks about the premiere of Mr. Westland Marston's play, "The Patrician's Daughter." Charles Dickens was very interested in this production at Drury Lane. It was somewhat of an experiment to see how a modern tragedy in contemporary clothing would work; the prologue, which Charles Dickens wrote and which we present here, was meant to demonstrate that there doesn't have to be any conflict between the everyday clothes of this century and serious drama. The play was quite successful.
Having disposed of the business part of this letter, I should not feel at ease on leaving England if I did not tell you once more with my whole heart that your conduct to me on this and all other occasions has been honourable, manly, and generous, and that I have felt it a solemn duty, in the event of any accident happening to me while I am away, to place this testimony upon record. It forms part of a will I have made for the security of my children; for I wish them to know it when they are capable of understanding your worth and my appreciation of it.
Having taken care of the business part of this letter, I wouldn't feel right leaving England without telling you again, from the bottom of my heart, that your behavior towards me on this and every other occasion has been honorable, brave, and generous. I feel it's important, in case anything happens to me while I’m away, to put this acknowledgment in writing. It’s included in a will I've made for the safety of my children because I want them to understand your value and how much I appreciate it when they’re old enough to recognize it.
Faithfully and truly yours.
Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool, Monday, Jan. 3rd, 1842.
This is a short note, but I will fulfil the adage and make it a merry one.
This is a brief note, but I’ll follow the saying and make it a happy one.
We came down in great comfort. Our luggage is now aboard. Anything so utterly and monstrously absurd as the size of our cabin, no "gentleman of England who lives at home at ease" can for a moment imagine. Neither of the portmanteaus would go into it. There!
We came down feeling really comfortable. Our luggage is on board now. No "gentleman of England who lives at home comfortably" could possibly imagine anything as completely and ridiculously absurd as the size of our cabin. Neither of the suitcases would fit in it. There!
These Cunard packets are not very big you know actually, but the quantity of sleeping-berths makes them much smaller, so that the saloon is not nearly as large as in one of the Ramsgate boats. The ladies' cabin is so close to ours that I could knock the door open without getting off something they call my bed, but which I believe to be a muffin beaten flat. This is a great comfort, for it is an excellent room (the only good one in the ship); and if there be only one other lady besides Kate, as the stewardess thinks, I hope I shall be able to sit there very often.
These Cunard ships aren't very big, you know, but the number of sleeping berths makes them feel even smaller, so the lounge isn't nearly as spacious as on one of the Ramsgate boats. The ladies' cabin is so close to ours that I could knock the door open without getting off something they call my bed, which I think is just a flat muffin. This is a great comfort because it’s an excellent room (the only nice one on the ship), and if there’s only one other lady besides Kate, as the stewardess believes, I hope I can spend a lot of time there.
They talk of seventy passengers, but I can't think there will be so many; they talk besides (which is even more to the purpose) of a very fine passage, having had a noble one this time last year. God send it so! We are in the best spirits, and full of hope. I was dashed for a moment when I saw our "cabin," but I got over that directly, and laughed so much at its ludicrous proportions, that you might have heard me all over the ship.
They say there are seventy passengers, but I doubt there will be that many; they also mention (which is even more important) that it will be a great trip, especially since we had a fantastic one this time last year. Hopefully, that's the case! We're in high spirits and full of hope. I was a bit disappointed when I saw our "cabin," but I got past that quickly and laughed so hard at its ridiculous size that you could probably hear me all over the ship.
God bless you! Write to me by the first opportunity. I will do the like to you. And always believe me,
God bless you! Write to me as soon as you can. I’ll do the same for you. And always trust me,
NARRATIVE.
At a meeting of the passengers on board the Britannia steam-ship, travelling from Liverpool to Boston, held in the saloon of that vessel, on Friday, the 21st January, 1842, it was moved and seconded:
At a meeting of the passengers on board the Britannia steamship, traveling from Liverpool to Boston, held in the saloon of that ship, on Friday, January 21, 1842, it was proposed and seconded:
"That the Earl of Mulgrave do take the chair."
"That the Earl of Mulgrave should take the chair."
The motion having been carried unanimously, the Earl of Mulgrave took the chair accordingly.
The motion was passed unanimously, so the Earl of Mulgrave took the chair.
It was also moved and seconded, and carried unanimously:
It was also proposed, seconded, and passed unanimously:
"That Charles Dickens, Esq., be appointed secretary and treasurer to the meeting."
"That Charles Dickens, Esq., be appointed secretary and treasurer for the meeting."
The three following resolutions were then proposed and carried nem. con.:
The three resolutions below were then proposed and passed unanimously:
"First. That, gratefully recognising the blessing of Divine Providence by which we are brought nearly to the termination of our voyage, we have great pleasure in expressing our high appreciation of Captain Hewett's nautical skill and of his indefatigable attention to the management and safe conduct of the ship, during a more than ordinarily tempestuous passage.
"First, we want to express our gratitude for the blessing of Divine Providence that has brought us close to the end of our journey. We are very pleased to acknowledge Captain Hewett's exceptional nautical skill and his tireless commitment to managing and safely guiding the ship through what has been an unusually stormy passage."
"Secondly. That a subscription be opened for the purchase of a piece of silver plate, and that Captain Hewett be respectfully requested to accept it, as a sincere expression of the sentiments embodied in the foregoing resolution.
"Secondly. That a subscription be started to buy a piece of silver plate, and that Captain Hewett be kindly asked to accept it as a genuine expression of the feelings described in the earlier resolution."
"Thirdly. That a committee be appointed to carry these resolutions into effect; and that the committee be composed of the following gentlemen: Charles Dickens, Esq., E. Dunbar, Esq., and Solomon Hopkins, Esq."
"Thirdly. That a committee be formed to implement these resolutions; and that the committee consists of the following gentlemen: Charles Dickens, Esq., E. Dunbar, Esq., and Solomon Hopkins, Esq."
The committee having withdrawn and conferred with Captain Hewett, returned, and informed the meeting that Captain Hewett desired to attend and express his thanks, which he did.[58]
The committee, after stepping out to talk with Captain Hewett, came back and told the meeting that Captain Hewett wanted to join and express his gratitude, which he did.[58]
The amount of the subscription was reported at fifty pounds, and the list was closed. It was then agreed that the following inscription should be placed upon the testimonial to Captain Hewett:
The subscription amount was reported as fifty pounds, and the list was closed. It was then decided that the following inscription should be put on the testimonial to Captain Hewett:
was presented to
CAPTAIN JOHN HEWETT,
of the Britain Steam-ship,
By the Passengers on board that vessel in a voyage from Liverpool
to Boston, in the month of January, 1842,
As a slight acknowledgment of his great ability and skill
under circumstances of much difficulty and danger,
And as a feeble token of their lasting gratitude.
Thanks were then voted to the chairman and to the secretary, and the meeting separated.
Thanks were then given to the chairman and the secretary, and the meeting was adjourned.
Tremont House, Boston, January 31st, 1842.
I am so exhausted with the life I am obliged to lead here, that I have had time to write but one letter which is at all deserving of the name, as giving any account of our movements. Forster has it, in trust, to tell you all its news; and he has also some newspapers which I had an opportunity of sending him, in which you will find further particulars of our progress.
I am so worn out with the life I have to live here that I've only had time to write one letter worth mentioning that actually updates you on our situation. Forster is holding onto it to share all the news with you; he also has some newspapers I managed to send him, which include more details about our progress.
We had a dreadful passage, the worst, the officers all concur in saying, that they have ever known. We were eighteen days coming; experienced a dreadful storm which swept away our paddle-boxes and stove our lifeboats; and ran aground besides, near Halifax, among rocks and breakers, where we lay at anchor all night. After we left the English Channel we had only one fine day. And we had the additional discomfort of being eighty-six passengers.[59] I was ill five days, Kate six; though, indeed, she had a swelled face and suffered the utmost terror all the way.
We had a terrible trip, the worst one the officers have ever experienced. It took us eighteen days to arrive; we went through a severe storm that destroyed our paddle boxes and damaged our lifeboats. We also ran aground near Halifax, among rocks and rough waters, where we had to anchor all night. After leaving the English Channel, we only had one nice day. To make matters worse, we were crammed with eighty-six passengers.[59] I was sick for five days, and Kate was sick for six; although, honestly, she had a swollen face and felt terrified the entire time.
I can give you no conception of my welcome here. There never was a king or emperor upon the earth so cheered and followed by crowds, and entertained in public at splendid balls and dinners, and waited on by public bodies and deputations of all kinds. I have had one from the Far West—a journey of two thousand miles! If I go out in a carriage, the crowd surround it and escort me home; if I go to the theatre, the whole house (crowded to the roof) rises as one man, and the timbers ring again. You cannot imagine what it is. I have five great public dinners on hand at this moment, and invitations from every town and village and city in the States.
I can't even begin to describe the amazing welcome I've received here. There’s never been a king or emperor so celebrated and followed by crowds, entertained with extravagant balls and dinners, and served by various public groups and delegations. I even had a delegation come all the way from the Far West—a journey of two thousand miles! When I ride in a carriage, the crowd surrounds it and escorts me home; when I go to the theater, the entire audience (packed to the rafters) stands up together, and the building shakes with applause. You can't imagine what it's like. Right now, I have five big public dinners lined up and invitations from every town, village, and city in the States.
There is a great deal afloat here in the way of subjects for description. I keep my eyes open pretty wide, and hope to have done so to some purpose by the time I come home.
There are a lot of topics to describe here. I'm keeping my eyes wide open and hope it pays off by the time I get home.
When you write to me again—I say again, hoping that your first letter will be soon upon its way here—direct to me to the care of David Colden, Esq., New York. He will forward all communications by the quickest conveyance and will be perfectly acquainted with all my movements.
When you write to me again—I say again, hoping that your first letter is on its way here soon—please send it to me care of David Colden, Esq., in New York. He'll make sure all communications are forwarded quickly and will know all my movements.
Carlton House, February 14th, 1842.
Will you come and breakfast with me on Tuesday, the 22nd, at half-past ten? Say yes. I should have been truly delighted to have a talk with you to-night (being quite alone), but the doctor says that if I talk to man, woman, or child this evening I shall be dumb to-morrow.
Will you join me for breakfast on Tuesday, the 22nd, at 10:30? Please say yes. I would have really loved to chat with you tonight (since I'm all alone), but the doctor says that if I talk to anyone this evening, I won’t be able to speak tomorrow.
Faithfully your Friend.
Baltimore, March 22nd, 1842.
I beg your pardon, but you were speaking of rash leaps at hasty conclusions. Are you quite sure you designed that remark for me? Have you not, in the hurry of correspondence, slipped a paragraph into my letter which belongs of right to somebody else? When did you ever find me leap at wrong conclusions? I pause for a reply.
I’m sorry, but you were talking about making rash leaps to hasty conclusions. Are you sure that comment was meant for me? Did you maybe mix up a paragraph in my letter that actually belongs to someone else? When have you ever seen me jump to the wrong conclusions? I’m waiting for your response.
Pray, sir, did you ever find me admiring Mr. ——? On the contrary, did you never hear of my protesting through good, better, and best report that he was not an open or a candid man, and would one day, beyond all doubt, displease you by not being so? I pause again for a reply.
Pray, sir, have you ever seen me admiring Mr. ——? On the contrary, didn’t you ever hear me insist through all kinds of feedback that he wasn’t an honest or straightforward man, and would inevitably upset you someday by not being that way? I pause again for a response.
Are you quite sure, Mr. Macready—and I address myself to you with the sternness of a man in the pit—are you quite sure, sir, that you do not view America through the pleasant mirage which often surrounds a thing that has been, but not a thing that is? Are you quite sure that when you were here you relished it as well as you do now when you look back upon it. The early spring birds, Mr. Macready, do sing in the groves that you were, very often, not over well pleased with many of the new country's social aspects. Are the birds to be trusted? Again I pause for a reply.
Are you really sure, Mr. Macready—and I’m speaking to you with the seriousness of someone from the audience—are you really sure, sir, that you don’t see America through the nice illusion that often surrounds something that was good but isn’t necessarily the same now? Are you really sure that when you were here you enjoyed it as much as you seem to when you reflect on it now? The early spring birds, Mr. Macready, do sing in the groves, but you often weren’t too happy with many of the social aspects of the new country. Can we trust the birds? I'm waiting for your answer.
My dear Macready, I desire to be so honest and just to those who have so enthusiastically and earnestly welcomed me, that I burned the last letter I wrote to you—even to you to whom I would speak as to myself—rather than let it come with anything that might seem like an ill-considered word of disappointment. I preferred that you should think me neglectful (if you could imagine[61] anything so wild) rather than I should do wrong in this respect. Still it is of no use. I am disappointed. This is not the republic I came to see; this is not the republic of my imagination. I infinitely prefer a liberal monarchy—even with its sickening accompaniments of court circulars—to such a government as this. The more I think of its youth and strength, the poorer and more trifling in a thousand aspects it appears in my eyes. In everything of which it has made a boast—excepting its education of the people and its care for poor children—it sinks immeasurably below the level I had placed it upon; and England, even England, bad and faulty as the old land is, and miserable as millions of her people are, rises in the comparison.
My dear Macready, I want to be completely honest and fair to those who have welcomed me so warmly and sincerely that I destroyed the last letter I wrote to you—even to you, who I would speak to as if you were me—rather than let it be sent with anything that might come off as a thoughtless expression of disappointment. I would rather you think I was neglectful (if you could ever imagine something so far-fetched) than risk saying something wrong in this regard. Still, it doesn’t matter. I *am* disappointed. This is not the republic I came to see; this is not the republic I had in mind. I much prefer a liberal monarchy—even with its annoying court announcements—over this kind of government. The more I consider its youth and strength, the more it seems weak and trivial in countless ways. In everything it has claimed as an achievement—except for its education system and its concern for underprivileged children—it falls drastically short of the expectations I had set for it; and England, even with all its flaws and the suffering of millions of its people, stands out better in comparison.
You live here, Macready, as I have sometimes heard you imagining! You! Loving you with all my heart and soul, and knowing what your disposition really is, I would not condemn you to a year's residence on this side of the Atlantic for any money. Freedom of opinion! Where is it? I see a press more mean, and paltry, and silly, and disgraceful than any country I ever knew. If that is its standard, here it is. But I speak of Bancroft, and am advised to be silent on that subject, for he is "a black sheep—a Democrat." I speak of Bryant, and am entreated to be more careful, for the same reason. I speak of international copyright, and am implored not to ruin myself outright. I speak of Miss Martineau, and all parties—Slave Upholders and Abolitionists, Whigs, Tyler Whigs, and Democrats, shower down upon me a perfect cataract of abuse. "But what has she done? Surely she praised America enough!" "Yes, but she told us of some of our faults, and Americans can't bear to be told of their faults. Don't split on that rock, Mr. Dickens, don't write about America; we are so very suspicious."[62]
You live here, Macready, as I’ve sometimes heard you imagining! You! Loving you with all my heart and soul, and knowing your true nature, I wouldn’t wish you to spend a year over here on this side of the Atlantic for any amount of money. Freedom of opinion! Where is it? I see a press that is more petty, ridiculous, and disgraceful than any country I’ve ever known. If that’s its standard, here it is. But I mention Bancroft and am advised to stay quiet on that topic, because he’s “a black sheep—a Democrat.” I mention Bryant and am urged to tread carefully for the same reason. I talk about international copyright and am begged not to completely destroy myself. I bring up Miss Martineau, and everyone—Slave Upholders, Abolitionists, Whigs, Tyler Whigs, and Democrats—unleashes a torrent of criticism on me. “But what has she done? Surely she praised America enough!” “Yes, but she pointed out some of our faults, and Americans can’t stand hearing about their faults. Don’t get caught on that rock, Mr. Dickens, don’t write about America; we are so very suspicious.”[62]
Freedom of opinion! Macready, if I had been born here and had written my books in this country, producing them with no stamp of approval from any other land, it is my solemn belief that I should have lived and died poor, unnoticed, and a "black sheep" to boot. I never was more convinced of anything than I am of that.
Freedom of opinion! Macready, if I had been born here and had written my books in this country, producing them without any approval from other lands, I truly believe that I would have lived and died poor, unnoticed, and considered a "black sheep" as well. I have never been more convinced of anything than I am of that.
The people are affectionate, generous, open-hearted, hospitable, enthusiastic, good-humoured, polite to women, frank and candid to all strangers, anxious to oblige, far less prejudiced than they have been described to be, frequently polished and refined, very seldom rude or disagreeable. I have made a great many friends here, even in public conveyances, whom I have been truly sorry to part from. In the towns I have formed perfect attachments. I have seen none of that greediness and indecorousness on which travellers have laid so much emphasis. I have returned frankness with frankness; met questions not intended to be rude, with answers meant to be satisfactory; and have not spoken to one man, woman, or child of any degree who has not grown positively affectionate before we parted. In the respects of not being left alone, and of being horribly disgusted by tobacco chewing and tobacco spittle, I have suffered considerably. The sight of slavery in Virginia, the hatred of British feeling upon the subject, and the miserable hints of the impotent indignation of the South, have pained me very much; on the last head, of course, I have felt nothing but a mingled pity and amusement; on the other, sheer distress. But however much I like the ingredients of this great dish, I cannot but come back to the point upon which I started, and say that the dish itself goes against the grain with me, and that I don't like it.
The people are warm, generous, friendly, welcoming, enthusiastic, humorous, respectful towards women, honest and straightforward with strangers, eager to help, much less prejudiced than they’ve been made out to be, often polished and refined, and very rarely rude or unpleasant. I’ve made a lot of friends here, even while traveling, and I’ve genuinely been sad to say goodbye. In the towns, I’ve formed deep connections. I haven’t seen any of the greediness or rudeness that travelers often talk about. I’ve responded honestly to honesty, answered questions that weren’t meant to be rude with satisfying replies, and I haven’t encountered anyone—man, woman, or child—who didn’t become genuinely fond of me before we parted. However, I have been quite annoyed by not having any personal space and by the unpleasantness of tobacco chewing and spitting. The sight of slavery in Virginia, the resentment from British sentiments on the matter, and the frustrating hints of the South's powerless anger have really troubled me; regarding the latter, I’ve mainly felt a mix of pity and amusement, but on the former, a deep distress. Yet, no matter how much I appreciate the individual elements of this complex situation, I have to return to my initial point and say that the whole situation is hard for me to accept, and I don’t like it.
You know that I am truly a Liberal. I believe I have[63] as little pride as most men, and I am conscious of not the smallest annoyance from being "hail fellow well met" with everybody. I have not had greater pleasure in the company of any set of men among the thousands I have received (I hold a regular levée every day, you know, which is duly heralded and proclaimed in the newspapers) than in that of the carmen of Hertford, who presented themselves in a body in their blue frocks, among a crowd of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, and bade me welcome through their spokesman. They had all read my books, and all perfectly understood them. It is not these things I have in my mind when I say that the man who comes to this country a Radical and goes home again with his opinions unchanged, must be a Radical on reason, sympathy, and reflection, and one who has so well considered the subject that he has no chance of wavering.
You know I'm really a Liberal. I think I have[63] as little pride as most people, and I'm not bothered at all by being friendly with everyone. I've enjoyed the company of no group more than the thousands I've welcomed (I hold a regular levee every day, as you know, which is always announced in the newspapers) than that of the carmen from Hertford, who showed up together in their blue uniforms, among a crowd of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, and welcomed me through their spokesperson. They had all read my books, and they understood them completely. It's not these experiences I think about when I say that a man who comes to this country as a Radical and leaves with the same opinions must be a Radical for solid reasons, empathy, and thoughtfulness, and someone who has considered the subject so thoroughly that he won't change his mind.
We have been to Boston, Worcester, Hertford, New Haven, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, Fredericksburgh, Richmond, and back to Washington again. The premature heat of the weather (it was eighty yesterday in the shade) and Clay's advice—how you would like Clay!—have made us determine not to go to Charleston; but having got to Richmond, I think I should have turned back under any circumstances. We remain at Baltimore for two days, of which this is one; then we go to Harrisburgh. Then by the canal boat and the railroad over the Alleghany Mountains to Pittsburgh, then down the Ohio to Cincinnati, then to Louisville, and then to St. Louis. I have been invited to a public entertainment in every town I have entered, and have refused them; but I have excepted St. Louis as the farthest point of my travels. My friends there have passed some resolutions which Forster has, and [64]will show you. From St. Louis we cross to Chicago, traversing immense prairies. Thence by the lakes and Detroit to Buffalo, and so to Niagara. A run into Canada follows of course, and then—let me write the blessed word in capitals—we turn towards home.
We’ve been to Boston, Worcester, Hartford, New Haven, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, Fredericksburg, Richmond, and back to Washington again. The early heat of the weather (it was eighty degrees in the shade yesterday) and Clay's advice—oh, you'd love Clay!—have made us decide not to go to Charleston; but now that we’ve reached Richmond, I think I would have turned back regardless. We're staying in Baltimore for two days, and today is one of them; then we’re heading to Harrisburg. After that, we'll take the canal boat and the railroad over the Allegheny Mountains to Pittsburgh, then down the Ohio River to Cincinnati, then to Louisville, and finally to St. Louis. I've been invited to a public event in every town I've visited, and I've turned them down; but I’ve made an exception for St. Louis as the furthest point of my travels. My friends there have made some resolutions that Forster has, and [64]will show you. From St. Louis, we’ll head to Chicago, crossing vast prairies. Then we'll go by the lakes and through Detroit to Buffalo, and then on to Niagara. A quick trip into Canada follows, and then—let me write this blessed word in capitals—we turn towards home.
Kate has written to Mrs. Macready, and it is useless for me to thank you, my dearest friend, or her, for your care of our dear children, which is our constant theme of discourse. Forster has gladdened our hearts with his account of the triumph of "Acis and Galatea," and I am anxiously looking for news of the tragedy. Forrest breakfasted with us at Richmond last Saturday—he was acting there, and I invited him—and he spoke very gratefully, and very like a man, of your kindness to him when he was in London.
Kate has written to Mrs. Macready, and it's pointless for me to thank you, my dear friend, or her, for taking care of our wonderful kids, which is always what we talk about. Forster has made us happy with his update on the success of "Acis and Galatea," and I'm eagerly waiting for news about the tragedy. Forrest had breakfast with us in Richmond last Saturday—he was performing there, and I invited him—and he spoke very appreciatively, like a true gentleman, about your kindness to him when he was in London.
David Colden is as good a fellow as ever lived; and I am deeply in love with his wife. Indeed we have received the greatest and most earnest and zealous kindness from the whole family, and quite love them all. Do you remember one Greenhow, whom you invited to pass some days with you at the hotel on the Kaatskill Mountains? He is translator to the State Office at Washington, has a very pretty wife, and a little girl of five years old. We dined with them, and had a very pleasant day. The President invited me to dinner, but I couldn't stay for it. I had a private audience, however, and we attended the public drawing-room besides.
David Colden is as good a guy as they come; and I’m really in love with his wife. Honestly, we’ve received the greatest and most genuine kindness from the whole family, and we really love them all. Do you remember that Greenhow guy you invited to spend some time with you at the hotel in the Catskill Mountains? He works as a translator for the State Office in Washington, has a lovely wife, and a little girl who’s five years old. We had dinner with them and had a really nice day. The President invited me to dinner, but I couldn’t stick around for it. I did have a private meeting, though, and we also went to the public drawing-room.
Now, don't you rush at the quick conclusion that I have rushed at a quick conclusion. Pray, be upon your guard. If you can by any process estimate the extent of my affectionate regard for you, and the rush I shall make when I reach London to take you by your true right hand, I don't object. But let me entreat you to be very careful how you come down upon the sharpsighted individual who[65] pens these words, which you seem to me to have done in what Willmott would call "one of Mr. Macready's rushes." As my pen is getting past its work, I have taken a new one to say that
Now, don't jump to the quick conclusion that I have rushed to a quick conclusion. Please, be careful. If you can somehow estimate the depth of my affectionate feelings for you, and the burst of excitement I’ll feel when I get to London to take your hand, I won't object. But I urge you to be very cautious about how you address the perceptive person who[65] wrote these words, as it seems to me you've approached it in what Willmott would call "one of Mr. Macready's rushes." As my pen is getting close to finishing its work, I've grabbed a new one to say that
Your faithful Friend.
Baltimore, MD, March 22nd, 1842.
We have been as far south as Richmond in Virginia (where they grow and manufacture tobacco, and where the labour is all performed by slaves), but the season in those latitudes is so intensely and prematurely hot, that it was considered a matter of doubtful expediency to go on to Charleston. For this unexpected reason, and because the country between Richmond and Charleston is but a desolate swamp the whole way, and because slavery is anything but a cheerful thing to live amidst, I have altered my route by the advice of Mr. Clay (the great political leader in this country), and have returned here previous to diving into the far West. We start for that part of the country—which includes mountain travelling, and lake travelling, and prairie travelling—the day after to-morrow, at eight o'clock in the morning; and shall be in the West, and from there going northward again, until the 30th of April or 1st of May, when we shall halt for a week at Niagara, before going further into Canada. We have taken our passage home (God bless the word) in the George Washington packet-ship from New York. She sails on the 7th of June.
We’ve traveled as far south as Richmond in Virginia (where they grow and produce tobacco, and where all the work is done by slaves), but the heat down there is so intense and arrives so early that it seemed questionable to continue on to Charleston. For this unexpected reason, and because the area between Richmond and Charleston is just a bleak swamp the whole way, and because living among slavery is anything but pleasant, I’ve changed my route based on Mr. Clay’s advice (the prominent political leader in this country), and I’ve come back here before venturing into the far West. We’ll head to that region—which includes mountain travel, lake travel, and prairie travel—day after tomorrow at eight in the morning; and we’ll be in the West, then heading north again, until April 30th or May 1st, when we’ll pause for a week at Niagara before going further into Canada. We’ve booked our passage home (thank goodness for that) on the George Washington packet ship from New York. She departs on June 7th.
I have departed from my resolution not to accept any more public entertainments; they have been proposed in every town I have visited—in favour of the people of St. Louis, my utmost western point. That town is on the borders of the Indian territory, a trifling distance from[66] this place—only two thousand miles! At my second halting-place I shall be able to write to fix the day; I suppose it will be somewhere about the 12th of April. Think of my going so far towards the setting sun to dinner!
I’ve broken my promise not to accept any more public events; they’ve been offered in every city I’ve visited—especially for the people of St. Louis, my farthest western point. That city is right on the edge of Indian territory, just a short distance from[66] this place—only two thousand miles! At my next stop, I’ll be able to write to confirm the date; I think it’ll be around the 12th of April. Can you believe I’m traveling all that way toward the setting sun for dinner?
In every town where we stay, though it be only for a day, we hold a regular levée or drawing-room, where I shake hands on an average with five or six hundred people, who pass on from me to Kate, and are shaken again by her. Maclise's picture of our darlings stands upon a table or sideboard the while; and my travelling secretary, assisted very often by a committee belonging to the place, presents the people in due form. Think of two hours of this every day, and the people coming in by hundreds, all fresh, and piping hot, and full of questions, when we are literally exhausted and can hardly stand. I really do believe that if I had not a lady with me, I should have been obliged to leave the country and go back to England. But for her they never would leave me alone by day or night, and as it is, a slave comes to me now and then in the middle of the night with a letter, and waits at the bedroom door for an answer.
In every town we visit, even if it's just for a day, we hold a regular levée or gathering, where I shake hands with, on average, five or six hundred people, who then move on to Kate, and she shakes hands with them too. Maclise's portrait of our beloved kids sits on a table or sideboard during this time; and my traveling secretary, often helped by a local committee, introduces everyone properly. Imagine two hours of this every day, with hundreds of people coming in, all eager, full of energy, and full of questions, while we are completely drained and can barely stand. Honestly, I believe that if I didn't have a lady with me, I would have had to leave the country and return to England. Without her, they would never let me have a moment's peace, day or night, and as it is, sometimes a servant comes to me in the middle of the night with a letter and waits at the bedroom door for a reply.
It was so hot at Richmond that we could scarcely breathe, and the peach and other fruit trees were in full blossom; it was so cold at Washington next day that we were shivering; but even in the same town you might often wear nothing but a shirt and trousers in the morning, and two greatcoats at night, the thermometer very frequently taking a little trip of thirty degrees between sunrise and sunset.
It was so hot in Richmond that we could hardly breathe, and the peach and other fruit trees were fully bloomed; but the next day in Washington, it was so cold that we were shivering; even in the same town, you could often wear just a shirt and pants in the morning, and then two heavy coats at night, with the temperature often changing by thirty degrees between sunrise and sunset.
They do lay it on at the hotels in such style! They charge by the day, so that whether one dines out or dines at home makes no manner of difference. T'other day I wrote to order our rooms at Philadelphia to be ready on a certain day, and was detained a week longer than I expected in New York. The Philadelphia landlord not only charged me[67] half rent for the rooms during the whole of that time, but board for myself and Kate and Anne during the whole time too, though we were actually boarding at the same expense during the same time in New York! What do you say to that? If I remonstrated, the whole virtue of the newspapers would be aroused directly.
They really go all out at the hotels! They charge by the day, so it doesn't matter if you eat out or eat in. The other day, I wrote to have our rooms in Philadelphia ready for a specific day, but I ended up staying in New York for a week longer than I thought I would. The Philadelphia hotel owner not only charged me[67] half rent for the rooms for that entire time, but also charged for meals for me, Kate, and Anne during that same period, even though we were actually eating at the same cost in New York! What do you think about that? If I complain, the entire power of the newspapers would get stirred up immediately.
We were at the President's drawing-room while we were in Washington. I had a private audience besides, and was asked to dinner, but couldn't stay.
We were in the President's drawing room while we were in Washington. I also had a private meeting, and I was invited to dinner but couldn't stay.
Parties—parties—parties—of course, every day and night. But it's not all parties. I go into the prisons, the police-offices, the watch-houses, the hospitals, the workhouses. I was out half the night in New York with two of their most famous constables; started at midnight, and went into every brothel, thieves' house, murdering hovel, sailors' dancing-place, and abode of villany, both black and white, in the town. I went incog. behind the scenes to the little theatre where Mitchell is making a fortune. He has been rearing a little dog for me, and has called him "Boz."[1] I am going to bring him home. In a word I go everywhere, and a hard life it is. But I am careful to drink hardly anything, and not to smoke at all. I have recourse to my medicine-chest whenever I feel at all bilious, and am, thank God, thoroughly well.
Parties—parties—parties—of course, every day and night. But it's not just parties. I visit the prisons, the police stations, the watch houses, the hospitals, and the workhouses. I was out half the night in New York with two of their most well-known cops; we started at midnight and checked out every brothel, thieves' den, murder house, sailors' dance hall, and den of iniquity, both black and white, in the city. I went incognito behind the scenes to the little theater where Mitchell is making a fortune. He has been raising a little dog for me and named him "Boz." I'm going to bring him home. In short, I go everywhere, and it’s a tough life. But I make sure to drink very little and not to smoke at all. I rely on my medicine cabinet whenever I'm feeling a bit off, and I am, thank God, perfectly well.
When I next write to you, I shall have begun, I hope, to turn my face homeward. I have a great store of oddity and whimsicality, and am going now into the oddest and most characteristic part of this most queer country.
When I write to you next, I hope to have started heading home. I have a lot of unique experiences and quirks, and I'm about to enter the strangest and most distinctive part of this very peculiar country.
Always direct to the care of David Colden, Esq.,[68] 28, Laight Street, Hudson Square, New York. I received your Caledonia letter with the greatest joy.
Always direct to the attention of David Colden, Esq.,[68] 28, Laight Street, Hudson Square, New York. I got your Caledonia letter and was really happy to receive it.
Kate sends her best remembrances.
Kate sends her best wishes.
P.S.—Richmond was my extreme southern point, and I turn from the South altogether the day after to-morrow. Will you let the Britannia[2] know of this change—if needful?
P.S.—Richmond was my farthest point south, and I'll be leaving the South completely the day after tomorrow. Can you let the Britannia[2] know about this change, if necessary?
Cincy, Ohio, April 4th, 1842.
I have not been unmindful of your request for a moment, but have not been able to think of it until now. I hope my good friends (for whose christian-names I have left blanks in the epitaph) may like what I have written, and that they will take comfort and be happy again. I sail on the 7th of June, and purpose being at the Carlton House, New York, about the 1st. It will make me easy to know that this letter has reached you.
I haven't forgotten your request for even a second, but I just haven't been able to think about it until now. I hope my good friends (whose first names I've left blank in the epitaph) will appreciate what I've written, and that they will find comfort and be happy again. I'm leaving on June 7th and plan to be at the Carlton House in New York around the 1st. It will put my mind at ease knowing that this letter has reached you.
This is the Grave of a Little Child,
WHOM GOD IN HIS GOODNESS CALLED TO A BRIGHT ETERNITY
WHEN HE WAS VERY YOUNG.
HARD AS IT IS FOR HUMAN AFFECTION TO RECONCILE ITSELF TO DEATH IN ANY
SHAPE (AND MOST OF ALL, PERHAPS, AT FIRST IN THIS),
HIS PARENTS CAN EVEN NOW BELIEVE THAT IT WILL BE A CONSOLATION
TO THEM THROUGHOUT THEIR LIVES,
AND WHEN THEY SHALL HAVE GROWN OLD AND GRAY,
Always to think of him as a Child in Heaven.
"And Jesus called a little child unto Him, and set him in the midst of them."
He was the son of Q—— and M—— THORNTON, baptized
CHARLES JERKING.
He was born on January 20, 1841.
AND HE PASSED AWAY ON MARCH 12, 1842,
having lived just thirteen months and twenty days.
Niagara Falls (U.S. Side),
Sunday, May 1st, 1842.
Although I date this letter as above, it will not be so old a one as at first sight it would appear to be when it reaches you. I shall carry it on with me to Montreal, and despatch it from there by the steamer which goes to Halifax, to meet the Cunard boat at that place, with Canadian letters and passengers. Before I finally close it, I will add a short postscript, so that it will contain the latest intelligence.
Although I date this letter as above, it won't actually be as old as it seems by the time you receive it. I’ll take it with me to Montreal and send it from there via the steamer that goes to Halifax, to connect with the Cunard ship at that port, carrying Canadian letters and passengers. Before I finally wrap it up, I’ll add a brief postscript to include the latest updates.
We have had a blessed interval of quiet in this beautiful place, of which, as you may suppose, we stood greatly in need, not only by reason of our hard travelling for a long time, but on account of the incessant persecutions of the people, by land and water, on stage coach, railway car, and steamer, which exceeds anything you can picture to yourself by the utmost stretch of your imagination. So far we have had this hotel nearly to ourselves. It is a large square house, standing on a bold height, with overhanging eaves like a Swiss cottage, and a wide handsome gallery outside every story. These colonnades make it look so very light, that it has exactly the appearance of a house built with a pack of cards; and I live in bodily terror lest any man should venture to step out of a little observatory on the roof, and crush the whole structure with one stamp of his foot.
We’ve had a nice break of peace in this beautiful place, which, as you can imagine, we really needed—not just because we had been traveling hard for a long time, but also due to the constant harassment we faced from people, whether on land or water, in a stagecoach, train, or steamer, which is beyond anything you could possibly imagine. So far, this hotel has mostly been empty. It’s a large square building sitting on a steep rise, with eaves that hang over like a Swiss cottage, and there’s a wide, beautiful balcony outside every floor. These colonnades make it look really light, almost like a house made of playing cards, and I’m honestly scared that if anyone steps out of the little observatory on the roof, they might bring the whole thing down with just one stomp.
Our sitting-room (which is large and low like a nursery) is on the second floor, and is so close to the Falls that the windows are always wet and dim with spray. Two bedrooms open out of it—one our own; one Anne's. The secretary slumbers near at hand, but without these sacred precincts. From the three chambers, or any part of them, you can see the Falls rolling and tumbling, and roaring and leaping, all day long, with bright rainbows making fiery arches[70] down a hundred feet below us. When the sun is on them, they shine and glow like molten gold. When the day is gloomy, the water falls like snow, or sometimes it seems to crumble away like the face of a great chalk cliff, or sometimes again to roll along the front of the rock like white smoke. But it all seems gay or gloomy, dark or light, by sun or moon. From the bottom of both Falls, there is always rising up a solemn ghostly cloud, which hides the boiling cauldron from human sight, and makes it in its mystery a hundred times more grand than if you could see all the secrets that lie hidden in its tremendous depth. One Fall is as close to us as York Gate is to No. 1, Devonshire Terrace. The other (the great Horse-shoe Fall) may be, perhaps, about half as far off as "Creedy's."[3] One circumstance in connection with them is, in all the accounts, greatly exaggerated—I mean the noise. Last night was perfectly still. Kate and I could just hear them, at the quiet time of sunset, a mile off. Whereas, believing the statements I had heard I began putting my ear to the ground, like a savage or a bandit in a ballet, thirty miles off, when we were coming here from Buffalo.
Our living room (which is spacious and low like a nursery) is on the second floor, and it’s so close to the Falls that the windows are always damp and dim from the spray. Two bedrooms open off of it—one is ours, and the other is Anne's. The office is nearby, but not within these sacred spaces. From the three rooms, or any part of them, you can see the Falls rolling, tumbling, roaring, and leaping all day long, with bright rainbows creating fiery arches down a hundred feet below us. When the sun hits them, they shine and glow like molten gold. On gloomy days, the water falls like snow, sometimes seeming to crumble away like the face of a great chalk cliff, or at other times rolling along the rock like white smoke. But everything seems cheerful or gloomy, dark or bright, depending on the sun or the moon. From the base of both Falls, a solemn, ghostly cloud always rises, hiding the boiling cauldron from view, making it feel a hundred times more magnificent than if you could see all the secrets hidden in its immense depth. One Fall is as close to us as York Gate is to No. 1, Devonshire Terrace. The other (the great Horseshoe Fall) might be about half as far away as "Creedy's." One thing in relation to them is greatly exaggerated in all the accounts—I mean the noise. Last night was completely still. Kate and I could barely hear them, at the calm time of sunset, a mile away. Yet, believing what I had heard, I started putting my ear to the ground like a savage or a bandit in a ballet, thinking we were thirty miles away when we were coming here from Buffalo.
I was delighted to receive your famous letter, and to read your account of our darlings, whom we long to see with an intensity it is impossible to shadow forth, ever so faintly. I do believe, though I say it as shouldn't, that they are good 'uns—both to look at and to go. I roared out this morning, as soon as I was awake, "Next month," which we have been longing to be able to say ever since we have been here. I really do not know how we shall ever knock at the door, when that slowest of all impossibly slow hackney-coaches shall pull up—at home.
I was thrilled to receive your famous letter and to read about our little ones, whom we can't wait to see with a longing that's hard to put into words. I honestly believe, even if I shouldn’t say it, that they are lovely—both to look at and to be around. I shouted this morning, as soon as I woke up, "Next month," which we've been eager to say ever since we got here. I truly don’t know how we'll ever manage to knock on the door when that slowest of all impossibly slow cabs finally arrives—at home.
I am glad you exult in the fight I have had about the copyright. If you knew how they tried to stop me, you would have a still greater interest in it. The greatest men in England have sent me out, through Forster, a very manly, and becoming, and spirited memorial and address, backing me in all I have done. I have despatched it to Boston for publication, and am coolly prepared for the storm it will raise. But my best rod is in pickle.
I’m glad you’re excited about the battle I’ve had over copyright. If you knew how hard they tried to stop me, you’d be even more interested. Some of the most influential people in England have sent me, through Forster, a strong and dignified letter of support, backing everything I’ve done. I’ve sent it to Boston for publication, and I’m calmly ready for the controversy it will create. But my best tool is still on hold.
Is it not a horrible thing that scoundrel booksellers should grow rich here from publishing books, the authors of which do not reap one farthing from their issue by scores of thousands; and that every vile, blackguard, and detestable newspaper, so filthy and bestial that no honest man would admit one into his house for a scullery door-mat, should be able to publish those same writings side by side, cheek by jowl, with the coarsest and most obscene companions with which they must become connected, in course of time, in people's minds? Is it tolerable that besides being robbed and rifled an author should be forced to appear in any form, in any vulgar dress, in any atrocious company; that he should have no choice of his audience, no control over his own distorted text, and that he should be compelled to jostle out of the course the best men in this country who only ask to live by writing? I vow before high heaven that my blood so boils at these enormities, that when I speak about them I seem to grow twenty feet high, and to swell out in proportion. "Robbers that ye are," I think to myself when I get upon my legs, "here goes!"
Isn't it terrible that shady booksellers can get rich from publishing books while the authors don’t earn a single penny from the thousands sold? And that every disgusting, unscrupulous, and repulsive newspaper—so filthy and vile that no decent person would let one in their home even as a doormat—can publish those same writings alongside the most crude and obscene materials, forever tying them together in people’s minds? Is it acceptable that, on top of being robbed and exploited, an author has to appear in any form, in any vulgar way, and in any awful company? That they have no say over their audience, no control over their own distorted text, and that they have to compete with the best writers in this country who just want to make a living by writing? I swear to high heaven that my blood boils at these injustices, and when I talk about them, I feel like I grow twenty feet tall, puffing up in anger. “Robbers that you are,” I think to myself when I stand up, “here goes!”
The places we have lodged in, the roads we have gone over, the company we have been among, the tobacco-spittle we have wallowed in, the strange customs we have complied with, the packing-cases in which we have travelled, the woods, swamps, rivers, prairies, lakes, and mountains we[72] have crossed, are all subjects for legends and tales at home; quires, reams, wouldn't hold them. I don't think Anne has so much as seen an American tree. She never looks at a prospect by any chance, or displays the smallest emotion at any sight whatever. She objects to Niagara that "it's nothing but water," and considers that "there is too much of that."
The places we've stayed, the roads we've traveled, the company we've kept, the tobacco spit we've dealt with, the strange customs we've followed, the packing cases we've traveled in, the woods, swamps, rivers, prairies, lakes, and mountains we've crossed, are all stories waiting to be told back home; a ton of paper wouldn't be enough for them. I doubt Anne has even seen an American tree. She never looks at a view or shows any emotion at any sight. She complains about Niagara, saying "it's just water," and thinks "there's too much of that."
I suppose you have heard that I am going to act at the Montreal theatre with the officers? Farce-books being scarce, and the choice consequently limited, I have selected Keeley's part in "Two o'Clock in the Morning." I wrote yesterday to Mitchell, the actor and manager at New York, to get and send me a comic wig, light flaxen, with a small whisker halfway down the cheek; over this I mean to wear two night-caps, one with a tassel and one of flannel; a flannel wrapper, drab tights and slippers, will complete the costume.
I guess you’ve heard that I’m going to perform at the Montreal theater with the officers? Since there aren't many farce books available, my options are pretty limited, so I’ve chosen Keeley’s role in "Two o'Clock in the Morning." I wrote to Mitchell, the actor and manager in New York, yesterday to ask him to get and send me a funny wig, light blonde, with a little whisker halfway down the cheek; over that, I plan to wear two nightcaps, one with a tassel and another made of flannel; a flannel robe, gray tights, and slippers will complete the outfit.
I am very sorry to hear that business is so flat, but the proverb says it never rains but it pours, and it may be remarked with equal truth upon the other side, that it never don't rain but it holds up very much indeed. You will be busy again long before I come home, I have no doubt.
I’m really sorry to hear that business is so slow, but there’s a saying that when it rains, it pours, and it’s just as true that when it isn’t raining, it can be pretty nice. I have no doubt you’ll be busy again long before I get back home.
We purpose leaving this on Wednesday morning. Give my love to Letitia and to mother, and always believe me, my dear Henry,
We plan to leave this on Wednesday morning. Send my love to Letitia and to Mom, and always remember that I care for you, my dear Henry,
Montreal, Canada, May 12th, 1842.
All well, though (with the exception of one from Fred) we have received no letters whatever by the Caledonia. We have experienced impossible-to-be-described attentions in Canada. Everybody's carriage and horses are at our[73] disposal, and everybody's servants; and all the Government boats and boats' crews. We shall play, between the 20th and the 25th, "A Roland for an Oliver," "Two o'Clock in the Morning," and "Deaf as a Post."
All is well, except for one from Fred; we haven't received any letters at all by the Caledonia. We've experienced indescribable hospitality in Canada. Everyone's carriages and horses are at our[73] disposal, along with all the household staff, and all the Government boats and crews. Between the 20th and the 25th, we'll be performing "A Roland for an Oliver," "Two o'Clock in the Morning," and "Deaf as a Post."
Athenæum, Friday Afternoon.
If I could possibly have attended the meeting yesterday I would most gladly have done so. But I have been up the whole night, and was too much exhausted even to write and say so before the proceedings came on.
If I could have possibly made it to the meeting yesterday, I definitely would have. But I was up all night and too exhausted even to write and let you know before the meeting started.
I have fought the fight across the Atlantic with the utmost energy I could command; have never been turned aside by any consideration for an instant; am fresher for the fray than ever; will battle it to the death, and die game to the last.
I have fought hard across the Atlantic with all the energy I could muster; I have never wavered for a moment due to any consideration; I am more ready for the fight than ever; I will keep fighting until the end, and I'll go down swinging.
I am happy to say that my boy is quite well again. From being in perfect health he fell into alarming convulsions with the surprise and joy of our return.
I’m happy to say that my son is doing quite well again. He went from being perfectly healthy to having alarming convulsions because of the surprise and joy of our return.
I beg my regards to Mrs. Longman,
I send my regards to Mrs. Longman,
Faithfully yours.
Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park,
July 19th, 1842.
I beg to set you right on one point in reference to the American robbers, which perhaps you do not quite understand.
I want to clarify one thing regarding the American robbers that you might not fully understand.
The existing law allows them to reprint any English book, without any communication whatever with the author[74] or anybody else. My books have all been reprinted on these agreeable terms.
The current law lets them reprint any English book without any contact with the author[74] or anyone else. All my books have been reprinted under these favorable conditions.
But sometimes, when expectation is awakened there about a book before its publication, one firm of pirates will pay a trifle to procure early proofs of it, and get so much the start of the rest as they can obtain by the time necessarily consumed in printing it. Directly it is printed it is common property, and may be reprinted a thousand times. My circular only referred to such bargains as these.
But sometimes, when there's a buzz around a book before it comes out, one group of pirates will pay a little money to get early copies, giving them an advantage over others while the book is being printed. Once it's printed, it becomes public property and can be reprinted countless times. My circular only mentioned deals like these.
I should add that I have no hope of the States doing justice in this dishonest respect, and therefore do not expect to overtake these fellows, but we may cry "Stop thief!" nevertheless, especially as they wince and smart under it.
I should add that I have no hope of the States being fair in this dishonest way, and so I don't expect to catch up with these guys, but we can still shout "Stop thief!" anyway, especially since they react and feel the heat from it.
Devonshire Terrace, Thursday, July 14th, 1842.
The cheque safely received. As you say, it would be cheap at any money. My devotion to the fine arts renders it impossible for me to cash it. I have therefore ordered it to be framed and glazed.
The check has been safely received. As you said, it would be a bargain no matter the amount. My passion for the fine arts makes it impossible for me to cash it. I've decided to have it framed and glazed instead.
I am really grateful to you for the interest you take in my proceedings. Next time I come into the City I will show you my introductory chapter to the American book. It may seem to prepare the reader for a much greater amount of slaughter than he will meet with; but it is honest and true. Therefore my hand does not shake.
I really appreciate your interest in my work. Next time I'm in the City, I'll show you my introductory chapter for the American book. It might seem like it sets up the reader for a lot more violence than they’ll actually encounter, but it’s honest and genuine. So, I’m steady on this.
Best love and regards. "Certainly" to the Richmondian intentions.
Best love and regards. "Definitely" to the Richmondian intentions.
Broadstairs, Kent, September 14th, 1842.
The enclosed has been sent to me by a young gentleman in Devonshire (of whom I know no more than that I have occasionally, at his request, read and suggested amendments in some of his writings), with a special petition that I would recommend it to you for insertion in your magazine.
The enclosed has been sent to me by a young man in Devonshire (of whom I know no more than that I have occasionally, at his request, read and suggested changes in some of his writings), with a specific request that I recommend it to you for publication in your magazine.
I think it very pretty, and I have no doubt you will also. But it is poetry, and may be too long.
I think it’s really pretty, and I’m sure you will too. But it’s poetry, so it might be a bit lengthy.
He is a very modest young fellow, and has decided ability.
He is a really humble young guy, and he has impressive skills.
I hope when I come home at the end of the month, we shall foregather more frequently. Of course you are working, tooth and nail; and of course I am.
I hope that when I come home at the end of the month, we can get together more often. Of course, you’re working hard, and so am I.
Kate joins me in best regards to yourself and all your house (not forgetting, but especially remembering, my old friend, Mrs. Touchet), and I am always,
Kate joins me in sending our best regards to you and everyone at your home (especially not forgetting, but particularly remembering, my old friend, Mrs. Touchet), and I am always,
Heartily yours.
Broadstairs, Sunday, September 25th, 1842.
I enclose you the Niagara letter, with many thanks for the loan of it.
I’m enclosing the Niagara letter and really appreciate you lending it to me.
Pray tell Mr. Chadwick that I am greatly obliged to him for his remembrance of me, and I heartily concur with him in the great importance and interest of the subject, though I do differ from him, to the death, on his crack topic—the New Poor-Law.
Please tell Mr. Chadwick that I am very grateful for his remembering me, and I completely agree with him on the significance and interest of the topic, although I strongly disagree with him on his favorite subject—the New Poor-Law.
I have been turning my thoughts to this very item in the condition of American towns, and had put their[76] present aspects strongly before the American people; therefore I shall read his report with the greater interest and attention.
I have been reflecting on this very issue regarding the state of American towns, and I have highlighted their current conditions to the American people; therefore, I will read his report with even more interest and focus.
We return next Saturday night.
We're back next Saturday night.
If you will dine with us next day or any day in the week, we shall be truly glad and delighted to see you. Let me know, then, what day you will come.
If you're going to have dinner with us the next day or any day this week, we’ll be really happy and excited to see you. Just let me know what day you’ll be coming.
I need scarcely say that I shall joyfully talk with you about the Metropolitan Improvement Society, then or at any time; and with love to Letitia, in which Kate and the babies join, I am always, my dear Henry,
I hardly need to mention that I would happily discuss the Metropolitan Improvement Society with you, whether then or at any time; and with love to Letitia, which Kate and the kids also send, I am always, my dear Henry,
P.S.—The children's present names are as follows:
P.S.—The kids' current names are as follows:
Katey (from a lurking propensity to fieryness), Lucifer Box.
Katey (from a hidden tendency to be fiery), Lucifer Box.
Mamey (as generally descriptive of her bearing), Mild Glo'ster.
Mamey (typically describing her demeanor), Mild Glo'ster.
Charley (as a corruption of Master Toby), Flaster Floby.
Charley (derived from Master Toby), Flaster Floby.
Walter (suggested by his high cheek-bones), Young Skull.
Walter (suggested by his high cheekbones), Young Skull.
Each is pronounced with a peculiar howl, which I shall have great pleasure in illustrating.
Each is pronounced with a unique howl, which I will be happy to demonstrate.
Devonshire Terrace, November 8th, 1842.
Some time ago, you sent me a note from a friend of yours, a barrister, I think, begging me to forward to him any letters I might receive from a deranged nephew of his, at Newcastle. In the midst of a most bewildering correspondence with unknown people, on every possible and impossible subject, I have forgotten this gentleman's name, though I have a kind of hazy remembrance that he lived[77] near Russell Square. As the Post Office would be rather puzzled, perhaps, to identify him by such an address, may I ask the favour of you to hand him the enclosed, and to say that it is the second I have received since I returned from America? The last, I think, was a defiance to mortal combat. With best remembrances to your sister, in which Mrs. Dickens joins, believe me, my dear Harness,
Some time ago, you sent me a note from a friend of yours, a barrister, I believe, asking me to forward any letters I might get from his troubled nephew in Newcastle. In the middle of an incredibly confusing exchange with strangers about all sorts of topics, I've forgotten this gentleman’s name, though I vaguely remember he lived near Russell Square. Since the Post Office might have a hard time identifying him with just that address, could I please ask you to pass along the enclosed letter and mention that it's the second one I've received since returning from America? The last one, I think, was a challenge to a duel. Sending my best to your sister, and Mrs. Dickens sends her regards too. Yours sincerely, my dear Harness,
Devonshire Terrace, Saturday, Nov. 12th, 1842.
You pass this house every day on your way to or from the theatre. I wish you would call once as you go by, and soon, that you may have plenty of time to deliberate on what I wish to suggest to you. The more I think of Marston's play, the more sure I feel that a prologue to the purpose would help it materially, and almost decide the fate of any ticklish point on the first night. Now I have an idea (not easily explainable in writing but told in five words), that would take the prologue out of the conventional dress of prologues, quite. Get the curtain up with a dash, and begin the play with a sledge-hammer blow. If on consideration, you should think with me, I will write the prologue heartily.
You walk past this house every day on your way to or from the theater. I wish you would stop by once as you go by, and soon, so you have plenty of time to think about what I want to suggest to you. The more I think about Marston's play, the more convinced I am that a prologue would really help it and nearly determine the outcome of any tricky moments on opening night. Now, I have an idea (not easy to explain in writing but summed up in five words) that would completely change the usual format of prologues. Start with a bang, and kick off the play with a powerful impact. If, upon further consideration, you agree with me, I will happily write the prologue.
PROLOGUE
To Mr. Marston's Play "The Patrician's Daughter.""
Dwells on the poet's maiden harp to-night;
No trumpet's clamour and no battle's fire
[78]Breathes in the trembling accents of his lyre;
Enough for him, if in his lowly strain
He wakes one household echo not in vain;
Enough for him, if in his boldest word
The beating heart of guy be dimly heard.
Its solemn music which, like strains that sigh
Through charmèd gardens, all who hearing die;
Its solemn music he does not pursue
To distant ages out of human view;
Nor listen to its wild and mournful chime
In the dead caverns on the shore of Time;
But musing with a calm and steady gaze
Before the crackling flames of living days,
He hears it whisper through the busy roar
Of what shall be and what has been before.
Awake the Present! shall no scene display
The tragic passion of the passing day?
Is it with Man, as with some meaner things,
That out of death his single purpose springs?
Can his eventful life no moral teach
Until he be, for aye, beyond its reach?
Obscurely shall he suffer, act, and fade,
Dubb'd noble only by the sexton's spade?
Awake the Present! Though the steel-clad age
Find life alone within the storied page,
Iron is worn, at heart, by many still—
The tyrant Custom binds the serf-like will;
If the sharp rack, and screw, and chain be gone,
These later days have tortures of their own;
The guiltless writhe, while Guilt is stretched in sleep,
And Virtue lies, too often, dungeon deep.
Awake the Present! what the Past has sown
Be in its harvest garner'd, reap'd, and grown!
How pride breeds pride, and wrong engenders wrong,
Read in the volume Truth has held so long,
Assured that where life's flowers freshest blow,
The sharpest thorns and keenest briars grow,
How social usage has the pow'r to change
Good thoughts to evil; in its highest range
To cramp the noble soul, and turn to ruth
The kindling impulse of our glorious youth,
Crushing the spirit in its house of clay,
Learn from the lessons of the present day.
Not light its import and not poor its mien;
Yourselves the actors, and your homes the scene.
.
Saturday Morning.
One suggestion, though it be a late one. Do have upon the table, in the opening scene of the second act, something in a velvet case, or frame, that may look like a large miniature of Mabel, such as one of Ross's, and eschew that picture. It haunts me with a sense of danger. Even a titter at that critical time, with the whole of that act before you, would be a fatal thing. The picture is bad in itself, bad in its effect upon the beautiful room, bad in all its associations with the house. In case of your having nothing at hand, I send you by bearer what would be a million times better. Always, my dear Macready,
One suggestion, even though it's coming late. Please have something in a velvet case or frame on the table during the opening scene of the second act, something that could resemble a large miniature of Mabel, like one of Ross's, and avoid that picture. It gives me a sense of danger. Even a giggle at that critical moment, with the entire act still ahead of you, would be disastrous. The picture itself is bad, it negatively impacts the beautiful room, and it has terrible associations with the house. If you don't have anything suitable on hand, I'm sending you something by messenger that would be a million times better. Always, my dear Macready,
P.S.—I need not remind you how common it is to have such pictures in cases lying about elegant rooms.
P.S.—I don’t need to remind you how common it is to have those pictures in cases scattered around stylish rooms.
1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park,
November 15th, 1842.
I shall be very glad if you will do me the favour to paint me two little companion pictures; one, a Dolly Varden (whom you have so exquisitely done already), the other, a Kate Nickleby.
I would really appreciate it if you could do me a favor and paint me two small companion pieces; one, a Dolly Varden (which you've already done so beautifully), and the other, a Kate Nickleby.
P.S.—I take it for granted that the original picture of Dolly with the bracelet is sold?
P.S.—I assume the original picture of Dolly with the bracelet has been sold?
Devonshire Terrace, November 17th, 1842.
Pray consult your own convenience in the matter of my little commission; whatever suits your engagements and prospects will best suit me.[80]
Please consider what works best for you regarding my small request; whatever fits your schedule and plans will work best for me.[80]
I saw an unfinished proof of Dolly at Mitchell's some two or three months ago; I thought it was proceeding excellently well then. It will give me great pleasure to see her when completed.
I saw an unfinished version of Dolly at Mitchell's about two or three months ago; I thought it was coming along really well back then. I’m looking forward to seeing her when she’s finished.
Devonshire Terrace, November 30th, 1842.
In asking your and Mrs. Hood's leave to bring Mrs. D.'s sister (who stays with us) on Tuesday, let me add that I should very much like to bring at the same time a very unaffected and ardent admirer of your genius, who has no small portion of that commodity in his own right, and is a very dear friend of mine and a very famous fellow; to wit, Maclise, the painter, who would be glad (as he has often told me) to know you better, and would be much pleased, I know, if I could say to him, "Hood wants me to bring you."
In asking for your and Mrs. Hood's permission to bring Mrs. D.'s sister (who is staying with us) on Tuesday, I also want to mention that I would really like to bring along a genuine and passionate admirer of your talent. He has a good amount of talent himself and is a very close friend of mine as well as a well-known artist; that is, Maclise, the painter, who has often told me that he would love to get to know you better. I know he would be really happy if I could tell him, "Hood wants me to bring you."
I use so little ceremony with you, in the conviction that you will use as little with me, and say, "My dear D.—Convenient;" or, "My dear D.—Ill-convenient," (as the popular phrase is), just as the case may be. Of course, I have said nothing to him.
I keep things pretty casual with you, believing that you'll do the same with me, and just say, "My dear D.—Convenient," or, "My dear D.—Not convenient," depending on the situation. Of course, I haven't mentioned anything to him.
Bozo.
1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park,
December 16th, 1842.
Let me thank you most cordially for your kind note, in reference to my Notes, which has given me true pleasure and gratification.[81]
Let me sincerely thank you for your thoughtful note regarding my Notes, which has brought me genuine joy and satisfaction.[81]
As I never scrupled to say in America, so I can have no delicacy in saying to you, that, allowing for the change you worked in many social features of American society, and for the time that has passed since you wrote of the country, I am convinced that there is no writer who has so well and accurately (I need not add so entertainingly) described it, in many of its aspects, as you have done; and this renders your praise the more valuable to me. I do not recollect ever to have heard or seen the charge of exaggeration made against a feeble performance, though, in its feebleness, it may have been most untrue. It seems to me essentially natural, and quite inevitable, that common observers should accuse an uncommon one of this fault, and I have no doubt that you were long ago of this opinion; very much to your own comfort.
As I never hesitated to say in America, I can say it to you without any hesitation now: considering the changes you've made to many social aspects of American society, and the time that has passed since you wrote about the country, I truly believe that no writer has captured it as well and accurately (and I shouldn’t need to add, as entertainingly) as you have. This makes your praise even more meaningful to me. I don’t recall ever hearing or seeing the accusation of exaggeration against a weak work, even though it may have been completely false in its weakness. It seems to me entirely natural and quite unavoidable that ordinary observers would accuse an extraordinary one of this fault, and I’m sure you have long shared this view, which is quite comforting.
Mrs. Dickens begs me to thank you for your kind remembrance of her, and to convey to you her best regards. Always believe me,
Mrs. Dickens asks me to thank you for thinking of her and to send you her warmest regards. Always believe me,
Devonshire Terrace, December 20th, 1842.
It is impossible for me to tell you how greatly I am charmed with those beautiful pictures, in which the whole feeling, and thought, and expression of the little story is rendered to the gratification of my inmost heart; and on which you have lavished those amazing resources of yours with a power at which I fairly wondered when I sat down yesterday before them.
It’s hard for me to express how much I’m captivated by those beautiful pictures. They perfectly capture the emotion, thought, and essence of the little story, bringing joy to my heart. The incredible talent you’ve poured into them left me in awe when I sat down to look at them yesterday.
I took them to Mac, straightway, in a cab, and it would have done you good if you could have seen and[82] heard him. You can't think how moved he was by the old man in the church, or how pleased I was to have chosen it before he saw the drawings.
I took them to Mac right away in a cab, and it would have made your day if you could have seen and[82] heard him. You wouldn't believe how touched he was by the old man in the church, or how happy I was to have picked it before he saw the drawings.
You are such a queer fellow and hold yourself so much aloof, that I am afraid to say half I would say touching my grateful admiration; so you shall imagine the rest. I enclose a note from Kate, to which I hope you will bring the only one acceptable reply. Always, my dear Cattermole,
You are such an odd person and keep yourself so distant that I'm hesitant to express half of what I feel about my gratitude and admiration for you; so you can fill in the blanks. I'm including a note from Kate, and I hope you’ll bring the one response she'll accept. Always, my dear Cattermole,
Book II.
1843 TO 1857.
1843.
NARRATIVE.
He was at work upon "Martin Chuzzlewit" until the end of the year, when he also wrote and published the first of his Christmas stories—"The Christmas Carol."
He was working on "Martin Chuzzlewit" until the end of the year, when he also wrote and published the first of his Christmas stories—"A Christmas Carol."
He was much distressed by the sad fate of Mr. Elton (a respected actor), who was lost in the wreck of the Pegasus, and was very eager and earnest in his endeavours to raise a fund on behalf of Mr. Elton's children.
He was deeply upset by the tragic fate of Mr. Elton (a respected actor), who perished in the wreck of the Pegasus, and was very eager and determined in his efforts to raise funds for Mr. Elton's children.
We are sorry to be unable to give any explanation as to the nature of the Cockspur Street Society, mentioned in this first letter to Mr. Charles Babbage. But we publish it notwithstanding, considering it to be one of general interest.
We apologize for not being able to explain what the Cockspur Street Society is, as mentioned in this first letter to Mr. Charles Babbage. However, we're sharing it anyway because we believe it is generally interesting.
The "Little History of England" was never finished—not, that is to say, the one alluded to in the letter to Mr. Jerrold.
The "Little History of England" was never completed—not, that is to say, the one mentioned in the letter to Mr. Jerrold.
Mr. David Dickson kindly furnishes us with an explanation of the letter dated 10th May. "It was," he says, "in answer to a letter from me, pointing out that the 'Shepherd' in 'Pickwick' was apparently reflecting on the scriptural doctrine of the new birth."
Mr. David Dickson generously provides us with an explanation of the letter dated May 10th. "It was," he says, "in response to a letter from me, pointing out that the 'Shepherd' in 'Pickwick' was seemingly reflecting on the biblical teaching of being born again."
The beginning of the letter to Mr. Jerrold (15th June) is, as will be readily understood, an imaginary cast of a purely imaginary play. A portion of this letter has already[86] been published, in Mr. Blanchard Jerrold's life of his father. It originated in a proposal of Mr. Webster's—the manager of the Haymarket Theatre—to give five hundred pounds for a prize comedy by an English author.
The start of the letter to Mr. Jerrold (15th June) is, as you can easily see, a fictional excerpt from a completely made-up play. A part of this letter has already[86] been published in Mr. Blanchard Jerrold's biography of his father. It came about from a suggestion from Mr. Webster—the manager of the Haymarket Theatre—to offer five hundred pounds for a prize comedy by an English writer.
The opera referred to in the letter to Mr. R. H. Horne was called "The Village Coquettes," and the farce was "The Strange Gentleman," already alluded to by us, in connection with a letter to Mr. Harley.
The opera mentioned in the letter to Mr. R. H. Horne was called "The Village Coquettes," and the farce was "The Strange Gentleman," which we have already referenced in relation to a letter to Mr. Harley.
Devonshire Terrace, April 27th, 1843.
I write to you, confidentially, in answer to your note of last night, and the tenor of mine will tell you why.
I’m writing to you, confidentially, in response to your note from last night, and the tone of my message will explain why.
You may suppose, from seeing my name in the printed letter you have received, that I am favourable to the proposed society. I am decidedly opposed to it. I went there on the day I was in the chair, after much solicitation; and being put into it, opened the proceedings by telling the meeting that I approved of the design in theory, but in practice considered it hopeless. I may tell you—I did not tell them—that the nature of the meeting, and the character and position of many of the men attending it, cried "Failure" trumpet-tongued in my ears. To quote an expression from Tennyson, I may say that if it were the best society in the world, the grossness of some natures in it would have weight to drag it down.
You might think, because you saw my name in the letter you received, that I support the proposed society. I’m actually strongly against it. I went there on the day I was in charge, after a lot of persuasion; and once I was in that role, I started the meeting by saying that while I liked the idea in theory, I thought it was doomed in practice. I should mention—I didn’t tell them—that the nature of the meeting, along with the character and status of many attendees, screamed "Failure" loudly in my ears. To quote Tennyson, I could say that even if it were the best society ever, the flaws in some of its members would weigh it down.
In the wisdom of all you urge in the notes you have sent me, taking them as statements of theory, I entirely concur. But in practice, I feel sure that the present publishing system cannot be overset until authors are different men. The first step to be taken is to move as a body in the question of copyright, enforce the existing laws, and try to obtain better. For that purpose I hold that the authors[87] and publishers must unite, as the wealth, business habits, and interest of that latter class are of great importance to such an end. The Longmans and Murray have been with me proposing such an association. That I shall support. But having seen the Cockspur Street Society, I am as well convinced of its invincible hopelessness as if I saw it written by a celestial penman in the Book of Fate.
In the wisdom of everything you’ve suggested in the notes you sent me, taking them as theoretical statements, I completely agree. However, in practice, I'm confident that the current publishing system can't be changed until authors are different people. The first step we need to take is to work together on the issue of copyright, enforce the current laws, and strive for improvements. For that, I believe authors and publishers must come together, as the wealth, business habits, and interests of the latter group are crucial for this goal. The Longmans and Murray have talked to me about creating such an association, and I will support that. But after seeing the Cockspur Street Society, I am just as convinced of its complete hopelessness as if it were written by a divine scribe in the Book of Fate.
Always faithfully yours.
Devonshire Terrace, May 3rd, 1843.
Let me thank you most cordially for your books, not only for their own sakes (and I have read them with perfect delight), but also for this hearty and most welcome mark of your recollection of the friendship we have established; in which light I know I may regard and prize them.
Let me thank you sincerely for your books, not just because of their content (which I have read with great enjoyment), but also for this warm and thoughtful gesture that shows you remember the friendship we’ve built; I truly value them in that context.
I am greatly pleased with your opening paper in the Illuminated. It is very wise, and capital; written with the finest end of that iron pen of yours; witty, much needed, and full of truth. I vow to God that I think the parrots of society are more intolerable and mischievous than its birds of prey. If ever I destroy myself, it will be in the bitterness of hearing those infernal and damnably good old times extolled. Once, in a fit of madness, after having been to a public dinner which took place just as this Ministry came in, I wrote the parody I send you enclosed, for Fonblanque. There is nothing in it but wrath; but that's wholesome, so I send it you.
I’m really pleased with your opening article in the Illuminated. It's very insightful and well-written, showcasing the sharpness of your pen; clever, much needed, and full of truth. I swear that I find the gossipers of society more unbearable and harmful than the predators. If I ever take my own life, it will be out of frustration from hearing those annoying and absolutely nostalgic good old days praised. Once, in a moment of madness, after attending a public dinner that happened just as this Ministry took office, I wrote the parody I’ve enclosed for Fonblanque. It’s filled with anger, but that’s healthy, so I’m sending it to you.
I am writing a little history of England for my boy, which I will send you when it is printed for him, though[88] your boys are too old to profit by it. It is curious that I have tried to impress upon him (writing, I daresay, at the same moment with you) the exact spirit of your paper, for I don't know what I should do if he were to get hold of any Conservative or High Church notions; and the best way of guarding against any such horrible result is, I take it, to wring the parrots' necks in his very cradle.
I’m writing a small history of England for my son, which I’ll send you once it’s printed for him, even though[88] your kids are too old to benefit from it. It’s interesting that I’ve been trying to instill in him (writing, I bet, at the same time as you) the exact spirit of your paper, because I really wouldn’t know what to do if he picked up any Conservative or High Church ideas; and I think the best way to prevent such a terrible outcome is to stop those ideas from taking hold from the very start.
Oh Heaven, if you could have been with me at a hospital dinner last Monday! There were men there who made such speeches and expressed such sentiments as any moderately intelligent dustman would have blushed through his cindery bloom to have thought of. Sleek, slobbering, bow-paunched, over-fed, apoplectic, snorting cattle, and the auditory leaping up in their delight! I never saw such an illustration of the power of purse, or felt so degraded and debased by its contemplation, since I have had eyes and ears. The absurdity of the thing was too horrible to laugh at. It was perfectly overwhelming. But if I could have partaken it with anybody who would have felt it as you would have done, it would have had quite another aspect; or would at least, like a "classic mask" (oh d—— that word!) have had one funny side to relieve its dismal features.
Oh heaven, if you could have been with me at a hospital dinner last Monday! There were men there who gave speeches and expressed opinions that even a moderately clever garbage collector would have blushed to think of. Sleek, slobbering, round-bellied, overfed, red-faced, snorting guys, and the audience jumping with delight! I’ve never seen such a display of the power of money, or felt so degraded just thinking about it, in all my life. The absurdity of it was too horrible to laugh at. It was completely overwhelming. But if I could have shared that experience with someone who felt it like you would have, it would have looked totally different; or at least, like a "classic mask" (oh damn that word!) it would have had a humorous side to lighten its grim features.
Supposing fifty families were to emigrate into the wilds of North America—yours, mine, and forty-eight others—picked for their concurrence of opinion on all important subjects and for their resolution to found a colony of common-sense, how soon would that devil, Cant, present itself among them in one shape or other? The day they landed, do you say, or the day after?
Suppose fifty families were to move into the wilderness of North America—yours, mine, and forty-eight others—chosen for their agreement on all important issues and their determination to create a sensible community. How quickly would that annoying attitude, Cant, show up among them in one form or another? On the day they arrived, you think, or the day after?
That is a great mistake (almost the only one I know) in the "Arabian Nights," when the princess restores people to their original beauty by sprinkling them with the golden[89] water. It is quite clear that she must have made monsters of them by such a christening as that.
That’s a major mistake (almost the only one I know of) in the "Arabian Nights," when the princess brings people back to their original beauty by sprinkling them with golden[89] water. It's pretty obvious that she must have turned them into monsters with a baptism like that.
Faithfully your Friend.
1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park,
May 10th, 1843.
Permit me to say, in reply to your letter, that you do not understand the intention (I daresay the fault is mine) of that passage in the "Pickwick Papers" which has given you offence. The design of "the Shepherd" and of this and every other allusion to him is, to show how sacred things are degraded, vulgarised, and rendered absurd when persons who are utterly incompetent to teach the commonest things take upon themselves to expound such mysteries, and how, in making mere cant phrases of divine words, these persons miss the spirit in which they had their origin. I have seen a great deal of this sort of thing in many parts of England, and I never knew it lead to charity or good deeds.
Let me respond to your letter by saying that you misunderstood the intention (I admit it might be my fault) of that part in the "Pickwick Papers" that upset you. The purpose of "the Shepherd" and every other mention of him is to illustrate how sacred things are diminished, trivialized, and made ridiculous when people who are completely unqualified to teach basic concepts try to interpret such mysteries. In turning divine words into mere jargon, these individuals lose the essence from which those words came. I've seen a lot of this kind of thing all over England, and I’ve never seen it lead to kindness or good actions.
Whether the great Creator of the world and the creature of his hands, moulded in his own image, be quite so opposite in character as you believe, is a question which it would profit us little to discuss. I like the frankness and candour of your letter, and thank you for it. That every man who seeks heaven must be born again, in good thoughts of his Maker, I sincerely believe. That it is expedient for every hound to say so in a certain snuffling form of words, to which he attaches no good meaning, I do not believe. I take it there is no difference between us.
Whether the great Creator of the world and the creature He formed in His own image are as opposite in character as you think is a question that's not really worth discussing. I appreciate the honesty and openness of your letter, and I'm grateful for it. I truly believe that anyone who seeks heaven must be born again with good thoughts about their Maker. However, I don’t believe it’s necessary for every person to say that in a certain sniveling way that they don’t really mean. I think we’re on the same page.
Devonshire Terrace, June 13th, 1843.
Yes, you have anticipated my occupation. Chuzzlewit be d——d. High comedy and five hundred pounds are the only matters I can think of. I call it "The One Thing Needful; or, A Part is Better than the Whole." Here are the characters:
Yes, you guessed my job. Chuzzlewit can go to hell. High comedy and five hundred pounds are all I can think about. I call it "The One Thing Needful; or, A Part is Better than the Whole." Here are the characters:
| Old Febrile | Mr. Farren. |
| Young Febrile (his Son) | Mr. Howe. |
| Jack Hessians (his Friend) | Mr. W. Lacy. |
| Chalks (a Landlord) | Mr. Gough. |
| Hon. Harry Staggers | Mr. Mellon. |
| Sir Thomas Tip | Mr. Buckstone. |
| Swig | Mr. Webster's Dictionary. |
| The Duke of Leeds | Mr. Coutts Bank. |
| Sir Smivin Growler | Mr. Macready. |
Servants, Gamblers, Visitors, etc. | |
| Mrs. Febrile | Mrs. Gallot. |
| Lady Tip | Mrs. Humby. |
| Mrs. Sour | Mrs. W. Clifford. |
| Fanny | Miss A. Smith. |
One scene, where Old Febrile tickles Lady Tip in the ribs, and afterwards dances out with his hat behind him, his stick before, and his eye on the pit, I expect will bring the house down. There is also another point, where Old Febrile, at the conclusion of his disclosure to Swig, rises and says: "And now, Swig, tell me, have I acted well?" And Swig says: "Well, Mr. Febrile, have you ever acted ill?" which will carry off the piece.
One scene, where Old Febrile tickles Lady Tip in the ribs, and then dances out with his hat behind him, his stick in front, and his eye on the audience, is sure to get a huge laugh. There’s also another moment, where Old Febrile, at the end of his explanation to Swig, stands up and asks, "So, Swig, tell me, did I do well?" And Swig replies, "Well, Mr. Febrile, have you ever done badly?" which will steal the show.
Herne Bay. Hum. I suppose it's no worse than any other place in this weather, but it is watery rather—isn't it? In my mind's eye, I have the sea in a perpetual state of smallpox; and the chalk running downhill like town milk. But I know the comfort of getting to work in a fresh place, and proposing pious projects to one's self, and having the more substantial advantage of going to bed early and getting up ditto, and walking about alone. I should like to deprive[91] you of the last-named happiness, and to take a good long stroll, terminating in a public-house, and whatever they chanced to have in it. But fine days are over, I think. The horrible misery of London in this weather, with not even a fire to make it cheerful, is hideous.
Herne Bay. Hum. I guess it’s not worse than anywhere else in this weather, but it’s pretty damp, right? I visualize the sea as always looking infected, and the chalk sliding down like town milk. But I do appreciate the comfort of starting fresh in a new place, setting good intentions for myself, and enjoying the solid perk of going to bed early and waking up early too, then wandering around by myself. I would like to take away that last bit of joy from you, and go for a nice long walk that ends at a pub, enjoying whatever they have on offer. But I think the nice days are gone now. The awful despair of London in this weather, with not even a fire to lift the mood, is just terrible.
But I have my comedy to fly to. My only comfort! I walk up and down the street at the back of the theatre every night, and peep in at the green-room window, thinking of the time when "Dick—ins" will be called for by excited hundreds, and won't come till Mr. Webster (half Swig and half himself) shall enter from his dressing-room, and quelling the tempest with a smile, beseech that wizard, if he be in the house (here he looks up at my box), to accept the congratulations of the audience, and indulge them with a sight of the man who has got five hundred pounds in money, and it's impossible to say how much in laurel. Then I shall come forward, and bow once—twice—thrice—roars of approbation—Brayvo—brarvo—hooray—hoorar—hooroar—one cheer more; and asking Webster home to supper, shall declare eternal friendship for that public-spirited individual.
But I have my comedy to escape to. It's my only comfort! Every night, I walk back and forth on the street behind the theater and peek in at the green room window, thinking about the time when "Dick—ins" will be called for by excited crowds and won't come until Mr. Webster (half tipsy and half himself) enters from his dressing room, calming the chaos with a smile, asking that wizard, if he's in the house (he looks up at my box), to accept the audience's congratulations and give them a glimpse of the guy who’s earned five hundred pounds in cash, and who knows how much in praise. Then I’ll step forward and bow once—twice—three times—roars of approval—Brayvo—brarvo—hooray—hoorar—hooroar—one more cheer; and after inviting Webster over for supper, I’ll declare eternal friendship for that generous guy.
They have not sent me the "Illustrated Magazine." What do they mean by that? You don't say your daughter is better, so I hope you mean that she is quite well. My wife desires her best regards.
They haven't sent me the "Illustrated Magazine." What do they mean by that? You don't say your daughter is doing better, so I hope you mean that she's doing okay. My wife sends her best regards.
Sincerely your friend,
The Congreve of the 19th Century
(which I mean to be called in the Sunday papers).
P.S.—I shall dedicate it to Webster, beginning: "My dear Sir,—When you first proposed to stimulate the slumbering dramatic talent of England, I assure you I had not the least idea"—etc. etc. etc.[92]
P.S.—I'm going to dedicate it to Webster, starting with: "My dear Sir,—When you first suggested encouraging the dormant dramatic talent of England, I honestly had no idea"—etc. etc. etc.[92]
1, Devonshire Terrace, July 26th, 1843.
I am chairman of a committee, whose object is to open a subscription, and arrange a benefit for the relief of the seven destitute children of poor Elton the actor, who was drowned in the Pegasus. They are exceedingly anxious to have the great assistance of your name; and if you will allow yourself to be announced as one of the body, I do assure you you will help a very melancholy and distressful cause.
I am the chair of a committee that's working to start a subscription and organize a benefit to help the seven needy children of poor Elton, the actor, who drowned in the Pegasus. They are really eager to have your name as part of this effort; and if you agree to be named as one of the supporters, I promise you will be aiding a very sad and difficult cause.
P.S.—The committee meet to-night at the Freemasons', at eight o'clock.
P.S.—The committee is meeting tonight at the Freemasons', at eight o'clock.
1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park,
August 3rd, 1843.
In acknowledging the safe receipt of your kind donation in behalf of poor Mr. Elton's orphan children, I hope you will suffer me to address you with little ceremony, as the best proof I can give you of my cordial reciprocation of all you say in your most welcome note. I have long esteemed you and been your distant but very truthful admirer; and trust me that it is a real pleasure and happiness to me to anticipate the time when we shall have a nearer intercourse.
In acknowledging the safe receipt of your generous donation for Mr. Elton's orphaned children, I hope you’ll allow me to address you without much formality, as this is the best way I can express my sincere appreciation for your thoughtful note. I have long admired you from afar and have always respected you; and I genuinely look forward to the time when we can connect more closely.
Faithfully your Servant.
Devonshire Terrace, October 13th, 1843.
I want very much to see you, not having had that old pleasure for a long time. I am at this moment deaf in the ears, hoarse in the throat, red in the nose, green in[93] the gills, damp in the eyes, twitchy in the joints, and fractious in the temper from a most intolerable and oppressive cold, caught the other day, I suspect, at Liverpool, where I got exceedingly wet; but I will make prodigious efforts to get the better of it to-night by resorting to all conceivable remedies, and if I succeed so as to be only negatively disgusting to-morrow, I will joyfully present myself at six, and bring my womankind along with me.
I really want to see you since I haven't enjoyed that old pleasure in a long time. Right now, I'm deaf in one ear, hoarse in my throat, red-nosed, a bit green around the gills, watery-eyed, twitchy in my joints, and kind of cranky from a terrible cold I caught the other day, probably in Liverpool, where I got really soaked. But I'll do everything I can to recover by tonight using all sorts of remedies, and if I manage to feel only mildly gross tomorrow, I'll happily be there at six and bring my family with me.
Devonshire Terrace, November 13th, 1843.
Pray tell that besotted —— to let the opera sink into its native obscurity. I did it in a fit of d——ble good nature long ago, for Hullah, who wrote some very pretty music to it. I just put down for everybody what everybody at the St. James's Theatre wanted to say and do, and that they could say and do best, and I have been most sincerely repentant ever since. The farce I also did as a sort of practical joke, for Harley, whom I have known a long time. It was funny—adapted from one of the published sketches called the "Great Winglebury Duel," and was published by Chapman and Hall. But I have no copy of it now, nor should I think they have. But both these things were done without the least consideration or regard to reputation.
Please tell me that love-struck person to let the opera fade into its natural obscurity. I did it out of a fit of damnable good nature a long time ago, for Hullah, who composed some really nice music for it. I just wrote down for everyone what everyone at the St. James's Theatre wanted to say and do, and what they could express and perform best, and I have felt truly regretful ever since. I also created the farce as a sort of practical joke for Harley, whom I’ve known for a long time. It was funny—adapted from one of the published sketches called the "Great Winglebury Duel," and was published by Chapman and Hall. But I don’t have a copy of it now, nor do I think they do. Both of these things were done without any consideration or regard for my reputation.
I wouldn't repeat them for a thousand pounds apiece, and devoutly wish them to be forgotten. If you will impress this on the waxy mind of —— I shall be truly and unaffectedly obliged to you.
I wouldn't say them again for a thousand pounds each, and I sincerely hope they'll be forgotten. If you can make sure this sticks in the mind of ——, I would be genuinely grateful to you.
1844.
NARRATIVE.
Mr. Macready went to America and returned in the autumn, and towards the end of the year he paid a professional visit to Paris.
Mr. Macready went to America and came back in the fall, and by the end of the year, he made a professional trip to Paris.
Charles Dickens's letter to his wife (26th February) treats of a visit to Liverpool, where he went to take the chair on the opening of the Mechanics' Institution and to make a speech on education. The "Fanny" alluded to was his sister, Mrs. Burnett; the Britannia, the ship in which he and Mrs. Dickens made their outward trip to America; the "Mrs. Bean," the stewardess, and "Hewett," the captain, of that same vessel.
Charles Dickens's letter to his wife (February 26th) discusses a trip to Liverpool, where he went to lead the opening of the Mechanics' Institution and to give a speech on education. The "Fanny" mentioned refers to his sister, Mrs. Burnett; the Britannia is the ship that he and Mrs. Dickens took for their journey to America; and "Mrs. Bean" is the stewardess, while "Hewett" is the captain of that same ship.
The letter to Mr. Charles Knight was in acknowledgment of the receipt of a prospectus entitled "Book Clubs for all readers." The attempt, which fortunately proved completely successful, was to establish a cheap book club. The scheme was, that a number of families should combine together, each contributing about three halfpennies a week; which contribution would enable them, by exchanging the volumes among them, to have sufficient reading to last the year. The publications, which were to be made as cheap as possible, could be purchased by families at the end of the year, on consideration of their putting by an extra penny a[95] week for that purpose. Charles Dickens, who always had the comfort and happiness of the working-classes greatly at heart, was much interested in this scheme of Mr. Charles Knight's, and highly approved of it. Charles Dickens and this new correspondent became subsequently true and fast friends.
The letter to Mr. Charles Knight was to acknowledge the receipt of a prospectus titled "Book Clubs for All Readers." The effort, which turned out to be completely successful, was aimed at creating an affordable book club. The plan was for several families to come together, each contributing about three halfpennies a week; this would allow them to share books and have plenty of reading material for the entire year. The publications were to be as inexpensive as possible, and families could buy them at the end of the year by saving an extra penny a[95] week for that purpose. Charles Dickens, who was always concerned about the comfort and happiness of the working class, was very interested in this initiative by Mr. Charles Knight and strongly approved of it. Charles Dickens and this new correspondent later became true and loyal friends.
"Martin Chuzzlewit" was dramatised in the early autumn of this year, at the Lyceum Theatre, which was then under the management of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Keeley. Charles Dickens superintended some rehearsals, but had left England before the play was acted in public.
"Martin Chuzzlewit" was adapted for the stage in early autumn this year at the Lyceum Theatre, which was managed by Mr. and Mrs. Robert Keeley at the time. Charles Dickens oversaw some rehearsals but had left England before the play was performed for the public.
The man "Roche," alluded to in his letter to Mr. Maclise, was the French courier engaged to go with the family to Italy. He remained as servant there, and was with Charles Dickens through all his foreign travels. His many excellent qualities endeared him to the whole family, and his master never lost sight of this faithful servant until poor Roche's untimely death in 1849.
The man "Roche," mentioned in his letter to Mr. Maclise, was the French courier hired to travel with the family to Italy. He stayed on as their servant there and accompanied Charles Dickens during all his international trips. His many great qualities endeared him to the entire family, and his boss never forgot about this loyal servant until Roche's tragic death in 1849.
The Rev. Edward Tagart was a celebrated Unitarian minister, and a very highly esteemed and valued friend.
The Rev. Edward Tagart was a well-known Unitarian minister and a greatly respected and valued friend.
The "Chickenstalker" (letter to Mrs. Dickens, November 8th), is an instance of the eccentric names he was constantly giving to his children, and these names he frequently made use of in his books.
The "Chickenstalker" (letter to Mrs. Dickens, November 8th) is an example of the quirky names he often gave to his children, and he frequently used these names in his books.
In this year we have our first letter to Mr. (afterwards Sir Edwin) Landseer, for whom Charles Dickens had the highest admiration and personal regard.
In this year, we have our first letter to Mr. (later Sir Edwin) Landseer, whom Charles Dickens held in the highest esteem and personal affection.
Devonshire Terrace, January 3rd, 1844.
You know all the news, and you know I love you; so I no more know why I write than I do why I "come round" after the play to shake hands with you in your dressing-room. I say come, as if you were at this present moment the lessee of Drury Lane, and had —— with a long face on one hand, —— elaborately explaining that everything in creation is a joint-stock company on the[96] other, the inimitable B. by the fire, in conversation with ——. Well-a-day! I see it all, and smell that extraordinary compound of odd scents peculiar to a theatre, which bursts upon me when I swing open the little door in the hall, accompanies me as I meet perspiring supers in the narrow passage, goes with me up the two steps, crosses the stage, winds round the third entrance P.S. as I wind, and escorts me safely into your presence, where I find you unwinding something slowly round and round your chest, which is so long that no man can see the end of it.
You know all the news, and you know I love you; so I don’t really know why I write this any more than I know why I "come around" after the play to shake hands with you in your dressing room. I say come, as if you were right now the owner of Drury Lane, and had —— with a serious face on one hand, —— going on about how everything in the world is a joint-stock company on the[96] other, the unforgettable B. by the fire, chatting with ——. Well, I can picture it all, and catch that unique mix of weird smells that come from a theater, which hits me when I swing open the little door in the hallway, follows me as I pass by sweaty extras in the narrow passage, goes with me up the two steps, crosses the stage, winds around the third entrance P.S. as I go, and safely brings me into your presence, where I find you slowly unraveling something around your chest that’s so long no one can see the end of it.
Oh that you had been at Clarence Terrace on Nina's birthday! Good God, how we missed you, talked of you, drank your health, and wondered what you were doing! Perhaps you are Falkland enough (I swear I suspect you of it) to feel rather sore—just a little bit, you know, the merest trifle in the world—on hearing that Mrs. Macready looked brilliant, blooming, young, and handsome, and that she danced a country dance with the writer hereof (Acres to your Falkland) in a thorough spirit of becoming good humour and enjoyment. Now you don't like to be told that? Nor do you quite like to hear that Forster and I conjured bravely; that a plum-pudding was produced from an empty saucepan, held over a blazing fire kindled in Stanfield's hat without damage to the lining; that a box of bran was changed into a live guinea-pig, which ran between my godchild's feet, and was the cause of such a shrill uproar and clapping of hands that you might have heard it (and I daresay did) in America; that three half-crowns being taken from Major Burns and put into a tumbler-glass before his eyes, did then and there give jingling answers to the questions asked of them by me, and knew where you were and what you were doing, to the unspeakable admiration of the whole assembly. Neither do[97] you quite like to be told that we are going to do it again next Saturday, with the addition of demoniacal dresses from the masquerade shop; nor that Mrs. Macready, for her gallant bearing always, and her best sort of best affection, is the best creature I know. Never mind; no man shall gag me, and those are my opinions.
Oh, if only you had been at Clarence Terrace on Nina's birthday! Goodness, how we missed you, talked about you, raised a toast to your health, and wondered what you were up to! Maybe you're feeling just a bit sore—just a tiny bit, really—upon hearing that Mrs. Macready looked fantastic, radiant, youthful, and gorgeous, and that she danced a country dance with me (Acres to your Falkland) in a joyful and fun spirit. Now, I know you don’t want to hear that, right? And you probably don’t want to know that Forster and I managed some impressive tricks; that a plum pudding appeared from an empty saucepan, held over a raging fire in Stanfield's hat without ruining it; that a box of bran turned into a live guinea pig, which ran between my godchild's feet, causing such a loud uproar and clapping that you could have heard it (and I bet you did) all the way in America; and that three half-crowns taken from Major Burns and placed in a glass right in front of him responded jinglingly to my questions, knowing where you were and what you were doing, to the amazement of everyone there. You might not like to hear that we’re planning to do it all again next Saturday, this time with crazy costumes from the masquerade shop; nor that Mrs. Macready, for her brave spirit and her best kind of affection, is truly the best person I know. But no one’s going to silence me, and those are my thoughts.
My dear Macready, the lecturing proposition is not to be thought of. I have not the slightest doubt or hesitation in giving you my most strenuous and decided advice against it. Looking only to its effect at home, I am immovable in my conviction that the impression it would produce would be one of failure, and a reduction of yourself to the level of those who do the like here. To us who know the Boston names and honour them, and who know Boston and like it (Boston is what I would have the whole United States to be), the Boston requisition would be a valuable document, of which you and your friends might be proud. But those names are perfectly unknown to the public here, and would produce not the least effect. The only thing known to the public here is, that they ask (when I say "they" I mean the people) everybody to lecture. It is one of the things I have ridiculed in "Chuzzlewit." Lecture you, and you fall into the roll of Lardners, Vandenhoffs, Eltons, Knowleses, Buckinghams. You are off your pedestal, have flung away your glass slipper, and changed your triumphal coach into a seedy old pumpkin. I am quite sure of it, and cannot express my strong conviction in language of sufficient force.
My dear Macready, the idea of lecturing shouldn't even be considered. I have no doubt or hesitation in giving you my strongest advice against it. Just thinking about the effect it would have at home, I am convinced that it would be seen as a failure and would bring you down to the level of those who do the same here. To those of us who know and respect the names associated with Boston, and who appreciate Boston (I wish the whole United States could be like Boston), the request from Boston would be an important document that you and your friends could take pride in. But those names are completely unknown to the public here and wouldn’t make any impact. The only thing the public knows is that they ask everyone to lecture. It’s something I have mocked in "Chuzzlewit." If you lecture, you join the ranks of Lardners, Vandenhoffs, Eltons, Knowleses, and Buckinghams. You would be off your pedestal, have lost your glass slipper, and turned your triumphal coach into a worn-out pumpkin. I'm certain of this and can’t express my strong belief with enough emphasis.
"Puff-ridden!" why to be sure they are. The nation is a miserable Sindbad, and its boasted press the loathsome, foul old man upon his back, and yet they will tell you, and proclaim to the four winds for repetition here, that they don't need their ignorant and brutal papers, as if the papers[98] could exist if they didn't need them! Let any two of these vagabonds, in any town you go to, take it into their heads to make you an object of attack, or to direct the general attention elsewhere, and what avail those wonderful images of passion which you have been all your life perfecting!
"Puff-ridden!" Of course they are. The country is a miserable Sindbad, and its so-called press is like that disgusting, foul old man carrying him on his back. Yet, they'll insist and shout to the four winds that they don't need their ignorant and brutal papers, as if those papers [98] could survive without their demand! Let any two of these drifters, in any town you visit, decide to target you or to shift the general attention elsewhere, and what good are those amazing displays of passion you've been perfecting your whole life?
I have sent you, to the charge of our trusty and well-beloved Colden, a little book I published on the 17th of December, and which has been a most prodigious success—the greatest, I think, I have ever achieved. It pleases me to think that it will bring you home for an hour or two, and I long to hear you have read it on some quiet morning. Do they allow you to be quiet, by-the-way? "Some of our most fashionable people, sir," denounced me awfully for liking to be alone sometimes.
I sent you a little book I published on December 17th, which has been an incredible success—the biggest one I've ever had, I believe. It makes me happy to think that it will bring you home for an hour or two, and I can't wait to hear that you've read it on a quiet morning. By the way, do they let you have some quiet time? "Some of our most fashionable people, sir," really criticized me for enjoying being alone sometimes.
Now that we have turned Christmas, I feel as if your face were directed homewards, Macready. The downhill part of the road is before us now, and we shall travel on to midsummer at a dashing pace; and, please Heaven, I will be at Liverpool when you come steaming up the Mersey, with that red funnel smoking out unutterable things, and your heart much fuller than your trunks, though something lighter! If I be not the first Englishman to shake hands with you on English ground, the man who gets before me will be a brisk and active fellow, and even then need put his best leg foremost. So I warn Forster to keep in the rear, or he'll be blown.
Now that Christmas is behind us, I feel like your thoughts are headed home, Macready. The easy part of the journey is ahead of us, and we’ll speed toward midsummer at a fast pace; and, God willing, I will be in Liverpool when you come steaming up the Mersey, with that red funnel puffing out all sorts of things, and your heart much fuller than your luggage, though a bit lighter! If I’m not the first Englishman to shake your hand on English soil, the person who gets there before me will have to be pretty quick, and even then, he’ll need to give it his all. So I’m warning Forster to stay back, or he’ll be left behind.
If you shall have any leisure to project and put on paper the outline of a scheme for opening any theatre on your return, upon a certain list subscribed, and on certain understandings with the actors, it strikes me that it would be wise to break ground while you are still away. Of course I need not say that I will see anybody or do anything—even to the calling together of the actors—if you should[99] ever deem it desirable. My opinion is that our respected and valued friend Mr. —— will stagger through another season, if he don't rot first. I understand he is in a partial state of decomposition at this minute. He was very ill, but got better. How is it that —— always do get better, and strong hearts are so easy to die?
If you have any time to plan and write out a proposal for starting a theater when you get back, based on a signed list and specific agreements with the actors, I think it would be smart to get started while you're still away. Of course, I won't take any action or meet with anyone—even bringing the actors together—unless you think it's necessary. I believe our respected friend Mr. —— will barely make it through another season if he doesn't fall apart first. I've heard he's not doing well at the moment. It's strange how some people always seem to recover, while those with strong hearts can fade so easily.
Kate sends her tender love; so does Georgy, so does Charlie, so does Mamey, so does Katey, so does Walter, so does the other one who is to be born next week. Look homeward always, as we look abroad to you. God bless you, my dear Macready.
Kate sends her love; so does Georgy, so does Charlie, so does Mamey, so does Katey, so does Walter, and so does the one who will be born next week. Always look homeward, as we look out to you. God bless you, my dear Macready.
Devonshire Terrace, January 4th, 1844.
I cannot thank you enough for the beautiful manner and the true spirit of friendship in which you have noticed my "Carol." But I must thank you because you have filled my heart up to the brim, and it is running over.
I can't thank you enough for the beautiful way and the genuine spirit of friendship with which you've acknowledged my "Carol." But I have to thank you because you've filled my heart to the brim, and it’s overflowing.
You meant to give me great pleasure, my dear fellow, and you have done it. The tone of your elegant and fervent praise has touched me in the tenderest place. I cannot write about it, and as to talking of it, I could no more do that than a dumb man. I have derived inexpressible gratification from what I know was a labour of love on your part. And I can never forget it.
You intended to bring me great joy, my dear friend, and you've succeeded. The way you expressed your thoughtful and passionate praise has moved me deeply. I can’t write about it, and talking about it is just as impossible for me as it would be for someone who can't speak. I have gained immense satisfaction from what I know was a true labor of love on your part. I will always remember it.
When I think it likely that I may meet you (perhaps at Ainsworth's on Friday?) I shall slip a "Carol" into my pocket and ask you to put it among your books for my sake. You will never like it the less for having made it the means of so much happiness to me.
When I think it’s likely I might see you (maybe at Ainsworth's on Friday?), I’ll tuck a "Carol" in my pocket and ask you to place it among your books for my sake. You’ll never like it any less for being the source of so much happiness for me.
Faithfully your Friend.
Liverpool, Radley's Hotel, Monday, Feb. 26th, 1844.
I got down here last night (after a most intolerably wet journey) before seven, and found Thompson sitting by my fire. He had ordered dinner, and we ate it pleasantly enough, and went to bed in good time. This morning, Mr. Yates, the great man connected with the Institution (and a brother of Ashton Yates's), called. I went to look at it with him. It is an enormous place, and the tickets have been selling at two and even three guineas apiece. The lecture-room, in which the celebration is held, will accommodate over thirteen hundred people. It was being fitted with gas after the manner of the ring at Astley's. I should think it an easy place to speak in, being a semicircle with seats rising one above another to the ceiling, and will have eight hundred ladies to-night, in full dress. I am rayther shaky just now, but shall pull up, I have no doubt. At dinner-time to-morrow you will receive, I hope, a facetious document hastily penned after I return to-night, telling you how it all went off.
I arrived here last night (after a really frustratingly wet journey) before seven and found Thompson sitting by my fire. He had ordered dinner, and we enjoyed it enough and went to bed at a reasonable hour. This morning, Mr. Yates, the big guy connected with the Institution (and a brother of Ashton Yates), called. I went to check it out with him. It’s a huge place, and tickets have been selling for two and even three guineas each. The lecture room, where the celebration will take place, can hold over thirteen hundred people. They were installing gas lighting like the arena at Astley’s. I think it will be an easy place to speak in, as it’s a semicircle with seats rising one above another to the ceiling, and there will be eight hundred ladies there tonight, all dressed up. I'm feeling a bit shaky right now, but I'm sure I'll be fine. By dinner time tomorrow, I hope to send you a humorous note quickly written after I get back tonight, telling you how it all went.
When I came back here, I found Fanny and Hewett had picked me up just before. We all went off straight to the Britannia, which lay where she did when we went on board. We went into the old little cabin and the ladies' cabin, but Mrs. Bean had gone to Scotland, as the ship does not sail again before May. In the saloon we had some champagne and biscuits, and Hewett had set out upon the table a block of Boston ice, weighing fifty pounds. Scott, of the Caledonia, lunched with us—a very nice fellow. He saw Macready play Macbeth in Boston, and gave me a tremendous account of the effect. Poor Burroughs, of the George Washington, died on board, on his last passage home. His little wife was with him.[101]
When I came back here, I found that Fanny and Hewett had picked me up just before. We all headed straight to the Britannia, which was exactly where it was when we boarded. We went into the old small cabin and the ladies' cabin, but Mrs. Bean had gone to Scotland since the ship doesn’t sail again until May. In the saloon, we had some champagne and biscuits, and Hewett had set a block of Boston ice weighing fifty pounds on the table. Scott, from the Caledonia, had lunch with us—he's a really nice guy. He saw Macready perform Macbeth in Boston and gave me an amazing account of the experience. Unfortunately, poor Burroughs, from the George Washington, died on board during his last trip home. His little wife was with him.[101]
Hewett dines with us to-day, and I have procured him admission to-night. I am very sorry indeed (and so was he), that you didn't see the old ship. It was the strangest thing in the world to go on board again.
Hewett is having dinner with us today, and I've arranged for him to come over tonight. I'm really sorry (and he was too) that you didn't get to see the old ship. It was the weirdest thing in the world to go on board again.
I had Bacon with me as far as Watford yesterday, and very pleasant. Sheil was also in the train, on his way to Ireland.
I had Bacon with me all the way to Watford yesterday, and it was very nice. Sheil was also on the train, heading to Ireland.
Give my best love to Georgy, and kisses to the darlings. Also affectionate regards to Mac and Forster.
Give my best love to Georgy, and kisses to the kids. Also, send warm regards to Mac and Forster.
OUT OF THE COMMON—PLEASE.
Dickens against The Globe.
Charles Dickens, of No. 1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park, in the county of Middlesex, gentleman, the successful plaintiff in the above cause, maketh oath and saith: That on the day and date hereof, to wit at seven o'clock in the evening, he, this deponent, took the chair at a large assembly of the Mechanics' Institution at Liverpool, and that having been received with tremendous and enthusiastic plaudits, he, this deponent, did immediately dash into a vigorous, brilliant, humorous, pathetic, eloquent, fervid, and impassioned speech. That the said speech was enlivened by thirteen hundred persons, with frequent, vehement, uproarious, and deafening cheers, and to the best of this deponent's knowledge and belief, he, this deponent, did speak up like a man, and did, to the best of his knowledge and belief, considerably distinguish himself. That after the proceedings of the opening were over, and a vote of thanks was proposed to this deponent, he, this deponent, did again distinguish himself, and that the cheering at that time,[102] accompanied with clapping of hands and stamping of feet, was in this deponent's case thundering and awful. And this deponent further saith, that his white-and-black or magpie waistcoat, did create a strong sensation, and that during the hours of promenading, this deponent heard from persons surrounding him such exclamations as, "What is it! Is it a waistcoat? No, it's a shirt"—and the like—all of which this deponent believes to have been complimentary and gratifying; but this deponent further saith that he is now going to supper, and wishes he may have an appetite to eat it.
Charles Dickens, of No. 1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park, in the county of Middlesex, gentleman, the successful plaintiff in the above case, swears and says: That on the date mentioned, at seven o'clock in the evening, he took the chair at a large gathering of the Mechanics' Institution in Liverpool, and after being received with overwhelming and enthusiastic applause, he immediately launched into a vigorous, brilliant, humorous, poignant, eloquent, passionate, and heartfelt speech. The speech was met with cheers from thirteen hundred people, with frequent, enthusiastic, uproarious, and thunderous applause, and to the best of his knowledge and belief, he spoke up confidently and distinguished himself significantly. When the opening proceedings were concluded and a vote of thanks was proposed to him, he again distinguished himself, and at that time, the cheering, accompanied by clapping hands and stamping feet, was deafening. He further states that his black-and-white or magpie waistcoat created quite a stir, and during the hours of mingling, he heard from those around him exclamations like, "What is that! Is it a waistcoat? No, it's a shirt"—and similar remarks—all of which he believes were complimentary and gratifying; but he also states that he is now going to have supper and hopes he has an appetite for it.
| Sworn before me, at the Adelphi | 
|
| Hotel, Liverpool, on the 26th | |
| of February, 1844. | |
| S. Radley. |
Devonshire Terrace, April 30th, 1844.
The Sanatorium, or sick house for students, governesses, clerks, young artists, and so forth, who are above hospitals, and not rich enough to be well attended in illness in their own lodgings (you know its objects), is going to have a dinner at the London Tavern, on Tuesday, the 5th of June.
The Sanatorium, a place for students, governesses, clerks, young artists, and others who need care but are not in a hospital and can't afford proper treatment at home, is hosting a dinner at the London Tavern on Tuesday, June 5th.
The Committee are very anxious to have you for a steward, as one of the heads of a large class; and I have told them that I have no doubt you will act. There is no steward's fee or collection whatever.
The Committee is really eager to have you as a steward, being one of the leaders of a large class; and I’ve assured them that you will take on the role. There’s no steward's fee or collection at all.
They are particularly anxious also to have Mr. Etty and Edwin Landseer. As you see them daily at the Academy, will you ask them or show them this note? Sir Martin[103] became one of the Committee some few years ago, at my solicitation, as recommending young artists, struggling alone in London, to the better knowledge of this establishment.
They are especially eager to have Mr. Etty and Edwin Landseer. Since you see them every day at the Academy, could you ask them or pass this note along? Sir Martin[103] joined the Committee a few years back at my request to help get young artists who are trying to make it on their own in London more recognition from this establishment.
The dinner is to comprise the new feature of ladies dining at the tables with the gentlemen—not looking down upon them from the gallery. I hope in your reply you will not only book yourself, but Mrs. Stanfield and Mary. It will be very brilliant and cheerful I hope. Dick in the chair. Gentlemen's dinner-tickets a guinea, as usual; ladies', twelve shillings. I think this is all I have to say, except (which is nonsensical and needless) that I am always,
The dinner will include the new feature of ladies dining at the tables with the gentlemen, rather than looking down on them from the gallery. I hope in your reply you will not only reserve a spot for yourself but also for Mrs. Stanfield and Mary. I expect it to be very bright and cheerful. Dick will be in the chair. Men's dinner tickets are a guinea, as usual; ladies' tickets are twelve shillings. I think that's everything I have to say, except (which is pointless and unnecessary) that I am always,
Athenaeum, Monday Morning, May 27th, 1844.
I have let my house with such delicious promptitude, or, as the Americans would say, "with sich everlass'in slickness and al-mity sprydom," that we turn out to-night! in favour of a widow lady, who keeps it all the time we are away!
I have rented out my house with such great speed, or as the Americans would say, "with such effortless slickness and absolute quickness," that we're leaving tonight! It's for a widow lady who takes care of it while we're gone!
Wherefore if you, looking up into the sky this evening between five and six (as possibly you may be, in search of the spring), should see a speck in the air—a mere dot—which, growing larger and larger by degrees, appears in course of time to be an eagle (chain and all) in a light cart, accompanied by a raven of uncommon sagacity, curse that good-nature which prompted you to say it—that you would give them house-room. And do it for the love of
Where if you, looking up at the sky this evening between five and six (which you might be doing while searching for spring), see a tiny speck in the air—a mere dot—that gradually gets larger and eventually turns out to be an eagle (chain and all) in a light cart, along with a remarkably clever raven, curse that good-natured impulse that led you to say you'd let them stay. And do it for the love of
P.S.—The writer hereof may be heerd on by personal enquiry at No. 9, Osnaburgh Terrace, New Road.[104]
P.S.—The writer of this can be reached in person at No. 9, Osnaburgh Terrace, New Road.[104]
Devonshire Terrace, June 4th, 1844.
Many thanks for your proof, and for your truly gratifying mention of my name. I think the subject excellently chosen, the introduction exactly what it should be, the allusion to the International Copyright question most honourable and manly, and the whole scheme full of the highest interest. I had already seen your prospectus, and if I can be of the feeblest use in advancing a project so intimately connected with an end on which my heart is set—the liberal education of the people—I shall be sincerely glad. All good wishes and success attend you!
Thank you so much for your proof and for the wonderful mention of my name. I think the topic is excellently chosen, the introduction is just right, the reference to the International Copyright issue is very honorable and straightforward, and the entire plan is incredibly interesting. I've already seen your prospectus, and if I can be of any help in supporting a project that is so closely related to a goal that I care deeply about—the public's liberal education—I would be genuinely happy. Wishing you all the best and much success!
Faithfully yours.
June 7th, 1844.
Mrs. Harris, being in that delicate state (just confined, and "made comfortable," in fact), hears some sounds below, which she fancies may be the owls (or howls) of the husband to whom she is devoted. They ease her mind by informing her that these sounds are only organs. By "they" I mean the gossips and attendants. By "organs" I mean instrumental boxes with barrels in them, which are commonly played by foreigners under the windows of people of sedentary pursuits, on a speculation of being bribed to leave the street. Mrs. Harris, being of a confiding nature, believed in this pious fraud, and was fully satisfied "that his owls was organs."
Mrs. Harris, being in that sensitive condition (just given birth and getting settled in, really), hears some noises downstairs that she thinks might be the cries (or howls) of her devoted husband. The gossips and attendants reassure her that these noises are just organs. By "they," I mean the gossips and attendants. By "organs," I mean those musical devices with barrels inside, often played by street performers outside the windows of people who prefer to stay indoors, hoping to get tipped to move along. Mrs. Harris, being trusting by nature, believed this little deception and was completely convinced that "his owls were organs."
9, Osnabrück Terrace, Monday Evening, June 24th, 1844.
I have been out yachting for two or three days; and consequently could not answer your letter in due course.
I’ve been out on the yacht for a couple of days, so I couldn’t respond to your letter on time.
I cannot, consistently with the opinion I hold and have always held, in reference to the principle of adapting novels for the stage, give you a prologue to "Chuzzlewit." But believe me to be quite sincere in saying that if I felt I could reasonably do such a thing for anyone, I would do it for you.
I can’t, in line with the views I hold and have always held about adapting novels for the stage, give you a prologue to “Chuzzlewit.” But I want you to know that if I believed I could reasonably do that for anyone, it would be for you.
I start for Italy on Monday next, but if you have the piece on the stage, and rehearse on Friday, I will gladly come down at any time you may appoint on that morning, and go through it with you all. If you be not in a sufficiently forward state to render this proposal convenient to you, or likely to assist your preparations, do not take the trouble to answer this note.
I’m heading to Italy next Monday, but if you have the play ready and plan to rehearse on Friday, I’d be happy to come down whenever you decide on that morning and go over it with all of you. If you’re not at a stage where this would be helpful for your preparations, don’t worry about responding to this message.
I presume Mrs. Keeley will do Ruth Pinch. If so, I feel secure about her, and of Mrs. Gamp I am certain. But a queer sensation begins in my legs, and comes upward to my forehead, when I think of Tom.
I assume Mrs. Keeley will take on Ruth Pinch. If that’s the case, I feel good about her, and I’m definitely sure about Mrs. Gamp. But I get this strange feeling starting in my legs and moving up to my forehead when I think about Tom.
Villa di Bagnarello, Albaro, Monday, July 22nd, 1844.
I address you with something of the lofty spirit of an exile—a banished commoner—a sort of Anglo-Pole. I don't exactly know what I have done for my country in coming away from it; but I feel it is something—something great—something virtuous and heroic. Lofty emotions rise within me, when I see the sun set on the blue[106] Mediterranean. I am the limpet on the rock. My father's name is Turner and my boots are green.
I’m reaching out to you with the high-minded spirit of an exile—a rejected commoner—a kind of Anglo-Polish person. I’m not exactly sure what I’ve done for my country by leaving, but I feel it’s significant—something important—something noble and brave. I get these intense feelings when I watch the sun set over the blue[106] Mediterranean. I’m like a limpet stuck to a rock. My dad’s name is Turner, and my boots are green.
Apropos of blue. In a certain picture, called "The Serenade," you painted a sky. If you ever have occasion to paint the Mediterranean, let it be exactly of that colour. It lies before me now, as deeply and intensely blue. But no such colour is above me. Nothing like it. In the South of France—at Avignon, at Aix, at Marseilles—I saw deep blue skies (not so deep though—oh Lord, no!), and also in America; but the sky above me is familiar to my sight. Is it heresy to say that I have seen its twin-brother shining through the window of Jack Straw's—that down in Devonshire I have seen a better sky? I daresay it is; but like a great many other heresies, it is true.
Apropos of blue. In a certain painting called "The Serenade," you created a sky. If you ever get the chance to paint the Mediterranean, make sure it's exactly that color. It’s right in front of me now, just as deep and intense blue. But there’s no color like it above me. Nothing compares. In the South of France—at Avignon, Aix, and Marseilles—I saw deep blue skies (not that deep though—oh no!), and I’ve seen them in America too; but the sky above me is familiar to me. Is it wrong to say that I’ve seen its twin shining through the window of Jack Straw's—that down in Devonshire I’ve seen a better sky? I suppose it is; but like many other controversial ideas, it’s true.
But such green—green—green—as flutters in the vineyard down below the windows, that I never saw; nor yet such lilac, and such purple as float between me and the distant hills; nor yet—in anything—picture, book, or verbal boredom—such awful, solemn, impenetrable blue, as is that same sea. It has such an absorbing, silent, deep, profound effect, that I can't help thinking it suggested the idea of Styx. It looks as if a draught of it—only so much as you could scoop up on the beach, in the hollow of your hand—would wash out everything else, and make a great blue blank of your intellect.
But the green—green—green that dances in the vineyard below the windows, that I've never seen; nor have I seen such lilac and purple that float between me and the distant hills; nor have I encountered—in anything—picture, book, or monotonous chatter—such an intense, serious, impenetrable blue, as that same sea. It has such a captivating, quiet, deep, profound effect that I can't help but think it inspired the idea of Styx. It looks like just a sip of it—enough to scoop up in the palm of your hand—would wash away everything else and create a vast blue void in your mind.
When the sun sets clearly, then, by Heaven, it is majestic! From any one of eleven windows here, or from a terrace overgrown with grapes, you may behold the broad sea; villas, houses, mountains, forts, strewn with rose leaves—strewn with thorns—stifled in thorns! Dyed through and through and through. For a moment. No more. The sun is impatient and fierce, like everything else in these parts, and goes down headlong. Run to fetch[107] your hat—and it's night. Wink at the right time of black night—and it's morning. Everything is in extremes. There is an insect here (I forget its name, and Fletcher and Roche are both out) that chirps all day. There is one outside the window now. The chirp is very loud, something like a Brobdingnagian grasshopper. The creature is born to chirp—to progress in chirping—to chirp louder, louder, louder—till it gives one tremendous chirp, and bursts itself. That is its life and death. Everything "is in a concatenation accordingly." The day gets brighter, brighter, brighter, till it's night. The summer gets hotter, hotter, hotter, till it bursts. The fruit gets riper, riper, riper, till it tumbles down and rots.
When the sun sets clearly, it really is majestic! From any of the eleven windows here or from a terrace covered with grapes, you can see the wide sea; villas, houses, mountains, and forts are scattered with rose petals—covered in thorns—smothered in thorns! Dyed all the way through. Just for a moment. No more. The sun is impatient and intense, like everything else around here, and plunges down quickly. Run to grab your hat—and suddenly it's night. Blink at just the right moment during the pitch-black night—and it's morning. Everything is extreme. There's an insect here (I can't remember its name, and both Fletcher and Roche are out) that chirps all day. There's one outside the window right now. The chirp is really loud, kind of like a giant grasshopper. This creature is made to chirp—to keep chirping—to chirp louder, louder, louder—until it lets out one massive chirp and then it dies. That’s how it lives and dies. Everything "is in a concatenation accordingly." The day gets brighter, brighter, brighter, until it’s night. The summer gets hotter, hotter, hotter, until it bursts. The fruit gets riper, riper, riper, until it falls and rots.
Ask me a question or two about fresco—will you be so good? All the houses are painted in fresco hereabout—the outside walls I mean; the fronts, and backs, and sides—and all the colour has run into damp and green seediness, and the very design has struggled away into the component atoms of the plaster. Sometimes (but not often) I can make out a Virgin with a mildewed glory round her head; holding nothing, in an indiscernible lap, with invisible arms; and occasionally the leg or arms of a cherub, but it is very melancholy and dim. There are two old fresco-painted vases outside my own gate—one on either hand—which are so faint, that I never saw them till last night; and only then because I was looking over the wall after a lizard, who had come upon me while I was smoking a cigar above, and crawled over one of these embellishments to his retreat. There is a church here—the Church of the Annunciation—which they are now (by "they" I mean certain noble families) restoring at a vast expense, as a work of piety. It is a large church, with a great many little chapels in it, and a very high[108] dome. Every inch of this edifice is painted, and every design is set in a great gold frame or border elaborately wrought. You can imagine nothing so splendid. It is worth coming the whole distance to see. But every sort of splendour is in perpetual enactment through the means of these churches. Gorgeous processions in the streets, illuminations of windows on festa nights; lighting up of lamps and clustering of flowers before the shrines of saints; all manner of show and display. The doors of the churches stand wide open; and in this hot weather great red curtains flutter and wave in their palaces; and if you go and sit in one of these to get out of the sun, you see the queerest figures kneeling against pillars, and the strangest people passing in and out, and vast streams of women in veils (they don't wear bonnets), with great fans in their hands, coming and going, that you are never tired of looking on. Except in the churches, you would suppose the city (at this time of year) to be deserted, the people keep so close within doors. Indeed it is next to impossible to go out into the heat. I have only been into Genoa twice myself. We are deliciously cool here, by comparison; being high, and having the sea breeze. There is always some shade in the vineyard, too; and underneath the rocks on the sea-shore, so if I choose to saunter I can do it easily, even in the hot time of the day. I am as lazy, however, as—as you are, and do little but eat and drink and read.
Ask me a question or two about fresco—could you do that for me? All the houses around here are painted in fresco—the outside walls, I mean; the fronts, backs, and sides—and all the colors have faded into dampness and a greenish mold, and the very designs have struggled away into the basic elements of the plaster. Sometimes (but not often) I can make out a Virgin with a moldy halo around her head; holding nothing in an unclear lap, with invisible arms; and occasionally a leg or an arm of a cherub, but it's very sad and blurry. There are two old fresco-painted vases outside my gate—one on either side—that are so faded that I never noticed them until last night; and only then because I was looking over the wall after a lizard, which had surprised me while I was smoking a cigar above, and crawled over one of these decorations to its hiding spot. There’s a church here—the Church of the Annunciation—that they are currently restoring (by “they,” I mean certain noble families) at a huge expense, as a work of devotion. It’s a large church, with many little chapels in it, and a very high dome. Every inch of this building is painted, and every design is framed in a grand gold border that’s elaborately crafted. You can’t imagine anything so splendid. It’s worth traveling all this way to see. But every kind of splendor is constantly on display through these churches. Elaborate processions in the streets, illuminated windows on festival nights; lighting lamps and clustering flowers before the saints' shrines; all kinds of show and spectacle. The church doors stand wide open; and in this hot weather, large red curtains flutter and sway in their halls; and if you go and sit in one of these to escape the sun, you’ll see the strangest figures kneeling against pillars, and odd people passing in and out, and huge streams of women in veils (they don’t wear bonnets), with large fans in their hands, coming and going, which you never get tired of watching. Except in the churches, you would think the city (at this time of year) was deserted; the people stay so close to home. In fact, it’s almost impossible to go out in the heat. I’ve only been to Genoa twice myself. We’re pleasantly cool here by comparison; being up high, and having the sea breeze. There’s always some shade in the vineyard too; and under the rocks on the shoreline, so if I decide to stroll, I can do it easily, even during the hottest part of the day. I’m as lazy, though, as—as you are, and do little but eat, drink, and read.
As I am going to transmit regular accounts of all sight-seeings and journeyings to Forster, who will show them to you, I will not bore you with descriptions, however. I hardly think you allow enough for the great brightness and brilliancy of colour which is commonly achieved on the Continent, in that same fresco painting. I saw some—by a French artist and his pupil—in progress at the cathedral at[109] Avignon, which was as bright and airy as anything can be,—nothing dull or dead about it; and I have observed quite fierce and glaring colours elsewhere.
As I’m going to send regular updates about all the sights and travels to Forster, who will share them with you, I won’t bore you with details. I don’t think you fully appreciate the incredible brightness and vivid colors typically found in fresco paintings on the Continent. I saw some—by a French artist and his student—in progress at the cathedral in[109] Avignon, which was as bright and airy as anything can be—nothing dull or lifeless about it; and I’ve noticed some pretty intense and vibrant colors in other places too.
We have a piano now (there was none in the house), and have fallen into a pretty settled easy track. We breakfast about half-past nine or ten, dine about four, and go to bed about eleven. We are much courted by the visiting people, of course, and I very much resort to my old habit of bolting from callers, and leaving their reception to Kate. Green figs I have already learnt to like. Green almonds (we have them at dessert every day) are the most delicious fruit in the world. And green lemons, combined with some rare hollands that is to be got here, make prodigious punch, I assure you. You ought to come over, Mac; but I don't expect you, though I am sure it would be a very good move for you. I have not the smallest doubt of that. Fletcher has made a sketch of the house, and will copy it in pen-and-ink for transmission to you in my next letter. I shall look out for a place in Genoa, between this and the winter time. In the meantime, the people who come out here breathe delightedly, as if they had got into another climate. Landing in the city, you would hardly suppose it possible that there could be such an air within two miles.
We have a piano now (there wasn’t one in the house), and we've settled into a pretty comfortable routine. We have breakfast around half-past nine or ten, dinner at four, and go to bed around eleven. We get a lot of visitors, of course, and I’ve gone back to my old habit of sneaking away from callers and leaving Kate to handle them. I’ve already learned to like green figs. Green almonds (which we have for dessert every day) are the most delicious fruit in the world. And green lemons, mixed with some rare hollands you can find here, make an incredible punch, I promise. You should come over, Mac; but I don’t expect you to, even though I’m sure it would be a great move for you. I have no doubt about that. Fletcher has drawn a sketch of the house and will copy it in pen and ink to send to you in my next letter. I’ll be on the lookout for a place in Genoa before winter. In the meantime, the people who come out here seem to breathe more easily, as if they’ve stepped into a different climate. When you arrive in the city, you’d hardly believe such an atmosphere exists just two miles away.
Write to me as often as you can, like a dear good fellow, and rely upon the punctuality of my correspondence. Losing you and Forster is like losing my arms and legs, and dull and lame I am without you. But at Broadstairs next year, please God, when it is all over, I shall be very glad to have laid up such a store of recollections and improvement.
Write to me as often as you can, my dear friend, and trust that I'll respond promptly. Losing you and Forster feels like losing my arms and legs; I feel so dull and incomplete without you. But next year in Broadstairs, please God, once everything is settled, I'll be really happy to have gathered so many memories and experiences.
I don't know what to do with Timber. He is as ill-adapted to the climate at this time of year as a suit of fur. I have had him made a lion dog; but the fleas flock in[110] such crowds into the hair he has left, that they drive him nearly frantic, and renders it absolutely necessary that he should be kept by himself. Of all the miserable hideous little frights you ever saw, you never beheld such a devil. Apropos, as we were crossing the Seine within two stages of Paris, Roche suddenly said to me, sitting by me on the box: "The littel dog 'ave got a great lip!" I was thinking of things remote and very different, and couldn't comprehend why any peculiarity in this feature on the part of the dog should excite a man so much. As I was musing upon it, my ears were attracted by shouts of "Helo! hola! Hi, hi, hi! Le voilà! Regardez!" and the like. And looking down among the oxen—we were in the centre of a numerous drove—I saw him, Timber, lying in the road, curled up—you know his way—like a lobster, only not so stiff, yelping dismally in the pain of his "lip" from the roof of the carriage; and between the aching of his bones, his horror of the oxen, and his dread of me (who he evidently took to be the immediate agent in and cause of the damage), singing out to an extent which I believe to be perfectly unprecedented; while every Frenchman and French boy within sight roared for company. He wasn't hurt.
I don't know what to do with Timber. He is as out of place in this weather as a fur coat. I had him turned into a lion dog, but the fleas swarm in[110] so much in the little hair he has left that they drive him almost mad, and it's completely necessary for him to be kept separate. Of all the miserable, ugly little creatures you could ever see, you have never seen a devil like him. Speaking of which, as we were crossing the Seine a couple of stops from Paris, Roche suddenly said to me, sitting next to me on the box: "The little dog has a big lip!" I was lost in my own thoughts about something completely different and couldn't understand why a quirk about the dog’s lip would get him so worked up. While I was pondering this, I heard shouts of "Hello! hey! Hi, hi, hi! There he is! Look!" and so on. Looking down among the cattle—we were in the middle of a large herd—I saw Timber lying in the road, curled up—you know how he does—like a lobster, just not as stiff, yelping pitifully from the roof of the carriage because of his "lip"; and between the aches in his bones, his fear of the oxen, and his terror of me (who he clearly thought was the cause of his problem), he was making a racket that I believe is entirely unprecedented; while every Frenchman and French boy in sight joined in the laughter. He wasn’t hurt.
Kate and Georgina send their best loves; and the children add "theirs." Katey, in particular, desires to be commended to "Mr. Teese." She has a sore throat; from sitting in constant draughts, I suppose; but with that exception, we are all quite well. Ever believe me, my dear Mac,
Kate and Georgina send their love, and the kids add theirs too. Katey, especially, wants to be remembered to "Mr. Teese." She has a sore throat, probably from sitting in drafts all the time, but aside from that, we're all doing pretty well. Always believe me, my dear Mac,
Albaro, near Genoa, Friday, August 9th, 1844.
I find that if I wait to write you a long letter (which has been the cause of my procrastination in fulfilling my part of our agreement), I am likely to wait some time longer. And as I am very anxious to hear from you; not the less so, because if I hear of you through my brother, who usually sees you once a week in my absence; I take pen in hand and stop a messenger who is going to Genoa. For my main object being to qualify myself for the receipt of a letter from you, I don't see why a ten-line qualification is not as good as one of a hundred lines.
I’ve noticed that if I wait to write you a long letter (which is why I’ve been putting off my part of our agreement), I’ll probably just keep delaying. And since I really want to hear from you—especially because my brother usually sees you once a week when I’m not around—I’m taking the time to write this and send it with a messenger heading to Genoa. My main goal is to prepare myself to receive a letter from you, so I don’t see why a ten-line message isn’t just as good as a hundred-line one.
You told me it was possible that you and Mrs. Tagart might wander into these latitudes in the autumn. I wish you would carry out that infant intention to the utmost. It would afford us the truest delight and pleasure to receive you. If you come in October, you will find us in the Palazzo Peschiere, in Genoa, which is surrounded by a delicious garden, and is a most charming habitation in all respects. If you come in September, you will find us less splendidly lodged, but on the margin of the sea, and in the midst of vineyards. The climate is delightful even now; the heat being not at all oppressive, except in the actual city, which is what the Americans would call considerable fiery, in the middle of the day. But the sea-breezes out here are refreshing and cool every day, and the bathing in the early morning is something more agreeable than you can easily imagine. The orange trees of the Peschiere shall give you their most fragrant salutations if you come to us[112] at that time, and we have a dozen spare beds in that house that I know of; to say nothing of some vast chambers here and there with ancient iron chests in them, where Mrs. Tagart might enact Ginevra to perfection, and never be found out. To prevent which, I will engage to watch her closely, if she will only come and see us.
You mentioned it was possible that you and Mrs. Tagart might visit this area in the autumn. I hope you’ll follow through on that plan. It would bring us true joy to have you. If you come in October, we’ll be at the Palazzo Peschiere in Genoa, which is surrounded by a lovely garden and is a charming place to stay. If you come in September, we won’t be as luxurious, but we’ll be right by the sea and surrounded by vineyards. The weather is lovely even now; it isn’t too hot except in the actual city, which Americans would call pretty scorching during the middle of the day. But the sea breeze here is refreshing and cool every day, and swimming in the early morning is more enjoyable than you can imagine. The orange trees at the Peschiere will greet you with their wonderful fragrance if you come then, and we have a dozen extra beds in that house. Plus, there are some large rooms here and there with old iron chests, where Mrs. Tagart could perfectly play the role of Ginevra without anyone noticing. To prevent any mishaps, I promise to keep a close eye on her if she comes to visit us[112].
The flies are incredibly numerous just now. The unsightly blot a little higher up was occasioned by a very fine one who fell into the inkstand, and came out, unexpectedly, on the nib of my pen. We are all quite well, thank Heaven, and had a very interesting journey here, of which, as well as of this place, I will not write a word, lest I should take the edge off those agreeable conversations with which we will beguile our walks.
The flies are really everywhere right now. The ugly smudge a bit higher up was caused by a tiny one that fell into the ink well and ended up, unexpectedly, on the tip of my pen. We’re all doing well, thank goodness, and had a fascinating trip here, but I won’t say a word about it or about this place, so I don’t spoil the enjoyable conversations that will keep us entertained during our walks.
Pray tell me about the presentation of the plate, and whether —— was very slow, or trotted at all, and if so, when. He is an excellent creature, and I respect him very much, so I don't mind smiling when I think of him as he appeared when addressing you and pointing to the plate, with his head a little on one side, and one of his eyes turned up languidly.
Pray tell me about how the plate was presented, and whether —— was very slow or if he trotted at all, and if so, when. He is an outstanding creature, and I have a lot of respect for him, so I don't mind smiling when I think of him as he looked when he was speaking to you and pointing to the plate, with his head tilted a little to the side and one of his eyes turned up lazily.
Also let me know exactly how you are travelling, and when, and all about it; that I may meet you with open arms on the threshold of the city, if happily you bend your steps this way. You had better address me, "Poste Restante, Genoa," as the Albaro postman gets drunk, and when he has lost letters, and is sober, sheds tears—which is affecting, but hardly satisfactory.
Also let me know exactly how you're traveling and when, and all the details about it; so I can meet you with open arms at the city entrance if you happen to come this way. It's better to send your mail to "Poste Restante, Genoa," because the Albaro postman gets drunk, and when he misplaces letters and is sober again, he cries—which is sad, but not really helpful.
Kate and her sister send their best regards to yourself, and Mrs. and Miss Tagart, and all your family. I heartily join them in all kind remembrances and good wishes. As the messenger has just looked in at the door, and shedding on me a balmy gale of onions, has protested against being[113] detained any longer, I will only say (which is not at all necessary) that I am ever,
Kate and her sister send their best regards to you, Mrs. and Miss Tagart, and your whole family. I sincerely join them in sending warm thoughts and good wishes. Since the messenger has just popped in at the door, bringing a strong whiff of onions, and has asked to not be held up any longer, I’ll just say (which isn't really needed) that I am always,
P.S.—There is a little to see here, in the church way, I assure you.
P.S.—There isn't much to see here, in terms of the church, I promise you.
Albaro, Saturday Night, August 24th, 1844.
I love you so truly, and have such pride and joy of heart in your friendship, that I don't know how to begin writing to you. When I think how you are walking up and down London in that portly surtout, and can't receive proposals from Dick to go to the theatre, I fall into a state between laughing and crying, and want some friendly back to smite. "Je-im!" "Aye, aye, your honour," is in my ears every time I walk upon the sea-shore here; and the number of expeditions I make into Cornwall in my sleep, the springs of Flys I break, the songs I sing, and the bowls of punch I drink, would soften a heart of stone.
I love you so much, and I'm so proud and happy to have your friendship that I don’t even know how to start writing to you. When I imagine you strolling around London in that hefty overcoat and missing out on invites from Dick to go to the theater, I feel torn between laughing and crying, and I just want to hit something friendly. "Je-im!" "Yeah, yeah, your honor," echoes in my head every time I walk along the beach here; the number of trips I take to Cornwall in my dreams, the springs of Flys I break, the songs I sing, and the bowls of punch I drink would melt even the hardest of hearts.
We have had weather here, since five o'clock this morning, after your own heart. Suppose yourself the Admiral in "Black-eyed Susan" after the acquittal of William, and when it was possible to be on friendly terms with him. I am T. P.[4] My trousers are very full at the ankles, my black neckerchief is tied in the regular style, the name of my ship is painted round my glazed hat, I have a red waistcoat on, and the seams of my blue jacket are "paid"—permit me to dig you in the ribs when I make use of this nautical expression—with white. In my hand I hold the very box connected with the story of Sandomingerbilly. I lift up my eyebrows as far as I can (on the T. P. model), take a quid[114] from the box, screw the lid on again (chewing at the same time, and looking pleasantly at the pit), brush it with my right elbow, take up my right leg, scrape my right foot on the ground, hitch up my trousers, and in reply to a question of yours, namely, "Indeed, what weather, William?" I deliver myself as follows:
We've had weather here since five o'clock this morning that's truly to your liking. Imagine yourself as the Admiral in "Black-eyed Susan" after William's acquittal, when it was possible to be on good terms with him. I am T. P.[4] My trousers are quite loose at the ankles, my black neckerchief is tied in the classic way, the name of my ship is painted around my glossy hat, I'm wearing a red waistcoat, and the seams of my blue jacket are "paid"—allow me to nudge you when I use this nautical term—with white. In my hand, I have the very box connected to the story of Sandomingerbilly. I raise my eyebrows as high as I can (using the T. P. model), take a chew from the box, screw the lid back on (while chewing and looking pleasantly at the audience), brush it with my right elbow, lift my right leg, scrape my right foot on the ground, adjust my trousers, and in response to your question, "Indeed, what weather, William?" I say:
Lord love your honour! Weather! Such weather as would set all hands to the pumps aboard one of your fresh-water cockboats, and set the purser to his wits' ends to stow away, for the use of the ship's company, the casks and casks full of blue water as would come powering in over the gunnel! The dirtiest night, your honour, as ever you see 'atween Spithead at gun-fire and the Bay of Biscay! The wind sou'-west, and your house dead in the wind's eye; the breakers running up high upon the rocky beads, the light'us no more looking through the fog than Davy Jones's sarser eye through the blue sky of heaven in a calm, or the blue toplights of your honour's lady cast down in a modest overhauling of her catheads: avast! (whistling) my dear eyes; here am I a-goin' head on to the breakers (bowing).
Lord love your honor! What weather! It's the kind of weather that would get everyone on deck pumping water out of a little boat, and it would drive the purser crazy trying to store away all the barrels of blue water pouring in over the sides! The dirtiest night, your honor, that you'd ever see between Spithead at gunfire and the Bay of Biscay! The wind's coming from the southwest, and your house is right in the wind’s path; the waves crashing high against the rocky shore, the light can't see through the fog any more than Davy Jones's ghostly eye can see the clear sky on a calm day, or your lady's elegant lights shining down during a modest inspection of her bow: hold on! (whistling) my dear! Here I am heading straight for the breakers (bowing).
Admiral (smiling). No, William! I admire plain speaking, as you know, and so does old England, William, and old England's Queen. But you were saying——
Admiral (smiling). No, William! I appreciate honest conversation, as you know, and so does old England, William, and old England's Queen. But you were saying——
William. Aye, aye, your honour (scratching his head). I've lost my reckoning. Damme!—I ast pardon—but won't your honour throw a hencoop or any old end of towline to a man as is overboard?
William. Yeah, yeah, your honor (scratching his head). I've lost track. Damn!—I ask for forgiveness—but won't your honor toss a hencoop or any bit of towline to a guy who's in the water?
Admiral (smiling still). You were saying, William, that the wind——
Admiral (still smiling). You were saying, William, that the wind——
William (again cocking his leg, and slapping the thighs very hard). Avast heaving, your honour! I see your honour's signal fluttering in the breeze, without a glass. As I was a-saying, your honour, the wind was blowin' from the sou'-west, due sou'-west, your honour, not a pint to larboard nor a pint to starboard; the clouds a-gatherin' in the distance for all the world like Beachy Head in a fog, the sea a-rowling in, in heaps of foam, and making higher than the mainyard arm, the craft a-scuddin' by all taught and under storms'ils for the harbour; not a blessed star a-twinklin' out aloft—aloft, your honour, in the little cherubs' native country—and the spray is flying like the white foam from the Jolly's lips when Poll of Portsea took him for a tailor! (laughs.)
William (lifting his leg again and slapping his thighs really hard). Hold on there, your honor! I can see your signal waving in the breeze, even without binoculars. Like I was saying, your honor, the wind was blowing from the southwest, straight southwest, your honor, not a degree to the left or the right; the clouds gathering in the distance, just like Beachy Head looks in the fog, with the sea rolling in, piled high with foam, even higher than the main yardarm, and the boats rushing by all rigged and ready to face the storm for the harbor; not a single star shining above—above, your honor, in the little cherubs' homeland—and the spray is flying like the white foam from Jolly's lips when Poll of Portsea mistook him for a tailor! (laughs.)
Admiral (laughing also). You have described it well, William, and I thank you. But who are these?
Admiral (laughing too). You’ve put it perfectly, William, and I appreciate it. But who are these people?
[115]William (after shaking hands with everybody). Who are these, your honour! Messmates as staunch and true as ever broke biscuit. Ain't you, my lads?
[115]William (after shaking hands with everybody). Who are these, your honor! Shipmates as loyal and solid as anyone who's ever shared a biscuit. Right, guys?
All. Aye, aye, William. That we are! that we are!
All. Yes, yes, William. That's who we are! That's who we are!
Admiral (much affected). Oh, England, what wonder that——! But I will no longer detain you from your sports, my humble friends (Admiral speaks very low, and looks hard at the orchestra, this being the cue for the dance)—from your sports, my humble friends. Farewell!
Admiral (very emotional). Oh, England, how amazing that——! But I won’t keep you from your fun any longer, my dear friends (Admiral speaks softly and watches the orchestra closely, as this signals the start of the dance)—from your fun, my dear friends. Goodbye!
All. Hurrah! hurrah! [Exit Admiral.
All. Yay! Yay! [Exit Admiral.
Voice behind. Suppose the dance, Mr. Stanfield. Are you all ready? Go then!
Voice behind. Let's get this dance started, Mr. Stanfield. Are you all set? Go for it!
My dear Stanfield, I wish you would come this way and see me in that Palazzo Peschiere! Was ever man so welcome as I would make you! What a truly gentlemanly action it would be to bring Mrs. Stanfield and the baby. And how Kate and her sister would wave pocket-handkerchiefs from the wharf in joyful welcome! Ah, what a glorious proceeding!
My dear Stanfield, I really wish you would come this way and visit me in that Palazzo Peschiere! Has any man ever been as welcome as I would make you? What a genuinely classy move it would be to bring Mrs. Stanfield and the baby. Just imagine how Kate and her sister would wave their handkerchiefs from the dock in joyful greeting! Ah, what a wonderful event that would be!
Do you know this place? Of course you do. I won't bore you with anything about it, for I know Forster reads my letters to you; but what a place it is. The views from the hills here, and the immense variety of prospects of the sea, are as striking, I think, as such scenery can be. Above all, the approach to Genoa, by sea from Marseilles, constitutes a picture which you ought to paint, for nobody else can ever do it! William, you made that bridge at Avignon better than it is. Beautiful as it undoubtedly is, you made it fifty times better. And if I were Morrison, or one of that school (bless the dear fellows one and all!), I wouldn't stand it, but would insist on having another picture gratis, to atone for the imposition.
Do you know this place? Of course you do. I won’t bore you with details, since I know Forster reads my letters to you; but what a place it is. The views from the hills here and the incredible variety of sea vistas are, I think, as stunning as any scenery can be. Above all, the approach to Genoa by sea from Marseilles is a scene you should paint, because no one else can capture it! William, you made that bridge in Avignon look better than it really is. Beautiful as it undeniably is, you made it fifty times better. And if I were Morrison, or one of that crowd (bless those dear guys!), I wouldn’t put up with it, but would demand another painting for free to make up for it.
The night is like a seaside night in England towards the end of September. They say it is the prelude to clear weather. But the wind is roaring now, and the sea is raving, and the rain is driving down, as if they had all set[116] in for a real hearty picnic, and each had brought its own relations to the general festivity. I don't know whether you are acquainted with the coastguard and men in these parts? They are extremely civil fellows, of a very amiable manner and appearance, but the most innocent men in matters you would suppose them to be well acquainted with, in virtue of their office, that I ever encountered. One of them asked me only yesterday, if it would take a year to get to England in a ship? Which I thought for a coastguardman was rather a tidy question. It would take a long time to catch a ship going there if he were on board a pursuing cutter though. I think he would scarcely do it in twelve months, indeed.
The night feels like a seaside night in England at the end of September. People say it’s a sign of clear weather to come. But right now, the wind is howling, the sea is raging, and the rain is pouring down, as if they’re all gearing up for a big party, each bringing their own guests to the celebration. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the coastguard and the locals here? They’re really polite guys, very friendly in both manner and appearance, but they are surprisingly clueless about things you’d expect them to know given their jobs. Just yesterday, one of them asked me if it would take a year to reach England by ship. I thought that was a pretty interesting question for a coastguard! It would take a long time to catch up to a ship going there if he were on a chasing cutter, actually. I doubt he’d manage it in twelve months at all.
So you were at Astley's t'other night. "Now, Mr. Stickney, sir, what can I come for to go for to do for to bring for to fetch for to carry for you, sir?" "He, he, he! Oh, I say, sir!" "Well, sir?" "Miss Woolford knows me, sir. She laughed at me!" I see him run away after this; not on his feet, but on his knees and the calves of his legs alternately; and that smell of sawdusty horses, which was never in any other place in the world, salutes my nose with painful distinctness. What do you think of my suddenly finding myself a swimmer? But I have really made the discovery, and skim about a little blue bay just below the town here, like a fish in high spirits. I hope to preserve my bathing-dress for your inspection and approval, or possibly to enrich your collection of Italian costumes on my return. Do you recollect Yarnold in "Masaniello"? I fear that I, unintentionally, "dress at him," before plunging into the sea. I enhanced the likeness very much, last Friday morning, by singing a barcarole on the rocks. I was a trifle too flesh-coloured (the stage knowing no medium between bright salmon and dirty yellow), but apart from[117] that defect, not badly made up by any means. When you write to me, my dear Stanny, as I hope you will soon, address Poste Restante, Genoa. I remain out here until the end of September, and send in for my letters daily. There is a postman for this place, but he gets drunk and loses the letters; after which he calls to say so, and to fall upon his knees. About three weeks ago I caught him at a wine-shop near here, playing bowls in the garden. It was then about five o'clock in the afternoon, and he had been airing a newspaper addressed to me, since nine o'clock in the morning.
So you were at Astley's the other night. "Now, Mr. Stickney, what can I do for you, sir?" "He, he, he! Oh, I say, sir!" "Well, sir?" "Miss Woolford knows me, sir. She laughed at me!" I watched him run away after this, not on his feet, but on his knees and the calves of his legs alternately; and that smell of sawdusty horses, which you can't find anywhere else in the world, hits my nose painfully. What do you think about me suddenly discovering that I can swim? I really have made the discovery, and I glide around a little blue bay just down below the town here, like a happy fish. I hope to keep my bathing suit for you to see and approve, or maybe even to add to your collection of Italian costumes when I get back. Do you remember Yarnold in "Masaniello"? I worry that I unintentionally "dress like him" before jumping into the sea. I really brought out the resemblance last Friday morning by singing a barcarole on the rocks. I was a bit too flesh-colored (the stage knows no in-between between bright salmon and dirty yellow), but aside from that flaw, I was made up reasonably well. When you write to me, my dear Stanny, as I hope you will soon, send it to Poste Restante, Genoa. I’ll be out here until the end of September and check for my letters daily. There is a postman in this area, but he gets drunk and loses the letters; then he comes to say so and falls on his knees. About three weeks ago, I caught him at a wine shop nearby, playing bowls in the garden. It was around five o'clock in the afternoon, and he had been holding onto a newspaper addressed to me since nine o'clock that morning.
Kate and Georgina unite with me in most cordial remembrances to Mrs. and Miss Stanfield, and to all the children. They particularise all sorts of messages, but I tell them that they had better write themselves if they want to send any. Though I don't know that this writing would end in the safe deliverance of the commodities after all; for when I began this letter, I meant to give utterance to all kinds of heartiness, my dear Stanfield; and I come to the end of it without having said anything more than that I am—which is new to you—under every circumstance and everywhere,
Kate and Georgina join me in sending warm regards to Mrs. and Miss Stanfield, along with all the kids. They mention all kinds of messages, but I tell them that it’s better for them to write if they want to send anything. Though I’m not sure that their writing would actually ensure that the messages get delivered safely anyway; because when I started this letter, I intended to express all sorts of heartfelt sentiments, my dear Stanfield, and I end up here without saying anything more than that I am—which is new to you—under every circumstance and everywhere,
Palazzo Peschiere, Genoa, October 14th, 1844.
My whole heart is with you at home. I have not yet felt so far off as I do now, when I think of you there, and cannot fold you in my arms. This is only a shake of the hand. I couldn't say much to you, if I were home to greet you. Nor can I write much, when I think of you, safe and sound and happy, after all your wanderings.
My whole heart is with you at home. I’ve never felt so distant as I do now, thinking of you there and not being able to hold you in my arms. This is just a handshake. I wouldn't be able to say much to you if I were home to welcome you. Nor can I write much when I think of you, safe and sound and happy, after all your travels.
My dear fellow, God bless you twenty thousand times.[118] Happiness and joy be with you! I hope to see you soon. If I should be so unfortunate as to miss you in London, I will fall upon you, with a swoop of love, in Paris. Kate says all kind things in the language; and means more than are in the dictionary capacity of all the descendants of all the stonemasons that worked at Babel. Again and again and again, my own true friend, God bless you!
My dear friend, may God bless you a thousand times.[118] Wishing you happiness and joy! I hope to see you soon. If I'm unlucky enough to miss you in London, I’ll catch up with you in Paris with all my love. Kate says all the nice things in her language; and means even more than the dictionary could hold from all the stonemasons who built Babel. Again and again and again, my true friend, may God bless you!
Cremona, Saturday Night, October 16th, 1844.
As half a loaf is better than no bread, so I hope that half a sheet of paper may be better than none at all, coming from one who is anxious to live in your memory and friendship. I should have redeemed the pledge I gave you in this regard long since, but occupation at one time, and absence from pen and ink at another, have prevented me.
As half a loaf is better than no bread, I hope that half a sheet of paper is better than nothing at all, coming from someone who wants to stay in your memory and friendship. I should have fulfilled the promise I made you about this a long time ago, but being busy at one point and away from pen and paper at another has held me back.
Forster has told you, or will tell you, that I very much wish you to hear my little Christmas book; and I hope you will meet me, at his bidding, in Lincoln's Inn Fields. I have tried to strike a blow upon that part of the brass countenance of wicked Cant, when such a compliment is sorely needed at this time, and I trust that the result of my training is at least the exhibition of a strong desire to make it a staggerer. If you should think at the end of the four rounds (there are no more) that the said Cant, in the language of Bell's Life, "comes up piping," I shall be very much the better for it.
Forster has told you, or will tell you, that I really want you to check out my little Christmas book; and I hope you'll join me, at his invitation, in Lincoln's Inn Fields. I've tried to take a swing at that part of the brass face of wicked hypocrisy, which is desperately needed right now, and I hope that my effort shows a real desire to make it impactful. If you think at the end of the four rounds (there are no more) that the mentioned hypocrisy, in the words of Bell's Life, "comes up piping," I will be very grateful for it.
I am now on my way to Milan; and from thence (after a day or two's rest) I mean to come to England by the grandest Alpine pass that the snow may leave open. You know this place as famous of yore for fiddles. I don't see[119] any here now. But there is a whole street of coppersmiths not far from this inn; and they throb so d——ably and fitfully, that I thought I had a palpitation of the heart after dinner just now, and seldom was more relieved than when I found the noise to be none of mine.
I’m currently heading to Milan, and after taking a day or two to rest, I plan to come to England via the most impressive Alpine pass that the snow allows. You know this place as being famous back in the day for violins. I don’t see any here now. But there’s a whole street of coppersmiths not far from this inn, and they bang away so annoyingly and erratically that I thought I was having a heart palpitation after dinner just now, and I was never more relieved than when I realized the noise wasn't coming from me.
I was rather shocked yesterday (I am not strong in geographical details) to find that Romeo was only banished twenty-five miles. That is the distance between Mantua and Verona. The latter is a quaint old place, with great houses in it that are now solitary and shut up—exactly the place it ought to be. The former has a great many apothecaries in it at this moment, who could play that part to the life. For of all the stagnant ponds I ever beheld, it is the greenest and weediest. I went to see the old palace of the Capulets, which is still distinguished by their cognizance (a hat carved in stone on the courtyard wall). It is a miserable inn. The court was full of crazy coaches, carts, geese, and pigs, and was ankle-deep in mud and dung. The garden is walled off and built out. There was nothing to connect it with its old inhabitants, and a very unsentimental lady at the kitchen door. The Montagues used to live some two or three miles off in the country. It does not appear quite clear whether they ever inhabited Verona itself. But there is a village bearing their name to this day, and traditions of the quarrels between the two families are still as nearly alive as anything can be, in such a drowsy neighbourhood.
I was pretty shocked yesterday (geography isn’t my strong suit) to find out that Romeo was only banished twenty-five miles away. That’s the distance between Mantua and Verona. Verona is a charming old town, with big houses that are now empty and shut up—exactly how it should be. Mantua currently has a lot of apothecaries, who could easily fill that role. Of all the stagnant ponds I’ve ever seen, it’s the greenest and weediest. I went to check out the old Capulet palace, which is still marked by their emblem (a hat carved in stone on the courtyard wall). It’s a rundown inn. The courtyard was filled with broken-down carriages, carts, geese, and pigs, and it was ankle-deep in mud and waste. The garden is fenced off and modified. There was nothing to link it to its former residents, just a very unsentimental woman at the kitchen door. The Montagues used to live a couple of miles away in the countryside. It’s not entirely clear if they ever lived in Verona itself. But there’s still a village that carries their name, and stories about the feuds between the two families are still very much alive in such a sleepy area.
It was very hearty and good of you, Jerrold, to make that affectionate mention of the "Carol" in Punch, and I assure you it was not lost on the distant object of your manly regard, but touched him as you wished and meant it should. I wish we had not lost so much time in improving our personal knowledge of each other. But I[120] have so steadily read you, and so selfishly gratified myself in always expressing the admiration with which your gallant truths inspired me, that I must not call it time lost, either.
It was really generous and thoughtful of you, Jerrold, to mention the "Carol" so affectionately in Punch, and I assure you it didn't go unnoticed by the person you admire from afar. It touched him just as you intended. I wish we hadn’t spent so long getting to know each other better. But I[120] have read you so closely and selfishly enjoyed expressing the admiration your brave truths inspired in me, so I can't really call it time wasted, either.
You rather entertained a notion, once, of coming to see me at Genoa. I shall return straight, on the 9th of December, limiting my stay in town to one week. Now couldn't you come back with me? The journey, that way, is very cheap, costing little more than twelve pounds; and I am sure the gratification to you would be high. I am lodged in quite a wonderful place, and would put you in a painted room, as big as a church and much more comfortable. There are pens and ink upon the premises; orange trees, gardens, battledores and shuttlecocks, rousing wood-fires for evenings, and a welcome worth having.
You once thought about coming to visit me in Genoa. I'm heading back on December 9th, and I'll only be in town for a week. Wouldn't you want to travel back with me? The trip is very affordable, costing just a bit more than twelve pounds, and I know you would really enjoy it. I'm staying at a fantastic place and would put you in a beautifully decorated room that's as big as a church and much more comfortable. There are pens and ink available; you’ll find orange trees, gardens, games like battledores and shuttlecocks, cozy wood-fires for the evenings, and a warm welcome waiting for you.
Come! Letter from a gentleman in Italy to Bradbury and Evans in London. Letter from a gentleman in a country gone to sleep to a gentleman in a country that would go to sleep too, and never wake again, if some people had their way. You can work in Genoa. The house is used to it. It is exactly a week's post. Have that portmanteau looked to, and when we meet, say, "I am coming."
Come! A letter from a gentleman in Italy to Bradbury and Evans in London. A letter from a gentleman in a country that’s fallen asleep to a gentleman in a country that would also fall asleep and never wake up again if certain people had their way. You can work in Genoa. The house is used to it. It’s exactly a week’s worth of mail. Get that suitcase checked, and when we meet, say, “I’m coming.”
I have never in my life been so struck by any place as by Venice. It is the wonder of the world. Dreamy, beautiful, inconsistent, impossible, wicked, shadowy, d——able old place. I entered it by night, and the sensation of that night and the bright morning that followed is a part of me for the rest of my existence. And, oh God! the cells below the water, underneath the Bridge of Sighs; the nook where the monk came at midnight to confess the political offender; the bench where he was strangled; the deadly little vault in which they tied him in a sack, and the stealthy crouching little door through which they hurried him into a boat, and bore him away to[121] sink him where no fisherman dare cast his net—all shown by torches that blink and wink, as if they were ashamed to look upon the gloomy theatre of sad horrors; past and gone as they are, these things stir a man's blood, like a great wrong or passion of the instant. And with these in their minds, and with a museum there, having a chamber full of such frightful instruments of torture as the devil in a brain fever could scarcely invent, there are hundreds of parrots, who will declaim to you in speech and print, by the hour together, on the degeneracy of the times in which a railroad is building across the water at Venice; instead of going down on their knees, the drivellers, and thanking Heaven that they live in a time when iron makes roads, instead of prison bars and engines for driving screws into the skulls of innocent men. Before God, I could almost turn bloody-minded, and shoot the parrots of our island with as little compunction as Robinson Crusoe shot the parrots in his.
I have never in my life been as moved by any place as I am by Venice. It is the wonder of the world. Dreamy, beautiful, inconsistent, impossible, wicked, shadowy, and incredibly old. I arrived at night, and the memory of that night and the bright morning that followed will stay with me forever. And, oh God! the cells beneath the water, under the Bridge of Sighs; the spot where the monk came at midnight to confess the political prisoner; the bench where he was strangled; the deadly little vault where they stuffed him in a sack, and the sneaky little door through which they rushed him into a boat, to take him away to[121] sink him where no fisherman would dare cast his net—all illuminated by flickering torches, as if they were embarrassed to witness the grim stage of sad horrors; though long gone, these things stir a person's blood like a great injustice or a sudden passion. With these thoughts in mind, and with a museum there that has a room full of such terrifying instruments of torture that even the devil couldn't dream up in a fit of madness, there are hundreds of parrots, who will rant at you for hours about the decline of the times in which a railroad is being built across the water in Venice; instead of getting down on their knees, those fools, and thanking Heaven that they live in an era when iron builds roads, not prison bars and machines for driving screws into the heads of innocent people. I swear, I could almost become bloodthirsty and shoot the parrots of our island with as little remorse as Robinson Crusoe shot the parrots in his.
I have not been in bed, these ten days, after five in the morning, and have been, travelling many hours every day. If this be the cause of my inflicting a very stupid and sleepy letter on you, my dear Jerrold, I hope it will be a kind of signal at the same time, of my wish to hail you lovingly even from this sleepy and unpromising state. And believe me as I am,
I haven’t been in bed for the past ten days after five in the morning, and I’ve been traveling for many hours every day. If this is why I’m sending you such a dull and sleepy letter, my dear Jerrold, I hope it also shows my desire to greet you warmly even from this tired and unexciting state. And believe me as I am,
Peschiere, Genoa, Tuesday, Nov. 5th, 1844.
The cause of my not having written to you is too obvious to need any explanation. I have worn myself to death in the month I have been at work. None of my[122] usual reliefs have been at hand; I have not been able to divest myself of the story—have suffered very much in my sleep in consequence—and am so shaken by such work in this trying climate, that I am as nervous as a man who is dying of drink, and as haggard as a murderer.
The reason I haven’t written to you is too clear to explain. I’ve worked myself to the bone this past month. None of my usual ways to unwind have been available; I can't shake off this story and it's really affected my sleep. I’m so worn out from this stressful work in this tough climate that I feel as anxious as someone struggling with addiction and look as drained as a criminal.
I believe I have written a tremendous book, and knocked the "Carol" out of the field. It will make a great uproar, I have no doubt.
I think I've written an amazing book and really outshone "Carol." It’s going to create a huge buzz, no doubt about it.
I leave here to-morrow for Venice and many other places; and I shall certainly come to London to see my proofs, coming by new ground all the way, cutting through the snow in the valleys of Switzerland, and plunging through the mountains in the dead of winter. I would accept your hearty offer with right goodwill, but my visit being one of business and consultation, I see impediments in the way, and insurmountable reasons for not doing so. Therefore, I shall go to an hotel in Covent Garden, where they know me very well, and with the landlord of which I have already communicated. My orders are not upon a mighty scale, extending no further than a good bedroom and a cold shower-bath.
I’m leaving tomorrow for Venice and several other places, and I will definitely come to London to check my proofs. I’ll be taking a new route all the way, cutting through the snow in the valleys of Switzerland and navigating the mountains in the dead of winter. I appreciate your generous offer, but since my visit is primarily for business and consultation, I see obstacles in the way that make it impossible to accept. So, I’ll be staying at a hotel in Covent Garden, which is familiar with me, and I’ve already spoken with the landlord. My requests aren’t extensive; I just need a decent bedroom and a cold shower.
Bradbury and Evans are going at it, ding-dong, and are wild with excitement. All news on that subject (and on every other) I must defer till I see you. That will be immediately after I arrive, of course. Most likely on Monday, 2nd December.
Bradbury and Evans are in a heated argument and are super excited about it. I’ll hold off on sharing any news about that (or anything else) until I see you. That will be right after I arrive, of course. Probably on Monday, December 2nd.
Kate and her sister (who send their best regards) and all the children are as well as possible. The house is perfect; the servants are as quiet and well-behaved as at home, which very rarely happens here, and Roche is my right hand. There never was such a fellow.
Kate and her sister (who send their best wishes) and all the kids are doing as well as they can. The house is perfect; the staff is as quiet and well-behaved as they are at home, which hardly ever happens here, and Roche is my right-hand man. There’s never been anyone quite like him.
We have now got carpets down—burn fires at night—draw the curtains, and are quite wintry. We have a box at[123] the opera, which, is close by (for nothing), and sit there when we please, as in our own drawing-room. There have been three fine days in four weeks. On every other the water has been falling down in one continual sheet, and it has been thundering and lightening every day and night.
We’ve now laid down carpets, lit fires at night, drawn the curtains, and created a cozy winter vibe. We've got a box at[123] the opera, which is conveniently nearby (for free), and we hang out there whenever we want, just like in our own living room. There have been three nice days in the past month. On all the other days, the rain has been pouring down nonstop, and there’s been thunder and lightning every day and night.
My hand shakes in that feverish and horrible manner that I can hardly hold a pen. And I have so bad a cold that I can't see.
My hand shakes in such a feverish and terrible way that I can barely hold a pen. And I have such a bad cold that I can't see.
Ever faithfully.
P.S.—Charley has a writing-master every day, and a French master. He and his sisters are to be waited on by a professor of the noble art of dancing, next week.
P.S.—Charley has a writing tutor every day, and a French teacher. He and his sisters are going to be taught by a dance instructor next week.
Parma, Hotel della Posta, Friday, Nov. 8th, 1844.
"If missis could see us to-night, what would she say?" That was the brave C.'s remark last night at midnight, and he had reason. We left Genoa, as you know, soon after five on the evening of my departure; and in company with the lady whom you saw, and the dog whom I don't think you did see, travelled all night at the rate of four miles an hour over bad roads, without the least refreshment until daybreak, when the brave and myself escaped into a miserable caffé while they were changing horses, and got a cup of that drink hot. That same day, a few hours afterwards, between ten and eleven, we came to (I hope) the d——dest inn in the world, where, in a vast chamber, rendered still more desolate by the presence of a most offensive specimen of what D'Israeli calls the Mosaic Arab (who had a beautiful girl with him), I regaled upon a breakfast,[124] almost as cold, and damp, and cheerless, as myself. Then, in another coach, much smaller than a small Fly, I was packed up with an old padre, a young Jesuit, a provincial avvocato, a private gentleman with a very red nose and a very wet brown umbrella, and the brave C. and I went on again at the same pace through the mud and rain until four in the afternoon, when there was a place in the coupé (two indeed), which I took, holding that select compartment in company with a very ugly but very agreeable Tuscan "gent," who said "gia" instead of "si," and rung some other changes in this changing language, but with whom I got on very well, being extremely conversational. We were bound, as you know perhaps, for Piacenza, but it was discovered that we couldn't get to Piacenza, and about ten o'clock at night we halted at a place called Stradella, where the inn was a series of queer galleries open to the night, with a great courtyard full of waggons and horses, and "velociferi," and what not in the centre. It was bitter cold and very wet, and we all walked into a bare room (mine!) with two immensely broad beds on two deal dining-tables, a third great empty table, the usual washing-stand tripod, with a slop-basin on it, and two chairs. And then we walked up and down for three-quarters of an hour or so, while dinner, or supper, or whatever it was, was getting ready. This was set forth (by way of variety) in the old priest's bedroom, which had two more immensely broad beds on two more deal dining-tables in it. The first dish was a cabbage boiled in a great quantity of rice and hot water, the whole flavoured with cheese. I was so cold that I thought it comfortable, and so hungry that a bit of cabbage, when I found such a thing floating my way, charmed me. After that we had a dish of very little pieces of pork, fried with pigs' kidneys; after that a fowl; after that something very red and stringy, which I think was veal; and[125] after that two tiny little new-born-baby-looking turkeys, very red and very swollen. Fruit, of course, to wind up, and garlic in one shape or another in every course. I made three jokes at supper (to the immense delight of the company), and retired early. The brave brought in a bush or two and made a fire, and after that a glass of screeching hot brandy and water; that bottle of his being full of brandy. I drank it at my leisure, undressed before the fire, and went into one of the beds. The brave reappeared about an hour afterwards and went into the other; previously tying a pocket-handkerchief round and round his head in a strange fashion, and giving utterance to the sentiment with which this letter begins. At five this morning we resumed our journey, still through mud and rain, and at about eleven arrived at Piacenza; where we fellow-passengers took leave of one another in the most affectionate manner. As there was no coach on till six at night, and as it was a very grim, despondent sort of place, and as I had had enough of diligences for one while, I posted forward here in the strangest carriages ever beheld, which we changed when we changed horses. We arrived here before six. The hotel is quite French. I have dined very well in my own room on the second floor; and it has two beds in it, screened off from the room by drapery. I only use one to-night, and that is already made.
"If the missus could see us tonight, what would she say?" That was brave C.'s comment last night at midnight, and he had good reason. We left Genoa, as you know, soon after five on the evening of my departure; and along with the lady you saw, and the dog I don’t think you saw, we traveled all night at a speed of four miles per hour over bad roads, without a single refreshment until daybreak. At that point, the brave C. and I slipped into a miserable café while they were changing horses and managed to get a hot drink. A few hours later, between ten and eleven, we arrived at what I hope is the most terrible inn in the world, where in a huge room made even more desolate by the presence of a very unpleasant specimen of what D'Israeli calls the Mosaic Arab (who had a beautiful girl with him), I enjoyed a breakfast that was almost as cold, damp, and cheerless as I was. Then, in another coach, much smaller than a small Fly, I was crammed in with an old padre, a young Jesuit, a provincial lawyer, a private gentleman with a very red nose and a very wet brown umbrella, and the brave C. and I continued at the same slow pace through the mud and rain until four in the afternoon. At that point, a spot opened up in the coupé (two, in fact), which I took, sharing that compartment with a very unattractive but very pleasant Tuscan "gent," who said "gia" instead of "si," and had various other quirks in this changing language, but we got on really well, as he was very conversational. We were headed for Piacenza, but it turned out we couldn’t get there, and around ten o'clock at night we stopped at a place called Stradella, where the inn was a series of odd galleries open to the night, with a large courtyard filled with wagons and horses, and "velociferi," and other things in the center. It was bitterly cold and very wet, and we all walked into a bare room (mine!) with two very wide beds on two dining tables, a third large empty table, the usual washing stand tripod with a basin on it, and two chairs. Then we paced back and forth for about three-quarters of an hour as dinner, or supper, or whatever it was, was being prepared. This was served (to mix things up) in the old priest's bedroom, which had two more very wide beds on two more dining tables. The first dish was cabbage boiled in a large amount of rice and hot water, all flavored with cheese. I was so cold that I found it comforting, and so hungry that a bit of cabbage floating my way delighted me. After that, we had a dish of small pieces of pork, fried with pig kidneys; then a fowl; after that something very red and stringy, which I think was veal; and [125] after that, two tiny little newborn baby-looking turkeys, very red and very swollen. Fruit, of course, to finish, and garlic in one form or another in every course. I made three jokes at supper (to the great delight of the company) and went to bed early. The brave C. brought in a couple of branches and made a fire, and then a glass of scalding hot brandy and water; his bottle was full of brandy. I drank it at my leisure, undressed by the fire, and got into one of the beds. The brave C. returned about an hour later and went into the other; before doing so, he wrapped a handkerchief around his head in a strange manner, and expressed the sentiment with which this letter begins. At five this morning, we resumed our journey, still through mud and rain, and around eleven, we arrived at Piacenza; where we said goodbye to each other in the most affectionate way. Since there was no coach until six at night, and it was quite a gloomy, depressing place, and I had had enough of diligences for a while, I posted ahead in the strangest carriages ever seen, which we changed when we changed horses. We got here before six. The hotel is very French. I dined very well in my room on the second floor; it has two beds in it, separated from the room by drapery. I'm only using one tonight, and that one's already made.
I purpose posting on to Bologna, if I can arrange it, at twelve to-morrow; seeing the sights here first.
I plan to head to Bologna tomorrow at twelve, if I can make it work, after checking out the sights here first.
It is dull work this travelling alone. My only comfort is in motion. I look forward with a sort of shudder to Sunday, when I shall have a day to myself in Bologna; and I think I must deliver my letters in Venice in sheer desperation. Never did anybody want a companion after dinner so much as I do.[126]
Travelling alone is boring work. My only comfort comes from being on the move. I dread Sunday, when I'll have a whole day to myself in Bologna; and I think I might deliver my letters in Venice just out of sheer desperation. Never have I wanted a dinner companion as much as I do now.[126]
There has been music on the landing outside my door to-night. Two violins and a violoncello. One of the violins played a solo, and the others struck in as an orchestra does now and then, very well. Then he came in with a small tin platter. "Bella musica," said I. "Bellissima musica, signore. Mi piace moltissimo. Sono felice, signoro," said he. I gave him a franc. "O moltissimo generoso. Tanto generoso signore!"
There has been music on the landing outside my door tonight. Two violins and a cello. One of the violins played a solo, and the others joined in like an orchestra does sometimes, very well. Then he came in with a small tin platter. "Beautiful music," I said. "Very beautiful music, sir. I like it a lot. I am happy, sir," he replied. I gave him a franc. "Oh, very generous. So generous, sir!"
It was a joke to laugh at when I was learning, but I swear unless I could stagger on, Zoppa-wise, with the people, I verily believe I should have turned back this morning.
It was funny when I was learning, but I seriously believe that unless I could keep going, Zoppa-style, with everyone else, I honestly think I would have turned back this morning.
In all other respects I think the entire change has done me undoubted service already. I am free of the book, and am red-faced; and feel marvellously disposed to sleep.
In every other way, I believe this whole change has definitely benefited me already. I’m done with the book, my face is flushed, and I feel incredibly ready to sleep.
So for all the straggling qualities of this straggling letter, want of sleep must be responsible. Give my best love to Georgy, and my paternal blessing to
So for all the rambling qualities of this rambling letter, lack of sleep must be to blame. Give my best love to Georgy, and my fatherly blessing to
Katey,
Charley,
Wally,
and
Chickenstalker.
P.S.—Get things in their places. I can't bear to picture them otherwise.
P.S.—Put everything in its place. I can't stand to imagine it any other way.
P.P.S.—I think I saw Roche sleeping with his head on the lady's shoulder, in the coach. I couldn't swear it, and the light was deceptive. But I think I did.
P.P.S.—I think I saw Roche sleeping with his head on the lady's shoulder in the carriage. I can't be sure, and the lighting was tricky. But I believe I did.
Sign a Dickens.
Palazzo Peschiere, Genoa.
Fribourg, Saturday Night, November 23rd, 1844.
For the first time since I left you I am sitting in a room of my own hiring, with a fire and a bed in it. And I am happy to say that I have the best and fullest intentions of sleeping in the bed, having arrived here at half-past four this afternoon, without any cessation of travelling, night or day, since I parted from Mr. Bairr's cheap firewood.
For the first time since I left you, I'm sitting in a room that I've rented, with a fire and a bed. I'm pleased to say that I fully intend to sleep in the bed tonight, having arrived here at 4:30 PM this afternoon, without stopping my travels, night or day, since I left Mr. Bairr's affordable firewood.
The Alps appeared in sight very soon after we left Milan—by eight or nine o'clock in the morning; and the brave C. was so far wrong in his calculations that we began the ascent of the Simplon that same night, while you were travelling (as I would I were) towards the Peschiere. Most favourable state of circumstances for journeying up that tremendous pass! The brightest moon I ever saw, all night, and daybreak on the summit. The glory of which, making great wastes of snow a rosy red, exceeds all telling. We sledged through the snow on the summit for two hours or so. The weather was perfectly fair and bright, and there was neither difficulty nor danger—except the danger that there always must be, in such a place, of a horse stumbling on the brink of an immeasurable precipice. In which case no piece of the unfortunate traveller would be left large enough to tell his story in dumb show. You may imagine something of the rugged grandeur of such a scene as this great passage of these great mountains, and indeed Glencoe, well sprinkled with snow, would be very like the ascent. But the top itself, so wild, and bleak, and lonely, is a thing by itself, and not to be likened to any other sight. The cold was piercing; the north wind high and boisterous; and when it came driving in our faces, bringing a sharp shower of little points of snow and piercing it into[128] our very blood, it really was, what it is often said to be, "cutting"—with a very sharp edge too. There are houses of refuge here—bleak, solitary places—for travellers overtaken by the snow to hurry to, as an escape from death; and one great house, called the Hospital, kept by monks, where wayfarers get supper and bed for nothing. We saw some coming out and pursuing their journey. If all monks devoted themselves to such uses, I should have little fault to find with them.
The Alps came into view shortly after we left Milan—around eight or nine o'clock in the morning; and our brave friend C. miscalculated so much that we started the climb up the Simplon that very night, while you were traveling (as I would be) towards the Peschiere. What a perfect time to tackle that massive pass! The brightest moon I’ve ever seen lit up the night, and there was daybreak at the summit. The glory of it, turning vast stretches of snow a rosy red, is beyond description. We sledged through the snow at the peak for about two hours. The weather was completely clear and bright, with no difficulty or danger—except for the risk, which is always present in such places, of a horse stumbling at the edge of an enormous cliff. In that case, there wouldn’t be a single piece of the unfortunate traveler left big enough to tell the story in pantomime. You can imagine the rugged grandeur of such a scene as this major crossing of these grand mountains; indeed, Glencoe, well dusted with snow, would be quite similar to the ascent. But the summit itself, so wild, bleak, and isolated, is unique and unlike anything else. The cold was biting; the north wind was strong and wild, and when it blasted into our faces, driving tiny snowflakes into our very bones, it truly felt—as it’s often described—"cutting"—with quite a sharp edge too. There are refuge houses here—bleak, lonely spots—for travelers caught in the snow to rush to, as a way to escape death; and one big house, called the Hospital, run by monks, where wayfarers can get a free meal and a bed. We saw some people coming out and continuing their journey. If all monks dedicated themselves to such purposes, I wouldn’t have much to criticize about them.
The cold in Switzerland, since, has been something quite indescribable. My eyes are tingling to-night as one may suppose cymbals to tingle when they have been lustily played. It is positive pain to me to write. The great organ which I was to have had "pleasure in hearing" don't play on a Sunday, at which the brave is inconsolable. But the town is picturesque and quaint, and worth seeing. And this inn (with a German bedstead in it about the size and shape of a baby's linen-basket) is perfectly clean and comfortable. Butter is so cheap hereabouts that they bring you a great mass like the squab of a sofa for tea. And of honey, which is most delicious, they set before you a proportionate allowance. We start to-morrow morning at six for Strasburg, and from that town, or the next halting-place on the Rhine, I will report progress, if it be only in half-a-dozen words.
The cold in Switzerland has been truly indescribable. My eyes are tingling tonight, like cymbals might tingle after a vigorous performance. Writing is painfully difficult for me. The grand organ that I was supposed to "enjoy listening to" doesn’t play on Sundays, which leaves me feeling lost. Still, the town is picturesque and charming, and definitely worth a visit. This inn (which has a German bed that’s about the size and shape of a baby’s laundry basket) is really clean and comfortable. Butter is so inexpensive around here that they serve you a massive chunk, like a pillow, during tea. And they generously offer you a delightful amount of honey. We’re leaving tomorrow morning at six for Strasbourg, and from there, or the next stop on the Rhine, I’ll update you, even if it’s just with a few words.
I am anxious to hear that you reached Genoa quite comfortably, and shall look forward with impatience to that letter which you are to indite with so much care and pains next Monday. My best love to Georgy, and to Charley, and Mamey, and Katey, and Wally, and Chickenstalker. I have treated myself to a new travelling-cap to-night (my old one being too thin), and it is rather a prodigious affair I flatter myself.[129]
I’m eager to hear that you arrived in Genoa safely, and I’ll be looking forward with excitement to the letter you’re going to write so carefully next Monday. Please give my love to Georgy, Charley, Mamey, Katey, Wally, and Chickenstalker. I treated myself to a new travel cap tonight (since my old one was too thin), and I think it’s quite a remarkable piece.[129]
Swiss towns, and mountains, and the Lake of Geneva, and the famous suspension bridge at this place, and a great many other objects (with a very low thermometer conspicuous among them), are dancing up and down me, strangely. But I am quite collected enough, notwithstanding, to have still a very distinct idea that this hornpipe travelling is uncomfortable, and that I would gladly start for my palazzo out of hand without any previous rest, stupid as I am and much as I want it.
Swiss towns, mountains, the Lake of Geneva, the famous suspension bridge here, and many other things (with a very low thermometer standing out among them) are moving strangely around me. But I'm collected enough to clearly realize that this uncomfortable journey is not great, and I would happily head straight to my palazzo without any break, silly as I am and despite how much I want it.
Affectionately yours.
P.S.—I hope the dancing lessons will be a success. Don't fail to let me know.
P.S.—I hope the dance lessons go well. Make sure to keep me updated.
Hôtel Bristol, Paris, Thursday Night,
Nov. 28th, 1844, Half-past Ten.
Since I wrote to you what would be called in law proceedings the exhibit marked A, I have been round to the Hôtel Brighton, and personally examined and cross-examined the attendants. It is painfully clear to me that I shall not see you to-night, nor until Tuesday, the 10th of December, when, please God, I shall re-arrive here, on my way to my Italian bowers. I mean to stay all the Wednesday and all the Thursday in Paris. One night to see you act (my old delight when you little thought of such a being in existence), and one night to read to you and Mrs. Macready (if that scamp of Lincoln's Inn Fields has not anticipated me) my little Christmas book, in which I have endeavoured to plant an indignant right-hander on the eye of certain wicked Cant that makes my blood boil, which I hope will not only cloud that eye with black and[130] blue, but many a gentle one with crystal of the finest sort. God forgive me, but I think there are good things in the little story!
Since I wrote to you what would be called in legal terms the exhibit marked A, I've gone to the Hôtel Brighton and personally interviewed and questioned the staff. It's painfully clear to me that I won’t see you tonight, nor until Tuesday, December 10th, when, if all goes well, I’ll be back here on my way to my Italian getaway. I plan to stay all day Wednesday and Thursday in Paris. One night to see you perform (my old joy when you had no idea I existed), and one night to read to you and Mrs. Macready (if that rascal from Lincoln's Inn Fields hasn’t beaten me to it) my little Christmas book, where I’ve tried to hit back at some awful nonsense that makes my blood boil, which I hope will not only darken that eye with black and blue, but also affect many a gentle one with the finest clarity. God forgive me, but I believe there are good things in this little story!
I took it for granted you were, as your American friends say, "in full blast" here, and meant to have sent a card into your dressing-room, with "Mr. G. S. Hancock Muggridge, United States," upon it. But Paris looks coldly on me without your eye in its head, and not being able to shake your hand I shake my own head dolefully, which is but poor satisfaction.
I assumed you were, as your American friends say, "in full swing" here, and I meant to send a card to your dressing room that said "Mr. G. S. Hancock Muggridge, United States." But Paris feels distant without your presence, and since I can't shake your hand, all I can do is shake my head sadly, which isn’t much comfort.
My love to Mrs. Macready. I will swear to the death that it is truly hers, for her gallantry in your absence if for nothing else, and to you, my dear Macready, I am ever a devoted friend.
My love to Mrs. Macready. I will swear on my life that it truly belongs to her, for her bravery in your absence if for nothing else, and to you, my dear Macready, I am always a loyal friend.
Bristol Hotel, Paris, Thursday Night, Nov. 28th, 1844.
With an intolerable pen and no ink, I am going to write a few lines to you to report progress.
With a frustrating pen and no ink, I'm going to write a few lines to update you on my progress.
I got to Strasburg on Monday night, intending to go down the Rhine. But the weather being foggy, and the season quite over, they could not insure me getting on for certain beyond Mayence, or our not being detained by unpropitious weather. Therefore I resolved (the malle poste being full) to take the diligence hither next day in the afternoon. I arrived here at half-past five to-night, after fifty hours of it in a French coach. I was so beastly dirty when I got to this house, that I had quite lost all sense of my identity, and if anybody had said, "Are you Charles Dickens?" I should have unblushingly answered, "No; I never heard of him." A good wash, and a good dress, and a good dinner have revived me, however; and I[131] can report of this house, concerning which the brave was so anxious when we were here before, that it is the best I ever was in. My little apartment, consisting of three rooms and other conveniences, is a perfect curiosity of completeness. You never saw such a charming little baby-house. It is infinitely smaller than those first rooms we had at Meurice's, but for elegance, compactness, comfort, and quietude, exceeds anything I ever met with at an inn.
I got to Strasbourg on Monday night, planning to travel down the Rhine. But since the weather was foggy and the season was pretty much over, they couldn't guarantee I could get past Mainz or that we wouldn’t be delayed by bad weather. So I decided (since the mail coach was full) to take the stagecoach here the next afternoon. I arrived at this place at half-past five tonight, after spending fifty hours in a French coach. I was so filthy when I got to this house that I completely lost all sense of who I was, and if someone had asked, "Are you Charles Dickens?" I would have shamelessly replied, "No; I’ve never heard of him." A good wash, a nice outfit, and a hearty dinner have revived me, though; and I can report about this house, which the brave was so concerned about when we were here before, that it’s the best I’ve ever stayed in. My little apartment, which has three rooms and other amenities, is a perfect marvel of completeness. You’ve never seen such a charming little dollhouse. It’s infinitely smaller than those first rooms we had at Meurice's, but in terms of elegance, compactness, comfort, and tranquility, it surpasses anything I’ve ever experienced at an inn.
The moment I arrived here, I enquired, of course, after Macready. They said the English theatre had not begun yet, that they thought he was at Meurice's, where they knew some members of the company to be. I instantly despatched the porter with a note to say that if he were there, I would come round and hug him, as soon as I was clean. They referred the porter to the Hôtel Brighton. He came back and told me that the answer there was: "M. Macready's rooms were engaged, but he had not arrived. He was expected to-night!" If we meet to-night, I will add a postscript. Wouldn't it be odd if we met upon the road between this and Boulogne to-morrow?
The moment I got here, I asked about Macready, of course. They said the English theater hadn't started yet and thought he was at Meurice's, where they knew some members of the company to be. I immediately sent the porter with a note saying that if he was there, I'd come by and give him a hug as soon as I was freshened up. They directed the porter to the Hôtel Brighton. He returned and told me the response was: "M. Macready's rooms were booked, but he hadn't arrived. He was expected tonight!" If we meet tonight, I’ll add a postscript. Wouldn't it be funny if we ran into each other on the road between here and Boulogne tomorrow?
I mean, as a recompense for my late sufferings, to get a hackney-carriage if I can and post that journey, starting from here at eight to-morrow morning, getting to Boulogne sufficiently early next morning to cross at once, and dining with Forster that same day—to wit, Saturday. I have notions of taking you with me on my next journey (if you would like to go), and arranging for Georgy to come to us by steamer—under the protection of the English captain, for instance—to Naples; there I would top and cap all our walks by taking her up to the crater of Vesuvius with me. But this is dependent on her ability to be perfectly happy for a fortnight or so in our stately palace with the children, and such foreign aid as the Simpsons. For I love her too[132] dearly to think of any project which would involve her being uncomfortable for that space of time.
I mean, as a reward for my recent struggles, I want to get a cab if I can and make that trip, leaving here at eight tomorrow morning, arriving in Boulogne early enough to cross right away, and having dinner with Forster that same day—specifically, Saturday. I’m thinking about taking you with me on my next trip (if you’d like to come) and arranging for Georgy to join us by steamer—under the care of the English captain, for example—to Naples; there, I would make all our outings perfect by taking her up to the crater of Vesuvius with me. But this depends on her being completely happy for a couple of weeks in our grand home with the kids and the extra help from the Simpsons. Because I love her too[132] dearly to consider any plan that would make her uncomfortable for that length of time.
You can think this over, and talk it over; and I will join you in doing so, please God, when I return to our Italian bowers, which I shall be heartily glad to do.
You can think this through and discuss it; I'll join you in that, God willing, when I get back to our Italian hideaways, which I’ll be really happy to do.
They tell us that the landlord of this house, going to London some week or so ago, was detained at Boulogne two days by a high sea, in which the packet could not put out. So I hope there is the greater chance of no such bedevilment happening to me.
They say that the landlord of this house went to London about a week ago and got stuck in Boulogne for two days because of rough seas that prevented the ferry from leaving. So I'm hoping there's a better chance that nothing like that will happen to me.
Paris is better than ever. Oh dear, how grand it was when I came through it in that caravan to-night! I hope we shall be very hearty here, and able to say with Wally, "Han't it plassant!"
Paris is better than ever. Oh wow, how amazing it was when I passed through it in that caravan tonight! I hope we’ll feel very welcome here and be able to say with Wally, "Isn't it lovely!"
Love to Charley, Mamey, Katey, Wally, and Chickenstalker. The last-named, I take it for granted, is indeed prodigious.
Love to Charley, Mamey, Katey, Wally, and Chickenstalker. I assume that the last one mentioned is truly remarkable.
Best love to Georgy.
Much love to Georgy.
Affectionately yours.
P.S.—I have been round to Macready's hotel; it is now past ten, and he has not arrived, nor does it seem at all certain that he seriously intended to arrive to-night. So I shall not see him, I take it for granted, until my return.
P.S.—I went over to Macready's hotel; it's now past ten, and he hasn't shown up, nor does it seem likely that he really planned to come tonight. So I guess I won't see him until I get back.
Piazza Coffee House, Covent Garden
Monday, Dec. 2nd, 1844.
I received, with great delight, your excellent letter of this morning. Do not regard this as my answer to it.[133] It is merely to say that I have been at Bradbury and Evans's all day, and have barely time to write more than that I will write to-morrow. I arrived about seven on Saturday evening, and rushed into the arms of Mac and Forster. Both of them send their best love to you and Georgy, with a heartiness not to be described.
I was really happy to get your wonderful letter this morning. Don’t think of this as my response to it.[133] I just wanted to say that I've been at Bradbury and Evans's all day, and I barely have time to write anything more than that I will write tomorrow. I got here around seven on Saturday evening and ran straight into the arms of Mac and Forster. They both send their love to you and Georgy, with a warmth that's hard to describe.
The little book is now, as far as I am concerned, all ready. One cut of Doyle's and one of Leech's I found so unlike my ideas, that I had them both to breakfast with me this morning, and with that winning manner which you know of, got them with the highest good humour to do both afresh. They are now hard at it. Stanfield's readiness, delight, wonder at my being pleased with what he has done is delicious. Mac's frontispiece is charming. The book is quite splendid; the expenses will be very great, I have no doubt.
The little book is now, as far as I’m concerned, all set. I found one illustration by Doyle and one by Leech so different from what I envisioned that I invited both of them for breakfast this morning. With that charming way you know I have, I managed to get them to redo both with great enthusiasm. They’re hard at work on it now. Stanfield’s excitement and joy at my appreciation of his work are delightful. Mac’s front cover is beautiful. The book is fantastic; I’m sure the costs will be quite high.
Anybody who has heard it has been moved in the most extraordinary manner. Forster read it (for dramatic purposes) to A'Beckett. He cried so much and so painfully, that Forster didn't know whether to go on or stop; and he called next day to say that any expression of his feeling was beyond his power. But that he believed it, and felt it to be—I won't say what.
Anybody who has heard it has been incredibly moved. Forster read it (for dramatic reasons) to A'Beckett. He cried so much and so painfully that Forster didn't know whether to continue or stop; and he called the next day to say that he couldn't fully express how he felt. But he believed it and felt it to be—I won't say what.
As the reading comes off to-morrow night, I had better not despatch my letters to you until Wednesday's post. I must close to save this (heartily tired I am, and I dine at Gore House to-day), so with love to Georgy, Mamey, Katey, Charley, Wally, and Chickenstalker, ever, believe me,
As the reading is happening tomorrow night, it's probably best if I hold off on sending my letters to you until Wednesday's post. I have to wrap this up to save it (I'm honestly exhausted, and I'm having dinner at Gore House today), so with love to Georgy, Mamey, Katey, Charley, Wally, and Chickenstalker, always, believe me,
P.S.—If you had seen Macready last night, undisguisedly sobbing and crying on the sofa as I read, you would have felt, as I did, what a thing it is to have power.
P.S.—If you had seen Macready last night, openly sobbing and crying on the sofa while I read, you would have felt, just like I did, what a big deal it is to have power.
1845.
NARRATIVE.
The letters which we have for this year, refer, with very few exceptions, to these theatricals, and therefore need no explanation.[135]
The letters we have for this year mostly talk about these performances, so they don't need any explanation.[135]
He was at work at the end of this year on another Christmas book, "The Cricket on the Hearth," and was also much occupied with the project of The Daily News paper, of which he undertook the editorship at its starting, which took place in the beginning of the following year, 1846.
He was busy at the end of this year working on another Christmas book, "The Cricket on the Hearth," and was also heavily involved with the project of The Daily News paper, for which he took on the role of editor when it launched at the beginning of the following year, 1846.
Rome, Tuesday, February 4th, 1845.
This is a very short note, but time is still shorter. Come by the first boat by all means. If there be a good one a day or two before it, come by that. Don't delay on any account. I am very sorry you are not here. The Carnival is a very remarkable and beautiful sight. I have been regretting the having left you at home all the way here.
This is a really quick note, but time is even shorter. Make sure to come on the first boat. If there’s a good one a day or two before that, take it. Don’t hesitate for any reason. I really wish you were here. The Carnival is an amazing and beautiful sight. I've been regretting leaving you at home the whole way here.
Kate says, will you take counsel with Charlotte about colour (I put in my word, as usual, for brightness), and have the darlings' bonnets made at once, by the same artist as before? Kate would have written, but is gone with Black to a day performance at the opera, to see Cerito dance. At two o'clock each day we sally forth in an open carriage, with a large sack of sugar-plums and at least five hundred little nosegays to pelt people with. I should think we threw away, yesterday, a thousand of the latter. We had the carriage filled with flowers three or four times. I wish you could have seen me catch a swell brigand on the nose with a handful of very large confetti every time we met him. It was the best thing I have ever done. "The Chimes" are nothing to it.
Kate says, will you talk to Charlotte about color (I always throw in my two cents for brightness), and have the kids' bonnets made right away by the same designer as before? Kate would have written, but she’s gone with Black to a daytime performance at the opera to see Cerito dance. At two o'clock each day, we head out in an open carriage, with a big sack of candy and at least five hundred little flowers to throw at people. I bet we tossed away a thousand of those yesterday. We filled the carriage with flowers three or four times. I wish you could have seen me hit a fancy brigand on the nose with a handful of really big confetti every time we ran into him. It was the best thing I’ve ever done. "The Chimes" can’t compare to it.
Anxiously expecting you, I am ever,
Anxiously waiting for you, I am always,
Yours most affectionately.
Napoli, Monday, February 17th, 1845.
This will be a hasty letter, for I am as badly off in this place as in America—beset by visitors at all times and seasons, and forced to dine out every day. I have found, however, an excellent man for me—an Englishman, who has lived here many years, and is well acquainted with the people, whom he doctored in the bad time of the cholera, when the priests and everybody else fled in terror.
This will be a quick letter because I'm struggling in this place just like I did in America—overwhelmed by visitors all the time and having to eat out every day. I have, however, found a great guy for me—an Englishman who has lived here for many years and knows the people really well, having treated them during the terrible cholera outbreak when the priests and everyone else ran away in fear.
Under his auspices, I have got to understand the low life of Naples (among the fishermen and idlers) almost as well as I understand the do. do. of my own country; always excepting the language, which is very peculiar and extremely difficult, and would require a year's constant practice at least. It is no more like Italian than English is to Welsh. And as they don't say half of what they mean, but make a wink or a kick stand for a whole sentence, it's a marvel to me how they comprehend each other. At Rome they speak beautiful Italian (I am pretty strong at that, I believe); but they are worse here than in Genoa, which I had previously thought impossible.
Under his guidance, I’ve come to understand the low life of Naples (among the fishermen and layabouts) almost as well as I understand the same in my own country; always excepting the language, which is very unique and extremely challenging, and would need at least a year of constant practice. It’s nothing like Italian, just as English isn’t like Welsh. And since they don’t express half of what they mean, using a wink or a kick to convey an entire thought, it’s a wonder to me how they manage to understand each other. In Rome, they speak beautiful Italian (I’m pretty good at that, I think); but it’s worse here than in Genoa, which I had previously thought was impossible.
It is a fine place, but nothing like so beautiful as people make it out to be. The famous bay is, to my thinking, as a piece of scenery, immeasurably inferior to the Bay of Genoa, which is the most lovely thing I have ever seen. The city, in like manner, will bear no comparison with Genoa. But there is none in Italy that will, except Venice. As to houses, there is no palace like the Peschiere for architecture, situation, gardens, or rooms. It is a great triumph to me, too, to find how cheap it is. At Rome, the English people live in dirty little fourth, fifth, and sixth floors, with not one room as large as your own[137] drawing-room, and pay, commonly, seven or eight pounds a week.
It’s a nice place, but nothing like the beauty people claim it has. In my opinion, the famous bay isn't even close to the Bay of Genoa, which is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The city, similarly, doesn’t compare to Genoa. In fact, there’s no other city in Italy that does, except for Venice. When it comes to houses, there’s no palace like the Peschiere for its architecture, location, gardens, or rooms. I also find it impressive how affordable it is. In Rome, English people live in small, dirty apartments on the fourth, fifth, or sixth floors, none of which is as big as your drawing-room[137], and they usually pay seven or eight pounds a week.
I was a week in Rome on my way here, and saw the Carnival, which is perfectly delirious, and a great scene for a description. All the ancient part of Rome is wonderful and impressive in the extreme. Far beyond the possibility of exaggeration as to the modern part, it might be anywhere or anything—Paris, Nice, Boulogne, Calais, or one of a thousand other places.
I spent a week in Rome on my way here and experienced the Carnival, which is absolutely wild and a great scene to describe. The ancient part of Rome is amazing and incredibly impressive. As for the modern part, it’s really beyond exaggeration; it could be anywhere—Paris, Nice, Boulogne, Calais, or one of a thousand other places.
The weather is so atrocious (rain, snow, wind, darkness, hail, and cold) that I can't get over into Sicily. But I don't care very much about it, as I have planned out ten days of excursion into the neighbouring country. One thing of course—the ascent of Vesuvius, Herculaneum and Pompeii, the two cities which were covered by its melted ashes, and dug out in the first instance accidentally, are more full of interest and wonder than it is possible to imagine. I have heard of some ancient tombs (quite unknown to travellers) dug in the bowels of the earth, and extending for some miles underground. They are near a place called Viterbo, on the way from Rome to Florence. I shall lay in a small stock of torches, etc., and explore them when I leave Rome. I return there on the 1st of March, and shall stay there nearly a month.
The weather is so terrible (rain, snow, wind, darkness, hail, and cold) that I can't get over to Sicily. But I don't really mind because I've planned ten days of exploring the nearby country. One thing for sure—the climb up Vesuvius, Herculaneum, and Pompeii, the two cities that were buried under its molten ash and excavated mostly by accident, are way more fascinating than you can imagine. I've heard about some ancient tombs (completely unknown to travelers) that are dug deep into the earth, extending for several miles underground. They are near a place called Viterbo, on the way from Rome to Florence. I'm going to stock up on some torches and other supplies to explore them when I leave Rome. I'll be back there on March 1st and will stay for almost a month.
Saturday, February 22nd.—Since I left off as above,
I have been away on an excursion of three days. Yesterday
evening, at four o'clock, we began (a small party of six) the
ascent of Mount Vesuvius, with six saddle-horses, an armed
soldier for a guard, and twenty-two guides. The latter
rendered necessary by the severity of the weather, which
is greater than has been known for twenty years, and has
covered the precipitous part of the mountain with deep
snow, the surface of which is glazed with one smooth sheet[138]
of ice from the top of the cone to the bottom. By starting
at that hour I intended to get the sunset about halfway up,
and night at the top, where the fire is raging. It was an
inexpressibly lovely night without a cloud; and when the
day was quite gone, the moon (within a few hours of the
full) came proudly up, showing the sea, and the Bay of
Naples, and the whole country, in such majesty as no words
can express. We rode to the beginning of the snow and
then dismounted. Catherine and Georgina were put into
two litters, just chairs with poles, like those in use in
England on the 5th of November; and a fat Englishman,
who was of the party, was hoisted into a third, borne by
eight men. I was accommodated with a tough stick, and we
began to plough our way up. The ascent was as steep
as this line /—very nearly perpendicular. We were all
tumbling at every stop; and looking up and seeing the
people in advance tumbling over one's very head, and looking
down and seeing hundreds of feet of smooth ice below, was,
I must confess, anything but agreeable. However, I knew
there was little chance of another clear night before I leave
this, and gave the word to get up, somehow or other. So
on we went, winding a little now and then, or we should not
have got on at all. By prodigious exertions we passed the
region of snow, and came into that of fire—desolate and
awful, you may well suppose. It was like working one's
way through a dry waterfall, with every mass of stone burnt
and charred into enormous cinders, and smoke and sulphur
bursting out of every chink and crevice, so that it was difficult
to breathe. High before us, bursting out of a hill at
the top of the mountain, shaped like this 
, the fire was
pouring out, reddening the night with flames, blackening it
with smoke, and spotting it with red-hot stones and cinders
that fell down again in showers. At every step everybody[139]
fell, now into a hot chink, now into a bed of ashes, now
over a mass of cindered iron; and the confusion in the darkness
(for the smoke obscured the moon in this part), and the
quarrelling and shouting and roaring of the guides, and the
waiting every now and then for somebody who was not to
be found, and was supposed to have stumbled into some pit
or other, made such a scene of it as I can give you no idea
of. My ladies were now on foot, of course; but we dragged
them on as well as we could (they were thorough game, and
didn't make the least complaint), until we got to the foot of
that topmost hill I have drawn so beautifully. Here we all
stopped; but the head guide, an English gentleman of the
name of Le Gros—who has been here many years, and has
been up the mountain a hundred times—and your humble
servant, resolved (like jackasses) to climb that hill to the
brink, and look down into the crater itself. You may form
some notion of what is going on inside it, when I tell you
that it is a hundred feet higher than it was six weeks ago.
The sensation of struggling up it, choked with the fire and
smoke, and feeling at every step as if the crust of ground
between one's feet and the gulf of fire would crumble in
and swallow one up (which is the real danger), I shall
remember for some little time, I think. But we did it. We
looked down into the flaming bowels of the mountain and
came back again, alight in half-a-dozen places, and burnt
from head to foot. You never saw such devils. And I
never saw anything so awful and terrible.
Saturday, February 22nd.—Since I last wrote, I've been on a three-day trip. Yesterday evening at four o'clock, a small group of six of us started the climb up Mount Vesuvius, accompanied by six saddle horses, a soldier for security, and twenty-two guides. The guides were essential because the weather has been harsher than it has been for the past twenty years, covering the steep parts of the mountain with deep snow, which is coated with a smooth layer of ice from the top of the cone to the bottom. I planned our departure time so that we could catch the sunset about halfway up and see the night sky at the top, where the fire blazes. It was an incredibly beautiful night, completely clear; and as the day faded, the moon, just a few hours shy of full, rose majestically, illuminating the sea, the Bay of Naples, and the entire landscape in a way words can't capture. We rode until we reached the start of the snow and then dismounted. Catherine and Georgina were placed in two litters—simply chairs with poles, similar to those used in England on November 5th; and a hefty Englishman in our group was lifted into a third litter, carried by eight men. I was given a sturdy stick, and we began to trudge our way up. The incline was incredibly steep—almost vertical. We were all slipping at every stop; looking up and seeing others tumbling could be concerning, and looking down at hundreds of feet of smooth ice below wasn't exactly reassuring either. Still, I realized I probably wouldn't get another clear night before I left, so I urged everyone to keep going, one way or another. We continued, winding our way occasionally, or we wouldn't have made any progress at all. After considerable effort, we broke through the snowy area and reached the fiery region—and it was as desolate and terrifying as you might expect. It felt like pushing through a dry waterfall, with every rock burnt and charred into massive cinders, and smoke and sulfur bursting from every crack and crevice, making it hard to breathe. High above us, fire was erupting from the summit, shaped like this , lighting up the night with flames, darkening it with smoke, and showering it with red-hot stones and cinders that fell back down. At every step, everyone stumbled—into a hot crack, onto a pile of ashes, or over a lump of charred iron. The chaos in the darkness (since the smoke obscured the moon in this section), the shouting and arguing among the guides, and the frequent pauses to search for someone who had gone missing—likely st stumbling into a pit—created a scene I can hardly describe. By this point, my ladies were on foot, but we helped them as best we could (they were wonderfully brave and didn’t complain at all) until we reached the base of that highest hill I have described so vividly. Here we all paused; however, the lead guide, an Englishman named Le Gros—who has been here a long time and has climbed the mountain a hundred times—and I decided (like fools) to climb that hill to the edge and peer into the crater itself. You can imagine the intensity inside when I tell you it’s a hundred feet higher than it was six weeks ago. I’ll remember the struggle to ascend it, choking on the heat and smoke, and the feeling at every step that the ground beneath me would collapse and consume me (which is the actual danger) for quite a while. But we did it. We looked down into the fiery depths of the mountain and managed to return, ignited in multiple spots and burned from head to toe. We looked like demons. And I’ve never seen something so terrifying and awe-inspiring.
Roche had been tearing his hair like a madman, and crying that we should all three be killed, which made the rest of the company very comfortable, as you may suppose. But we had some wine in a basket, and all swallowed a little of that and a great deal of sulphur before we began to descend. The usual way, after the fiery part is past—you will understand[140] that to be all the flat top of the mountain, in the centre of which, again, rises the little hill I have drawn—is to slide down the ashes, which, slipping from under you, make a gradually increasing ledge under your feet, and prevent your going too fast. But when we came to this steep place last night, we found nothing there but one smooth solid sheet of ice. The only way to get down was for the guides to make a chain, holding by each other's hands, and beat a narrow track in it into the snow below with their sticks. My two unfortunate ladies were taken out of their litters again, with half-a-dozen men hanging on to each, to prevent their falling forward; and we began to descend this way. It was like a tremendous dream. It was impossible to stand, and the only way to prevent oneself from going sheer down the precipice, every time one fell, was to drive one's stick into one of the holes the guides had made, and hold on by that. Nobody could pick one up, or stop one, or render one the least assistance. Now, conceive my horror, when this Mr. Le Gros I have mentioned, being on one side of Georgina and I on the other, suddenly staggers away from the narrow path on to the smooth ice, gives us a jerk, lets go, and plunges headforemost down the smooth ice into the black night, five hundred feet below! Almost at the same instant, a man far behind, carrying a light basket on his head with some of our spare cloaks in it, misses his footing and rolls down in another place; and after him, rolling over and over like a black bundle, goes a boy, shrieking as nobody but an Italian can shriek, until the breath is tumbled out of him.
Roche had been pulling his hair out like a crazy person and shouting that we should all be killed, which obviously made everyone else feel really at ease. But we had some wine in a basket, and we all drank a bit of that and a ton of sulfur before starting our descent. The usual way, after the fiery part is over—you’ll understand that to mean all the flat top of the mountain, in the center of which rises the little hill I’ve drawn—is to slide down the ashes, which, slipping away beneath you, create a gradually increasing ledge underfoot and keep you from going too fast. However, when we reached this steep area last night, we found nothing but a smooth, solid sheet of ice. The only way down was for the guides to link up, holding hands, and beat a narrow path into the snow below with their sticks. My two unfortunate ladies were taken out of their litters again, with half a dozen men clinging to each to stop them from falling forward, and we began our descent this way. It was like a terrifying dream. Standing was impossible, and the only way to keep from plunging straight down the cliff every time I fell was to jam my stick into one of the holes the guides created and hang on. No one could help you up, stop you, or offer any assistance. Now, imagine my horror when this Mr. Le Gros I mentioned, being on one side of Georgina while I was on the other, suddenly stumbles off the narrow path onto the smooth ice, jerks us both, lets go, and plunges headfirst down the slick surface into the dark night, five hundred feet below! Almost at the same moment, a man far behind, carrying a light basket on his head with some of our spare cloaks inside, loses his footing and rolls down in another spot; and after him, tumbling over and over like a black bundle, goes a boy, screaming like only an Italian can scream, until he’s out of breath.
The Englishman is in bed to-day, terribly bruised but without any broken bones. He was insensible at first and a mere heap of rags; but we got him before the fire, in a little hermitage there is halfway down, and he so far[141] recovered as to be able to take some supper, which was waiting for us there. The boy was brought in with his head tied up in a bloody cloth, about half an hour after the rest of us were assembled. And the man who had had the basket was not found when we left the mountain at midnight. What became of the cloaks (mine was among them) I know as little. My ladies' clothes were so torn off their backs that they would not have been decent, if there could have been any thought of such things at such a time. And when we got down to the guides' house, we found a French surgeon (one of another party who had been up before us) lying on a bed in a stable, with God knows what horrible breakage about him, but suffering acutely and looking like death. A pretty unusual trip for a pleasure expedition, I think!
The Englishman is in bed today, seriously bruised but with no broken bones. He was out cold at first, just a bundle of torn clothes; but we managed to get him in front of the fire in a small shelter halfway down, and he has somewhat[141] recovered enough to eat some dinner that was waiting for us there. The boy came in about half an hour after the rest of us had gathered, his head wrapped in a bloody cloth. And the guy with the basket was missing when we left the mountain at midnight. I have no idea what happened to the cloaks (mine was among them). My ladies' clothes were so badly torn that they wouldn’t have been decent, not that anyone was thinking about that at the time. When we reached the guides' house, we found a French surgeon (from another group that had gone up before us) lying on a bed in a stable, with God knows what kind of awful injuries, but clearly suffering and looking like he was on the brink of death. This was quite an unusual trip for a recreational outing, I must say!
I am rather stiff to-day but am quite unhurt, except a slight scrape on my right hand. My clothes are burnt to pieces. My ladies are the wonder of Naples, and everybody is open-mouthed.
I feel pretty stiff today but I'm mostly fine, just a small scrape on my right hand. My clothes are in tatters. The women with me are the talk of Naples, and everyone is amazed.
Address me as usual. All letters are forwarded. The children well and happy. Best regards.
Address me like you usually do. All letters are being forwarded. The kids are doing well and are happy. Best regards.
Albion Hotel, Broadstairs, Sunday, Aug. 17th, 1845.
I have been obliged to communicate with the Punch men in reference to Saturday, the 20th, as that day of the week is usually their business dinner day, and I was not quite sure that it could be conveniently altered.
I had to reach out to the Punch guys about Saturday, the 20th, since that's typically their business dinner day, and I wasn’t entirely sure if it could be easily changed.
Jerrold now assures me that it can for such a purpose, and that it shall, and therefore consider the play as being[142] arranged to come off on Saturday, the 20th of next month.
Jerrold now assures me that it can be done for that purpose, and that it will be, so consider the play scheduled to take place on Saturday, the 20th of next month.[142]
I don't know whether I told you that we have changed the farce; and now we are to act "Two o'clock in the Morning," as performed by the inimitable B. at Montreal.
I’m not sure if I mentioned that we’ve switched the play; we’re now doing "Two o'clock in the Morning," just like the amazing B. did in Montreal.
In reference to Bruce Castle school, I think the question set at rest most probably by the fact of there being no vacancy (it is always full) until Christmas, when Howitt's two boys and Jerrold's one go in and fill it up again. But after going carefully through the school, a question would arise in my mind whether the system—a perfectly admirable one; the only recognition of education as a broad system of moral and intellectual philosophy, that I have ever seen in practice—do not require so much preparation and progress in the mind of the boy, as that he shall have come there younger and less advanced than Willy; or at all events without that very different sort of school experience which he must have acquired at Brighton. I have no warrant for this doubt, beyond a vague uneasiness suggesting a suspicion of its great probability. On such slight ground I would not hint it to anyone but you, who I know will give it its due weight, and no more and no less.
In reference to Bruce Castle school, I think the question is probably settled by the fact that there’s no vacancy (it’s always full) until Christmas, when Howitt's two boys and Jerrold's one come in and fill it up again. However, after carefully going through the school, I can’t help but wonder whether the system—a truly admirable one; the only approach to education as a comprehensive system of moral and intellectual philosophy that I’ve ever seen in practice—requires so much preparation and advancement in the boy's mind that he should have arrived there younger and less advanced than Willy; or at least without the very different kind of school experience he must have gained at Brighton. I have no solid evidence for this doubt, just a vague feeling suggesting that it’s quite likely. On such flimsy grounds, I wouldn’t mention it to anyone but you, knowing that you'll consider it appropriately, neither more nor less.
I have the paper setting forth the nature of the higher classical studies, and the books they read. It is the usual course, and includes the great books in Greek and Latin. They have a miscellaneous library, under the management of the boys themselves, of some five or six thousand volumes, and every means of study and recreation, and every inducement to self-reliance and self-exertion that can easily be imagined. As there is no room just now, you can turn it over in your mind again. And if you would like to see the[143] place yourself, when you return to town, I shall be delighted to go there with you. I come home on Wednesday. It is our rehearsal night; and of course the active and enterprising stage-manager must be at his post.
I have the document outlining the nature of the higher classical studies and the books they read. It's the standard curriculum, featuring the classic works in Greek and Latin. They maintain a mixed library, managed by the students themselves, with about five or six thousand volumes, along with various resources for study and recreation, fostering self-reliance and initiative in every way possible. Since there’s no space available right now, you can think it over again. And if you want to check out the[143]place when you get back to town, I’d be happy to join you. I return home on Wednesday. It’s our rehearsal night, and naturally, the proactive and ambitious stage manager needs to be there.
Affectionately yours.
August 27th, 1845.
I write a line to tell you a project we have in view. A little party of us have taken Miss Kelly's theatre for the night of the 20th of next month, and we are going to act a play there, with correct and pretty costume, good orchestra, etc. etc. The affair is strictly private. The admission will be by cards of invitation; every man will have from thirty to thirty-five. Nobody can ask any person without the knowledge and sanction of the rest, my objection being final; and the expense to each (exclusive of the dress, which every man finds for himself) will not exceed two guineas. Forster plays, and Stone plays, and I play, and some of the Punch people play. Stanfield, having the scenery and carpenters to attend to, cannot manage his part also. It is Downright, in "Every Man in his Humour," not at all long, but very good; he wants you to take it. And so help me. We shall have a brilliant audience. The uphill part of the thing is already done, our next rehearsal is next Tuesday, and if you will come in you will find everything to your hand, and all very merry and pleasant.
I'm writing to let you know about a project we're planning. A small group of us has booked Miss Kelly's theater for the night of the 20th of next month, and we're going to put on a play there, complete with nice costumes, a great orchestra, and so on. This is a private event. Admission will be by invitation only; each person will get around thirty to thirty-five cards. No one can invite anyone without the agreement and approval of the rest of us; my decision is final. Each person's cost (not including the costume, which everyone provides for themselves) will be no more than two guineas. Forster is performing, Stone is performing, and I’m performing, along with some people from Punch. Stanfield, who is in charge of the scenery and carpenters, can’t also take a role. It’s Downright in "Every Man in his Humour," which isn't very long but is really good; he wants you to take that role. Believe me, we're going to have a fantastic audience. The hard part is already taken care of; our next rehearsal is on Tuesday, and if you come, you’ll find everything ready and everyone in high spirits.
Let me know what you decide, like a Kittenmolian Trojan. And with love from all here to all there,
Let me know what you decide, like a Kittenmolian Trojan. And sending love from everyone here to everyone there,
Heartily yours.
Devonshire Terrace, Thursday, Sept. 18th, 1845.
We have a little supper, sir, after the farce, at No. 9, Powis Place, Great Ormond Street, in an empty house belonging to one of the company. There I am requested by my fellows to beg the favour of thy company and that of Mrs. Macready. The guests are limited to the actors and their ladies—with the exception of yourselves, and D'Orsay, and George Cattermole, "or so"—that sounds like Bobadil a little.
We have a small dinner, sir, after the performance, at No. 9, Powis Place, Great Ormond Street, in an empty house owned by one of the troupe. There, my friends ask me to invite you and Mrs. Macready to join us. The guests are mostly the actors and their partners—with the exception of you two, D'Orsay, and George Cattermole, “or so”—that sounds a bit like Bobadil.
I am going to adopt your reading of the fifth act with the worst grace in the world. It seems to me that you don't allow enough for Bobadil having been frequently beaten before, as I have no doubt he had been. The part goes down hideously on this construction, and the end is mere lees. But never mind, sir, I intend bringing you up with the farce in the most brilliant manner.
I’m going to accept your take on the fifth act with the absolute worst attitude. It looks like you’re not considering that Bobadil had been beaten often before, which I’m sure he had. This interpretation makes the role come off really poorly, and the ending is just a letdown. But don’t worry, I plan to impress you with the farce in the most spectacular way.
N.B.—Observe. I think of changing my present mode of life, and am open to an engagement.
N.B.—Note: I'm considering changing how I live right now and I'm open to a new opportunity.
N.B. No. 2.—I will undertake not to play tragedy, though passion is my strength.
N.B. No. 2.—I promise not to perform tragedy, even though strong emotions are my forte.
Devonshire Terrace, October 2nd, 1845.
I send you the claret jug. But for a mistake, you would have received the little remembrance almost immediately after my return from abroad.
I’m sending you the claret jug. If it weren’t for a mistake, you would have gotten this little gift almost right after I returned from abroad.
I need not say how much I should value another little sketch from your extraordinary hand in this year's small volume, to which Mac again does the frontispiece. But I cannot hear of it, and will not have it (though the gratification of such aid, to me, is really beyond all expression), unless you will so far consent to make it a matter of business as to receive, without asking any questions, a cheque in return from the publishers. Do not misunderstand me—though I am not afraid there is much danger of your doing so, for between us misunderstanding is, I hope, not easy. I know perfectly well that nothing can pay you for the devotion of any portion of your time to such a use of your art. I know perfectly well that no terms would induce you to go out of your way, in such a regard, for perhaps anybody else. I cannot, nor do I desire to, vanquish the friendly obligation which help from you imposes on me. But I am not the sole proprietor of those little books; and it would be monstrous in you if you were to dream of putting a scratch into a second one without some shadowy reference to the other partners, ten thousand times more monstrous in me if any consideration on earth could induce me to permit it, which nothing will or shall.
I don't need to say how much I would appreciate another little piece from your amazing talent in this year's small volume, which Mac is once again doing the cover for. However, I can't accept it, and I won't allow it (even though the satisfaction I get from your help is truly beyond words), unless you're willing to treat it as a business matter and accept a check from the publishers without any questions. Please don’t misunderstand me—I don’t think you would, as I believe we have a clear understanding between us. I know full well that nothing can truly compensate you for dedicating any of your time to such a use of your art. I also know that no terms would persuade you to go out of your way for just about anyone else. I can't—and don't want to—ignore the friendly obligation that your assistance creates for me. But I’m not the sole owner of those little books; it would be unreasonable for you to think about contributing to a second one without some acknowledgment of the other partners, and it would be even more unreasonable for me to allow it, which I absolutely will not do.
So, see what it comes to. If you will do me a favour on my terms it will be more acceptable to me, my dear Stanfield, than I can possibly tell you. If you will not be so generous, you deprive me of the satisfaction of receiving it at your hands, and shut me out from that possibility altogether. What a stony-hearted ruffian you must be in such a case!
So, look at what it comes down to. If you can do me a favor on my terms, it will mean more to me, my dear Stanfield, than I can possibly express. If you won’t be so generous, you’re taking away the pleasure of getting it from you, and completely shutting me out from that chance. What a cold-hearted scoundrel you must be in that situation!
Devonshire Terrace, Friday Evening, Oct. 17th, 1845.
You once—only once—gave the world assurance of a waistcoat. You wore it, sir, I think, in "Money." It was a remarkable and precious waistcoat, wherein certain broad stripes of blue or purple disported themselves as by a combination of extraordinary circumstances, too happy to occur again. I have seen it on your manly chest in private life. I saw it, sir, I think, the other day in the cold light of morning—with feelings easier to be imagined than described. Mr. Macready, sir, are you a father? If so, lend me that waistcoat for five minutes. I am bidden to a wedding (where fathers are made), and my artist cannot, I find (how should he?), imagine such a waistcoat. Let me show it to him as a sample of my tastes and wishes; and—ha, ha, ha, ha!—eclipse the bridegroom!
You once—just once—showed the world that amazing waistcoat. I believe you wore it in "Money." It was a truly unique and special waistcoat, featuring broad stripes of blue or purple that seemed to come together through some extraordinary luck, too good to happen again. I've seen it on your impressive chest in private. Just the other day, I spotted it in the stark light of morning—feelings that are easier to imagine than explain. Mr. Macready, are you a dad? If you are, could you lend me that waistcoat for five minutes? I’ve been invited to a wedding (where fathers are made), and my artist simply can’t imagine such a waistcoat. I’d like to show it to him as an example of my tastes and preferences; and—ha, ha, ha, ha!—outshine the groom!
I will send a trusty messenger at half-past nine precisely, in the morning. He is sworn to secrecy. He durst not for his life betray us, or swells in ambuscade would have the waistcoat at the cost of his heart's blood.
I will send a reliable messenger at 9:30 AM sharp. He is sworn to secrecy. He wouldn't dare betray us for his life, or risks being ambushed at the cost of his blood.
The Unwaistcoated One.
Devonshire Terrace, Nov. 28th, 1845.
I have delayed writing to you until now, hoping I might have been able to tell you of our dramatic plans, and of the day on which we purpose playing. But as these matters are still in abeyance, I will give you that precious information when I come into the receipt of it myself. And let me heartily assure you, that I had at least as much pleasure[147] in seeing you the other day as you can possibly have had in seeing me; and that I shall consider all opportunities of becoming better known to you among the most fortunate and desirable occasions of my life. And that I am with your conviction about the probability of our liking each other, and, as Lord Lyndhurst might say, with "something more."
I’ve put off writing to you until now, hoping I could share our exciting plans and the day we intend to play. But since those details are still up in the air, I’ll give you that important information as soon as I get it myself. And I want to sincerely express that I enjoyed seeing you the other day just as much as you enjoyed seeing me; I’ll consider any chance of getting to know you better as one of the luckiest and most desirable moments of my life. I also feel just as you do about the likelihood of us liking each other, and, as Lord Lyndhurst might say, with "something more."
1846.
NARRATIVE.
In this year we have the commencement of his association and correspondence with Mr. W. H. Wills. Their connection began in the short term of his editorship of The Daily News, when he at once fully appreciated Mr. Wills's invaluable business qualities. And when, some time later, he started his own periodical, "Household Words," he thought himself very fortunate in being able to secure Mr. Wills's co-operation as editor of that journal, and afterwards of "All the Year Round," with which "Household Words" was incorporated. They worked together on terms of the most perfect mutual understanding, confidence, and affectionate regard, until Mr. Wills's health made it necessary for him to retire from the work in 1868. Besides his first notes to Mr. Wills in this year, we have our first letters to his dear friends, the Rev. James White, Walter Savage Landor, and Miss Marion Ely, the niece of Lady Talfourd.
In this year, he began his partnership and correspondence with Mr. W. H. Wills. Their connection started during his brief time as the editor of The Daily News, where he quickly recognized Mr. Wills's invaluable business skills. Later, when he launched his own magazine, "Household Words," he felt very lucky to have Mr. Wills join him as the editor of that publication, and later of "All the Year Round," which merged with "Household Words." They collaborated with an outstanding mutual understanding, trust, and fondness for each other until Mr. Wills had to step back from the work in 1868 due to health issues. In addition to his initial notes to Mr. Wills this year, we also have the first letters to his close friends, the Rev. James White, Walter Savage Landor, and Miss Marion Ely, the niece of Lady Talfourd.
Devonshire Terrace, February 18th, 1846.
Do look at the enclosed from Mrs. What's-her-name. For a surprising audacity it is remarkable even to me, who am positively bullied, and all but beaten, by these people. I wish you would do me the favour to write to her (in your own name and from your own address), stating that you answered her letter as you did, because if I were the wealthiest nobleman in England I could not keep pace with one-twentieth part of the demands upon me, and because you saw no internal evidence in her application to[149] induce you to single it out for any especial notice. That the tone of this letter renders you exceedingly glad you did so; and that you decline, from me, holding any correspondence with her. Something to that effect, after what flourish your nature will.
Do check out the enclosed from Mrs. What's-her-name. It's surprisingly bold, even for me, who feels constantly pressured and almost overwhelmed by these people. I would appreciate it if you could do me a favor and write to her (in your own name and from your own address), explaining that you replied to her letter as you did because even if I were the richest nobleman in England, I couldn't keep up with even one-twentieth of the demands placed on me, and because you found no compelling reason in her request to give it special attention. The tone of this letter makes you really glad you did. Also, let her know that I won’t be corresponding with her anymore. Something like that, with whatever flair you prefer.
1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park,
February 24th, 1846.
I cannot help telling you, my dear White, for I can think of no formal use of Mister to such a writer as you, that I have just now read your tragedy, "The Earl of Gowrie," with a delight which I should in vain endeavour to express to you. Considered with reference to its story, or its characters, or its noble poetry, I honestly regard it as a work of most remarkable genius. It has impressed me powerfully and enduringly. I am proud to have received it from your hand. And if I have to tell you what complete possession it has taken of me—that is, if I could tell you—I do believe you would be glad to know it.
I can’t help but tell you, my dear White, because it feels strange to call you Mister, that I just read your play, "The Earl of Gowrie," and I loved it so much I can’t even find the words to express it. When I think about its story, its characters, or its beautiful poetry, I honestly see it as a work of incredible genius. It has left a lasting impression on me. I'm proud to have received it from you. And if I had to explain how completely it has captivated me—if I could explain it—I really believe you would be pleased to hear it.
Devonshire Terrace, Monday Morning, March 2nd, 1846.
I really don't know what to say about the New Brunswicker. The idea will obtrude itself on my mind, that he had no business to come here on such an expedition; and that it is a piece of the wild conceit for which his countrymen are so remarkable, and that I can hardly afford to be steward to such adventurers. On the other hand, your[150] description of him pleases me. Then that purse which I could never keep shut in my life makes mouths at me, saying, "See how empty I am." Then I fill it, and it looks very rich indeed.
I honestly don’t know what to think about the New Brunswicker. The thought keeps popping into my head that he had no right to come here for such a mission; it seems like one of those wild ideas that his fellow countrymen are known for, and I can't really afford to take care of such adventurers. On the other hand, your [150] description of him appeals to me. Then there’s that purse that I can never keep closed, taunting me, saying, “Look how empty I am.” So I fill it, and it looks quite impressive.
I think the best way is to say, that if you think you can do him any permanent good with five pounds (that is, get him home again) I will give you the money. But I should be very much indisposed to give it him, merely to linger on here about town for a little time and then be hard up again.
I think the best way to put it is that if you believe you can do him any lasting good with five pounds (that is, get him back home), I’ll give you the money. But I’d really hesitate to give it to him just so he can hang around town for a bit and then end up broke again.
As to employment, I do in my soul believe that if I were Lord Chancellor of England, I should have been aground long ago, for the patronage of a messenger's place.
As for employment, I truly believe that if I were the Lord Chancellor of England, I would have been stuck ages ago, trying to get a messenger’s job.
Say all that is civil for me to the proprietor of The Illustrated London News, who really seems to be very liberal. "Other engagements," etc. etc., "prevent me from entertaining," etc. etc.
Say all that’s polite for me to the owner of The Illustrated London News, who truly appears to be quite generous. "Other commitments," etc. etc., "stop me from hosting," etc. etc.
Devonshire Terrace, March 4th, 1846.
I assure you I am very truly and unaffectedly sensible of your earnest friendliness, and in proof of my feeling its worth I shall unhesitatingly trouble you sometimes, in the fullest reliance on your meaning what you say. The letter from Nelson Square is a very manly and touching one. But I am more helpless in such a case as that than in any other, having really fewer means of helping such a gentleman to employment than I have of firing off the guns[151] in the Tower. Such, appeals come to me here in scores upon scores.
I genuinely appreciate your sincere kindness, and to show that I value it, I won’t hesitate to reach out to you for help, fully trusting that you mean what you say. The letter from Nelson Square is very heartfelt and impressive. However, I feel more powerless in situations like that than in any other because I actually have fewer ways to help someone like him find a job than I have of firing the cannons[151] in the Tower. I get countless requests like that here.
The letter from Little White Lion Street does not impress me favourably. It is not written in a simple or truthful manner, I am afraid, and is not a good reference. Moreover, I think it probable that the writer may have deserted some pursuit for which he is qualified, for vague and laborious strivings which he has no pretensions to make. However, I will certainly act on your impression of him, whatever it may be. And if you could explain to the gentleman in Nelson Square, that I am not evading his request, but that I do not know of anything to which I can recommend him, it would be a great relief to me.
The letter from Little White Lion Street doesn’t impress me positively. It isn’t written in a straightforward or honest way, I’m afraid, and it’s not a good reference. Moreover, I think it’s likely that the writer has left behind a field he’s qualified for, in favor of unclear and exhausting efforts that he has no right to pursue. However, I will definitely go with your impression of him, no matter what it is. And if you could let the gentleman in Nelson Square know that I’m not ignoring his request, but that I don’t have anything to recommend him for, I would really appreciate it.
I trust this new printer is a Tartar; and I hope to God he will so proclaim and assert his Tartar breeding, as to excommunicate —— from the "chapel" over which he presides.
I hope this new printer is a Tartar; and I pray to God he will boldly showcase his Tartar background, to the point of excommunicating —— from the "chapel" he oversees.
Tell Powell (with my regards) that he needn't "deal with" the American notices of the "Cricket." I never read one word of their abuse, and I should think it base to read their praises. It is something to know that one is righted so soon; and knowing that, I can afford to know no more.
Tell Powell (with my regards) that he doesn’t need to "deal with" the American notices of the "Cricket." I never read a single word of their criticism, and I would find it beneath me to read their compliments. It's enough to know that one is vindicated so quickly; and knowing that, I can choose not to know anything more.
Devonshire Terrace, March 6th, 1846.
In reference to the damage of the candlesticks, I beg to quote (from "The Cricket on the Hearth,"[152] by the highly popular and deservedly so Dick) this reply:
In regard to the damage to the candlesticks, I’d like to quote (from "The Cricket on the Hearth,"[152] by the very popular and rightly so Dick) this response:
"I'll damage you if you enquire."
"I'll hurt you if you ask."
My block reeving,
Splicing the main brace,
Lead-heavy,
Ship navigation,
Stun'sail bending,
Deck cleaning
Son of a sailor,
H.M.S. Timber.
Devonshire Terrace, Saturday, April 13th, 1846.
Do you recollect sending me your biography of Shakespeare last autumn, and my not acknowledging its receipt? I do, with remorse.
Do you remember sending me your biography of Shakespeare last fall, and my not acknowledging that I received it? I do, and I feel bad about it.
The truth is, that I took it out of town with me, read it with great pleasure as a charming piece of honest enthusiasm and perseverance, kept it by me, came home, meant to say all manner of things to you, suffered the time to go by, got ashamed, thought of speaking to you, never saw you, felt it heavy on my mind, and now fling off the load by thanking you heartily, and hoping you will not think it too late.
The truth is, I took it with me out of town, read it and really enjoyed it as a delightful example of genuine enthusiasm and determination. I kept it close, came home, intended to say all sorts of things to you, let the time slip by, felt embarrassed, thought about talking to you, never saw you, felt it weighing on my mind, and now I’m finally getting it off my chest by thanking you sincerely, and hoping you won't think it's too late.
Faithfully yours.
Devonshire Terrace, Sunday, April 19th, 1846.
A mysterious emissary brought me a note in your always welcome handwriting at the Athenæum last night. I enquired of the servant in attendance whether the bearer of this letter was of my vast establishment. To which he replied "Yezzir." "Then," said I, "tell him not to wait."
A mysterious messenger delivered a note written in your familiar handwriting at the Athenæum last night. I asked the servant there if the person delivering the letter was from my large household. He replied, "Yes, sir." "Then," I said, "tell him not to wait."
Maclise was with me. It was then half-past seven. We had been walking, and were splashed to the eyes. We debated upon the possibility of getting to Russell Square in reasonable time—decided that it would be in the worst taste to appear when the performance would be half over—and very reluctantly decided not to come. You may suppose how dirty and dismal we were when we went to the Thames Tunnel, of all places in the world, instead!
Maclise was with me. It was around 7:30. We had been walking and were soaked through. We discussed whether we could make it to Russell Square in time—concluded that it would be really rude to show up when the performance would already be half done—and very reluctantly decided not to go. You can imagine how grimy and gloomy we felt when we ended up at the Thames Tunnel, of all places!
When I came home here at midnight I found another letter from you (I left off in this place to press it dutifully to my lips). Then my mind misgave me that you must have sent to the Athenæum. At the apparent rudeness of my reply, my face, as Hadji Baba says, was turned upside down, and fifty donkeys sat upon my father's grave—or would have done so, but for his not being dead yet.
When I got home at midnight, I found another letter from you (I stopped here to press it dutifully to my lips). Then I started to worry that you must have sent it to the Athenæum. At the obvious rudeness of my response, my face, as Hadji Baba would say, turned upside down, and it felt like fifty donkeys were sitting on my father's grave—or would have been if he weren't still alive.
Therefore I send this humble explanation—protesting, however, which I do most solemnly, against being invited under such untoward circumstances; and claiming as your old friend and no less old admirer to be instantly invited to the next performance, if such a thing is ever contemplated.
Therefore, I'm sending this simple explanation—however, I must protest very seriously about being invited under such unfortunate circumstances; and as your longtime friend and equally longtime admirer, I insist on being invited to the next performance if that's ever planned.
Faithfully yours.
Devonshire Terrace, Tuesday, May 26th, 1846.
I send you herewith some books belonging to you. A thousand thanks for the "Hermit." He took my fancy mightily when I first saw him in the "Illuminated;" and I have stowed him away in the left-hand breast pocket of my travelling coat, that we may hold pleasant converse together on the Rhine. You see what confidence I have in him!
I’m sending you some books that belong to you. Thanks a ton for the "Hermit." I really liked him when I first saw him in the "Illuminated," and I’ve tucked him away in the left pocket of my travel coat so we can have some nice conversations while we’re on the Rhine. Just shows how much I trust him!
I wish you would seriously consider the expediency and feasibility of coming to Lausanne in the summer or early autumn. I must be at work myself during a certain part of every day almost, and you could do twice as much there as here. It is a wonderful place to see—and what sort of welcome you would find I will say nothing about, for I have vanity enough to believe that you would be willing to feel yourself as much at home in my household as in any man's.
I really wish you would think about the practicality and possibility of coming to Lausanne in the summer or early autumn. I have to work almost every day for part of the day, and you could get so much more done there than here. It’s an amazing place to visit—and I won’t say anything about the kind of welcome you’d receive, because I’m confident you would feel just as at home in my place as you would in anyone else's.
Do think it over. I could send you the minutest particular of the journey. It is really all railroad and steamboat, and the easiest in the world.
Do think about it. I can share every detail of the trip with you. It's all just train and boat, and it's the easiest thing in the world.
At Macready's on Thursday, we shall meet, please God!
At Macready's on Thursday, we'll meet, if all goes well!
Cordially yours.
Geneva, Saturday, October 24th, 1846.
The welcome sight of your handwriting moves me (though I have nothing to say) to show you mine, and if I could recollect the passage in Virginius I would paraphrase it, and say, "Does it seem to tremble, boy? Is it a loving autograph? Does it beam with friendship and affection?" all of which I say, as I write, with—oh Heaven!—such a[155] splendid imitation of you, and finally give you one of those grasps and shakes with which I have seen you make the young Icilius stagger again.
The welcome sight of your handwriting really moves me (even though I have nothing to say) to show you mine, and if I could remember the passage in Virginius I would paraphrase it, and say, "Does it seem to tremble, boy? Is it a loving signature? Does it shine with friendship and affection?" All of which I say, as I write, with—oh Heaven!—such a[155] great imitation of you, and finally give you one of those grabs and shakes that I've seen you use to make the young Icilius stagger again.
Here I am, running away from a bad headache as Tristram Shandy ran away from death, and lodging for a week in the Hôtel de l'Écu de Genève, wherein there is a large mirror shattered by a cannon-ball in the late revolution. A revolution, whatever its merits, achieved by free spirits, nobly generous and moderate, even in the first transports of victory, elevated by a splendid popular education, and bent on freedom from all tyrants, whether their crowns be shaven or golden. The newspapers may tell you what they please. I believe there is no country on earth but Switzerland in which a violent change could have been effected in the Christian spirit shown in this place, or in the same proud, independent, gallant style. Not one halfpennyworth of property was lost, stolen, or strayed. Not one atom of party malice survived the smoke of the last gun. Nothing is expressed in the Government addresses to the citizens but a regard for the general happiness, and injunctions to forget all animosities; which they are practically obeying at every turn, though the late Government (of whose spirit I had some previous knowledge) did load the guns with such material as should occasion gangrene in the wounds, and though the wounded do die, consequently, every day, in the hospital, of sores that in themselves were nothing.
Here I am, escaping a terrible headache like Tristram Shandy fled from death, staying for a week at the Hôtel de l'Écu de Genève, which has a huge mirror shattered by a cannonball during the recent revolution. A revolution, no matter its merits, led by spirited individuals who were generously noble and moderate, even in their initial excitement after victory, uplifted by an impressive public education, and focused on freeing themselves from all tyrants, whether their crowns are shaved or golden. The newspapers can say what they want. I truly believe there’s no place on earth except Switzerland where such a drastic change could have been carried out in the Christian spirit displayed here, or with the same proud, independent, and brave attitude. Not a single penny’s worth of property was lost, stolen, or misplaced. Not a trace of political malice remained after the last gun's smoke cleared. The Government's messages to the citizens express only a commitment to overall happiness and encourage everyone to put aside their grudges, which they’re actively doing at every opportunity, despite the previous Government (whose nature I had some knowledge of) loading the guns with materials that caused gangrene in the wounds, and even though the wounded do die every day in the hospital from infections that were otherwise insignificant.
You a mountaineer! You examine (I have seen you do it) the point of your young son's bâton de montagne before he went up into the snow! And you talk of coming to Lausanne in March! Why, Lord love your heart, William Tell, times are changed since you lived at Altorf. There is not a mountain pass open until June. The snow is closing[156] in on all the panorama already. I was at the Great St. Bernard two months ago, and it was bitter cold and frosty then. Do you think I could let you hazard your life by going up any pass worth seeing in bleak March? Never shall it be said that Dickens sacrificed his friend upon the altar of his hospitality! Onward! To Paris! (Cue for band. Dickens points off with truncheon, first entrance P.S. Page delivers gauntlets on one knee. Dickens puts 'em on and gradually falls into a fit of musing. Mrs. Dickens lays her hand upon his shoulder. Business. Procession. Curtain.)
You a mountaineer! You check (I have seen you do it) the tip of your young son's hiking pole before he goes up into the snow! And you talk about coming to Lausanne in March! Well, bless your heart, William Tell, times have changed since you lived in Altorf. No mountain passes are open until June. The snow is already closing[156] in on all the views. I was at the Great St. Bernard two months ago, and it was freezing and frosty then. Do you think I would let you risk your life by trying to go up any pass worth seeing in harsh March? It will never be said that Dickens put his friend at risk on the altar of his hospitality! Onward! To Paris! (Cue for band. Dickens points off with the stick, first entrance P.S. Page delivers gauntlets on one knee. Dickens puts them on and gradually falls into a fit of thought. Mrs. Dickens lays her hand on his shoulder. Business. Procession. Curtain.)
It is a great pleasure to me, my dear Macready, to hear from yourself, as I had previously heard from Forster, that you are so well pleased with "Dombey," which is evidently a great success and a great hit, thank God! I felt that Mrs. Brown was strong, but I was not at all afraid of giving as heavy a blow as I could to a piece of hot iron that lay ready at my hand. For that is my principle always, and I hope to come down with some heavier sledge-hammers than that.
I'm really pleased to hear from you, my dear Macready, as I previously heard from Forster, that you're so happy with "Dombey," which is clearly a big success and a huge hit, thank God! I thought Mrs. Brown was strong, but I wasn't worried at all about striking hard on a piece of hot iron that was right at my hand. That’s always my approach, and I hope to come down with even heavier sledgehammers than that.
I know the lady of whom you write. —— left there only yesterday. The story may arise only in her manner, which is extraordinarily free and careless. He was visiting her here, when I was here last, three weeks ago. I knew her in Italy. It is not her fault if scandal ever leaves her alone, for such a braver of all conventionalities never wore petticoats. But I should be sorry to hear there was anything guilty in her conduct. She is very clever, really learned, very pretty, much neglected by her husband, and only four-and-twenty years of age.
I know the woman you're talking about. She just left there yesterday. The gossip might come from her demeanor, which is incredibly relaxed and carefree. He was visiting her here when I was last here three weeks ago. I met her in Italy. It’s not her fault if rumors never leave her alone, because no one challenges conventions like she does. But I would be upset to hear that there was anything wrong about her behavior. She's very smart, genuinely educated, really attractive, and somewhat ignored by her husband, and she’s only twenty-four years old.
Kate and Georgy send their best loves to Mrs. and Miss Macready and all your house.
Kate and Georgy send their love to Mrs. and Miss Macready and everyone in your household.
Paris, November, 1846.
Talking of which[6] reminds me to say, that I have written to my printers, and told them to prefix to "The Battle of Life" a dedication that is printed in illuminated capitals on my heart. It is only this:
Talking about that[6] reminds me to mention that I've contacted my printers and asked them to add a dedication to "The Battle of Life" that's printed in fancy capital letters on my heart. It's just this:
"This Christmas book is cordially inscribed to my English friends in Switzerland."
"This Christmas book is warmly dedicated to my English friends in Switzerland."
I shall trouble you with a little parcel of three or four copies to distribute to those whose names will be found written in them, as soon as they can be made ready, and believe me, that there is no success or approval in the great world beyond the Jura that will be more precious and delightful to me, than the hope that I shall be remembered of an evening in the coming winter time, at one or two friends' I could mention near the Lake of Geneva. It runs with a spring tide, that will always flow and never ebb, through my memory; and nothing less than the waters of Lethe shall confuse the music of its running, until it loses itself in that great sea, for which all the currents of our life are desperately bent.
I'll send you a small parcel of three or four copies to hand out to those whose names you'll find inside, as soon as they’re ready. And believe me, there’s no success or approval in the big world beyond the Jura that would mean more to me than the thought of being remembered one evening this coming winter by a couple of friends I could name near Lake Geneva. It flows through my memory like a spring tide that always rises and never recedes, and nothing less than the waters of Lethe can muddle the music of its movement until it merges into that vast sea, towards which all the currents of our lives are desperately headed.
Paris, Sunday, November 22nd, 1846.
I will not go there if I can help it. I have not the least confidence in the value of your introduction to the[158] Devil. I can't help thinking that it would be of better use "the other way, the other way," but I won't try it there, either, at present, if I can help it. Your godson says is that your duty? and he begs me to enclose a blush newly blushed for you.
I won’t go there if I can avoid it. I have no confidence at all in the value of your introduction to the[158] Devil. I can't help but think it would be more useful "the other way, the other way," but I won’t try that either for now, if I can avoid it. Your godson asks if that's your duty? and he asks me to send you a freshly flushed blush.
As to writing, I have written to you twenty times and twenty more to that, if you only knew it. I have been writing a little Christmas book, besides, expressly for you. And if you don't like it, I shall go to the font of Marylebone Church as soon as I conveniently can and renounce you: I am not to be trifled with. I write from Paris. I am getting up some French steam. I intend to proceed upon the longing-for-a-lap-of-blood-at-last principle, and if you do offend me, look to it.
As for writing, I've sent you twenty letters and probably twenty more if you knew. I've also been working on a little Christmas book just for you. If you don’t like it, I’ll head to the Marylebone Church font as soon as I can and renounce you: I’m not someone to mess with. I’m writing from Paris. I’m getting into some French vibes. I plan to go with the idea of finally getting what I desire, and if you do offend me, be prepared for it.
We are all well and happy, and they send loves to you by the bushel. We are in the agonies of house-hunting. The people are frightfully civil, and grotesquely extortionate. One man (with a house to let) told me yesterday that he loved the Duke of Wellington like a brother. The same gentleman wanted to hug me round the neck with one hand, and pick my pocket with the other.
We’re all doing great and sending you lots of love. We're deep in the struggles of house-hunting. The people are overly polite and extremely overpriced. One guy (with a house for rent) told me yesterday that he loved the Duke of Wellington like a brother. That same man wanted to give me a hug with one hand while trying to pick my pocket with the other.
Don't be hard upon the Swiss. They are a thorn in the sides of European despots, and a good wholesome people to live near Jesuit-ridden kings on the brighter side of the mountains. My hat shall ever be ready to be thrown up, and my glove ever ready to be thrown down for Switzerland. If you were the man I took you for, when I took you (as a godfather) for better and for worse, you would come to Paris and amaze the weak walls of the house I haven't found yet with that steady snore of yours, which I once heard piercing the door of your bedroom in Devonshire Terrace, reverberating along the bell-wire in the hall, so getting[159] outside into the street, playing Eolian harps among the area railings, and going down the New Road like the blast of a trumpet.
Don't be hard on the Swiss. They’re a thorn in the side of European tyrants and a genuinely good people to live near Jesuit-influenced kings on the brighter side of the mountains. My hat will always be ready to be tossed up, and my glove ready to be thrown down for Switzerland. If you were the person I thought you were when I chose you as a godfather for better or for worse, you'd come to Paris and amaze the flimsy walls of the house I haven't found yet with that steady snore of yours, which I once heard piercing the door of your bedroom on Devonshire Terrace, resonating along the bell-wire in the hall, ensuring it got[159] outside into the street, playing haunting melodies among the area railings, and echoing down the New Road like a trumpet blast.
I forgive you your reviling of me: there's a shovelful of live coals for your head—does it burn? And am, with true affection—does it burn now?—
I forgive you for speaking ill of me: there’s a shovelful of live coals on your head—does it hurt? And I, with genuine love—does it hurt now?—
Paris, 48 Rue de Courcelles, St. Honoré,
Friday, Nov. 27th, 1846.
We were housed only yesterday. I lose no time in despatching this memorandum of our whereabouts, in order that you may not fail to write me a line before you come to Paris on your way towards England, letting me know on what day we are to expect you to dinner.
We just got settled yesterday. I’m sending this note right away to let you know where we are, so you don’t forget to drop me a line before you get to Paris on your way to England, telling me what day we can expect you for dinner.
We arrived here quite happily and well. I don't mean here, but at the Hôtel Brighton, in Paris, on Friday evening, between six and seven o'clock. The agonies of house-hunting were frightfully severe. It was one paroxysm for four mortal days. I am proud to express my belief, that we are lodged at last in the most preposterous house in the world. The like of it cannot, and so far as my knowledge goes does not, exist in any other part of the globe. The bedrooms are like opera-boxes. The dining-rooms, staircases, and passages, quite inexplicable. The dining-room is a sort of cavern, painted (ceiling and all) to represent a grove, with unaccountable bits of looking-glass sticking in among the branches of the trees. There is a gleam of reason in the drawing-room. But it is approached through a series of small chambers, like the joints in a telescope,[160] which are hung with inscrutable drapery. The maddest man in Bedlam, having the materials given him, would be likely to devise such a suite, supposing his case to be hopeless and quite incurable.
We arrived here quite happily and well. I don't mean here, but at the Hôtel Brighton in Paris, on Friday evening, between six and seven o'clock. The struggles of house-hunting were incredibly tough. It was one crisis after another for four long days. I’m proud to say that we are finally staying in the most absurd house in the world. There’s nothing like it, and as far as I know, it doesn’t exist anywhere else on the planet. The bedrooms are like opera box seats. The dining rooms, staircases, and hallways are completely baffling. The dining room is like a cave, painted (ceiling and all) to look like a forest, with random pieces of mirrors stuck among the branches of the trees. The drawing room has a glimmer of sanity. But you reach it through a series of tiny rooms, like the segments of a telescope,[160] which are draped with mysterious fabric. The craziest person in an asylum, given these materials, would likely come up with such a setup, assuming his situation was hopeless and totally irreversible.
Pray tell Mrs. Watson, with my best regards, that the dance of the two sisters in the little Christmas book is being done as an illustration by Maclise; and that Stanfield is doing the battle-ground and the outside of the Nutmeg Grater Inn. Maclise is also drawing some smaller subjects for the little story, and they write me that they hope it will be very pretty, and they think that I shall like it. I shall have been in London before I see you, probably, and I hope the book itself will then be on its road to Lausanne to speak for itself, and to speak a word for me too. I have never left so many friendly and cheerful recollections in any place; and to represent me in my absence, its tone should be very eloquent and affectionate indeed.
Please tell Mrs. Watson, with my best regards, that the dance of the two sisters in the little Christmas book is being illustrated by Maclise; and that Stanfield is working on the battlefield and the exterior of the Nutmeg Grater Inn. Maclise is also drawing some smaller scenes for the little story, and they wrote to me saying they hope it will be very beautiful, and they think I’ll like it. I will have been in London before I see you, probably, and I hope the book itself will then be on its way to Lausanne to speak for itself, and to say a word for me too. I have never left so many friendly and cheerful memories in any place; and to represent me in my absence, it should be very eloquent and affectionate indeed.
Well, if I don't turn up again next summer it shall not be my fault. In the meanwhile, I shall often and often look that way with my mind's eye, and hear the sweet, clear, bell-like voice of —— with the ear of my imagination. In the event of there being any change—but it is not likely—in the appearance of his cravat behind, where it goes up into his head, I mean, and frets against his wig—I hope some one of my English friends will apprise me of it, for the love of the great Saint Bernard.
Well, if I don't show up again next summer, it won't be my fault. In the meantime, I'll frequently think about it and hear the sweet, clear, bell-like voice of —— in my imagination. If there's any change—though it's unlikely—in the way his cravat looks at the back, where it goes up into his head and rubs against his wig, I hope one of my English friends will let me know, for the love of the great Saint Bernard.
I have not seen Lord Normanby yet. I have not seen anything up to this time but houses and lodgings. There seems to be immense excitement here on the subject of —— however, and a perfectly stupendous sensation getting up. I saw the king the other day coming into Paris. His carriage was surrounded by guards on horseback, and he sat very far back in it, I thought, and drove at a great pace.[161] It was strange to see the préfet of police on horseback some hundreds of yards in advance, looking to the right and left as he rode, like a man who suspected every twig in every tree in the long avenue.
I haven't seen Lord Normanby yet. So far, all I've seen are houses and places to stay. However, there seems to be a huge buzz around here about ---- and a massive sensation is building up. The other day, I saw the king entering Paris. His carriage was surrounded by guards on horseback, and he was sitting quite far back in it, I thought, and they were moving at a fast pace.[161] It was unusual to see the police chief on horseback several hundred yards ahead, looking around like someone who was suspicious of every little sound from the trees along the long avenue.
The English relations look anything but promising, though I understand that the Count St. Aulaire is to remain in London, notwithstanding the newspaper alarms to the contrary. If there be anything like the sensation in England about —— that there is here, there will be a bitter resentment indeed. The democratic society of Paris have announced, this morning, their intention of printing and circulating fifty thousand copies of an appeal in every European language. It is a base business beyond question, and comes at an ill time.
The situation with the English connections looks far from hopeful, although I hear that Count St. Aulaire is staying in London, despite what the newspapers are saying. If there's any kind of uproar in England about —— similar to what we have here, it will definitely lead to a lot of anger. The democratic group in Paris announced this morning that they're planning to print and distribute fifty thousand copies of a statement in every European language. It's a shady move, no doubt about it, and it comes at a really bad time.
Mrs. Dickens and her sister desire their best regards to be sent to you and their best loves to Mrs. Watson, in which I join, as nearly as I may. Believe me, with great truth,
Mrs. Dickens and her sister send you their warmest regards and their love to Mrs. Watson, and I join in that as much as I can. Trust me, sincerely,
P.S.—Mrs. Dickens is going to write to Mrs. Watson next week, she says.
P.S.—Mrs. Dickens says she’s going to write to Mrs. Watson next week.
Paris, 48 Rue de Courcelles, St. Honoré,
Friday, Nov. 27th, 1846.
When we turned out of your view on that disconsolate Monday, when you so kindly took horse and rode forth to say good-bye, we went on in a very dull and drowsy manner, I can assure you. I could have borne a[162] world of punch in the rumble and been none the worse for it. There was an uncommonly cool inn that night, and quite a monstrous establishment at Auxonne the next night, full of flatulent passages and banging doors. The next night we passed at Montbard, where there is one of the very best little inns in all France. The next at Sens, and so we got here. The roads were bad, but not very for French roads. There was no deficiency of horses anywhere; and after Pontarlier the weather was really not too cold for comfort. They weighed our plate at the frontier custom-house, spoon by spoon, and fork by fork, and we lingered about there, in a thick fog and a hard frost, for three long hours and a half, during which the officials committed all manner of absurdities, and got into all sorts of disputes with my brave courier. This was the only misery we encountered—except leaving Lausanne, and that was enough to last us and did last us all the way here. We are living on it now. I felt, myself, much as I should think the murderer felt on that fair morning when, with his gray-haired victim (those unconscious gray hairs, soon to be bedabbled with blood), he went so far towards heaven as the top of that mountain of St. Bernard without one touch of remorse. A weight is on my breast. The only difference between me and the murderer is, that his weight was guilt and mine is regret.
When we disappeared from your sight on that gloomy Monday, when you kindly got on your horse and rode out to say goodbye, we continued on in a really boring and sleepy way, I assure you. I could have handled a ton of punch in the trunk and been none the worse for it. That night, we stayed at a particularly cool inn, and the next night, we were at this huge place in Auxonne that was full of noisy passages and slamming doors. The following night we spent in Montbard, where there’s one of the best little inns in all of France. Then we moved on to Sens, and that’s how we made it here. The roads were rough, but not too bad for French standards. There were plenty of horses everywhere, and after Pontarlier, the weather was actually pretty comfortable. They weighed our silver at the border customs, spoon by spoon, and fork by fork, and we hung around there, in thick fog and freezing temperatures, for three and a half long hours, during which the officials did all sorts of ridiculous things and got into various arguments with my brave courier. This was the only misery we faced—except for leaving Lausanne, and that experience was enough to stick with us, and it truly did all the way here. We’re still living off that. I felt a bit like I imagine a murderer feels on that fair morning when, with his gray-haired victim (those unwitting gray hairs, soon to be stained with blood), he ascended to the top of the St. Bernard mountain without a hint of remorse. There’s a weight on my chest. The only difference between me and the murderer is that his weight was guilt, and mine is regret.
I haven't a word of news to tell you. I shouldn't write at all if I were not the vainest man in the world, impelled by a belief that you will be glad to hear from me, even though you hear no more than that I have nothing to say. "Dombey" is doing wonders. It went up, after the publication of the second number, over the thirty thousand. This is such a very large sale, so early in the story, that I begin to think it will beat all the rest. Keeley and his wife[163] are making great preparations for producing the Christmas story, and I have made them (as an old stage manager) carry out one or two expensive notions of mine about scenery and so forth—in particular a sudden change from the inside of the doctor's house in the midst of the ball to the orchard in the snow—which ought to tell very well. But actors are so bad, in general, and the best are spread over so many theatres, that the "cast" is black despair and moody madness. There is no one to be got for Marion but a certain Miss ——, I am afraid—a pupil of Miss Kelly's, who acted in the private theatricals I got up a year ago. Macready took her afterwards to play Virginia to his Virginius, but she made nothing of it, great as the chance was. I have promised to show her what I mean, as near as I can, and if you will look into the English Opera House on the morning of the 17th, 18th, or 19th of next month, between the hours of eleven and four, you will find me in a very hot and dusty condition, playing all the parts of the piece, to the immense diversion of all the actors, actresses, scene-shifters, carpenters, musicians, chorus people, tailors, dressmakers, scene-painters, and general ragamuffins of the theatre.
I don’t have any news to share with you. I wouldn’t even write if I weren’t the most vain person in the world, driven by the belief that you’d be happy to hear from me, even if it’s just to know I have nothing to say. "Dombey" is doing really well. After the second issue came out, sales went over thirty thousand. That’s a huge number, especially this early in the story, so I’m starting to think it might outdo everything else. Keeley and his wife[163] are making big plans for the Christmas story, and I’ve made them carry out a couple of my expensive ideas about the scenery and so on—especially a quick shift from the inside of the doctor’s house during the ball to the snowy orchard, which should look great. But actors are usually not that good, and the best ones are scattered across so many theaters, making the casting process feel like sheer despair and gloom. The only option for Marion seems to be a certain Miss ——, who I fear is a student of Miss Kelly’s and acted in the private plays I set up a year ago. Macready later took her to play Virginia opposite his Virginius, but she didn’t do well, despite the great opportunity. I promised to show her what I mean as closely as I can, and if you check out the English Opera House on the morning of the 17th, 18th, or 19th of next month, between eleven and four, you’ll find me in a very hot and dusty state, performing all the parts of the play for the great amusement of all the actors, actresses, scene-shifters, carpenters, musicians, chorus members, tailors, dressmakers, scene painters, and general misfits of the theater.
Moore, the poet, is very ill—I fear dying. The last time I saw him was immediately before I left London, and I thought him sadly changed and tamed, but not much more so than such a man might be under the heavy hand of time. I believe he suffered severe grief in the death of a son some time ago. The first man I met in Paris was ——, who took hold of me as I was getting into a coach at the door of the hotel. He hadn't a button on his shirt (but I don't think he ever has), and you might have sown what boys call "mustard and cress" in the [164]dust on his coat. I have not seen Lord Normanby yet, as we have only just got a house (the queerest house in Europe!) to lay our heads in; but there seems reason to fear that the growing dissensions between England and France, and the irritation of the French king, may lead to the withdrawal of the minister on each side of the Channel.
Moore, the poet, is really sick—I’m worried he might die. The last time I saw him was right before I left London, and I thought he looked unfortunately changed and subdued, but not much more than a man might be under the heavy burden of time. I believe he went through deep sorrow with the death of a son some time ago. The first person I ran into in Paris was ——, who grabbed me as I was getting into a cab at the hotel. He didn’t have a button on his shirt (but I don't think he ever does), and you could have planted what kids call "mustard and cress" in the dust on his coat. I haven’t seen Lord Normanby yet, since we’ve just found a place (the strangest house in Europe!) to stay in; but there’s reason to worry that the growing conflicts between England and France, along with the French king’s irritation, may lead to the ministers on both sides of the Channel stepping back.
Have you cut down any more trees, played any more rubbers, propounded any more teasers to the players at the game of Yes and No? How is the old horse? How is the gray mare? How is Crab (to whom my respectful compliments)? Have you tried the punch yet; if yes, did it succeed; if no, why not? Is Mrs. Cerjat as happy and as well as I would have her, and all your house ditto ditto? Does Haldimand play whist with any science yet? Ha, ha, ha! the idea of his saying I hadn't any! And are those damask-cheeked virgins, the Miss ——, still sleeping on dewy rose leaves near the English church?
Have you cut down any more trees, played any more games, or posed any more riddles to the players of Yes and No? How's the old horse? How's the gray mare? How's Crab (please send my regards)? Have you tried the punch yet? If so, did it turn out well? If not, why not? Is Mrs. Cerjat as happy and healthy as I hope, and is everyone else in your house doing well too? Does Haldimand play whist with any skill yet? Ha, ha, ha! The idea of him claiming I didn’t have any skills! And are those rosy-cheeked young ladies, the Misses —, still resting on dewy rose petals near the English church?
Remember me to all your house, and most of all to its other head, with all the regard and earnestness that a "numble individual" (as they always call it in the House of Commons) who once travelled with her in a car over a smooth country may charge you with. I have added two lines to the little Christmas book, that I hope both you and she may not dislike. Haldimand will tell you what they are. Kate and Georgy send their kindest loves, and Kate is "going" to write "next week." Believe me always, my dear Cerjat, full of cordial and hearty recollections of this past summer and autumn, and your part in my part of them,
Please send my regards to everyone at your home, especially to the other head of the household, with all the warmth and sincerity that a "humble person" (as they always say in the House of Commons) who once traveled with her in a car through the countryside can convey. I’ve added a couple of lines to the little Christmas book, which I hope both you and she will like. Haldimand will share what they are. Kate and Georgy send their warmest love, and Kate is “planning” to write “next week.” Always believe me, my dear Cerjat, filled with fond and heartfelt memories of this past summer and autumn and your role in them.
58, Lincoln's Inn Fields, Saturday, Dec. 19th, 1846.
I really am bothered to death by this confounded dramatization of the Christmas book. They were in a state so horrible at Keeley's yesterday (as perhaps Forster told you when he wrote), that I was obliged to engage to read the book to them this morning. It struck me that Mrs. Leigh Murray, Miss Daly, and Vining seemed to understand it best. Certainly Miss Daly knew best what she was about yesterday. At eight to-night we have a rehearsal with scenery and band, and everything but dresses. I see no possibility of escaping from it before one or two o'clock in the morning. And I was at the theatre all day yesterday. Unless I had come to London, I do not think there would have been much hope of the version being more than just tolerated, even that doubtful. All the actors bad, all the business frightfully behindhand. The very words of the book confused in the copying into the densest and most insufferable nonsense. I must exempt, however, from the general slackness both the Keeleys. I hope they will be very good. I have never seen anything of its kind better than the manner in which they played the little supper scene between Clemency and Britain, yesterday. It was quite perfect, even to me.
I'm really fed up with this annoying adaptation of the Christmas book. They were in such a terrible state at Keeley's yesterday (as Forster might have mentioned in his letter) that I had to promise to read the book to them this morning. It seemed to me that Mrs. Leigh Murray, Miss Daly, and Vining understood it the best. Definitely, Miss Daly knew what she was doing yesterday. Tonight at eight, we have a rehearsal with the set and band, and everything except costumes. I don’t see any way to get out of it before one or two in the morning. And I was at the theater all day yesterday. If I hadn’t come to London, I don’t think there would have been much hope of the version being anything more than just accepted, if that. All the actors were bad, and everything was extremely behind schedule. The very words of the book got confused in the copying, turning into the densest and most unbearable nonsense. I must say, though, that both the Keeleys are exceptions to the general sloppiness. I hope they will be excellent. I’ve never seen anything like it done better than how they performed the little supper scene between Clemency and Britain yesterday. It was perfect, even to me.
The small manager, Forster, Talfourd, Stanny, and Mac dine with me at the Piazza to-day, before the rehearsal. I have already one or two uncommonly good stories of Mac. I reserve them for narration. I have also a dreadful cold, which I would not reserve if I could help it. I can hardly hold up my head, and fight through from hour to hour, but had serious thoughts just now of walking off to bed.[166]
The small manager, Forster, Talfourd, Stanny, and Mac are dining with me at the Piazza today before the rehearsal. I already have a couple of really good stories about Mac that I’m saving for later. I also have a terrible cold, which I wouldn’t save for later if I could avoid it. I can barely keep my head up and push through each hour, but I just seriously considered heading off to bed. [166]
Christmas book published to-day—twenty-three thousand copies already gone!!! Browne's plates for next "Dombey" much better than usual.
Christmas book published today—twenty-three thousand copies already sold!!! Browne's illustrations for the next "Dombey" are much better than usual.
I have seen nobody yet, of course. But I sent Roche up to your mother this morning, to say I am in town and will come shortly. There is a great thaw here to-day, and it is raining hard. I hope you have the advantage (if it be one, which I am not sure of) of a similar change in Paris. Of course I start again on Thursday. We are expecting (Roche and I) a letter from the malle poste people, to whom we have applied for places. The journey here was long and cold—twenty-four hours from Paris to Boulogne. Passage not very bad, and made in two hours.
I haven't seen anyone yet, of course. But I sent Roche to your mom this morning to let her know I'm in town and will be over soon. There's a big thaw happening here today, and it's pouring rain. I hope you're experiencing a similar change in Paris, if that’s good news, which I’m not sure about. I’ll be leaving again on Thursday. Roche and I are waiting for a letter from the mail service, where we applied for jobs. The trip here was long and cold—it took twenty-four hours from Paris to Boulogne. The ferry ride wasn't too bad, and it took two hours.
I find I can't write at all, so I had best leave off. I am looking impatiently for your letter on Monday morning. Give my best love to Georgy, and kisses to all the dear children. And believe me, my love,
I realize I can't write anything right now, so I should stop. I'm eagerly waiting for your letter on Monday morning. Send my love to Georgy and hugs and kisses to all the dear kids. And believe me, my love,
Piazza Coffeehouse, Covent Garden
Monday, Dec. 21st, 1846.
In a quiet interval of half an hour before going to dine at Macready's, I sit down to write you a few words. But I shall reserve my letter for to-morrow's post, in order that you may hear what I hear of the "going" of the play to-night. Think of my being there on Saturday, with a really frightful cold, and working harder than ever I did at the amateur plays, until two in the morning. There was no supper to be got, either here or anywhere else, after[167] coming out; and I was as hungry and thirsty as need be. The scenery and dresses are very good indeed, and they have spent money on it liberally. The great change from the ball-room to the snowy night is most effective, and both the departure and the return will tell, I think, strongly on an audience. I have made them very quick and excited in the passionate scenes, and so have infused some appearance of life into those parts of the play. But I can't make a Marion, and Miss —— is awfully bad. She is a mere nothing all through. I put Mr. Leigh Murray into such a state, by making him tear about, that the perspiration ran streaming down his face. They have a great let. I believe every place in the house is taken. Roche is going.
In a quiet half-hour before dinner at Macready's, I’m sitting down to write you a few lines. However, I’ll wait until tomorrow’s post to send my letter so you can hear about the play’s performance tonight. Just think, I’ll be there on Saturday with a really bad cold, working harder than I ever did with the amateur plays, until two in the morning. There wasn’t any food available here or anywhere else when we came out, and I was extremely hungry and thirsty. The sets and costumes look great, and they’ve spent money on them generously. The transition from the ballroom to the snowy night is really striking, and I believe both the departure and return will make a strong impression on the audience. I’ve made the passionate scenes very lively and quick, which has brought some energy to those parts of the play. But I can’t create a good Marion, and Miss —— is terrible. She’s completely forgettable throughout. I got Mr. Leigh Murray so worked up by making him rush around that sweat was pouring down his face. They have a full house. I believe every seat is taken. Roche is going.
Tuesday Morning.—The play went, as well as I can make out—I hoped to have had Stanny's report of it, but he is ill—with great effect. There was immense enthusiasm at its close, and great uproar and shouting for me. Forster will go on Wednesday, and write you his account of it. I saw the Keeleys on the stage at eleven o'clock or so, and they were in prodigious spirits and delight.
Tuesday Morning.—The play went, as far as I can tell—I was hoping to get Stanny's report on it, but he's sick—very well. There was a lot of excitement at the end, with loud cheering and applause for me. Forster will go on Wednesday and send you his take on it. I saw the Keeleys on stage around eleven o'clock, and they were in great spirits and really happy.
48, Rue de Courcelles, Paris,
Sunday Night, Dec. 27th, 1846.
Amen, amen. Many merry Christmases, many happy new years, unbroken friendship, great accumulation of cheerful recollections, affection on earth, and heaven at last, for all of us.
Amen, amen. Wishing everyone joyful Christmases, happy new years, lasting friendships, plenty of joyful memories, love here on earth, and peace in heaven at last, for all of us.
I enclose you a letter from Jeffrey, which you may like to read. Bring it to me back when you come over. I have[168] told him all he wants to know. Is it not a strange example of the hazards of writing in numbers that a man like him should form his notion of Dombey and Miss Tox on three months' knowledge? I have asked him the same question, and advised him to keep his eye on both of them as time rolls on.
I’m sending you a letter from Jeffrey that you might want to read. Make sure to bring it back when you come over. I have[168] told him everything he needs to know. Isn’t it strange how a guy like him can have an opinion about Dombey and Miss Tox based on just three months of knowing them? I've asked him the same thing and suggested he pay attention to both of them as time goes by.
We had a cold journey here from Boulogne, but the roads were not very bad. The malle poste, however, now takes the trains at Amiens. We missed it by ten minutes, and had to wait three hours—from twelve o'clock until three, in which interval I drank brandy and water, and slept like a top. It is delightful travelling for its speed, that malle poste, and really for its comfort too. But on this occasion it was not remarkable for the last-named quality. The director of the post at Boulogne told me a lamentable story of his son at Paris being ill, and implored me to bring him on. The brave doubted the representations altogether, but I couldn't find it in my heart to say no; so we brought the director, bodkinwise, and being a large man, in a great number of greatcoats, he crushed us dismally until we got to the railroad. For two passengers (and it never carries more) it is capital. For three, excruciating.
We had a chilly trip here from Boulogne, but the roads weren't too bad. The mail coach, however, now connects with the trains in Amiens. We missed it by ten minutes and had to wait three hours—from noon until three. During that time, I had some brandy and water and slept soundly. Traveling with the mail coach is great for its speed and pretty comfortable too. But this time, it wasn’t known for its comfort. The post director in Boulogne told me a sad story about his son being sick in Paris and begged me to take him along. The guy seemed doubtful about the whole situation, but I couldn’t bring myself to say no, so we took the director along, squeezing us in tightly. Being a big man bundled up in a lot of overcoats, he squished us terribly until we got to the train station. For two passengers (and it never takes more), it's fantastic. For three, it's torture.
Write to —— what you have said to me. You need write no more. He is full of vicious fancies and wrong suspicions, even of Hardwick, and I would rather he heard it from you than from me, whom he is not likely to love much in his heart. I doubt it may be but a rusty instrument for want of use, the ——ish heart.
Write to —— what you’ve told me. You don’t need to say anything else. He has a lot of twisted ideas and wrong suspicions, even about Hardwick, and I’d prefer he hears it from you rather than from me, since he probably won’t like me very much. I’m afraid it might just be a rusty tool from not being used—the ——— heart.
My most important present news is that I am going to take a jorum of hot rum and egg in bed immediately, and to cover myself up with all the blankets in the house. Love from all. I have a sensation in my head,[169] as if it were "on edge." It is still very cold here, but the snow had disappeared on my return, both here and on the road, except within ten miles or so of Boulogne.
My most important update is that I'm about to have a big glass of hot rum and egg in bed right now, and I'm going to wrap myself up in all the blankets I can find. Sending love to everyone. I've got this weird feeling in my head, like it's "on edge." It's still pretty cold here, but the snow was gone when I got back, both here and on the road, except for about ten miles from Boulogne.
1847.
NARRATIVE.
By the end of the Broadstairs holiday, the house in Devonshire Terrace was vacant, and the family returned to it in October. All this year Charles Dickens had been at work upon the monthly numbers of "Dombey and Son," in spite of these many interruptions. He began at Broadstairs a Christmas book. But he found that the engrossing interest of his novel approaching completion made it impossible for him to finish the other work in time. So he decided to let this Christmas pass without a story, and postponed the publication of "The Haunted Man" until the following year.
By the end of the Broadstairs holiday, the house on Devonshire Terrace was empty, and the family returned to it in October. All year, Charles Dickens had been working on the monthly installments of "Dombey and Son," despite many interruptions. He started a Christmas book while in Broadstairs. However, he realized that the intense focus on his nearly finished novel made it impossible for him to complete the other work on time. So, he decided to let this Christmas go by without a story and postponed the release of "The Haunted Man" until the next year.
At the close of the year he went to Leeds, to take the chair at a meeting of the Mechanics' Institute, and on the 28th December he presided at the opening of the Glasgow Athenæum; he and his wife being the guests of the historian—then Mr. Sheriff, afterwards Sir Archibald Alison. From a letter to his sister-in-law, written from Edinburgh, it will be seen that Mrs. Dickens was prevented by sudden illness from being present at the "demonstration." At the end of that letter there is another illustration of the odd names he was in the habit of giving to his children, the last of the three, the "Hoshen Peck," being a corruption of "Ocean Spectre"—a name which had, afterwards, a sad significance, as the boy (Sydney Smith)[171] became a sailor, and died and was buried at sea two years after his father's death.
At the end of the year, he went to Leeds to chair a meeting of the Mechanics' Institute, and on December 28th, he led the opening of the Glasgow Athenæum, where he and his wife were guests of the historian—then Mr. Sheriff, later Sir Archibald Alison. A letter he wrote to his sister-in-law from Edinburgh reveals that Mrs. Dickens couldn't attend the "demonstration" due to a sudden illness. At the end of that letter, there's another example of the unusual names he liked to give his children, with the last of the three, the "Hoshen Peck," being a twist on "Ocean Spectre"—a name that became tragically meaningful, as the boy (Sydney Smith)[171] grew up to be a sailor and died, later buried at sea, two years after his father's death.
The letters in this year need very little explanation. In the first letter to Mrs. Watson, he alludes to a sketch which she had made from "The Battle of Life," and had sent to Charles Dickens, as a remembrance, when her husband paid a short visit to Paris in this winter.
The letters from this year don't need much explanation. In the first letter to Mrs. Watson, he mentions a sketch she did from "The Battle of Life" and sent to Charles Dickens as a keepsake when her husband visited Paris for a short time this winter.
And there are two letters to Miss Marguerite Power, the niece of the Countess of Blessington—a lady for whom he had then, and until her death, a most affectionate friendship and respect, for the sake of her own admirable qualities, and in remembrance of her delightful association with Gore House, where he was a frequent visitor. For Lady Blessington he had a high admiration and great regard, and she was one of his earliest appreciators; and Alfred, Comte D'Orsay, was also a much-loved friend. His "own marchioness," alluded to in the second letter to Miss Power, was the younger and very charming sister of his correspondent.
And there are two letters to Miss Marguerite Power, the niece of the Countess of Blessington—a woman for whom he had a deep affection and respect, both for her admirable qualities and for the wonderful memories of her company at Gore House, where he often visited. He had a strong admiration and high regard for Lady Blessington, who was one of his earliest supporters; Alfred, Comte D'Orsay, was also a dear friend. His "own marchioness," mentioned in the second letter to Miss Power, was the younger and very charming sister of his correspondent.
We much regret having been unable to procure any letters addressed to Mr. Egg. His intimacy with him began first in the plays of this year; but he became, almost immediately, one of the friends for whom he had an especial affection; and Mr. Egg was a regular visitor at his house and at his seaside places of resort for many years after this date.
We really regret that we couldn't get any letters addressed to Mr. Egg. His friendship with him started this year during the plays; however, he quickly became one of the friends he cared about the most. Mr. Egg was a regular visitor at his home and at his seaside getaways for many years after that.
The letter to Mr. William Sandys has reference to an intention which Charles Dickens had entertained, of laying the scene of a story in Cornwall; Mr. Sandys, himself a Cornishman, having proposed to send him some books to help him as to the dialect.
The letter to Mr. William Sandys is about an idea that Charles Dickens had for setting a story in Cornwall; Mr. Sandys, being from Cornwall himself, suggested sending him some books to assist with the dialect.
Paris, 48 Rue de Courcelles, Jan. 25th, 1847.
I cannot allow your wandering lord to return to your—I suppose "arms" is not improper—arms, then,[172] without thanking you in half-a-dozen words for your letter, and assuring you that I had great interest and pleasure in its receipt, and that I say Amen to all you say of our happy past and hopeful future. There is a picture of Lausanne—St. Bernard—the tavern by the little lake between Lausanne and Vevay, which is kept by that drunken dog whom Haldimand believes to be so sober—and of many other such scenes, within doors and without—that rises up to my mind very often, and in the quiet pleasure of its aspect rather daunts me, as compared with the reality of a stirring life; but, please God, we will have some more pleasant days, and go up some more mountains, somewhere, and laugh together, at somebody, and form the same delightful little circle again, somehow.
I can't let your wandering lord come back to your— I guess "arms" isn’t too inappropriate—arms, then,[172] without expressing my gratitude in just a few words for your letter, and letting you know that I was really interested and pleased to receive it, and that I wholeheartedly agree with everything you said about our joyful past and promising future. There's a picture of Lausanne—St. Bernard—the inn by the small lake between Lausanne and Vevay, run by that drunkard whom Haldimand thinks is so sober—and many other such scenes, both inside and outside—that frequently come to my mind, and the quiet pleasure of their images somewhat overwhelms me when compared to the reality of our busy lives; but, God willing, we'll have more joyful days ahead, hike up more mountains together, share some laughs at someone’s expense, and recreate the same lovely little circle again somehow.
I quite agree with you about the illustrations to the little Christmas book. I was delighted with yours. Your good lord before-mentioned will inform you that it hangs up over my chair in the drawing-room here; and when you come to England (after I have seen you again in Lausanne) I will show it you in my little study at home, quietly thanking you on the bookcase. Then we will go and see some of Turner's recent pictures, and decide that question to Haldimand's utmost confusion.
I completely agree with you about the illustrations in the little Christmas book. I was thrilled with yours. Your good lord I mentioned earlier will tell you that it’s hanging above my chair in the living room here; and when you come to England (after I see you again in Lausanne) I’ll show it to you in my little study at home, quietly thanking you on the bookshelf. Then we’ll go check out some of Turner’s recent paintings and settle that question to Haldimand’s total confusion.
You will find Watson looking wonderfully well, I think. When he was first here, on his way to England, he took an extraordinary bath, in which he was rubbed all over with chemical compounds, and had everything done to him that could be invented for seven francs. It may be the influence of this treatment that I see in his face, but I think it's the prospect of coming back to Elysée. All I can say is, that when I come that way, and find myself among those friends again, I expect to be perfectly lovely—a kind of Glorious Apollo, radiant and shining with joy.[173]
You'll find Watson looking great, I think. When he was first here, on his way to England, he took a remarkable bath, where he was rubbed all over with chemical compounds and had everything done to him that could be offered for seven francs. It might be the effect of that treatment that I see in his face, but I think it's the excitement of coming back to Elysée. All I can say is, when I come that way and reunite with those friends again, I expect to be absolutely wonderful—a kind of Glorious Apollo, glowing and shining with joy.[173]
Kate and her sister send all kinds of love in this hasty packet, and I am always, my dear Mrs. Watson,
Kate and her sister send all kinds of love in this quick package, and I am always, my dear Mrs. Watson,
Paris, 48 Rue de Courcelles, St. Honoré,
Thursday, Jan. 28th, 1847.
Before you read any more, I wish you would take those tablets out of your drawer, in which you have put a black mark against my name, and erase it neatly. I don't deserve it, on my word I don't, though appearances are against me, I unwillingly confess.
Before you read any further, I wish you would take those tablets out of your drawer, where you've marked my name with a black mark, and erase it neatly. I don't deserve it, I swear I don't, even though I have to admit that it looks bad for me.
I had gone to Geneva, to recover from an uncommon depression of spirits consequent on too much sitting over "Dombey" and the little Christmas book, when I received your letter as I was going out walking, one sunshiny, windy day. I read it on the banks of the Rhone, where it runs, very blue and swift, between two high green hills, with ranges of snowy mountains filling up the distance. Its cordial and unaffected tone gave me the greatest pleasure—did me a world of good—set me up for the afternoon, and gave me an evening's subject of discourse. For I talked to "them" (that is, Kate and Georgy) about those bright mornings at the Peschiere, until bedtime, and threatened to write you such a letter next day as would—I don't exactly know what it was to do, but it was to be a great letter, expressive of all kinds of pleasant things, and, perhaps the most genial letter that ever was written.
I had gone to Geneva to bounce back from a pretty unusual funk after spending too much time reading "Dombey" and the little Christmas book when I got your letter as I was heading out for a walk on a sunny, windy day. I read it by the Rhone, where it flows, really blue and fast, between two tall green hills, with snowy mountain ranges in the background. Its warm and genuine tone brought me so much joy—totally uplifted my spirits for the afternoon and gave me something to talk about that evening. I shared with "them" (that is, Kate and Georgy) all about those bright mornings at the Peschiere until bedtime and even joked about writing you such a letter the next day that would—I’m not exactly sure what it was supposed to do, but I imagined it would be an amazing letter, filled with all sorts of nice thoughts, and maybe the friendliest letter ever written.
From that hour to this, I have again and again and again said, "I'll write to-morrow," and here I am to-day full of penitence—really sorry and ashamed, and with no excuse but my writing-life, which makes me get up and go[174] out, when my morning work is done, and look at pen and ink no more until I begin again.
From that hour until now, I’ve repeatedly said, “I’ll write tomorrow,” and here I am today, feeling regretful—truly sorry and embarrassed, with no excuse except for my writing life, which makes me get up and go[174] out after my morning work is done, not wanting to look at pen and ink again until I start up once more.
Besides which, I have been seeing Paris—wandering into hospitals, prisons, dead-houses, operas, theatres, concert-rooms, burial-grounds, palaces, and wine-shops. In my unoccupied fortnight of each month, every description of gaudy and ghastly sight has been passing before me in a rapid panorama. Before that, I had to come here from Switzerland, over frosty mountains in dense fogs, and through towns with walls and drawbridges, and without population, or anything else in particular but soldiers and mud. I took a flight to London for four days, and went and came back over one sheet of snow, sea excepted; and I wish that had been snow too. Then Forster (who is here now, and begs me to send his kindest regards) came to see Paris for himself, and in showing it to him, away I was borne again, like an enchanted rider. In short, I have had no rest in my play; and on Monday I am going to work again. A fortnight hence the play will begin once more; a fortnight after that the work will follow round, and so the letters that I care for go unwritten.
Besides that, I've been exploring Paris—wandering through hospitals, prisons, morgues, operas, theaters, concert halls, cemeteries, palaces, and wine bars. During my free two weeks each month, I've been experiencing all kinds of flashy and creepy sights in a quick whirlwind. Before that, I traveled here from Switzerland, over snowy mountains in thick fog, and through towns with walls and drawbridges that were mostly deserted except for soldiers and mud. I took a quick trip to London for four days, and I went back over a blanket of snow, except for the sea; I wish that had been snow too. Then Forster (who is here now and asks me to send his warmest regards) came to see Paris for himself, and while showing it to him, I was swept away again like an enchanted rider. In short, I haven’t found any rest in my play; and on Monday, I'm going to get back to work. In two weeks, the play will start up again; two weeks after that, the work will follow, and so the letters I care about remain unwritten.
Do you care for French news? I hope not, because I don't know any. There is a melodrama, called "The French Revolution," now playing at the Cirque, in the first act of which there is the most tremendous representation of a people that can well be imagined. There are wonderful battles and so forth in the piece, but there is a power and massiveness in the mob which is positively awful. At another theatre, "Clarissa Harlowe" is still the rage. There are some things in it rather calculated to astonish the ghost of Richardson, but Clarissa is very admirably played, and dies better than the original to my thinking; but Richardson is no great favourite of mine, and never[175] seems to me to take his top-boots off, whatever he does. Several pieces are in course of representation, involving rare portraits of the English. In one, a servant, called "Tom Bob," who wears a particularly English waistcoat, trimmed with gold lace and concealing his ankles, does very good things indeed. In another, a Prime Minister of England, who has ruined himself by railway speculations, hits off some of our national characteristics very happily, frequently making incidental mention of "Vishmingster," "Regeenstreet," and other places with which you are well acquainted. "Sir Fakson" is one of the characters in another play—"English to the Core;" and I saw a Lord Mayor of London at one of the small theatres the other night, looking uncommonly well in a stage-coachman's waistcoat, the order of the Garter, and a very low-crowned broad-brimmed hat, not unlike a dustman.
Do you follow French news? I hope not, because I don’t know much about it. There’s a melodrama, called "The French Revolution," currently showing at the Cirque, and in the first act, there’s an incredible portrayal of a people that’s hard to imagine. There are amazing battles and so on in the show, but the sheer power and size of the crowd is downright scary. At another theater, "Clarissa Harlowe" is still really popular. There are elements in it that might surprise the spirit of Richardson, but Clarissa is played very well and dies better than the original, in my opinion; however, Richardson has never been my favorite and always seems to keep his high boots on, no matter what he does. Several plays are currently being performed, showcasing rare depictions of the English. In one, a servant named "Tom Bob," who wears a distinctly English waistcoat trimmed with gold lace that hides his ankles, does a fantastic job. In another, a Prime Minister of England, who has bankrupted himself through railway investments, captures some of our national traits quite well, frequently mentioning "Vishmingster," "Regeenstreet," and other places you know well. "Sir Fakson" is a character in another play—"English to the Core;" and I saw a Lord Mayor of London at one of the smaller theaters the other night, looking remarkably good in a stage-coachman’s waistcoat, the order of the Garter, and a very low-crowned broad-brimmed hat that resembled a dustman’s.
I was at Geneva at the time of the revolution. The moderation and mildness of the successful party were beyond all praise. Their appeals to the people of all parties—printed and pasted on the walls—have no parallel that I know of, in history, for their real good sterling Christianity and tendency to promote the happiness of mankind. My sympathy is strongly with the Swiss radicals. They know what Catholicity is; they see, in some of their own valleys, the poverty, ignorance, misery, and bigotry it always brings in its train wherever it is triumphant; and they would root it out of their children's way at any price. I fear the end of the struggle will be, that some Catholic power will step in to crush the dangerously well-educated republics (very dangerous to such neighbours); but there is a spirit in the people, or I very much mistake them, that will trouble the Jesuits there many years, and shake their altar steps for them.[176]
I was in Geneva during the revolution. The moderation and kindness of the successful group were truly commendable. Their messages to people from all parties—printed and plastered on the walls—are unmatched in history for their genuine Christian values and commitment to increasing human happiness. I strongly support the Swiss radicals. They understand what Catholicism can bring; they see, in some of their own valleys, the poverty, ignorance, misery, and bigotry that always follow it wherever it gains power, and they want to eliminate it from their children’s future at any cost. I worry that the outcome of the struggle will be that some Catholic power will intervene to crush the dangerously educated republics (which is very threatening to such neighbors); but there’s a spirit among the people, or I would be very mistaken, that will keep the Jesuits on their toes for many years and challenge their authority.[176]
This is a poor return (I look down and see the end of the paper) for your letter, but in its cordial spirit of reciprocal friendship, it is not so bad a one if you could read it as I do, and it eases my mind and discharges my conscience. We are coming home, please God, at the end of March. Kate and Georgy send their best regards to you, and their loves to Mrs. and Miss Tagart and the children. Our children wish to live too in your children's remembrance. You will be glad, I know, to hear that "Dombey" is doing wonders, and that the Christmas book shot far ahead of its predecessors. I hope you will like the last chapter of No. 5. If you can spare me a scrap of your handwriting in token of forgiveness, do; if not, I'll come and beg your pardon on the 31st of March.
This isn’t a great response (I look down and see the end of the paper) for your letter, but in the friendly spirit of mutual friendship, it’s not so bad if you could read it like I do, and it puts my mind at ease and clears my conscience. We’re coming home, God willing, at the end of March. Kate and Georgy send their best wishes to you, and their love to Mrs. and Miss Tagart and the kids. Our kids want to be remembered by your children too. I know you’ll be happy to hear that "Dombey" is doing great, and that the Christmas book really outperformed the previous ones. I hope you enjoy the last chapter of No. 5. If you can send me a little note in your handwriting as a sign of forgiveness, please do; if not, I’ll come and apologize in person on March 31st.
Cordially and truly yours.
Victoria Hotel, Euston Square
Thursday, March 4th, 1847.
I have not got much to say, and that's the truth; but I cannot let this letter go into the post without wishing you many many happy returns of your birthday, and sending my love to Auntey and to Katey, and to all of them. We were at Mrs. Macready's last night, where there was a little party in honour of Mr. Macready's birthday. We had some dancing, and they wished very much that you and Katey had been there; so did I and your mamma. We have not got back to Devonshire Terrace yet, but are living at an hotel until Sir James Duke returns from Scotland, which will be on Saturday or Monday. I hope when he comes home and finds us here he will go out of Devonshire[177] Terrace, and let us get it ready for you. Roche is coming back to you very soon. He will leave here on Saturday morning. He says he hopes you will have a very happy birthday, and he means to drink your health on the road to Paris.
I don’t have much to say, and that’s the truth; but I can’t send this letter without wishing you a ton of happy returns on your birthday and sending my love to Aunty and Katey, and to everyone. We were at Mrs. Macready’s last night for a small party celebrating Mr. Macready’s birthday. We did some dancing, and everyone really wished you and Katey could have been there; so did I and your mom. We haven’t gone back to Devonshire Terrace yet and are staying at a hotel until Sir James Duke comes back from Scotland, which will be on Saturday or Monday. I hope when he gets home and sees us here, he’ll head out of Devonshire Terrace and let us get it ready for you. Roche will be coming back to you very soon. He’s leaving here on Saturday morning. He says he hopes you have a really happy birthday, and he plans to toast your health on the way to Paris.
Chester Place, Tuesday Night.
So far from having "got through my agonies," as you benevolently hope, I have not yet begun them. No, on this ninth of the month I have not yet written a single slip. What could I do; house-hunting at first, and beleaguered all day to-day and yesterday by furniture that must be altered, and things that must be put away? My wretchedness, just now, is inconceivable. Tell Anne, by-the-bye (not with reference to my wretchedness, but in connection with the arrangements generally), that I can't get on at all without her.
So far from having "gotten through my struggles," as you kindly hope, I haven’t even started them yet. No, on this ninth of the month I haven’t written a single thing. What can I do? I’ve been house-hunting at first, and I’ve been overwhelmed all day today and yesterday by furniture that needs to be altered and stuff that needs to be put away. My misery right now is unimaginable. By the way, tell Anne (not about my misery, but regarding the general arrangements) that I can’t manage at all without her.
If Kate has not mentioned it, get Katey and Mamey to write and send a letter to Charley; of course not hinting at our being here. He wants to hear from them.
If Kate hasn't brought it up, have Katey and Mamey write and send a letter to Charley; definitely don't mention that we're here. He wants to hear from them.
Poor little Hall is dead, as you will have seen, I dare say, in the paper. This house is very cheerful on the drawing-room floor and above, looking into the park on one side and Albany Street on the other. Forster is mild. Maclise, exceedingly bald on the crown of his head. Roche has just come in to know if he may "blow datter light." Love to all the darlings. Regards to everybody else. Love to yourself.
Poor little Hall is dead, as you probably saw in the newspaper. This house is very cheerful on the drawing-room floor and above, looking into the park on one side and Albany Street on the other. Forster is nice. Maclise is really bald on the top of his head. Roche has just come in to ask if he can "blow that light." Love to all the darlings. Regards to everyone else. Love to you too.
148, King's Road, Brighton, Monday, May 24, 1847.
I was very glad to receive your nice letter. I am going to tell you something that I hope will please you. It is this: I am coming to London Thursday, and I mean to bring you both back here with me, to stay until we all come home together on the Saturday. I hope you like this.
I was really happy to get your lovely letter. I want to share something that I hope will make you happy. It’s this: I’m coming to London on Thursday, and I plan to bring you both back here with me to stay until we all head home together on Saturday. I hope you like this.
Tell John to come with the carriage to the London Bridge Station, on Thursday morning at ten o'clock, and to wait there for me. I will then come home and fetch you.
Tell John to bring the carriage to London Bridge Station on Thursday morning at 10 AM and to wait for me there. Then I’ll come home and pick you up.
Mamma and Auntey and Charley send their loves. I send mine too, to Walley, Spim, and Alfred, and Sydney.
Mom, Auntie, and Charley send their love. I send mine too, to Walley, Spim, Alfred, and Sydney.
Your affectionate Papa.
1, Devonshire Terrace, June 13th, 1847.
Many thanks for your kind note. I shall hope to see you when we return to town, from which we shall now be absent (with a short interval in next month) until October. Your account of the Cornishmen gave me great pleasure; and if I were not sunk in engagements so far, that the crown of my head is invisible to my nearest friends, I should have asked you to make me known to them. The new dialogue I will ask you by-and-by to let me see. I have, for the present, abandoned the idea of sinking a shaft in Cornwall.
Many thanks for your nice note. I hope to see you when we get back to town, from which we'll be away (with a short break next month) until October. Your story about the Cornishmen really pleased me; and if I weren't so caught up in commitments that my closest friends can't even see the top of my head, I would have asked you to introduce me to them. I'll ask you to let me see the new dialogue at a later time. For now, I've given up on the idea of digging a shaft in Cornwall.
I have sent your Shakesperian extracts to Collier. It is a great comfort, to my thinking, that so little is known concerning the poet. It is a fine mystery; and I tremble every day lest something should come out. If he had had a[179] Boswell, society wouldn't have respected his grave, but would calmly have had his skull in the phrenological shop-windows.
I’ve sent your Shakespeare excerpts to Collier. I find it really comforting that so little is known about the poet. It’s a beautiful mystery, and I worry every day that something might be revealed. If he had had a[179] Boswell, people wouldn’t have respected his grave; they would have casually displayed his skull in phrenology shop windows.
Faithfully yours.
Chester Place, June 14th, 1847.
Haldimand stayed at No. 7, Connaught Place, Hyde Park, when I saw him yesterday. But he was going to cross to Boulogne to-day.
Haldimand was at No. 7, Connaught Place, Hyde Park when I saw him yesterday. But he was planning to head to Boulogne today.
The young Pariah seems pretty comfortable. He is of a cosmopolitan spirit I hope, and stares with a kind of leaden satisfaction at his spoons, without afflicting himself much about the established church.
The young Pariah seems quite at ease. I hope he has a worldly attitude and gazes with a sort of heavy contentment at his spoons, without worrying too much about the established church.
P.S.—I think of bringing an action against you for a new sort of breach of promise, and calling all the bishops to estimate the damage of having our christening postponed for a fortnight. It appears to me that I shall get a good deal of money in this way. If you have any compromise to offer, my solicitors are Dodson and Fogg.
P.S.—I'm considering taking legal action against you for a new kind of breach of promise and getting all the bishops to assess the damage from postponing our christening for two weeks. It seems to me that I could make quite a bit of money from this. If you have any compromise to propose, my lawyers are Dodson and Fogg.
Broadstairs, England, July 2nd, 1847.
Let me thank you, very sincerely, for your kind note and for the little book. I read the latter on my way down here with the greatest pleasure. It is a charming story gracefully told, and very gracefully and worthily translated. I have not been better pleased with a book for a long time.
Let me sincerely thank you for your kind note and for the little book. I read it on my way down here and enjoyed it immensely. It's a delightful story, beautifully told and wonderfully translated. I haven't been this pleased with a book in a long time.
I cannot say I take very kindly to the illustrations.[180] They are a long way behind the tale to my thinking. The artist understands it very well, I dare say, but does not express his understanding of it, in the least degree, to any sense of mine.
I can’t say I’m a fan of the illustrations.[180] They seem really disconnected from the story, in my opinion. The artist probably gets it well enough, but they don’t communicate that understanding to me at all.
Ah Rosherville! That fated Rosherville, when shall we see it! Perhaps in one of those intervals when I am up to town from here, and suddenly appear at Gore House, somebody will propose an excursion there, next day. If anybody does, somebody else will be ready to go. So this deponent maketh oath and saith.
Ah Rosherville! That destined Rosherville, when will we see it! Maybe during one of those times when I travel to the city from here, and suddenly show up at Gore House, someone will suggest a trip there the next day. If someone does, another person will be eager to join. So I swear and affirm.
I am looking out upon a dark gray sea, with a keen north-east wind blowing it in shore. It is more like late autumn than midsummer, and there is a howling in the air as if the latter were in a very hopeless state indeed. The very Banshee of Midsummer is rattling the windows drearily while I write. There are no visitors in the place but children, and they (my own included) have all got the hooping-cough, and go about the beach choking incessantly. A miserable wanderer lectured in a library last night about astronomy; but being in utter solitude he snuffed out the transparent planets he had brought with him in a box and fled in disgust. A white mouse and a little tinkling box of music that stops at "come," in the melody of the Buffalo Gals, and can't play "out to-night," are the only amusements left.
I’m looking out at a dark gray sea, with a sharp northeast wind blowing it ashore. It feels more like late autumn than midsummer, and there’s a howling in the air as if midsummer is in a really bad place. The very ghost of Midsummer is rattling the windows drearily while I write. There are no visitors here except for children, and they (including my own) all have the whooping cough and wander the beach coughing non-stop. A miserable traveler gave a talk in a library last night about astronomy, but being completely alone, he shut down the transparent planets he had brought in a box and left in disgust. A white mouse and a little music box that stops at "come," in the tune of Buffalo Gals, and can't play "out to-night," are the only entertainment left.
I beg from my solitude to send my love to Lady Blessington, and your sister, and Count D'Orsay. I think of taming spiders, as Baron Trenck did. There is one in my cell (with a speckled body and twenty-two very decided knees) who seems to know me.
I ask from my solitude to send my love to Lady Blessington, your sister, and Count D'Orsay. I think about taming spiders, like Baron Trenck did. There's one in my cell (with a speckled body and twenty-two very distinct knees) who seems to recognize me.
Faithfully yours ever.
Broadstairs, July 9th, 1847.
I am really more obliged to you for your kindness about "The Eagle" (as I always call your house) than I can say. But when I come to town to-morrow week, for the Liverpool and Manchester plays, I shall have Kate and Georgy with me. Moreover I shall be continually going out and coming in at unholy hours. Item, the timid will come at impossible seasons to "go over" their parts with the manager. Item, two Jews with musty sacks of dresses will be constantly coming backwards and forwards. Item, sounds as of "groans" will be heard while the inimitable Boz is "getting" his words—which happens all day. Item, Forster will incessantly deliver an address by Bulwer. Item, one hundred letters per diem will arrive from Manchester and Liverpool; and five actresses, in very limp bonnets, with extraordinary veils attached to them, will be always calling, protected by five mothers.
I really appreciate your kindness regarding "The Eagle" (as I always call your place) more than I can express. But when I come to town tomorrow week for the Liverpool and Manchester plays, I’ll have Kate and Georgy with me. Plus, I’ll be going in and out at all hours. Also, the shy actors will show up at odd times to rehearse their lines with the manager. Additionally, two guys with old sacks of costumes will be constantly coming and going. You’ll also hear "groans" as the incomparable Boz works on his lines—which happens all day. On top of that, Forster will continuously deliver a speech by Bulwer. Lastly, one hundred letters each day will arrive from Manchester and Liverpool, and five actresses, wearing very floppy bonnets with strange veils, will always be dropping by, accompanied by their five mothers.
No, no, my actuary. Some congenial tavern is the fitting scene for these things, if I don't get into Devonshire Terrace, whereof I have some spark of hope. Eagles couldn't look the sun in the face and have such enormities going on in their nests.
No, no, my actuary. A friendly pub is the right place for these things, unless I manage to get into Devonshire Terrace, where I still have a bit of hope. Eagles couldn't face the sun and have such outrageous things happening in their nests.
I am, for the time, that obscene thing, in short, now chronicled in the Marylebone Register of Births—
I am, for now, that outrageous thing, in short, now recorded in the Marylebone Register of Births—
Though still yours.
Broadstairs, UK, Tuesday, July 14th, 1847.
Though I am hopeless of Rosherville until after the 28th—for am I not beckoned, by angels of charity and by local committees, to Manchester and Liverpool, and to all sorts of bedevilments (if I may be allowed the expression)[182] in the way of managerial miseries in the meantime—here I find myself falling into parenthesis within parenthesis, like Lord Brougham—yet will I joyfully come up to London on Friday, to dine at your house and meet the Dane, whose Books I honour, and whose—to make the sentiment complete, I want something that would sound like "Bones, I love!" but I can't get anything that unites reason with beauty. You, who have genius and beauty in your own person, will supply the gap in your kindness.
Though I'm booked for Rosherville until after the 28th—since I’m being called by charitable groups and local committees to Manchester and Liverpool, along with all sorts of troubled challenges (if I can say that)—here I find myself falling into a complex situation like Lord Brougham. Still, I’m excited to come up to London on Friday to have dinner at your place and meet the Dane, whose books I admire, and whose— to complete the sentiment, I wish I had something that sounds like "Bones, I love!" but I can't find anything that combines reason with beauty. You, who possess both genius and beauty, will fill that gap with your kindness.
An advertisement in the newspapers mentioning the dinner-time, will be esteemed a favour.
An ad in the newspapers mentioning the dinner time will be appreciated.
Some wild beasts (in cages) have come down here, and involved us in a whirl of dissipation. A young lady in complete armour—at least, in something that shines very much, and is exceedingly scaley—goes into the den of ferocious lions, tigers, leopards, etc., and pretends to go to sleep upon the principal lion, upon which a rustic keeper, who speaks through his nose, exclaims, "Behold the abazid power of woobad!" and we all applaud tumultuously.
Some wild animals (in cages) have come down here and got us caught up in a frenzy of indulgence. A young woman in full armor—well, something that shines a lot and is really scaly—walks into the den of fierce lions, tigers, leopards, and so on, and pretends to fall asleep on the main lion, prompting a local keeper, who talks through his nose, to shout, "Check out the amazing power of woobad!" and we all cheer wildly.
Seriously, she beats Van Amburgh. And I think the Duke of Wellington must have her painted by Landseer.
Seriously, she outshines Van Amburgh. And I believe the Duke of Wellington should have her portrait done by Landseer.
My penitent regards to Lady Blessington, Count D'Orsay, and my own Marchioness.
My sincere apologies to Lady Blessington, Count D'Orsay, and my own Marchioness.
Very faithfully yours.
Broadstairs, Wednesday, August 4th, 1847.
I am delighted to hear that you are going to improve in your spelling, because nobody can write properly without spelling well. But I know you will learn whatever you are taught, because you are always good, industrious, and attentive. That is what I always say of my Mamey.[183]
I’m really happy to hear that you’re going to work on your spelling, because you can’t write well without being good at spelling. But I know you’ll learn whatever you’re taught, because you’re always kind, hardworking, and focused. That’s what I always say about my Mamey.[183]
The note you sent me this morning is a very nice one, and the spelling is beautiful.
The note you sent me this morning is really lovely, and the spelling is fantastic.
Your affectionate Papa.
Devonshire Terrace, Tuesday Morning, Nov. 23rd, 1847.
I am in the whirlwind of finishing a number with a crisis in it; but I can't fall to work without saying, in so many words, that I feel all words insufficient to tell you what I think of you after a night like last night. The multitudes of new tokens by which I know you for a great man, the swelling within me of my love for you, the pride I have in you, the majestic reflection I see in you of all the passions and affections that make up our mystery, throw me into a strange kind of transport that has no expression but in a mute sense of an attachment, which, in truth and fervency, is worthy of its subject.
I’m caught up in wrapping up a project that’s filled with chaos; but I can't get to work without expressing, directly, that I find words inadequate to convey what I feel for you after a night like last night. The countless new signs that show me you are a remarkable person, the growing love I have for you, the pride I feel in you, and the powerful reflection of all the passions and emotions that define our mystery, throw me into a strange state of euphoria that can only be felt as a deep sense of connection, which, in its truth and intensity, truly honors its source.
What is this to say! Nothing, God knows, and yet I cannot leave it unsaid.
What does this mean? Nothing, God knows, but I still can't leave it unspoken.
P.S.—I never saw you more gallant and free than in the gallant and free scenes last night. It was perfectly captivating to behold you. However, it shall not interfere with my determination to address you as Old Parr in all future time.
P.S.—I’ve never seen you more bold and carefree than in the bold and carefree moments last night. It was truly captivating to watch you. However, that won’t change my decision to call you Old Parr from now on.
Edinburgh, Thursday, December 13th, 1847.
I "take up my pen," as the young ladies write, to let you know how we are getting on; and as I shall be obliged to put it down again very soon, here goes. We lived with very hospitable people in a very splendid house[184] near Glasgow, and were perfectly comfortable. The meeting was the most stupendous thing as to numbers, and the most beautiful as to colours and decorations I ever saw. The inimitable did wonders. His grace, elegance, and eloquence, enchanted all beholders. Kate didn't go! having been taken ill on the railroad between here and Glasgow.
I’m "taking up my pen," like the young ladies say, to let you know how we’re doing; and since I’ll have to put it down again very soon, here goes. We stayed with some really welcoming people in a gorgeous house[184] near Glasgow, and we were completely comfortable. The meeting was the most incredible thing in terms of numbers, and the most beautiful regarding colors and decorations I’ve ever seen. The unique one did wonders. His grace, elegance, and eloquence captivated everyone. Kate didn’t go! She got sick on the train between here and Glasgow.
It has been snowing, sleeting, thawing, and freezing, sometimes by turns and sometimes all together, since the night before last. Lord Jeffrey's household are in town here, not at Craigcrook, and jogging on in a cosy, old-fashioned, comfortable sort of way. We have some idea of going to York on Sunday, passing that night at Alfred's, and coming home on Monday; but of this, Kate will advise you when she writes, which she will do to-morrow, after I shall have seen the list of railway trains.
It’s been snowing, sleeting, thawing, and freezing—sometimes in sequence and sometimes all at once—since the night before last. Lord Jeffrey's family is here in town, not at Craigcrook, and they’re going about things in a cozy, old-fashioned, comfortable way. We’re thinking about going to York on Sunday, spending the night at Alfred’s, and coming back on Monday. But Kate will fill you in when she writes, which she’ll do tomorrow after I’ve checked the train schedule.
She sends her best love. She is a little poorly still, but nothing to speak of. She is frightfully anxious that her not having been to the great demonstration should be kept a secret. But I say that, like murder, it will out, and that to hope to veil such a tremendous disgrace from the general intelligence is out of the question. In one of the Glasgow papers she is elaborately described. I rather think Miss Alison, who is seventeen, was taken for her, and sat for the portrait.
She sends her love. She's still a bit under the weather, but it's nothing serious. She's really worried that her absence from the big demonstration remains a secret. But I believe that, like a crime, the truth will come out, and hoping to hide such a huge embarrassment from everyone is unrealistic. One of the Glasgow newspapers has a detailed description of her. I think Miss Alison, who is seventeen, was mistaken for her and posed for the picture.
Best love from both of us, to Charley, Mamey, Katey, Wally, Chickenstalker, Skittles, and the Hoshen Peck; last, and not least, to you. We talked of you at the Macreadys' party on Monday night. I hope —— came out lively, also that —— was truly amiable. Finally, that —— took everybody to their carriages, and that —— wept a good deal during the festivities? God bless you. Take care of yourself, for the sake of mankind in general.
Best wishes from both of us to Charley, Mamey, Katey, Wally, Chickenstalker, Skittles, and the Hoshen Peck; last but not least, to you. We talked about you at the Macreadys' party on Monday night. I hope —— had a great time, and that —— was really pleasant. Lastly, that —— helped everyone to their carriages, and that —— cried quite a bit during the celebrations? God bless you. Take care of yourself, for the sake of everyone.
>1848.
NARRATIVE.
In this summer, his eldest sister Fanny (Mrs. Burnett) died, and there are sorrowful allusions to her illness in several of the letters.
In this summer, his oldest sister Fanny (Mrs. Burnett) passed away, and there are sad mentions of her illness in several of the letters.
The autumn months were again spent at Broadstairs, where he wrote "The Haunted Man," which was illustrated by Mr. Frank Stone, Mr. Leech, and others. At the end of the year and at the end of his work, he took another short holiday at Brighton with his wife and sister-in-law; and the letters to Mr. Stone on the subject of his illustrations to "The Haunted Man" are written from Brighton. The[186] first letters which we have to Mr. Mark Lemon come here. We regret to have been unable to procure any letters addressed to Mr. Leech, with whom, as with Mr. Lemon, Charles Dickens was very intimately associated for many years.
The autumn months were once again spent in Broadstairs, where he wrote "The Haunted Man," illustrated by Mr. Frank Stone, Mr. Leech, and others. At the end of the year, after finishing his work, he took a short holiday in Brighton with his wife and sister-in-law; the letters to Mr. Stone regarding the illustrations for "The Haunted Man" were written from Brighton. The[186] first letters we have to Mr. Mark Lemon are included here. We regret that we couldn’t find any letters addressed to Mr. Leech, with whom, like Mr. Lemon, Charles Dickens was very closely connected for many years.
Also, we have the beginning of his correspondence with Mr. Charles Kent. He wrote (an unusual thing for him to do) to the editor of The Sun newspaper, begging him to thank the writer of a particularly sympathetic and earnest review of "Dombey and Son," which appeared in The Sun at the close of the book. Mr. Charles Kent replied in his proper person, and from that time dates a close friendship and constant correspondence.
Also, we have the start of his correspondence with Mr. Charles Kent. He wrote (which was unusual for him) to the editor of The Sun newspaper, asking him to thank the writer of a particularly heartfelt and sincere review of "Dombey and Son," which was published in The Sun at the end of the book. Mr. Charles Kent responded personally, and from that point on, they developed a close friendship and kept in touch regularly.
With the letter to Mr. Forster we give, as a note, a letter which Baron Taüchnitz published in his edition of Mr. Forster's "Life of Oliver Goldsmith."
With the letter to Mr. Forster, we include, as a note, a letter that Baron Taüchnitz published in his edition of Mr. Forster's "Life of Oliver Goldsmith."
Mr. Peter Cunningham, as an important member of the "Shakespeare's House" committee, managed the un-theatrical part of this Amateur Provincial Tour, and was always pleasantly connected with the plays.
Mr. Peter Cunningham, an important member of the "Shakespeare's House" committee, managed the un-theatrical part of this Amateur Provincial Tour and was always positively involved with the plays.
The book alluded to in the last letter for this year, to be dedicated to Charles Dickens's daughters by Mr. Mark Lemon, was called "The Enchanted Doll."
The book mentioned in the last letter for this year, which will be dedicated to Charles Dickens's daughters by Mr. Mark Lemon, was titled "The Enchanted Doll."
Devonshire Terrace, February 26th, 1848.
Pray let me thank you for your pamphlet.
Thanks for your pamphlet.
I confess that I am one of the unconvinced grumblers, and that I doubt the present or future existence of any government in England, strong enough to convert the people to your income-tax principles. But I do not the less appreciate the ability with which you advocate them, nor am I the less gratified by any mark of your remembrance.
I admit that I’m one of the skeptical complainers, and I question whether there’s currently or will ever be a government in England strong enough to persuade people to adopt your income tax ideas. However, I still appreciate how well you argue for them, and I’m still pleased by any sign that you remember me.
Junction House, Brighton, March 2nd, 1848.
We have migrated from the Bedford and come here, where we are very comfortably (not to say gorgeously) accommodated. Mrs. Macready is certainly better already, and I really have very great hopes that she will come back in a condition so blooming, as to necessitate the presentation of a piece of plate to the undersigned trainer.
We moved from Bedford and came here, where we're very
You mean to come down on Sunday and on Sunday week. If you don't, I shall immediately take the Victoria, and start Mr. ——, of the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, as a smashing tragedian. Pray don't impose upon me this cruel necessity.
You plan to come down on Sunday and the Sunday after that. If you don’t, I’ll immediately take the Victoria and send Mr. —— from the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, as an amazing tragedian. Please don’t force me into this awful situation.
I think Lamartine, so far, one of the best fellows in the world; and I have lively hopes of that great people establishing a noble republic. Our court had best be careful not to overdo it in respect of sympathy with ex-royalty and ex-nobility. Those are not times for such displays, as, it strikes me, the people in some of our great towns would be apt to express pretty plainly.
I think Lamartine is one of the best people in the world so far, and I have high hopes for that great nation to set up a noble republic. Our court should be careful not to go overboard with sympathy for former royals and nobility. These aren’t the right times for such displays, as it seems to me that people in some of our major cities would likely make their feelings quite clear.
However, we'll talk of all this on these Sundays, and Mr. —— shall not be raised to the pinnacle of fame.
However, we'll discuss all this on these Sundays, and Mr. —— will not be elevated to the peak of fame.
My dear Macready.
Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park
Friday, April 14th, 1848.
Mr. Charles Dickens presents his compliments to the Editor of The Sun, and begs that gentleman will have the goodness to convey to the writer of the notice of "Dombey and Son," in last evening's paper, Mr. Dickens's warmest[188] acknowledgments and thanks. The sympathy expressed in it is so very earnestly and unaffectedly stated, that it is particularly welcome and gratifying to Mr. Dickens, and he feels very desirous indeed to convey that assurance to the writer of that frank and genial farewell.
Mr. Charles Dickens sends his regards to the Editor of The Sun and kindly requests that he pass along Mr. Dickens's heartfelt thanks to the author of the review of "Dombey and Son" in last night's paper. The sympathy shown in the review is so genuinely and sincerely expressed that it is especially appreciated and pleasing to Mr. Dickens, who is eager to convey that sentiment to the writer of that honest and warm farewell.
1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park,
April 18th, 1848.
Pray let me repeat to you personally what I expressed in my former note, and allow me to assure you, as an illustration of my sincerity, that I have never addressed a similar communication to anybody except on one occasion.
Pray let me repeat to you personally what I expressed in my former note, and allow me to assure you, as an illustration of my sincerity, that I have never addressed a similar communication to anybody except on one occasion.
Devonshire Terrace, Saturday, April 22nd, 1848.
I finished Goldsmith yesterday, after dinner, having read it from the first page to the last with the greatest care and attention.
I finished Goldsmith yesterday after dinner, reading it from the first page to the last with a lot of care and attention.
As a picture of the time, I really think it impossible to give it too much praise. It seems to me to be the very essence of all about the time that I have ever seen in biography or fiction, presented in most wise and humane lights, and in a thousand new and just aspects. I have never liked Johnson half so well. Nobody's contempt for Boswell ought to be capable of increase, but I have never seen him in my mind's eye half so plainly. The introduction of him is quite a masterpiece. I should point to that, if I didn't know the author, as being done by somebody with a remarkably vivid conception of what he narrated, and a most admirable and fanciful power of communicating it to another. All about Reynolds is charming; and the first account of the Literary Club and of Beauclerc as excellent a piece of description as ever I read in my life. But to read the book is to be in the time. It lives again in as fresh and lively a manner as if it were presented on an impossibly good stage by the very best actors that ever lived, or by the real actors come out of their graves on purpose.
As a reflection of its era, I truly believe it deserves all the praise it gets. It captures the essence of everything I've seen about that time in both biography and fiction, presented in wise and humane ways, with countless fresh and accurate perspectives. I’ve never appreciated Johnson as much as I do now. While no one’s disdain for Boswell can really grow, I’ve never seen him as clearly in my mind before. The way he's introduced is a true masterpiece. If I didn't know the author, I’d think it was written by someone with a remarkably vivid imagination and an amazing ability to share that vision with others. Everything about Reynolds is delightful, and the initial depiction of the Literary Club and Beauclerc is one of the best descriptions I've ever read. But reading the book feels like stepping back into that time. It brings the past to life in such a vibrant way, as if it were being performed on an impossibly perfect stage by the greatest actors who ever lived, or even by the actual people who have risen from their graves just for this.
And as to Goldsmith himself, and his life, and the tracing of it out in his own writings, and the manful and dignified assertion of him without any sobs, whines, or convulsions of any sort, it is throughout a noble achievement, of which, apart from any private and personal affection for you, I think (and really believe) I should feel proud, as one who had no indifferent perception of these books of his—to the best of my remembrance—when little more than a child. I was a little afraid in the beginning, when he committed those very discouraging imprudences, that you were going to champion him somewhat indiscriminately; but I very soon got over that fear, and found reason in every page to admire the sense, calmness, and moderation with which you make the love and admiration[190] of the reader cluster about him from his youth, and strengthen with his strength—and weakness too, which is better still.
And when it comes to Goldsmith himself, his life, and how it’s laid out in his own writings, along with the strong and dignified way of presenting him without any tears, complaints, or dramatic fuss, it’s all a remarkable accomplishment. Apart from any personal affection I have for you, I genuinely believe I would feel proud of it, as someone who had a good appreciation for his books—to the best of my memory—back when I was still just a kid. I was a bit worried at first, when he made some really discouraging mistakes, that you were going to defend him a bit too blindly; but I quickly got over that concern and found reason on every page to admire the reason, calmness, and balance with which you let the reader's love and admiration for him build from his youth, and grow with both his strength—and even his weaknesses, which is even better.
I don't quite agree with you in two small respects. First, I question very much whether it would have been a good thing for every great man to have had his Boswell, inasmuch as I think that two Boswells, or three at most, would have made great men extraordinarily false, and would have set them on always playing a part, and would have made distinguished people about them for ever restless and distrustful. I can imagine a succession of Boswells bringing about a tremendous state of falsehood in society, and playing the very devil with confidence and friendship. Secondly, I cannot help objecting to that practice (begun, I think, or greatly enlarged by Hunt) of italicising lines and words and whole passages in extracts, without some very special reason indeed. It does appear to be a kind of assertion of the editor over the reader—almost over the author himself—which grates upon me. The author might almost as well do it himself to my thinking, as a disagreeable thing; and it is such a strong contrast to the modest, quiet, tranquil beauty of "The Deserted Village," for instance, that I would almost as soon hear "the town crier" speak the lines. The practice always reminds me of a man seeing a beautiful view, and not thinking how beautiful it is half so much as what he shall say about it.
I don’t completely agree with you on a couple of small points. First, I seriously doubt it would have been beneficial for every great person to have their own Boswell, because I believe that having two Boswells, or maybe three at most, would have made these great individuals seem extraordinarily inauthentic and would have forced them into always acting a part, creating a sense of restlessness and distrust among the notable people around them. I can picture a string of Boswells leading to a massive level of dishonesty in society and wreaking havoc on trust and friendship. Secondly, I can’t help but object to the practice (which I think was started or significantly expanded by Hunt) of italicizing lines, words, and entire passages in quotes without a really good reason. It feels like a kind of assertion of the editor over the reader—almost over the author himself—which bothers me. The author might as well have done it themselves, which I would find unpleasant; and it’s such a stark contrast to the modest, calm, tranquil beauty of "The Deserted Village," for example, that I’d almost prefer to hear "the town crier" read those lines. This practice always reminds me of someone admiring a beautiful view, but instead of appreciating its beauty, they’re more focused on what they’re going to say about it.
In that picture at the close of the third book (a most beautiful one) of Goldsmith sitting looking out of window at the Temple trees, you speak of the "gray-eyed" rooks. Are you sure they are "gray-eyed"? The raven's eye is a deep lustrous black, and so, I suspect, is the rook's, except when the light shines full into it.
In that picture at the end of the third book (a really beautiful one) of Goldsmith sitting by the window looking at the Temple trees, you mention the "gray-eyed" rooks. Are you sure they have "gray eyes"? A raven's eye is a rich, shiny black, and I suspect the rook's is too, unless the light hits it just right.
I have reserved for a closing word—though I don't[191] mean to be eloquent about it, being far too much in earnest—the admirable manner in which the case of the literary man is stated throughout this book. It is splendid. I don't believe that any book was ever written, or anything ever done or said, half so conducive to the dignity and honour of literature as "The Life and Adventures of Oliver Goldsmith," by J. F., of the Inner Temple. The gratitude of every man who is content to rest his station and claims quietly on literature, and to make no feint of living by anything else, is your due for evermore. I have often said, here and there, when you have been at work upon the book, that I was sure it would be; and I shall insist on that debt being due to you (though there will be no need for insisting about it) as long as I have any tediousness and obstinacy to bestow on anybody. Lastly, I never will hear the biography compared with Boswell's except under vigorous protest. For I do say that it is mere folly to put into opposite scales a book, however amusing and curious, written by an unconscious coxcomb like that, and one which surveys and grandly understands the characters of all the illustrious company that move in it.
I want to finish with a quick note—though I don't[191] mean to be overly eloquent about it, since I'm quite serious—about the amazing way the case for the literary man is presented throughout this book. It's excellent. I don't think any book has ever been written, or anything ever done or said, that's even close to being as beneficial for the dignity and honor of literature as "The Life and Adventures of Oliver Goldsmith," by J. F., of the Inner Temple. The gratitude of every person who quietly relies on literature for their status and claims, without pretending to live by anything else, is something you will always deserve. I've often mentioned, here and there, while you were working on the book, that I was sure it would turn out that way; and I will assert that debt is owed to you (though insisting isn't really necessary) as long as I can manage to be tedious and stubborn with anyone. Lastly, I will never accept a comparison between this biography and Boswell's without strong opposition. I firmly believe it's ridiculous to compare a book, no matter how entertaining and interesting, written by a clueless fool like him, with one that profoundly understands and portrays the characters of all the remarkable individuals in it.
My dear Forster, I cannot sufficiently say how proud I am of what you have done, or how sensible I am of being so tenderly connected with it. When I look over this note, I feel as if I had said no part of what I think; and yet if I were to write another I should say no more, for I can't get it out. I desire no better for my fame, when my personal dustiness shall be past the control of my love of order, than such a biographer and such a critic. And again I say, most solemnly, that literature in England has never had, and probably never will have, such a champion as you are, in right of this book.
My dear Forster, I can’t express enough how proud I am of what you’ve accomplished or how grateful I feel to be so closely connected to it. As I read this note, it feels like I haven’t communicated everything I think; yet if I were to write another, I wouldn’t say anything more, because I can’t find the right words. I want nothing more for my legacy, when I’m gone and my desire for organization no longer matters, than to have a biographer and critic like you. And I’ll say again, very seriously, that literature in England has never had, and likely never will have, such a supporter as you are because of this book.
Wednesday, May 3rd, 1848.
Do you think you could manage, before we meet to-morrow, to get from the musical director of the Haymarket (whom I don't know) a note of the overtures he purposes playing on our two nights? I am obliged to correct and send back the bill proofs to-morrow (they are to be brought to Miss Kelly's)—and should like, for completeness' sake, to put the music in. Before "The Merry Wives," it must be something Shakespearian. Before "Animal Magnetism," something very telling and light—like "Fra Diavolo."
Do you think you could manage to get a note from the musical director of the Haymarket (whom I don't know) about the overtures he plans to play on our two nights before we meet tomorrow? I need to correct and send back the bill proofs tomorrow (they're to be delivered to Miss Kelly's)—and I would like to include the music for completeness. Before "The Merry Wives," it should be something Shakespearian. Before "Animal Magnetism," it should be something catchy and light—like "Fra Diavolo."
Wednesday night's music in a concatenation accordingly, and jolly little polkas and quadrilles between the pieces, always beginning the moment the act-drop is down. If any little additional strength should be really required in the orchestra, so be it.
Wednesday night's music in a sequence as planned, and cheerful little polkas and quadrilles between the pieces, always starting the moment the curtain falls. If any extra strength is truly needed in the orchestra, so be it.
Can you come to Miss Kelly's by three? I should like to show you bills, tickets, and so forth, before they are worked. In order that they may not interfere with or confuse the rehearsal, I have appointed Peter Cunningham to meet me there at three, instead of half-past.
Can you come to Miss Kelly's by three? I'd like to show you the bills, tickets, and so on, before they get processed. To avoid any interference or confusion during the rehearsal, I've scheduled Peter Cunningham to meet me there at three, instead of half-past.
P.S.—If you should be disposed to chop together early, send me a line to the Athenæum. I have engaged to be with Barry at ten, to go over the Houses of Parliament. When I have done so, I will go to the club on the chance of a note from you, and would meet you where you chose.[193]
P.S.—If you're up for getting together early, drop me a message at the Athenæum. I've made plans to meet Barry at ten to check out the Houses of Parliament. Once I’m done, I’ll head to the club hoping to find a note from you, and I’d meet you wherever you’d like.[193]
Athenaeum, Thursday, May 4th, 1848.
I have not been able to write to you until now. I have lived in hope that Kate and I might be able to run down to see you and yours for a day, before our design for enforcing the Government to make Knowles the first custodian of the Shakespeare house should come off. But I am so perpetually engaged in drilling the forces, that I see no hope of making a pleasant expedition to the Isle of Wight until about the twentieth. Then I shall hope to do so for one day. But of this I will advise you further, in due course.
I haven't been able to write to you until now. I've been hoping that Kate and I could come visit you and yours for a day before our plan to push the Government to make Knowles the primary caretaker of the Shakespeare house gets underway. However, I'm so constantly busy training the team that I don’t see any chance of making a nice trip to the Isle of Wight until around the twentieth. At that point, I’ll aim to come for one day. I’ll keep you updated on this as things progress.
My doubts about the house you speak of are twofold, First, I could not leave town so soon as May, having affairs to arrange for a sick sister. And secondly, I fear Bonchurch is not sufficiently bracing for my chickens, who thrive best in breezy and cool places. This has set me thinking, sometimes of the Yorkshire coast, sometimes of Dover. I would not have the house at Bonchurch reserved for me, therefore. But if it should be empty, we will go and look at it in a body. I reserve the more serious part of my letter until the last, my dear White, because it comes from the bottom of my heart. None of your friends have thought and spoken oftener of you and Mrs. White than we have these many weeks past. I should have written to you, but was timid of intruding on your sorrow. What you say, and the manner in which you tell me I am connected with it in your recollection of your dear child, now among the angels of God, gives me courage to approach your grief—to say what sympathy we have felt with it, and how we have not been unimaginative of these deep sources of consolation to which[194] you have had recourse. The traveller who journeyed in fancy from this world to the next was struck to the heart to find the child he had lost, many years before, building him a tower in heaven. Our blessed Christian hopes do not shut out the belief of love and remembrance still enduring there, but irradiate it and make it sacred. Who should know that better than you, or who more deeply feel the touching truths and comfort of that story in the older book, where, when the bereaved mother is asked, "Is it well with the child?" she answers, "It is well."
My doubts about the house you mentioned are twofold. First, I can't leave town as early as May because I have to take care of things for my sick sister. Second, I'm concerned that Bonchurch isn’t bracing enough for my chickens, who do best in breezy and cool places. This has me thinking about the Yorkshire coast and Dover. So, I wouldn’t want the house at Bonchurch held for me. But if it happens to be empty, we’ll go and check it out together. I’ll save the more serious part of my letter for last, my dear White, because it comes straight from my heart. None of your friends have thought about or talked about you and Mrs. White more than we have in the past few weeks. I would have written to you sooner, but I was hesitant to intrude on your sorrow. What you say, and the way you tell me I’m connected to your memories of your dear child, now among the angels of God, gives me the courage to approach your grief—to express our sympathy and how we understand the deep sources of comfort you’ve turned to. The traveler who fancied traveling from this world to the next was deeply moved to find the child he lost many years ago building him a tower in heaven. Our blessed Christian hopes don’t exclude the belief in enduring love and remembrance there; instead, they illuminate it and make it sacred. Who knows this better than you? Who feels the touching truths and comfort of that story in the older book more deeply, where the bereaved mother is asked, "Is it well with the child?" and she answers, "It is well."
God be with you. Kate and her sister desire their kindest love to yourself and Mrs. White, in which I heartily join.
God be with you. Kate and her sister send their warmest regards to you and Mrs. White, and I wholeheartedly add my own.
Your affectionate Friend.
Devonshire Terrace, Wednesday, May 10th, 1848.
We are rehearsing at the Haymarket now, and Lemon mentioned to me yesterday that Webster had asked him if he would sound Forster or me as to your intention of having a farewell benefit before going to America, and whether you would like to have it at the Haymarket, and also as to its being preceded by a short engagement there. I don't know what your feelings may be on this latter head, but thinking it well that you may know how the land lies in these seas, send you this; the rather (excuse Elizabethan phrase, but you know how indispensable it is to me under existing circumstances)—the rather that I am thereto encouraged by thy consort, who has just come a-visiting[195] here, with thy fair daughters, Mistress Nina and the little Kate. Wherefore, most selected friend, perpend at thy leisure, and so God speed thee!
We are rehearsing at the Haymarket now, and Lemon mentioned to me yesterday that Webster had asked him if he could check with you or me about your plans for a farewell benefit before going to America, and whether you would like to have it at the Haymarket, and also if it could be preceded by a short engagement there. I’m not sure how you feel about that last point, but thinking it’s good for you to know the situation, I’m sending this your way; especially since I’m encouraged to do so by your partner, who just came to visit here, along with your lovely daughters, Mistress Nina and little Kate. So, my dear friend, please think about this when you have the time, and good luck!
Thine ever.
From my tent in my garden.
From my tent in my backyard.
ANOTHER "BOBADIL" NOTE.
I must tell you this, sir, I am no general man; but for William Shakespeare's sake (you may embrace it at what height of favour you please) I will communicate with you on the twenty-first, and do esteem you to be a gentleman of some parts—of a good many parts in truth. I love few words.
I have to tell you this, sir, I'm not an average guy; but for William Shakespeare's sake (you can take it however you like), I’ll talk to you on the twenty-first, and I consider you to be a gentleman of some worth—quite a bit of worth, actually. I prefer few words.
At Cobb's, a water-bearer,
October 11.
Devonshire Terrace, Thursday Morning, June 22nd, 1848.
I will be at Miss Kelly's to-morrow evening, from seven to eight, and shall hope to see you there, for a little conversation, touching the railroad arrangements.[196]
I will be at Miss Kelly's tomorrow evening from seven to eight, and I hope to see you there for a bit of conversation about the railroad arrangements.[196]
All preparations completed in Edinburgh and Glasgow. There will be a great deal of money taken, especially at the latter place.
All preparations are complete in Edinburgh and Glasgow. A lot of money will be made, especially in the latter location.
I wish I could persuade you, seriously, to come into training for Nym, in "The Merry Wives." He is never on by himself, and all he has to do is good, without being difficult. If you could screw yourself up to the doing of that part in Scotland, it would prevent our taking some new man, and would cover you (all over) with glory.
I really wish I could convince you to train for Nym in "The Merry Wives." He’s never on stage alone and all he does is good stuff, without being tough. If you could get yourself ready to play that part in Scotland, it would save us from having to hire someone new and would bring you a ton of glory.
P.S.—I am fully persuaded that an amateur manager has more correspondence than the Home Secretary.
P.S.—I firmly believe that an amateur manager has more emails and messages than the Home Secretary.
1, Devonshire Terrace, Regent's Park,
July 27th, 1848.
I thought to have been at Rockingham long ago! It seems a century since I, standing in big boots on the Haymarket stage, saw you come into a box upstairs and look down on the humbled Bobadil, since then I have had the kindest of notes from you, since then the finest of venison, and yet I have not seen the Rockingham flowers, and they are withering I daresay.
I thought I was at Rockingham a long time ago! It feels like a hundred years since I, standing in big boots on the Haymarket stage, saw you come into a box upstairs and look down at the humbled Bobadil. Since then, I've received the kindest notes from you, and the finest venison as well, yet I still haven't seen the Rockingham flowers, and I bet they're wilting.
But we have acted at Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, Edinburgh, and Glasgow; and the business of all this—and graver and heavier daily occupation in going to see a dying sister at Hornsey—has so worried me that I have hardly had an hour, far less a week. I shall never be quite happy, in a theatrical point of view, until you have seen me play in an English version of the French piece, "L'Homme Blasé," which fairly turned the head of Glasgow[197] last Thursday night as ever was; neither shall I be quite happy, in a social point of view, until I have been to Rockingham again. When the first event will come about Heaven knows. The latter will happen about the end of the November fogs and wet weather. For am I not going to Broadstairs now, to walk about on the sea-shore (why don't you bring your rosy children there?) and think what is to be done for Christmas! An idea occurs to me all at once. I must come down and read you that book before it's published. Shall it be a bargain? Were you all in Switzerland? I don't believe I ever was. It is such a dream now. I wonder sometimes whether I ever disputed with a Haldimand; whether I ever drank mulled wine on the top of the Great St. Bernard, or was jovial at the bottom with company that have stolen into my affection; whether I ever was merry and happy in that valley on the Lake of Geneva, or saw you one evening (when I didn't know you) walking down among the green trees outside Elysée, arm-in-arm with a gentleman in a white hat. I am quite clear that there is no foundation for these visions. But I should like to go somewhere, too, and try it all over again. I don't know how it is, but the ideal world in which my lot is cast has an odd effect on the real one, and makes it chiefly precious for such remembrances. I get quite melancholy over them sometimes, especially when, as now, those great piled-up semicircles of bright faces, at which I have lately been looking—all laughing, earnest and intent—have faded away like dead people. They seem a ghostly moral of everything in life to me.
But I've been busy in Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, Edinburgh, and Glasgow; and all of this—along with the heavy burden of visiting a dying sister in Hornsey—has stressed me out so much that I hardly have an hour to myself, let alone a week. I won’t feel completely satisfied, from a theater perspective, until you see me perform in an English version of the French play, "L'Homme Blasé," which completely captivated Glasgow last Thursday night. I also won't feel entirely content socially until I visit Rockingham again. When the first will happen, only Heaven knows. The latter will probably take place around the end of the November fogs and rainy weather. Because I'm heading to Broadstairs now to walk along the beach (why don't you bring your rosy children there?) and think about Christmas plans! An idea just struck me. I should come down and read you that book before it's published. Sound like a deal? Were you all in Switzerland? I can’t believe I ever was. It feels like such a dream now. Sometimes I wonder if I ever had a debate with a Haldimand; if I ever drank mulled wine on top of the Great St. Bernard, or enjoyed myself at the bottom with friends who’ve stolen my heart; if I ever was happy and carefree in that valley by Lake Geneva, or saw you one evening (before I knew you) stroll among the green trees outside Elysée, arm-in-arm with a man in a white hat. I’m pretty sure there’s no basis for these memories. But I would like to go somewhere, too, and relive it all again. I don't know why, but the ideal world I live in oddly influences the real one, making it feel precious for those memories. Sometimes I get quite melancholic over them, especially now, as those great formations of bright faces, which I’ve been watching lately—all laughing, serious, and focused—have faded away like ghosts. They feel like a haunting reminder of everything in life to me.
Kate sends her best love, in which Georgy would as heartily unite, I know, but that she is already gone to Broadstairs with the children. We think of following on Saturday morning, but that depends on my poor sister.[198] Pray give my most cordial remembrances to Watson, and tell him they include a great deal. I meant to have written you a letter. I don't know what this is. There is no word for it. So, if you will still let me owe you one, I will pay my debt, on the smallest encouragement, from the seaside. Here, there, and elsewhere, I am, with perfect truth, believe me,
Kate sends her love, which I know Georgy would completely share if she weren't already at Broadstairs with the kids. We're planning to follow on Saturday morning, but that depends on my poor sister.[198] Please give my warmest regards to Watson and tell him my thoughts include a lot. I intended to write you a letter. I don’t know what this is. There’s no word for it. So, if you’ll let me owe you one, I’ll make good on that debt, with the slightest prompt, from the seaside. Here, there, and everywhere, I am, with complete sincerity, believe me.
Broadstairs, England, Saturday, August 26th, 1848.
I was about to write to you when I received your welcome letter. You knew I should come from a somewhat longer distance than this to give you a hearty God-speed and farewell on the eve of your journey. What do you say to Monday, the fourth, or Saturday, the second? Fix either day, let me know which suits you best—at what hour you expect the Inimitable, and the Inimitable will come up to the scratch like a man and a brother.
I was just about to write to you when I got your nice letter. You knew I had to come from a bit farther away to give you a strong send-off and goodbye before your trip. How about Monday the fourth or Saturday the second? Pick either day and let me know which one works best for you—at what time you expect the Inimitable, and the Inimitable will show up like a true friend.
Permit me, in conclusion, to nail my colours to the mast. Stars and stripes are so-so—showy, perhaps; but my colours is the union jack, which I am told has the remarkable property of having braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze. Likewise, it is the flag of Albion—the standard of Britain; and Britons, as I am informed, never, never, never—will—be—slaves!
Let me conclude by stating my stance clearly. The stars and stripes are fine—maybe a bit flashy—but my flag is the Union Flag, which I hear has proudly withstood a thousand years of battles and storms. It's also the flag of Albion—the emblem of Britain; and I've been told that Britons never, ever, ever—will—be—slaves!
My sentiment is: Success to the United States as a golden campaigning ground, but blow the United States to 'tarnal smash as an Englishman's place of residence. Gentlemen, are you all charged?
My feeling is this: Cheers to the United States as an amazing place for campaigning, but forget the U.S. completely as a place for an Englishman to live. Gentlemen, are you all ready?
Devonshire Terrace, Friday, Sept. 8th, 1848.
We shall be very glad to see you all again, and we hope you will be very glad to see us. Give my best love to dear Katey, also to Frankey, Alley, and the Peck.
We’ll be really happy to see all of you again, and we hope you’ll be just as happy to see us. Send my love to dear Katey, as well as to Frankey, Alley, and the Peck.
I have had a nice note from Charley just now. He says it is expected at school that when Walter puts on his jacket, all the Miss Kings will fall in love with him to desperation and faint away.
I just got a nice note from Charley. He says everyone at school expects that when Walter puts on his jacket, all the Miss Kings will fall madly in love with him and faint.
Most affectionately yours.
1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park,
Nov. 7th, 1848.
I beg you to accept my best thanks for your pamphlet and your obliging note. That such a theatre as you describe would be but worthy of this nation, and would not stand low upon the list of its instructors, I have no kind of doubt. I wish I could cherish a stronger faith than I have in the probability of its establishment on a rational footing within fifty years.
I sincerely thank you for your pamphlet and your kind note. I have no doubt that the kind of theater you describe would be a great addition to this nation and would rank highly among its educators. I wish I could be more confident in the likelihood of it being established on solid grounds within the next fifty years.
Devonshire Terrace, Tuesday, Nov. 21st, 1848.
I send you herewith the second part of the book, which I hope may interest you. If you should prefer to have it read to you by the Inimitable rather than to read it, I shall be at home this evening (loin of mutton at half-past[200] five), and happy to do it. The proofs are full of printers' errors, but with the few corrections I have scrawled upon it, you will be able to make out what they mean.
I’m sending you the second part of the book, which I hope you’ll find interesting. If you’d rather have it read to you by the Inimitable instead of reading it yourself, I’ll be home this evening (loin of mutton at 5:30) and would be happy to do it. The proofs have a lot of typos, but with the few corrections I’ve jotted down, you should be able to figure out what they mean.
I send you, on the opposite side, a list of the subjects already in hand from this second part. If you should see no other in it that you like (I think it important that you should keep Milly, as you have begun with her), I will, in a day or two, describe you an unwritten subject for the third part of the book.
I’m sending you a list of the topics we already have for the second part on the other side. If you don’t find anything else in it that you like (I really think it’s important for you to stick with Milly since you started with her), I’ll describe an unwritten topic for the third part of the book in a day or two.
SUBJECTS IN HAND FOR THE SECOND PART.
1. Illuminated page. Tenniel. Representing Redlaw going upstairs, and the Tetterby family below.
1. Illuminated page. Tenniel. Showing Redlaw going upstairs, with the Tetterby family below.
2. The Tetterby supper. Leech.
The Tetterby dinner. Leech.
3. The boy in Redlaw's room, munching his food and staring at the fire.
3. The boy in Redlaw's room, chewing on his food and gazing at the fire.
Brighton, Thursday Night, Nov. 23rd, 1848.
We are unanimous.
We're all in agreement.
The drawing of Milly on the chair is charming. I cannot tell you how much the little composition and expression please me. Do that, by all means.
The drawing of Milly on the chair is charming. I can't tell you how much I love the little composition and expression. Please do that, for sure.
I fear she must have a little cap on. There is something coming in the last part, about her having had a dead child, which makes it yet more desirable than the existing text does that she should have that little matronly sign about her. Unless the artist is obdurate indeed, and then he'll do as he likes.
I worry she might be wearing a little cap. There's something mentioned towards the end about her having lost a child, which makes it even more fitting than the current text suggests for her to have that little matronly touch. Unless the artist is truly stubborn, in which case he’ll do whatever he wants.
I am delighted to hear that you have your eye on her in[201] the students' room. You will really, pictorially, make the little woman whom I love.
I’m so glad to hear that you’re interested in her in[201] the students’ room. You’re really going to create an image of the little woman I care about.
Kate and Georgy send their kindest remembrances. I write hastily to save the post.
Kate and Georgy send their warmest regards. I'm writing quickly to catch the mail.
Faithfully yours.
Bedford Hotel, Brighton, Monday Night, Nov. 27th, 1848.
You are a trump, emphatically a TRUMP, and such are my feelings towards you at this moment that I think (but I am not sure) that if I saw you about to place a card on a wrong pack at Bibeck (?), I wouldn't breathe a word of objection.
You are a trump card, definitely a TRUMP, and I feel so strongly about you right now that I think (though I'm not certain) if I saw you about to put a card on the wrong pile at Bibeck (?), I wouldn’t say a thing.
Sir, there is a subject I have written to-day for the third part, that I think and hope will just suit you. Scene, Tetterby's. Time, morning. The power of bringing back people's memories of sorrow, wrong and trouble, has been given by the ghost to Milly, though she don't know it herself. As she comes along the street, Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby recover themselves, and are mutually affectionate again, and embrace, closing rather a good scene of quarrel and discontent. The moment they do so, Johnny (who has seen her in the distance and announced her before, from which moment they begin to recover) cries "Here she is!" and she comes in, surrounded by the little Tetterbys, the very spirit of morning, gladness, innocence, hope, love, domesticity, etc. etc. etc. etc.
Sir, there's a topic I wrote about today for the third part that I believe will be just perfect for you. Setting: Tetterby's. Time: morning. The ghost has given Milly the ability to evoke people's memories of sadness, wrongs, and troubles, even though she isn't aware of it. As she walks down the street, Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby regain their composure and become affectionate again, embracing and putting an end to a significant argument and discontent. The moment they do this, Johnny (who spotted her in the distance and announced her earlier, marking the start of their recovery) exclaims, "Here she is!" and she enters, surrounded by the little Tetterbys, embodying the very essence of morning, joy, innocence, hope, love, domesticity, and so on.
I would limit the illustration to her and the children, which will make a fitness between it and your other illustrations, and give them all a character of their own. The exact words of the passage I endorsed on another slip of[202] paper. Note. There are six boy Tetterbys present (young 'Dolphus is not there), including Johnny; and in Johnny's arms is Moloch, the baby, who is a girl. I hope to be back in town next Monday, and will lose no time in reporting myself to you. Don't wait to send me the drawing of this. I know how pretty she will be with the children in your hands, and should be a stupendous jackass if I had any distrust of it.
I would focus the illustration on her and the kids, which will create a nice connection with your other illustrations and give them all their own vibe. I wrote down the exact words from the passage on another slip of [202] paper. Just a note: there are six boy Tetterbys here (young 'Dolphus isn't around), including Johnny; and Johnny is holding Moloch, the baby girl. I hope to be back in town next Monday and will quickly report to you. Don’t wait to send me the drawing of this. I know how beautiful she will look with the kids in your hands, and I’d be a total fool to doubt it.
The Duke of Cambridge is staying in this house, and they are driving me mad by having Life Guards bands under our windows, playing our overtures! I have been at work all day, and am going to wander into the theatre, where (for the comic man's benefit) "two gentlemen of Brighton" are performing two counts in a melodrama. I was quite addle-headed for the time being, and think an amateur or so would revive me. No 'Tone! I don't in the abstract approve of Brighton. I couldn't pass an autumn here; but it is a gay place for a week or so; and when one laughs and cries, and suffers the agitation that some men experience over their books, it's a bright change to look out of window, and see the gilt little toys on horseback going up and down before the mighty sea, and thinking nothing of it.
The Duke of Cambridge is staying in this house, and they are driving me crazy with Life Guards bands playing our overtures right outside our windows! I’ve been working all day and plan to head over to the theater, where, for the comic guy's benefit, "two gentlemen of Brighton" are putting on a melodrama. I was completely out of it for a bit and think a little amateur performance would refresh me. No 'Tone! I don’t particularly like Brighton. I couldn’t spend an autumn here; but it’s a fun place for a week or so; and when you laugh and cry, and feel the kind of stress that some guys experience over their books, it’s a nice change to look out the window and see the shiny little toys on horseback moving up and down in front of the vast ocean without a care in the world.
Kate's love and Georgy's. They say you'll contradict every word of this letter.
Kate's love and Georgy's. They say you’ll disagree with everything in this letter.
[SLIP OF PAPER ENCLOSED.]
"Hurrah! here's Mrs. Williams!" cried Johnny.
"Hooray! Here comes Mrs. Williams!" shouted Johnny.
So she was, and all the Tetterby children with her; and as she came in, they kissed her and kissed one another, and kissed the baby and kissed their father and mother, and[203] then ran back and flocked and danced about her, trooping on with her in triumph.
So she was, along with all the Tetterby kids; when she entered, they hugged her, hugged each other, hugged the baby, and hugged their dad and mom, and[203] then they ran back, gathered around her, and danced joyfully, following her in celebration.
(After which, she is going to say: "What, are you all glad to see me too! Oh, how happy it makes me to find everyone so glad to see me this bright morning!")
(After which, she is going to say: "What, are you all glad to see me too! Oh, how happy it makes me to find everyone so glad to see me this bright morning!")
Bedford Hotel, Brighton, Nov. 28th, 1848.
I assure you, most unaffectedly and cordially, that the dedication of that book to Mary and Kate (not Catherine) will be a real delight to me, and to all of us. I know well that you propose it in "affectionate regard," and value and esteem it, therefore, in a way not easy of expression.
I assure you, genuinely and warmly, that dedicating that book to Mary and Kate (not Catherine) will truly make me happy, and all of us as well. I recognize that you suggest this out of "affectionate regard," and I appreciate and hold it in high esteem, in a way that's hard to put into words.
You were talking of "coming" down, and now, in a mean and dodging way, you write about "sending" the second act! I have a propogician to make. Come down on Friday. There is a train leaves London Bridge at two—gets here at four. By that time I shall be ready to strike work. We can take a little walk, dine, discuss, and you can go back in good time next morning. I really think this ought to be done, and indeed must be done. Write and say it shall be done.
You were talking about "coming" down, and now, in a sneaky way, you're mentioning "sending" the second act! I have a proposal to make. Come down on Friday. There's a train that leaves London Bridge at two and gets here by four. By that time, I’ll be ready to start working. We can take a little walk, have dinner, discuss things, and you can head back in good time the next morning. I really think this needs to happen, and it absolutely must be done. Write back and say it's happening.
A little management will be required in dramatising the third part, where there are some things I describe (for effect's sake, and as a matter of art) which must be said on the stage. Redlaw is in a new condition of mind, which fact must be shot point-blank at the audience, I suppose, "as from the deadly level of a gun." By anybody who knew how to play Milly, I think it might be made very good. Its effect is very pleasant upon me. I have also given Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby another innings.
A bit of management will be needed in dramatizing the third part, where there are some things I describe (for effect and as a matter of artistic choice) that must be said on stage. Redlaw is in a new state of mind, and this fact needs to be presented directly to the audience, I guess, "as from the deadly level of a gun." I believe anyone who knows how to portray Milly could make it really good. It has a very nice effect on me. I've also given Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby another chance.
I went to the play last night—fifth act of Richard the[204] Third. Richmond by a stout lady, with a particularly well-developed bust, who finished all the speeches with the soubrette simper. Also, at the end of the tragedy she came forward (still being Richmond) and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, on Wednesday next the entertainments will be for My benefit, when I hope to meet your approbation and support." Then, having bowed herself into the stage-door, she looked out of it, and said, winningly, "Won't you come?" which was enormously applauded.
I went to the play last night—the fifth act of Richard the[204] Third. Richmond was played by a robust lady with a particularly well-defined figure, who wrapped up all her lines with a flirty smile. At the end of the tragedy, she stepped forward (still in character as Richmond) and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, next Wednesday, the performances will be for My benefit, and I hope to earn your approval and support." Then, after bowing her way off the stage, she peeked out and said charmfully, "Won't you come?" which received huge applause.
1849.
NARRATIVE.
In the summer, Charles Dickens went with his family, for the first time, to Bonchurch, Isle of Wight, having hired for six months the charming villa, Winterbourne, belonging to the Rev. James White. And now began that close and loving intimacy which for the future was to exist between these two families. Mr. Leech also took a house at Bonchurch. All through this year Charles Dickens was at work upon "David Copperfield."
In the summer, Charles Dickens went to Bonchurch, Isle of Wight, with his family for the first time, having rented the lovely villa, Winterbourne, owned by Rev. James White, for six months. This marked the beginning of a close and affectionate relationship that would develop between the two families. Mr. Leech also rented a house in Bonchurch. Throughout this year, Charles Dickens was working on "David Copperfield."
As well as giving eccentric names to his children and friends, he was also in the habit of giving such names to himself—that of "Sparkler" being one frequently used by him.
As well as giving quirky names to his children and friends, he also liked to give such names to himself—"Sparkler" being one he often used.
Miss Joll herself gives us the explanation of the letter to her on capital punishment: "Soon after the appearance of his 'Household Words,' some friends were discussing an article in it on 'Private Executions.' They contended that[205] it went to prove Mr. Dickens was an advocate of capital punishment. I, however, took a different view of the matter, and ventured to write and inquire his views on the subject, and to my letter he sent me a courteous reply."
Miss Joll herself explains the letter she received from him about capital punishment: "Shortly after his 'Household Words' was published, some friends were discussing an article in it about 'Private Executions.' They argued that[205] it showed Mr. Dickens supported capital punishment. I, however, had a different perspective and decided to write him to ask for his thoughts on the matter. He kindly replied to my letter."
Devonshire Terrace, Friday Night, Jan. 26th, 1849.
I am desperate! Engaged in links of adamant to a "monster in human form"—a remarkable expression I think I remember to have once met with in a newspaper—whom I encountered at Franconi's, whence I have just returned, otherwise I would have done all three things right heartily and with my accustomed sweetness. Think of me another time when chops are on the carpet (figuratively speaking), and see if I won't come and eat 'em!
I’m desperate! Stuck with a "monster in human form"—a phrase I think I once saw in a newspaper—whom I met at Franconi's, from which I just returned; otherwise, I would have done all three things wholeheartedly and with my usual sweetness. Think of me another time when there are chops on the table (figuratively speaking), and see if I won’t come and eat them!
P.S.—I find myself too despondent for the flourish.
P.S.—I'm feeling too down to be dramatic.
Devonshire Terrace, Tuesday Night, Feb. 27th, 1849.
I am not engaged on the evening of your birthday. But even if I had an engagement of the most particular kind, I should excuse myself from keeping it, so that I might have the pleasure of celebrating at home, and among my children, the day that gave me such a dear and good daughter as you.
I’m not busy on the evening of your birthday. But even if I had a really important commitment, I would cancel it just to enjoy celebrating at home with my kids the day that brought me such a wonderful and dear daughter like you.
Devonshire Terrace, May 25th, 1849.
No—no—no! Murder, murder! Madness and misconception! Any one of the subjects—not the whole. Oh,[206] blessed star of early morning, what do you think I am made of, that I should, on the part of any man, prefer such a pig-headed, calf-eyed, donkey-eared, imp-hoofed request!
No—no—no! Murder, murder! Madness and misunderstanding! Any one of the issues—not the whole thing. Oh,[206] blessed morning star, what do you think I’m made of, that I should, on behalf of any man, prefer such a stubborn, clueless, foolish request!
Says my friend to me, "Will you ask your friend, Mr. Stanfield, what the damage of a little picture of that size would be, that I may treat myself with the same, if I can afford it?" Says I, "I will." Says he, "Will you suggest that I should like it to be one of those subjects?" Says I, "I will."
Says my friend to me, "Can you ask your friend, Mr. Stanfield, how much a small picture like that would cost? I’d like to get one for myself if I can afford it." I said, "Sure." He then asked, "Could you mention that I’d prefer it to be one of those subjects?" I replied, "I will."
I am beating my head against the door with grief and frenzy, and I shall continue to do so, until I receive your answer.
I am banging my head against the door with sorrow and panic, and I will keep doing it until you reply.
The Misunderstood One.
Devonshire Terrace, Monday, June 4th, 1849.
Leech and Sparkler having promised their ladies to take them to Ascot, and having failed in their truths, propoge to take them to Greenwich instead, next Wednesday. Will that alteration in the usual arrangements be agreeable to Gaffin, S.? If so, the place of meeting is the Sparkler's Bower, and the hour, one exactly.
Leech and Sparkler promised their ladies they would take them to Ascot, but since they couldn’t keep that promise, they plan to take them to Greenwich instead next Wednesday. Will this change work for Gaffin, S.? If so, the meeting spot is Sparkler's Bower, and the time is exactly one o'clock.
Shanklin, Isle of Wight, Monday Night, June 16th, 1849.
I have but a moment. Just got back and post going out. I have taken a most delightful and beautiful house, belonging to White, at Bonchurch; cool, airy, private bathing, everything delicious. I think it is the prettiest place I ever saw in my life, at home or abroad. Anne may[207] begin to dismantle Devonshire Terrace. I have arranged for carriages, luggage, and everything.
I only have a minute. I just got back from going out. I’ve rented a really lovely house from White in Bonchurch; it’s cool, breezy, and there’s private bathing—everything is amazing. I think it’s the prettiest place I’ve ever seen, at home or abroad. Anne can start taking apart Devonshire Terrace. I've made arrangements for carriages, luggage, and everything else.
The man with the post-bag is swearing in the passage.
The guy with the mailbag is cursing in the hallway.
P.S.—A waterfall on the grounds, which I have arranged with a carpenter to convert into a perpetual shower-bath.
P.S.—I had a carpenter set up a waterfall on the property to make it a continuous shower.
Devonshire Terrace, Monday, June 25th, 1849.
I am very unwilling to deny Charley the pleasure you so kindly offer him. But as it is just the close of the half-year when they are getting together all the half-year's work—and as that day's pleasure would weaken the next day's duty, I think I must be "more like an ancient Roman than a ——" Sparkler, and that it will be wisest in me to say nothing about it.
I really don’t want to take away the enjoyment you’re offering Charley. But since it’s the end of the semester and everyone is wrapping up the work from the last six months—and having fun today would make it harder to focus on tomorrow’s responsibilities—I think I should behave “more like an ancient Roman than a ——” Sparkler, and it’s probably best if I just keep quiet about it.
Get a clean pocket-handkerchief ready for the close of "Copperfield" No. 3; "simple and quiet, but very natural and touching."—Evening Bore.
Get a clean handkerchief ready for the end of "Copperfield" No. 3; "simple and quiet, but very natural and touching."—Evening Bore.
Track—"Lesbia hath a beaming eye."
1.
And this is Lemon's real stance;
He is not pale, he's not white-lipped,
But it needs a little fresh air.
Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon
Old ocean's rising and falling waves,
Than on the houses every one,
That street is called Saint Anne's Willers.
Oh, my Lemon, plump and round,
Oh, my bright one, my right one, my tight one,
Think for a moment about what you’re doing—
Don't stay home; come to Brighton!
2.
But Lemon rarely wears it.
That it is a prey to fleas,
And every hungry moth tears it apart.
Oh, that coat's the coat for me,
That faces the railway sparks and winds,
Leaving every engine free
To smoke it until its owner sneezes!
Then my Lemon, round and plump,
L., my bright light, my support, my close one,
Think for a moment about what you're doing—
Come down to Brighton this Tuesday!
Catherine Dickens
Annie Leech,
Georgina Hogarth
Mary Dickens
Katie Dickens
John Leech.
Winterbourne, Sunday Evening, Sept. 23rd, 1849.
I have a hundred times at least wanted to say to you how good I thought those papers in "Blackwood"—how excellent their purpose, and how delicately and charmingly worked out. Their subtle and delightful humour, and their grasp of the whole question, were something more pleasant to me than I can possibly express.
I’ve wanted to tell you a hundred times how much I appreciated those articles in "Blackwood"—how great their purpose was and how beautifully and thoughtfully they were crafted. Their subtle and delightful humor, along with their understanding of the entire topic, brought me more joy than I can possibly express.
"How comes this lumbering Inimitable to say this, on this Sunday night of all nights in the year?" you naturally ask. Now hear the Inimitable's honest avowal! I make so bold because I heard that Morning Service better read this morning than ever I have heard it read in my life. And because—for the soul of me—I cannot separate the two things, or help identifying the wise and genial man out of church with the earnest and unaffected man in it. Midsummer madness, perhaps, but a madness I hope that will hold us true friends for many and many a year to come.[209] The madness is over as soon as you have burned this letter (see the history of the Gunpowder Plot), but let us be friends much longer for these reasons and many included in them not herein expressed.
"Why is this clumsy Inimitable saying this, on this Sunday night of all nights in the year?" you might ask. Well, let me honestly explain! I’m bold enough to say this because I heard the Morning Service read better this morning than I've ever heard it in my life. And because—I truly can't separate the two things, or help but see the wise and friendly guy outside of church as the same earnest and genuine person inside it. Maybe it’s a kind of midsummer madness, but I hope it’s a madness that will keep us true friends for many years to come.[209] The madness will end as soon as you burn this letter (just like in the history of the Gunpowder Plot), but let's stay friends for much longer for these reasons and many others not mentioned here.
Rockingham Castle, Northamptonshire
Nov. 27th, 1849.
Mr. Charles Dickens presents his compliments to Miss Joll. He is, on principle, opposed to capital punishment, but believing that many earnest and sincere people who are favourable to its retention in extreme cases would unite in any temperate effort to abolish the evils of public executions, and that the consequences of public executions are disgraceful and horrible, he has taken the course with which Miss Joll is acquainted as the most hopeful, and as one undoubtedly calculated to benefit society at large.
Mr. Charles Dickens sends his regards to Miss Joll. He is, by principle, against the death penalty, but he believes that many sincere and earnest people who support keeping it in extreme cases would come together to make a reasonable effort to eliminate the problems associated with public executions. He thinks that the outcomes of public executions are shameful and horrifying, so he has chosen the approach that Miss Joll is aware of, as it seems the most promising and is certainly meant to help society as a whole.
Devonshire Terrace, Friday Night, Nov. 30th, 1849.
10:15.
Plunged in the deepest gloom, I write these few words to let you know that, just now, when the bell was striking ten, I drank to
Plunged in the deepest gloom, I write these few words to let you know that, just now, when the bell was striking ten, I drank to
On the way here I was a terror to my companions, and I am at present a blight and mildew on my home.
On the way here, I was a nightmare for my friends, and right now, I'm a burden and a nuisance at home.
Think of me sometimes, as I shall long think of our glorious dance last night. Give my most affectionate regards to Watson, and my kind remembrances to all who remember me, and believe me,
Think of me sometimes, just like I’ll be thinking about our amazing dance last night for a long time. Send my warmest regards to Watson, and my best wishes to everyone who remembers me, and trust me,
P.S.—I am in such an incapable state, that after executing the foregoing usual flourish I swooned, and remained for some time insensible. Ha, ha, ha! Why was I ever restored to consciousness!!!
P.S.—I am in such a helpless state that after doing the usual dramatic flourish, I fainted and was out of it for a while. Ha, ha, ha! Why was I ever brought back to awareness!!!
P.P.S.—"Changing" those thoughts ought to be "driving." But my recollection is incoherent and my mind wanders.
P.P.S.—"Changing" those thoughts should be "driving." But my memory is all over the place and my mind drifts.
Devonshire Terrace, Saturday, Dec. 29th, 1849.
I received your letter at breakfast-time this morning with a pleasure my eloquence is unable to express and your modesty unable to conceive. It is so delightful to be remembered at this time of the year in your house where we have been so happy, and in dear old Lausanne, that we always hope to see again, that I can't help pushing away the first page of "Copperfield" No. 10, now staring at me with what I may literally call a blank aspect, and plunging energetically into this reply.
I got your letter this morning during breakfast, and I can’t express how happy it made me, and I know you can't fully grasp it either. It’s such a joy to be remembered this time of year in your home, where we’ve had such a great time, and in lovely old Lausanne, which we always hope to visit again. I can’t help but push aside the first page of "Copperfield" No. 10, which is currently staring at me with a completely blank look, and dive right into this response.
What a strange coincidence that is about Blunderstone[211] House! Of all the odd things I have ever heard (and their name is Legion), I think it is the oddest. I went down into that part of the country on the 7th of January last year, when I was meditating the story, and chose Blunderstone for the sound of its name. I had previously observed much of what you say about the poor girls. In all you suggest with so much feeling about their return to virtue being cruelly cut off, I concur with a sore heart. I have been turning it over in my mind for some time, and hope, in the history of Little Em'ly (who must fall—there is no hope for her), to put it before the thoughts of people in a new and pathetic way, and perhaps to do some good. You will be glad to hear, I know, that "Copperfield" is a great success. I think it is better liked than any of my other books.
What a strange coincidence it is about Blunderstone[211] House! Of all the bizarre things I’ve ever heard (and there are many), I think this is the weirdest. I went down to that part of the country on January 7th last year when I was thinking about the story, and I picked Blunderstone because I liked the sound of the name. I had already noticed a lot about what you said regarding the poor girls. I completely agree with you about their return to virtue being cruelly cut off, and it weighs heavily on my heart. I’ve been pondering it for a while now, and I hope to present it in the story of Little Em'ly (who must fall—there’s no hope for her) in a new and touching way, and maybe even do some good. I know you'll be happy to hear that "Copperfield" is a huge success. It seems to be better received than any of my other books.
We had a most delightful time at Watsons' (for both of them we have preserved and strengthened a real affection), and were the gayest of the gay. There was a Miss Boyle staying in the house, who is an excellent amateur actress, and she and I got up some scenes from "The School for Scandal" and from "Nickleby," with immense success. We played in the old hall, with the audience filled up and running over with servants. The entertainments concluded with feats of legerdemain (for the performance of which I have a pretty good apparatus, collected at divers times and in divers places), and we then fell to country dances of a most frantic description, and danced all night. We often spoke of you and Mrs. Cerjat and of Haldimand, and wished you were all there. Watson and I have some fifty times "registered a vow" (like O'Connell) to come to Lausanne together, and have even settled in what month and week. Something or other has always interposed to prevent us; but I hope, please God, most certainly to see it again, when my labours-Copperfieldian shall have terminated.[212]
We had a wonderful time at the Watsons' (we’ve really kept and strengthened our affection for both of them), and we were the life of the party. There was a Miss Boyle staying with us, who is a fantastic amateur actress, and we put together some scenes from "The School for Scandal" and "Nickleby," which were a huge hit. We performed in the old hall, packed with an overflowing audience of servants. The show ended with some magic tricks (I have a pretty good set of props I've collected over time and from various places), and then we jumped into some really energetic country dances and danced all night. We often talked about you and Mrs. Cerjat and Haldimand, wishing you could all be there. Watson and I have made a vow (like O'Connell) at least fifty times to visit Lausanne together and even decided on the month and week. Something always comes up to stop us; but I truly hope, God willing, to see it again when my Copperfieldian work is done.[212]
You have no idea what that hanging of the Mannings really was. The conduct of the people was so indescribably frightful, that I felt for some time afterwards almost as if I were living in a city of devils. I feel, at this hour, as if I never could go near the place again. My letters have made a great to-do, and led to a great agitation of the subject; but I have not a confident belief in any change being made, mainly because the total abolitionists are utterly reckless and dishonest (generally speaking), and would play the deuce with any such proposition in Parliament, unless it were strongly supported by the Government, which it would certainly not be, the Whig motto (in office) being "laissez aller." I think Peel might do it if he came in. Two points have occurred to me as being a good commentary to the objections to my idea. The first is that a most terrific uproar was made when the hanging processions were abolished, and the ceremony shrunk from Tyburn to the prison door. The second is that, at this very time, under the British Government in New South Wales, executions take place within the prison walls, with decidedly improved results. (I am waiting to explode this fact on the first man of mark who gives me the opportunity.)
You have no idea what that hanging of the Mannings was really like. The way people acted was so unbelievably horrifying that for a while, I felt like I was living in a city of devils. Right now, I feel like I could never go near that place again. My letters have caused quite a stir and led to a lot of discussion about the issue, but I don’t really believe any change will happen. This is mostly because the total abolitionists are generally reckless and dishonest, and they would make a mess of any such proposal in Parliament unless it had strong backing from the Government, which it definitely wouldn’t, given that the Whig motto in office is “laissez aller.” I think Peel might be able to do it if he comes to power. Two points have come to mind that serve as good responses to the objections to my idea. First, there was a massive uproar when they abolished hanging processions, and the event shrank from Tyburn to just outside the prison. Second, right now, under British rule in New South Wales, executions happen within the prison walls, with noticeably better outcomes. (I’m ready to bring this up with the first important person who gives me a chance.)
Unlike you, we have had no marriages or giving in marriage here. We might have had, but a certain young lady, whom you know, is hard to please. The children are all well, thank God! Charley is going to Eton the week after next, and has passed a first-rate examination. Kate is quite well, and unites with me and Georgina in love to you and Mrs. Cerjat and Haldimand, whom I would give a good deal (tell him) to have several hours' contradiction of at his own table. Good heavens, how obstinate we would both be! I see him leaning back in his chair, with his right forefinger out, and saying, "Good[213] God!" in reply to some proposition of mine, and then laughing.
Unlike you, we haven't had any marriages or engagements here. We might have had some, but a certain young lady, you know who I mean, is pretty hard to please. The kids are all doing well, thank God! Charley is heading to Eton the week after next and passed an excellent exam. Kate is doing well too, and she joins me and Georgina in sending our love to you, Mrs. Cerjat, and Haldimand, who I would do quite a bit (tell him) to have a long debate with at his own table. Good heavens, how stubborn we would both be! I can just picture him leaning back in his chair, with his right forefinger raised, saying, "Good God!" in response to some suggestion I make, and then laughing.
All in a moment a feeling comes over me, as if you and I have been still talking, smoking cigars outside the inn at Martigny, the piano sounding inside, and Lady Mary Taylour singing. I look into my garden (which is covered with snow) rather dolefully, but take heart again, and look brightly forward to another expedition to the Great St. Bernard, when Mrs. Cerjat and I shall laugh as I fancy I have never laughed since, in one of those one-sided cars; and when we shall again learn from Haldimand, in a little dingy cabaret, at lunch-time, how to secure a door in travelling (do you remember?) by balancing a chair against it on its two hind-legs.
All of a sudden, a feeling washes over me, as if you and I have been sitting outside the inn in Martigny, chatting and smoking cigars, with the piano playing inside and Lady Mary Taylour singing. I glance into my garden, which is blanketed in snow, a bit sadly, but then I lift my spirits and eagerly look forward to another trip to the Great St. Bernard, when Mrs. Cerjat and I will laugh, just like I imagine I haven’t laughed since, in one of those cramped cars; and when we’ll once again learn from Haldimand, in a little dingy bar, during lunch, how to keep a door secured while traveling (do you remember?) by propping a chair against it on its two back legs.
I do hope that we may all come together again once more, while there is a head of hair left among us; and in this hope remain, my dear Cerjat,
I really hope we can all get together again while there’s still some hair left on our heads; and with that hope, I stay, my dear Cerjat,
1850.
NARRATIVE.
This autumn he succeeded, for the first time, in getting possession of the "Fort House," Broadstairs, on which he had always set his affections. He was hard at work on the closing numbers of "David Copperfield" during all the summer and autumn. The family moved to Broadstairs in July, but as a third daughter was born in August, they were not joined by Mrs. Dickens until the end of September. "David Copperfield" was finished in October.[214]
This fall, he finally succeeded in getting the "Fort House" in Broadstairs, which he had always wanted. He spent the entire summer and fall working on the final sections of "David Copperfield." The family moved to Broadstairs in July, but they weren’t joined by Mrs. Dickens until the end of September since their third daughter was born in August. "David Copperfield" was completed in October.[214]
The beginning of his correspondence with Mrs. Gaskell is in his asking her to contribute to "Household Words," which she did from the first number, and very frequently afterwards both to "Household Words" and "All the Year Round."
The start of his communication with Mrs. Gaskell is when he asks her to write for "Household Words," which she did from the very first issue and continued to do regularly afterward for both "Household Words" and "All the Year Round."
The letter to Mr. David Roberts, R.A., is one thanking him for a remembrance of his (Mr. Roberts's) travels in the East—a picture of a "Simoom in the Desert," which was one of Charles Dickens's most highly prized possessions.
The letter to Mr. David Roberts, R.A., is one thanking him for a reminder of his travels in the East—a painting of a "Simoom in the Desert," which was one of Charles Dickens's most valued possessions.
A letter to Mr. Sheridan Knowles contains allusions which we have no means of explaining, but we publish it, as it is characteristic, and addressed to a literary celebrity. Its being inscribed to "Daddy" Knowles illustrates a habit of Charles Dickens—as does a letter later in this year to Mr. Stone, beginning, "My dear P."—of giving nicknames to the friends with whom he was on the most affectionate and intimate terms. Mr. Stone—especially included in this category—was the subject of many such names; "Pump," or "Pumpion," being one by which he was frequently addressed—a joke as good-humouredly and gladly received as it was kindly and pleasantly intended.
A letter to Mr. Sheridan Knowles includes references we can’t explain, but we’re sharing it because it’s typical and addressed to a well-known writer. The fact that it’s addressed to "Daddy" Knowles shows a habit of Charles Dickens—similar to a letter he wrote later this year to Mr. Stone, starting with "My dear P."—of giving nicknames to close friends he was very fond of. Mr. Stone, especially noted in this group, was given many such names; "Pump" or "Pumpion" being one he was often called—a joke that was received with good humor and joy, as it was meant with kindness and warmth.
There were no public amateur theatricals this year; but in November, the greater part of the amateur company played for three nights at Knebworth Park, as the guests of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton (afterwards Lord Lytton), who entertained all his county neighbours to witness the performances. The play was "Every Man in his Humour," and farces, varied each night.
There were no public amateur plays this year; however, in November, most of the amateur troupe performed for three nights at Knebworth Park, as guests of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton (later Lord Lytton), who invited all his local neighbors to watch the shows. The play was "Every Man in his Humour," along with different farces each night.
This year we have our first letter to Miss Mary Boyle, a cousin of Mrs. Watson, well known as an amateur actress and an accomplished lady. Miss Boyle was to have acted with the amateur company at Knebworth, but was prevented by domestic affliction. Early in the following year there was a private play at Rockingham Castle, when Miss Boyle acted with Charles Dickens, the play being "Used Up," in which Mrs. Dickens also acted; and the farce, "Animal Magnetism," in which Miss Boyle and Miss Hogarth played. The letters to Mrs. Watson in this year refer chiefly to the preparations for the play in her house.[215]
This year, we have our first letter to Miss Mary Boyle, a cousin of Mrs. Watson, who is well known as an amateur actress and a talented woman. Miss Boyle was supposed to perform with the amateur company at Knebworth but couldn’t due to family issues. Early the next year, there was a private play at Rockingham Castle, where Miss Boyle performed alongside Charles Dickens. They put on the play "Used Up," which also featured Mrs. Dickens, and the farce "Animal Magnetism," in which Miss Boyle and Miss Hogarth acted. The letters to Mrs. Watson this year mainly discuss preparations for the play at her house.[215]
The accident mentioned in the letter addressed to Mr. Henry Bicknell (son-in-law of Mr. David Roberts, R.A., and a much-esteemed friend of Charles Dickens) was an accident which happened to Mrs. Dickens, while rehearsing at a theatre. She fell through a trap-door, spraining her ankle so badly as to be incapacitated from taking her part in the theatricals at Knebworth.
The accident mentioned in the letter to Mr. Henry Bicknell (son-in-law of Mr. David Roberts, R.A., and a highly regarded friend of Charles Dickens) was an incident that happened to Mrs. Dickens while she was rehearsing at a theater. She fell through a trap door, seriously spraining her ankle and making her unable to perform in the plays at Knebworth.
Devonshire Terrace, January 3rd, 1850.
I am more obliged to you than I can tell you for the beautiful mark of your friendly remembrance which you have sent me this morning. I shall set it up among my household gods with pride. It gives me the highest gratification, and I beg you to accept my most cordial and sincere thanks. A little bit of the tissue paper was sticking to the surface of the picture, and has slightly marked it. It requires but a touch, as one would dot an "i" or cross a "t," to remove the blemish; but as I cannot think of a recollection so full of poetry being touched by any hand but yours, I have told Green the framer, whenever he shall be on his way with it, to call on you by the road. I enclose a note from Mrs. Dickens, which I hope will impress you into a country dance, with which we hope to dismiss Christmas merrily.
I’m more grateful to you than I can express for the beautiful token of your friendship that you sent me this morning. I’ll proudly display it among my cherished belongings. It brings me great joy, and I sincerely thank you. A little piece of tissue paper was stuck to the surface of the picture, leaving a slight mark. It just needs a small touch, like dotting an “i” or crossing a “t,” to fix it; but I can’t bear the thought of a memory so poetic being touched by anyone else’s hand, so I’ve asked Green the framer to stop by and see you on his way with it. I’ve included a note from Mrs. Dickens, and I hope it encourages you to join us for a country dance, with which we plan to send off Christmas joyfully.
Faithfully yours.
Devonshire Terrace, January 3rd, 1850.
Many happy New Years to you, and to all who are near and dear to you. Your generous heart unconsciously exaggerates, I am sure, my merit in respect of that most honourable gentleman who has been the occasion of our[216] recent correspondence. I cannot sufficiently admire the dignity of his conduct, and I really feel indebted to you for giving me the gratification of observing it.
Wishing you and your loved ones a very happy New Year! I’m sure your kind heart unintentionally makes me seem more worthy than I am regarding that distinguished gentleman who prompted our recent correspondence. I truly admire the dignity with which he carries himself, and I’m genuinely grateful to you for allowing me the pleasure of witnessing it.
As to that "cross note," which, rightly considered, was nothing of the sort, if ever you refer to it again, I'll do—I don't exactly know what, but something perfectly desperate and ferocious. If I have ever thought of it, it has only been to remember with delight how soon we came to a better understanding, and how heartily we confirmed it with a most expressive shake of the hand, one evening down in that mouldy little den of Miss Kelly's.
As for that "cross note," which, if you think about it, wasn’t really that at all, if you bring it up again, I’ll do—I’m not sure what, but something completely desperate and intense. If I’ve ever thought about it, it’s only been to fondly remember how quickly we came to a better understanding, and how sincerely we sealed it with a meaningful handshake one evening down in that shabby little place of Miss Kelly's.
"Daddy" Knowles.
"Papa" Knowles.
Devonshire Terrace, January 31st, 1850.
You may perhaps have seen an announcement in the papers of my intention to start a new cheap weekly journal of general literature.
You might have seen an announcement in the newspapers about my plan to launch a new affordable weekly magazine focused on general literature.
I do not know what your literary vows of temperance or abstinence may be, but as I do honestly know that there is no living English writer whose aid I would desire to enlist in preference to the authoress of "Mary Barton" (a book that most profoundly affected and impressed me), I venture to ask you whether you can give me any hope that you will write a short tale, or any number of tales, for the projected pages.
I’m not sure what your literary commitments around moderation or abstaining might be, but I genuinely believe there’s no contemporary English writer I would rather work with than the author of "Mary Barton" (a book that deeply affected and impressed me). So, I’m taking a chance to ask if you might consider writing a short story, or several stories, for the upcoming publication.
No writer's name will be used, neither my own nor any other; every paper will be published without any signature, and all will seem to express the general mind and purpose of the journal, which is the raising up of those that are down, and the general improvement of our social condition. I should set a value on your help which your modesty can[217] hardly imagine; and I am perfectly sure that the least result of your reflection or observation in respect of the life around you, would attract attention and do good.
No writer's name will be used, neither mine nor anyone else's; every article will be published without a signature, and all will seem to reflect the overall thoughts and goals of the journal, which is to uplift those who are struggling and improve our social conditions. I would value your help more than your modesty can hardly imagine; and I am completely confident that even your smallest insights or observations about the life around you would gain attention and make a positive impact.
Of course I regard your time as valuable, and consider it so when I ask you if you could devote any of it to this purpose.
Of course, I see your time as valuable and keep that in mind when I ask if you could spend some of it on this.
If you could and would prefer to speak to me on the subject, I should be very glad indeed to come to Manchester for a few hours and explain anything you might wish to know. My unaffected and great admiration of your book makes me very earnest in all relating to you. Forgive my troubling you for this reason, and believe me ever,
If you’d like to talk to me about it, I’d be more than happy to come to Manchester for a few hours to explain anything you want to know. My genuine admiration for your book makes me very sincere in everything related to you. I hope you don’t mind me reaching out for this reason, and know that I am always here,
P.S.—Mrs. Dickens and her sister send their love.
P.S.—Mrs. Dickens and her sister send their love.
Devonshire Terrace, Tuesday, Feb. 5th, 1850.
I have been going to write to you for a long time, but have always had in my mind that you might come here with Lotty any day. As Lotty has come without you, however (witness a tremendous rampaging and ravaging now going on upstairs!), I despatch this note to say that I suppose you have seen the announcement of "the" new weekly thing, and that if you would ever write anything for it, you would please me better than I can tell you. We hope to do some solid good, and we mean to be as cheery and pleasant as we can. (And, putting our hands in our breeches pockets, we say complacently, that our money is as good as Blackwood's any day in the week.)
I’ve been meaning to write to you for a while now, but I kept thinking you might show up here with Lotty any day. Well, since Lotty has come without you (just listen to the chaos happening upstairs!), I’m sending this note to say that I assume you’ve seen the announcement for “the” new weekly publication, and if you ever decided to write something for it, I can’t express how much it would please me. We’re hoping to make a real impact, and we plan to be as cheerful and enjoyable as possible. (And, with our hands in our pockets, we’re feeling pretty satisfied that our money is just as good as Blackwood’s any day of the week.)
Now the murder's out!
Now the murder's revealed!
Are you never coming to town any more? Must I come[218] to Bonchurch? Am I born (for the eight-and-thirtieth time) next Thursday, at half-past five, and do you mean to say you are not coming to dinner? Well, well, I can always go over to Puseyism to spite my friends, and that's some comfort.
Are you ever going to come to town again? Do I have to come to Bonchurch? Am I really turning 38 next Thursday at 5:30, and you're telling me you're not coming to dinner? Well, I guess I can always go over to Puseyism to annoy my friends, and that’s a bit of comfort.
Poor dear Jeffrey! I had heard from him but a few days, and the unopened proof of No. 10 was lying on his table when he died. I believe I have lost as affectionate a friend as I ever had, or ever shall have, in this world.
Poor dear Jeffrey! I had only heard from him a few days ago, and the unopened proof of No. 10 was lying on his table when he passed away. I think I’ve lost one of the most caring friends I’ve ever had, or will ever have, in this world.
Devonshire Terrace, February 8th, 1850.
Let me thank you in the heartiest manner for your most kind and gratifying mention of me in your able pamphlet. It gives me great pleasure, and I sincerely feel it.
Let me thank you sincerely for your kind and flattering mention of me in your impressive pamphlet. It brings me great joy, and I truly appreciate it.
I quite agree with you in all you say so well of the injustice and impolicy of this excessive taxation. But when I think of the condition of the great mass of the people, I fear that I could hardly find the heart to press for justice in this respect, before the window-duty is removed. They cannot read without light. They cannot have an average chance of life and health without it. Much as we feel our wrong, I fear that they feel their wrong more, and that the things just done in this wise must bear a new physical existence.
I completely agree with everything you said about the unfairness and foolishness of this excessive taxation. But when I think about the situation of most people, I’m worried that I just couldn't bring myself to push for justice on this issue before the window tax is taken away. They can't read without light. They can’t have even a basic chance at life and health without it. As much as we feel our pain, I worry that they feel theirs even more, and that the actions taken this way must lead to a new reality.
I never see you, and begin to think we must have another play—say in Cornwall—expressly to bring us together.
I never see you, and I'm starting to think we need to have another play—maybe in Cornwall—just to bring us together.
THE FORGE:
A Weekly Journal,
Conducted by Charles Dickens.
So, on its ringing anvil shaped
Each burning action and thought."—Longfellow.
| The fireplace. | Home Music. |
| The Workshop. | Change. |
| The Crucible. | Time and Tide. |
| The Anvil of Time. | Two pence. |
| Charles Dickens's Work. | English Bells. |
| Seasonal Leaves. | Weekly Updates. |
| Evergreen Foliage. | The Rocket |
| Home. | Good Humor. |
148, King's Road, Brighton,
Tuesday Night, March 12th, 1850.
I have made a correction or two in my part of the post-office article. I still observe the top-heavy "Household Words" in the title. The title of "The Amusements of the People" has to be altered as I have marked it. I would as soon have my hair cut off as an intolerable Scotch shortness put into my titles by the elision of little words. "The Seasons" wants a little punctuation. Will the "Incident in the Life of Mademoiselle Clairon" go into those two pages? I fear not, but one article would be infinitely better, I am quite certain, than two or three short ones. If it will go in, in with it.[220]
I’ve made a few corrections to my section of the post-office article. I still see the awkward “Household Words” in the title. The title “The Amusements of the People” needs to be changed as I’ve indicated. I’d rather cut my hair than have an annoying Scottish brevity force me to eliminate small words from my titles. “The Seasons” needs a bit of punctuation. Will “Incident in the Life of Mademoiselle Clairon” fit into those two pages? I doubt it, but I’m sure one article would be way better than two or three short ones. If it fits, let’s include it.[220]
I shall be back, please God, by dinner-time to-morrow week. I will be ready for Smithfield either on the following Monday morning at four, or any other morning you may arrange for.
I’ll be back, God willing, by dinner time next week. I’ll be ready for Smithfield either the following Monday morning at four, or any other morning you’d like to set up.
Would it do to make up No. 2 on Wednesday, the 20th, instead of Saturday? If so, it would be an immense convenience to me. But if it be distinctly necessary to make it up on Saturday, say by return, and I am to be relied upon. Don't fail in this.
Would it be okay to do No. 2 on Wednesday, the 20th, instead of Saturday? If that works, it would really help me out. But if it’s absolutely necessary to stick to Saturday, please let me know right away, and I’ll make sure to be dependable. Don’t forget this.
I really can't promise to be comic. Indeed, your note put me out a little, for I had just sat down to begin, "It will last my time." I will shake my head a little, and see if I can shake a more comic substitute out of it.
I really can't promise to be funny. Honestly, your note threw me off a bit, because I had just sat down to start with, "It will last my time." I’ll shake my head a bit and see if I can come up with something funnier instead.
As to two comic articles, or two any sort of articles, out of me, that's the intensest extreme of no-goism.
As for two comic articles, or any two articles from me, that's the absolute peak of unacceptability.
Devonshire Terrace, July 13th, 1850.
Being obliged (sorely against my will) to leave my work this morning and go out, and having a few spare minutes before I go, I write a hasty note, to hint how glad I am to have received yours, and how happy and tranquil we feel it to be for you all, that the end of that long illness has come.[8] Kate and Georgy send best loves to Mrs. White, and we hope she will take all needful rest and relief after those arduous, sad, and weary weeks. I have taken a house at Broadstairs, from early in August until the end of October, as I don't want to come back to London until I shall have finished "Copperfield." I am rejoiced at the idea of your going there. You will find it the healthiest and freshest of places; and there are Canterbury, and all[221] varieties of what Leigh Hunt calls "greenery," within a few minutes' railroad ride. It is not very picturesque ashore, but extremely so seaward; all manner of ships continually passing close inshore. So come, and we'll have no end of sports, please God.
I was forced (against my will) to leave my work this morning and go out, and since I have a few spare minutes before I head out, I’m writing a quick note to say how glad I am to have received yours and how happy and calm it makes us to know that the long illness has finally come to an end. [8] Kate and Georgy send their best to Mrs. White, and we hope she’ll get all the rest and relief she needs after those tough, sad, and exhausting weeks. I’ve rented a house in Broadstairs from early August until the end of October because I don’t want to come back to London until I finish "Copperfield." I'm really excited about the idea of you going there. You'll find it to be the healthiest and freshest place, and Canterbury and all sorts of what Leigh Hunt calls "greenery" are just a few minutes away by train. It’s not particularly picturesque on land, but it's stunning by the sea, with all kinds of ships constantly passing close by. So come, and we’ll have endless fun, God willing.
I am glad to say, as I know you will be to hear, that there seems a bright unanimity about "Copperfield." I am very much interested in it and pleased with it myself. I have carefully planned out the story, for some time past, to the end, and am making out my purposes with great care. I should like to know what you see from that tower of yours. I have little doubt you see the real objects in the prospect.
I’m happy to say, and I know you’ll be glad to hear, that there’s a strong agreement about "Copperfield." I’m really interested in it and pleased with it myself. I’ve carefully planned out the story to the end for a while now, and I’m working on my goals with great care. I’d like to know what you see from your tower. I have no doubt you see the real things in the view.
"Household Words" goes on thoroughly well. It is expensive, of course, and demands a large circulation; but it is taking a great and steady stand, and I have no doubt already yields a good round profit.
"Household Words" is doing really well. It's pricey, of course, and needs a big audience; but it's making a solid and consistent impact, and I'm sure it's already generating a nice profit.
To-morrow week I shall expect you. You shall have a bottle of the "Twenty." I have kept a few last lingering caskets with the gem enshrined therein, expressly for you.
To next week, I’ll be expecting you. You’ll get a bottle of the “Twenty.” I’ve kept a few last special cases with the gem inside just for you.
Cordially yours.
Windsor Hotel, Paris, Thursday, July 27th, 1850.
After the deadline.
I have had much ado to get to work; the heat here being so intense that I can do nothing but lie on the bare floor all day. I never felt it anything like so hot in Italy.
I’ve had a hard time getting to work because it’s so hot here that I can only lie on the bare floor all day. I’ve never felt heat this intense in Italy.
There is nothing doing in the theatres, and the atmosphere is so horribly oppressive there that one can hardly endure it. I came out of the Français last night half dead. I am writing at this moment with nothing on but a[222] shirt and pair of white trousers, and have been sitting four hours at this paper, but am as faint with the heat as if I had been at some tremendous gymnastics; and yet we had a thunderstorm last night.
There’s nothing happening at the theaters, and the vibe is so suffocating that it’s hard to bear. I left the Français last night feeling completely drained. Right now, I’m writing in just a[222] shirt and a pair of white pants, and I’ve been sitting here for four hours working on this paper, but I feel as weak from the heat as if I had just finished an intense workout; and we had a thunderstorm last night.
I hope we are doing pretty well in Wellington Street. My anxiety makes me feel as if I had been away a year. I hope to be home on Tuesday evening, or night at latest. I have picked up a very curious book of French statistics that will suit us, and an odd proposal for a company connected with the gambling in California, of which you will also be able to make something.
I hope we're doing well on Wellington Street. My anxiety makes it feel like I've been away for a year. I plan to be back home by Tuesday evening, or at the latest, Tuesday night. I've found a really interesting book of French statistics that will be useful for us, and an unusual proposal for a company related to gambling in California, which you’ll be able to work with too.
I saw a certain "Lord Spleen" mentioned in a playbill yesterday, and will look after that distinguished English nobleman to-night, if possible. Rachel played last night for the last time before going to London, and has not so much in her as some of our friends suppose.
I saw a guy called "Lord Spleen" mentioned in a playbill yesterday, and I'll try to check out that prominent English nobleman tonight, if I can. Rachel performed last night for the last time before heading to London, and she doesn’t have as much going on as some of our friends think.
The English people are perpetually squeezing themselves into courtyards, blind alleys, closed edifices, and other places where they have no sort of business. The French people, as usual, are making as much noise as possible about everything that is of no importance, but seem (as far as one can judge) pretty quiet and good-humoured. They made a mighty hullabaloo at the theatre last night, when Brutus (the play was "Lucretia") declaimed about liberty.
The English are constantly cramming themselves into courtyards, narrow streets, closed buildings, and other spots where they really don’t belong. The French, as usual, are making as much noise as they can about things that don’t matter, but they seem to be fairly calm and in a good mood, from what one can tell. They created a huge commotion at the theater last night when Brutus (the play was "Lucretia") gave a speech about liberty.
Devonshire Terrace, August 9th, 1850.
I shall be obliged to you if you will write to this man, and tell him that what he asks I never do—firstly, because I have no kind of connection with any manager or theatre; secondly, because I am asked to read so many[223] manuscripts, that compliance is impossible, or I should have no other occupation or relaxation in the world.
I would appreciate it if you could write to this man and let him know that I never do what he's asking—first, because I don't have any connection with any manager or theater; and second, because I'm requested to read so many[223] manuscripts that it's just not possible, or else I would have no other work or downtime in my life.
A foreign gentleman, with a beard, name unknown,
but signing himself "A Fellow Man," and dating from
nowhere, declined, twice yesterday, to leave this house for
any less consideration than the insignificant one of "twenty
pounds." I have had a policeman waiting for him all day.
A foreign man with a beard, whose name is unknown but who signs himself as "A Fellow Man," and provides no location, refused twice yesterday to leave this house for anything less than the trivial sum of "twenty pounds." I've had a police officer waiting for him all day.
Broadstairs, Tuesday, Sept. 3rd, 1850.
I enclose a few lines from Georgy, and write these to say that I purpose going home at some time on Thursday, but I cannot say precisely when, as it depends on what work I do to-morrow. Yesterday Charles Knight, White, Forster, Charley, and I walked to Richborough Castle and back. Knight dined with us afterwards; and the Whites, the Bicknells, and Mrs. Gibson came in in the evening and played vingt-et-un.
I’m sharing a few lines from Georgy and writing to let you know that I plan to go home sometime on Thursday, but I can’t say exactly when since it depends on what work I do tomorrow. Yesterday, Charles Knight, White, Forster, Charley, and I walked to Richborough Castle and back. Knight had dinner with us afterward, and the Whites, the Bicknells, and Mrs. Gibson came over in the evening to play blackjack.
Having no news I must tell you a story of Sydney. The children, Georgy, and I were out in the garden on Sunday evening (by-the-bye, I made a beautiful passage down, and got to Margate a few minutes after one), when I asked Sydney if he would go to the railroad and see if Forster was coming. As he answered very boldly "Yes," I opened the garden-gate, upon which he set off alone as fast as his legs would carry him; and being pursued, was not overtaken until he was through the Lawn House Archway, when he was still going on at full speed—I can't conceive where. Being brought back in triumph, he made a number of fictitious starts, for the sake of being overtaken again, and we made a regular game of it. At last, when he and Ally[224] had run away, instead of running after them, we came into the garden, shut the gate, and crouched down on the ground. Presently we heard them come back and say to each other with some alarm, "Why, the gate's shut, and they're all gone!" Ally began in a dismayed way to cry out, but the Phenomenon shouting, "Open the gate!" sent an enormous stone flying into the garden (among our heads) by way of alarming the establishment. I thought it a wonderful piece of character, showing great readiness of resource. He would have fired a perfect battery of stones, or very likely have broken the pantry window, I think, if we hadn't let him in.
Having no news, I have to tell you a story about Sydney. The kids, Georgy, and I were in the garden on Sunday evening (by the way, I had a lovely trip down and got to Margate just a few minutes after one), when I asked Sydney if he would head to the train station to see if Forster was coming. When he boldly replied, "Yes," I opened the garden gate, and he took off running as fast as he could. He was being chased but wasn't caught until he got through the Lawn House Archway, still running full speed—I have no idea where he was going. When he was brought back triumphantly, he made a bunch of fake starts just to get chased again, and we turned it into a fun game. Eventually, when he and Ally had dashed away, instead of chasing them, we went back into the garden, closed the gate, and crouched down on the ground. Soon, we heard them come back, and with some alarm, they said to each other, "Wait, the gate's shut, and they're all gone!" Ally started to cry out in dismay, but the Phenomenon yelled, "Open the gate!" and hurled a huge stone into the garden (right near us) to scare us. I thought it was a brilliant display of his character, showing great quick thinking. He would have launched a whole bunch of stones or probably broken the pantry window if we hadn't let him in.
They are all in great force, and send their loves. They are all much excited with the expectation of receiving you on Friday, and would start me off to fetch you now if I would go.
They’re all really excited and sending their love. They can’t wait for you to arrive on Friday, and they’d send me to get you right now if I’d go.
Our train on Friday will be half-past twelve. I have spoken to Georgy about the partridges, and hope we may find some.
Our train on Friday will be at 12:30. I talked to Georgy about the partridges and hope we can find some.
Most affectionately.
Broadstairs, Kent, Monday Night, Sept. 16th, 1850.
Your letter having arrived in time for me to write a line by the evening post, I came out of a paroxysm of "Copperfield," to say that I am perfectly delighted to read it, and to know that we are going to act together in that merry party. We dress "Every Man" in Queen Elizabeth's time. The acting copy is much altered from the old play, but we still smooth down phrases when needful. I don't remember anyone that is changed. Georgina says she can't describe the dress Mrs. Kitely used to wear. I shall be in town on Saturday, and will then get Maclise to make me a[225] little sketch, of it, carefully explained, which I will post to you. At the same time I will send you the book. After consideration of forces, it has occurred to me (old Ben being, I daresay, rare; but I do know rather heavy here and there) that Mrs. Inchbald's "Animal Magnetism," which we have often played, will "go" with a greater laugh than anything else. That book I will send you on Saturday too. You will find your part (Lisette, I think it is called, but it is a waiting-maid) a most admirable one; and I have seen people laugh at the piece until they have hung over the front of the boxes like ripe fruit. You may dress the part to please yourself after reading it. We wear powder. I will take care (bringing a theatrical hairdresser for the company) of your wig! We will rehearse the two pieces when we go down, or at least anything with which you have to do, over and over again. You will find my company so well used to it, and so accustomed to consider it a grave matter of business, as to make it easy. I am now awaiting the French books with a view to "Rockingham," and I hope to report of that too, when I write to you on Saturday.
Your letter arrived just in time for me to write a note before the evening post, so I took a break from "Copperfield" to say that I am perfectly delighted to read it and to hear that we’ll be performing together in that fun group. We’re putting on "Every Man" set in Queen Elizabeth's era. The script is quite a bit different from the old play, but we still smooth out phrases when necessary. I can’t think of anyone who's changed. Georgina says she can’t describe the outfit Mrs. Kitely used to wear. I’ll be in town on Saturday, and I'll get Maclise to do a[225] little sketch of it, explained in detail, which I’ll send to you. I’ll also send you the book then. After considering the cast, I thought (even though old Ben is likely rare; but I do know it can be a bit heavy at times) that Mrs. Inchbald’s "Animal Magnetism," which we’ve performed often, will get the biggest laughs. I’ll send you that book on Saturday as well. You’ll find your part (I think it’s called Lisette, but she’s a waiting-maid) to be very good; I’ve seen audiences laugh so hard they leaned over the front of the boxes like ripe fruit. You can style the part however you like after reading it. We wear powder. I’ll make sure to bring a theatrical hairdresser for the company to take care of your wig! We’ll rehearse the two pieces when we go down, or at least anything you’re involved in, repeatedly. My company is so used to this and treats it as serious business, so it’ll make things easier. I’m currently waiting for the French books for "Rockingham," and I hope to give you an update on that when I write to you on Saturday.
Devonshire Terrace, Friday, Sept. 20th, 1850.
I enclose you the book of "Animal Magnetism," and the book of "Every Man in his Humour;" also a sketch by Mr. Maclise of a correct and picturesque Mrs. Kitely. Mr. Forster is Kitely; Mr. Lemon, Brainworm; Mr. Leech, Master Matthew; Mr. Jerrold, Master Stephen; Mr. Stone, Downright. Kitely's dress is a very plain purple gown, like a Bluecoat-boy's. Downright's dress is also very sober, chiefly brown and gray. All the rest of us are very bright. I am flaming red. Georgina will write[226] you about your colour and hers in "Animal Magnetism;" the gayer the better. I am the Doctor, in black, with red stockings. Mr. Lemon (an excellent actor), the valet, as far as I can remember, in blue and yellow, and a chintz waistcoat. Mr. Leech is the Marquis, and Mr. Egg the one-eyed servant.
I'm sending you the book "Animal Magnetism" and "Every Man in his Humour," along with a sketch by Mr. Maclise of a sharp and charming Mrs. Kitely. Mr. Forster plays Kitely; Mr. Lemon is Brainworm; Mr. Leech is Master Matthew; Mr. Jerrold takes on Master Stephen; Mr. Stone is Downright. Kitely's outfit is a very simple purple gown, similar to a Bluecoat boy's. Downright's attire is also quite plain, mostly brown and gray. The rest of us are dressed very brightly. I'm in bright red. Georgina will write[226] you about her color and mine in "Animal Magnetism;" the more colorful, the better. I'm the Doctor, dressed in black with red stockings. Mr. Lemon (a fantastic actor), playing the valet, as far as I can remember, is in blue and yellow with a chintz waistcoat. Mr. Leech is the Marquis, and Mr. Egg plays the one-eyed servant.
What do you think of doing "Animal Magnetism" as the last piece (we may play three in all, I think) at Rockingham? If so, we might make Quin the one-eyed servant, and beat up with Mrs. Watson for a Marquis. Will you tell me what you think of this, addressed to Broadstairs? I have not heard from Bulwer again. I daresay I have crossed a letter from him by coming up to-day; but I have every reason to believe that the last week in October is the time.
What do you think about doing "Animal Magnetism" as the last piece (I think we can play three in total) at Rockingham? If we do, we could make Quin the one-eyed servant and team up with Mrs. Watson for a Marquis. Please let me know what you think of this, addressed to Broadstairs. I haven't heard from Bulwer again. I suppose I might have missed a letter from him by coming up today, but I have every reason to believe that the last week in October is the right time.
P.S.—This is quite a managerial letter, which I write with all manner of appointments and business discussions going on about me, having my pen on the paper and my eye on "Household Words," my head on "Copperfield" and my ear nowhere particularly.
P.S.—This is quite a formal letter, which I’m writing while dealing with various meetings and business talks around me, my pen on the paper and my eye on "Household Words," my mind on "Copperfield" and my ear not really focused anywhere in particular.
I will let you know about "A Day after the Wedding." I have sent for the book on Monday.
I will update you about "A Day after the Wedding." I requested the book on Monday.
Broadstairs, England, September 24th, 1850.
Coming out of "Copperfield" into a condition of temporary and partial consciousness, I plunge into histrionic duties, and hold enormous correspondence with Miss Boyle, between whom and myself the most portentous packets are continually passing. I send you a piece we purpose playing last at Rockingham, which "my company" played in London, Scotland, Manchester, Liverpool, and I don't know where else. It is one of the most ridiculous things ever[227] done. We purpose, as I have said, playing it last. Why do I send it to you? Because there is an excellent part (played in my troupe by George Cruikshank) for your brother in it—Jeffrey; with a black patch on his eye, and a lame leg, he would be charming—noble! If he is come home, give him my love and tell him so. If he is not come home, do me that favour when he does come. And add that I have a wig for him belonging to the part, which I have an idea of sending to the Exposition of '51, as a triumph of human ingenuity.
Coming out of "Copperfield" into a state of temporary and partial awareness, I dive into acting duties and manage a massive correspondence with Miss Boyle, with whom I'm constantly exchanging significant packages. I'm sending you a piece we plan to perform last at Rockingham, which "my company" has played in London, Scotland, Manchester, Liverpool, and who knows where else. It's one of the most absurd things ever[227] done. As I mentioned, we plan to perform it last. Why am I sending it to you? Because there's an excellent role (played in my troupe by George Cruikshank) for your brother, Jeffrey; with a black patch over his eye and a limp, he would be delightful—noble! If he’s back home, send him my love and let him know. If he’s not back yet, please do me that favor when he returns. Also, mention that I have a wig for him that belongs to the part, which I’m thinking of sending to the '51 Exposition as a testament to human ingenuity.
I am the Doctor; Miss Boyle, Lisette; Georgy, the other little woman. We have nearly arranged our "bill" for Rockingham. We shall want one more reasonably good actor, besides your brother and Miss Boyle's, to play the Marquis in this piece. Do you know a being endowed by nature with the requisite qualities?
I’m the Doctor; this is Miss Boyle, Lisette; and Georgy, the other woman. We’re almost done setting up our "bill" for Rockingham. We’ll need one more decent actor, in addition to your brother and Miss Boyle’s, to play the Marquis in this show. Do you know someone who naturally has the right qualities?
There are some things in the next "Copperfield" that I think better than any that have gone before. After I have been believing such things with all my heart and soul, two results always ensue: first, I can't write plainly to the eye; secondly, I can't write sensibly to the mind. So "Copperfield" is to blame, and I am not, for this wandering note; and if you like it, you'll forgive me. With my affectionate remembrances to Watson,
There are some things in the next "Copperfield" that I think are better than anything that has come before. After I've believed in these things with all my heart and soul, two things always happen: first, I can't write clearly for the eye; second, I can't write sensibly for the mind. So "Copperfield" is to blame for this rambling note, not me; and if you enjoy it, you'll forgive me. Sending my warm regards to Watson,
Very faithfully yours.
P.S.—I find I am not equal to the flourish.
P.S.—I realize I'm not up to the task.
Devonshire Terrace, Wednesday, Oct 30th, 1850.
We are all extremely concerned and distressed to lose you. But we feel that it cannot be otherwise, and we[228] do not, in our own expectation of amusement, forget the sad cause of your absence.
We are all very worried and upset about losing you. But we believe there’s no other choice, and we[228] don’t forget the sad reason for your absence in our own hopes for some fun.
Bulwer was here yesterday; and if I were to tell you how earnestly he and all the other friends whom you don't know have looked forward to the projected association with you, and in what a friendly spirit they all express their disappointment, you would be quite moved by it, I think. Pray don't give yourself the least uneasiness on account of the blank in our arrangements. I did not write to you yesterday, in the hope that I might be able to tell you to-day that I had replaced you, in however poor a way. I cannot do that yet, but I am busily making out some means of filling the parts before we rehearse to-morrow night, and I trust to be able to do so in some out-of-the-way manner.
Bulwer was here yesterday, and if I told you how much he and all the other friends you don't know were looking forward to collaborating with you, and how genuinely disappointed they all are, it would really touch you, I think. Please don’t worry at all about the gap in our plans. I didn’t write to you yesterday because I hoped to tell you today that I had found someone to take your place, even if it’s not ideal. I can’t say that just yet, but I’m working hard to figure out how to fill the roles before we rehearse tomorrow night, and I’m confident I’ll manage to do so in a somewhat creative way.
Mrs. Dickens and Bridget send you their kindest remembrances. They are bitterly disappointed at not seeing you to-day, but we all hope for a better time.
Mrs. Dickens and Bridget send you their warmest regards. They are really disappointed not to see you today, but we all hope for a better time.
Faithfully yours always.
Devonshire Terrace, Saturday Evening, Nov. 23rd, 1850.
Being well home from Knebworth, where everything has gone off in a whirl of triumph and fired the whole length and breadth of the county of Hertfordshire, I write a short note to say that we are yours any time after Twelfth-night, and that we look forward to seeing you with the greatest pleasure. I should have made this reply to your last note sooner, but that I have been waiting to send you "Copperfield" in a new waistcoat. His tailor is so slow that it has not yet appeared; but when the resplendent garment comes home it shall be forwarded.[229]
Being back home from Knebworth, where everything went off in a whirlwind of success and energized the entire county of Hertfordshire, I’m writing a quick note to say that we’re available anytime after Twelfth Night, and we really look forward to seeing you. I would have replied to your last note sooner, but I’ve been waiting to send you "Copperfield" in a new waistcoat. His tailor is taking so long that it hasn't arrived yet; but once the fabulous garment is ready, I’ll send it to you.[229]
I have not your note at hand, but I think you said "any time after Christmas." At all events, and whatever you said, we will conclude a treaty on any terms you may propose. And if it should include any of Charley's holidays, perhaps you would allow us to put a brass collar round his neck, and chain him up in the stable.
I don’t have your message with me, but I believe you mentioned "any time after Christmas." In any case, regardless of what you said, we’ll agree to a deal on any terms you propose. And if it happens to include any of Charley's holidays, maybe you'd let us put a brass collar around his neck and chain him up in the stable.
Kate and Georgina (who has covered herself with glory) join me in best remembrances and regards to Watson and you and all the house. I have stupendous proposals to make concerning Switzerland in the spring.
Kate and Georgina (who has made quite a name for herself) send their best wishes and regards to Watson, you, and everyone at the house. I have amazing ideas to share about Switzerland in the spring.
I promised Bulwer to make enquiry of you about "Miss Watson," whom he once knew and greatly wished to hear of. He associated her (but was not clear how) with Lady Palmer.
I promised Bulwer to ask you about "Miss Watson," who he once knew and really wanted to know about. He connected her (though he wasn't exactly sure how) with Lady Palmer.
Ever faithfully yours.
Devonshire Terrace, November 28th, 1850.
If I ever did such a thing, believe me I would do it at your request. But I don't, and if you could see the ramparts of letters from similar institutions with which my desk bristles every now and then, you would feel that nothing lies between total abstinence (in this regard) and utter bewilderment and lecturation.
If I ever did something like that, trust me, I would do it because you asked. But I don’t, and if you could see the stack of letters from other places that pile up on my desk from time to time, you’d understand that there’s really nothing between completely abstaining (in this case) and complete confusion and lecturing.
Mrs. Dickens and her sister unite with me in kind regards to you and Mrs. Bicknell. The consequences of the accident are fast fading, I am happy to say. We all hope to hear shortly that Mrs. Bicknell has recovered that other little accident, which (as you and I know) will occasionally happen in well-regulated families.
Mrs. Dickens and her sister join me in sending warm regards to you and Mrs. Bicknell. I'm happy to say that the effects of the accident are quickly fading. We all hope to hear soon that Mrs. Bicknell has also recovered from that other little mishap, which, as you and I know, can sometimes happen in well-organized families.
"Household Words" Office,
Wednesday, Dec. 4th, 1850.
I have been (a strange thing for me) so very unwell since Sunday, that I have hardly been able to hold up my head—a bilious attack, I believe, and a very miserable sort of business. This, my dear friend, is the reason why I have not sooner written to you in reference to your noble letter, which I read in The Examiner, and for which—as it exalts me—I cannot, cannot thank you in words.
I have been (strangely for me) very unwell since Sunday, to the point where I've barely been able to lift my head—it's a stomach issue, I think, and a really miserable situation. This, my dear friend, is why I haven't written to you sooner about your wonderful letter that I read in The Examiner, and for which I can't thank you enough, as it truly lifts my spirits.
We had been following up the blow in Kinkel's[9] favour, and I was growing sanguine, in the hope of getting him out (having enlisted strong and active sympathy in his behalf), when the news came of his escape. Since then we have heard nothing of him. I rather incline to the opinion that the damnable powers that be connived at his escape, but know nothing. Whether he be retaken or whether he appear (as I am not without hope he may) in the streets of London, I shall be a party to no step whatever without consulting you; and if any scrap of intelligence concerning him shall reach me, it shall be yours immediately.
We had been supporting Kinkel's[9] cause, and I was feeling optimistic about getting him out (having gained strong and active support for him), when we heard the news of his escape. Since then, we haven't heard anything about him. I tend to think that the terrible powers that be allowed his escape, but I don't have any proof. Whether he gets caught again or shows up (as I hope he might) in the streets of London, I won’t take any action without consulting you first; and if I receive any information about him, I’ll pass it on to you right away.
Horne wrote the article. I shall see him here to-night, and know how he will feel your sympathy and support. But I do not wait to see him before writing, lest you should think me slow to feel your generosity. We said at home when we read your letter, that it was like the opening of your whole munificent and bare heart.
Horne wrote the article. I’ll see him here tonight, and I know how much he’ll appreciate your sympathy and support. But I won’t wait to see him before writing this, so you don’t think I’m slow to recognize your generosity. When we read your letter at home, we said it was like the opening of your generous and open heart.
My dear Landor.
This is No. 2.
Your note to me of Saturday has crossed mine to you, I find. If you open both of mine together, please to observe this is No. 2.
Your note to me from Saturday has crossed paths with mine to you, I see. If you open both of mine together, please note this is No. 2.
You may rely on Mr. Tucker's doing his work thoroughly well and charging a fair price. It is not possible for him to say aforehand, in such a case, what it will cost, I imagine, as he will have to adapt his work to the place. Nathan's stage knowledge may be stated in the following figures: 00000000000. Therefore, I think you had best refer Mr. Tucker to me, and I will apply all needful screws and tortures to him.
You can count on Mr. Tucker to do his work really well and charge a fair price. I don't think he can quote you a price upfront, since he will need to adjust his work based on the situation. Nathan's experience in this area can be summed up as: 00000000000. So, I suggest you refer Mr. Tucker to me, and I'll make sure to apply all the necessary pressure on him.
I have thought of one or two very ingenious (hem!) little contrivances for adapting the difficulties of "Used Up" to the small stage. They will require to be so exactly explained to your carpenter (though very easy little things in themselves), that I think I had better, before Christmas, send my servant down for an hour—he is quite an old stager now—to show him precisely what I mean. It is not a day's work, but it would be extremely difficult to explain in writing. I developed these wonderful ideas to the master carpenter at one of the theatres, and he shook his head with an intensely mournful air, and said, "Ah, sir, it's a universal observation in the profession, sir, that it was a great loss to the public when you took to writing books!" which I thought complimentary to "Copperfield."
I came up with one or two clever little ideas for adapting the challenges of "Used Up" to a small stage. They’ll need to be explained really clearly to your carpenter (even though they’re pretty straightforward), so I think I should send my servant down for an hour before Christmas—he's quite experienced by now—to show him exactly what I mean. It won't take a whole day, but explaining it in writing would be really tough. I shared these great ideas with the lead carpenter at one of the theaters, and he shook his head sadly and said, "Ah, sir, it’s a well-known fact in the profession that it was a big loss to the public when you started writing books!" which I found flattering for "Copperfield."
Devonshire Terrace, Saturday, Dec. 14th, 1850.
I shall be delighted to come on the seventh instead of the eighth. We consider it an engagement. Over and above[232] the pleasure of a quiet day with you, I think I can greatly facilitate the preparations (that's the way, you see, in which we cheat ourselves into making duties of pleasures) by being at Rockingham a day earlier. So that's settled.
I’d be happy to come on the seventh instead of the eighth. We see it as a commitment. Besides the joy of a relaxing day with you, I believe I can really help with the preparations (that's how we trick ourselves into turning fun into responsibilities) by arriving at Rockingham a day earlier. So that’s decided.
I was quite certain when that Child of Israel mentioned those dimensions, that he must be wrong. For which wooden-headedness the Child shall be taken to task on Monday morning, when I am going to look at his preparations, by appointment, about the door. Don't you observe, that the scenery not being made expressly for the room, it may be impossible to use it as you propose? There is a scene before that wall, and unless the door in the scene (supposing there to be one, which I am not sure of) should come exactly into the place of the door of the room, the door of the room might as well be in Africa. If it could be used it would still require to be backed (excuse professional technicality) by another scene in the passage. And if it be rather in the side of the bottom of the room (as I seem to remember it), it would be shut out of sight, or partially, by the side scenes. Do you comprehend these stage managerial sagacities? That piece of additional room in so small a stage would be of immense service, if we could avail ourselves of it. If we can't, I have another means (I think) of discovering Leech, Saville, and Coldstream at table. I am constantly turning over in my mind the capacities of the place, and hope by one means or other to make something more than the best of it. As to the fireplace, you will never be able to use that. The heat of the lamp will be very great, and ventilation will be the thing wanted. Thirteen feet and a half of depth, diminished by stage fittings and furniture, is a small space. I think the doorway could be used in the last scene, with the castle steps and platform for the staircase running straight[233] through it toward the hall. Nous verrons. I will write again about my visit of inspection, probably on Monday.
I was pretty sure when that Child of Israel mentioned those measurements that he had to be mistaken. For that confusion, the Child will be held accountable on Monday morning when I check out his preparations, as scheduled, by the door. Don't you see that since the scenery isn't made specifically for the room, it might not work as you intend? There’s a scene in front of that wall, and unless the door in the scene (if there even is one, which I'm not certain about) lines up perfectly with the door of the room, the room's door might as well be in Africa. Even if it could be used, it would still need to be backed (forgive the technical jargon) by another scene in the passage. And if it's more towards the bottom side of the room (as I vaguely recall), it would be mostly hidden by the side scenes. Do you get these theater management insights? That extra space in such a small stage would be incredibly useful if we could utilize it. If we can't, I have another way (I think) to show Leech, Saville, and Coldstream at the table. I’m constantly thinking about the place's potential and hope to make the best of it in some way. As for the fireplace, you'll never be able to use that. The heat from the lamp will be considerable, and we will need proper ventilation. Thirteen and a half feet of depth, reduced by stage fittings and furniture, is quite limited. I think we could use the doorway in the last scene, with the castle steps and platform for the staircase running straight through it toward the hall. Nous verrons. I will write again about my visit to inspect, probably on Monday.
Will you let them know that Messrs. Nathan, of Titchborne Street, Haymarket, will dress them, please, and that I will engage for their doing it thoroughly well; also that Mr. Wilson, theatrical hairdresser, Strand, near St. Clement's Churchyard, will come down with wigs, etc., to "make up" everybody; that he has a list of the pieces from me, and that he will be glad to measure the heads and consult the tastes of all concerned, if they will give him the opportunity beforehand? I should like to see Sir Adonis Leech and the Hon. T. Saville if I can. For they ought to be wonderfully made up, and to be as unlike themselves as possible, and to contrast well with each other and with me. I rather grudge caro sposo coming into the company. I should like him so much to see the play. If we do it all well together it ought to be so very pleasant. I never saw a great mass of people so charmed with a little story as when we acted it at the Glasgow Theatre. But I have no other reason for faltering when I take him to my arms. I feel that he is the man for the part.[10] I see him with a blue bag, a flaxen wig, and green spectacles. I know what it will be. I foresee how all that sessional experience will come out. I reconcile myself to it, in spite of the selfish consideration of wanting him elsewhere; and while I have a heavy sense of a light being snuffed out in the audience, perceive a new luminary shining on the stage!
Will you let them know that Mr. Nathan, from Titchborne Street, Haymarket, will get them dressed, and I guarantee he’ll do it really well? Also, Mr. Wilson, the hairdresser from the Strand, near St. Clement's Churchyard, will come with wigs and everything else to "make up" everyone. He has a list of the scenes from me and would be happy to measure heads and discuss everyone’s preferences if they give him a chance beforehand. I’d like to see Sir Adonis Leech and the Hon. T. Saville if I can. They should be made up wonderfully to look as different from themselves as possible, and to contrast nicely with each other and with me. I kind of wish caro sposo wouldn’t show up. I really want him to see the play. If we all do it well together, it should be so enjoyable. I’ve never seen a crowd so captivated by a simple story like they were when we performed at the Glasgow Theatre. But I have no reason to hesitate when I take him in my arms. I feel he’s perfect for the role.[10] I see him with a blue bag, a light-colored wig, and green glasses. I know what it’s going to be like. I can already tell how all that experience will come through. I make peace with it, even though I selfishly want him somewhere else; and while I feel the loss of a light going out in the audience, I see a new star shining on the stage!
Your brother[11] would make a capital tiger, too! Very short tight surtout, doeskins, bright top-boots, white cravat, bouquet in button-hole, close wig—very good, ve—ry good.[234] It clearly must be so. The thing is done. I told you we were opening a tremendous correspondence when we first began to write on such a long subject. But do let me tell you, once and for all, that I am in the business heart and soul, and that you cannot trouble me respecting it, and that I wouldn't willingly or knowingly leave the minutest detail unprovided for. It cannot possibly be a success if the smallest peppercorn of arrangement be omitted. And a success it must be! I couldn't go into such a thing, or help to bring you poorly out of it, for any earthly consideration. Talking of forgetting, isn't it odd? I doubt if I could forget words I had learned, so long as I wanted them. But the moment the necessity goes, they go. I know my place and everybody's place in this identical piece of "Used Up" perfectly, and could put every little object on its own square inches of room exactly where it ought to be. But I have no more recollection of my words now (I took the book up yesterday) than if I had only seen the play as one of the audience at a theatre. Perhaps not so much. With cordial remembrances,
Your brother[11] would totally make a great tiger, too! A really short tight coat, fancy pants, bright boots, a white cravat, a flower in his buttonhole, and a neat wig—very good, ve—ry good.[234] It obviously has to be that way. The decision is made. I told you we were starting a huge discussion when we began to write about such a long topic. But let me tell you once and for all that I’m fully committed to this, and you don’t need to worry me about it because I wouldn’t intentionally leave out even the tiniest detail. It can’t be successful if even the smallest bit of planning is missing. And it definitely needs to be a success! I wouldn’t get involved in something like this or let you come out of it poorly for any reason. Speaking of forgetting, isn’t it strange? I doubt I could forget words I had learned as long as I still needed them. But the moment the need is gone, they disappear. I know my place and everyone else's place in this exact piece of "Used Up" perfectly, and I could place every little object exactly where it belongs. But I have no memory of my words now (I picked the book up yesterday) as if I had only watched the play from the audience at a theater. Maybe not even that much. Best wishes,
Faithfully yours.
Devonshire Terrace, December 19th, 1850.
I am sorry to say that business ("Household Words" business) will keep me in town to-morrow. But on Monday I propose coming down and returning the same day. The train for my money appears to be the half-past six a.m. (horrible initials!), and to that invention for promoting early rising I design to commit myself.
I’m sorry to say that work related to "Household Words" will keep me in town tomorrow. But on Monday, I plan to come down and head back the same day. The train that I think works best for me is the half-past six AM (such awful initials!), and I plan to go along with that idea for getting up early.
I have closely overhauled the little theatre, and the carpenter and painter. The whole has been entirely repainted (I mean the proscenium and scenery) for this especial purpose, and is extremely pretty. I don't think, the scale considered, that anything better could be done. It is very elegant. I have brought "the Child" to this. For the hire of the theatre, fifteen pounds. The carriage to be extra. The Child's fares and expenses (which will be very moderate) to be extra. The stage carpenter's wages to be extra—seven shillings a day. I don't think, when you see the things, that you will consider this too much. It is as good as the Queen's little theatre at Windsor, raised stage excepted. I have had an extraction made, which will enable us to use the door. I am at present breaking my man's heart, by teaching him how to imitate the sounds of the smashing of the windows and the breaking of the balcony in "Used Up." In the event of his death from grief, I have promised to do something for his mother. Thinking it possible that you might not see the enclosed until next month, and hoping that it is seasonable for Christmas, I send it. Being, with cordial regards and all seasonable good wishes,
I’ve completely revamped the little theater, along with the carpenter and painter. Everything has been entirely repainted (the proscenium and scenery) just for this purpose, and it looks really nice. Considering the scale, I don't think anything better could be done. It’s very elegant. I’ve arranged “the Child” to come here. The rental for the theater is fifteen pounds. The delivery charges will be extra. The Child's travel and expenses (which will be quite reasonable) will also be extra. The stage carpenter’s wages will be extra—seven shillings a day. I don’t think you’ll find this too much once you see everything. It’s as good as the Queen’s little theater at Windsor, except for the raised stage. I’ve had an extraction made that will allow us to use the door. Right now, I’m breaking my guy’s heart by teaching him how to imitate the sounds of the windows smashing and the balcony breaking in “Used Up.” If he happens to die from sadness, I’ve promised to help his mother out. Since I figured you might not see the enclosed until next month and hoping it’s timely for Christmas, I’m sending it now. Sending you my warm regards and all best wishes for the season.
Faithfully yours.
P.S.—This [blot] is a tear over the devotion of Captain Boyle, who (as I learned from the Child of Israel this morning) would not decide upon Farmer Wurzel's coat, without referring the question of buttons to managerial approval.[236]
P.S.—This [blot] is a tear over Captain Boyle's devotion, who (as I found out from the Child of Israel this morning) wouldn't decide on Farmer Wurzel's coat without getting the button situation approved by management.[236]
Devonshire Terrace, Tuesday Night, Christmas Eve, 1850.
On the Sunday when I last saw you, I went straight to Lord John's with the letter you read. He was out of town, and I left it with my card.
On the Sunday when I last saw you, I went right to Lord John's with the letter you read. He was out of town, so I left it with my card.
On the following Wednesday I received a note from him, saying that he did not bear in mind exactly what I had told him of you before, and asking me to tell it again. I immediately replied, of course, and gave him an exact description of you and your condition, and your way of life in Paris and everything else; a perfect diorama in little, with you pervading it. To-day I got a letter from him, announcing that you have a pension of a hundred a year! of which I heartily wish you joy.
On the next Wednesday, I got a note from him saying he couldn’t remember exactly what I had told him about you before, and he asked me to go over it again. I immediately replied, of course, and gave him a detailed description of you, your situation, your lifestyle in Paris, and everything else; it was like a little diorama with you at the center. Today, I received a letter from him announcing that you have a pension of a hundred a year! I sincerely wish you congratulations on that.
He says: "I am happy to say that the Queen has approved of a pension of one hundred pounds a year to Mr. Poole.
He says: "I'm happy to share that the Queen has approved a pension of one hundred pounds a year for Mr. Poole.
"The Queen, in her gracious answer, informs me that she meant to have mentioned Mr. Poole to me, and that she had wished to place him in the Charter House, but found the society there was not such as he could associate with.
"The Queen, in her kind response, tells me that she intended to mention Mr. Poole to me and that she wanted to place him in the Charter House, but realized the people there were not the right fit for him."
"Be so good as to inform Mr. Poole that directions are given for his pension, which will date from the end of June last."
"Please let Mr. Poole know that arrangements have been made for his pension, which will start from the end of June."
I have lost no time in answering this, but you must brace up your energies to write him a short note too, and another for the Queen.
I’ve wasted no time replying to this, but you need to gather your strength to write him a short note as well, and another one for the Queen.
If you are in Paris, shall I ascertain what authority I shall need from you to receive the half-year, which I suppose will be shortly due? I can receive it as usual.
If you're in Paris, should I check what authorization I need from you to collect the half-year payment that I assume will be due soon? I can receive it as usual.
With all good wishes and congratulations, seasonable and unseasonable,
With all the best wishes and congratulations, timely and untimely,
Devonshire Terrace, Monday Morning, Dec. 30th, 1850.
As your letter is decided, the scaffolding shall be re-erected round Charley's boots (it has been taken down, and the workmen had retired to their respective homes in various parts of England and Wales) and his dressing proceeded with. I have been very much pleased with him in the matter, as he has never made the least demonstration of disappointment or mortification, and was perfectly contented to give in. (Here I break off to go to Boxall.) (Here I return much exhausted.)
As your letter is final, the scaffolding will be put back up around Charley's boots (it has been taken down, and the workers have gone back to their homes in different parts of England and Wales) and his dressing will continue. I've been really pleased with him in this situation, as he has shown no signs of disappointment or frustration and was completely happy to just go along with it. (Here I stop to go to Boxall.) (Here I return very tired.)
Your time shall be stated in the bills for both nights. I propose to rehearse on the day, on Thursday and Friday, and in the evening on Saturday, that we may try our lights. Therefore:
Your time will be noted in the bills for both nights. I suggest we rehearse during the day on Thursday and Friday, and in the evening on Saturday, so we can test our lights. Therefore:
| Nathan and Stagehand | 
| will come on Tuesday, 7th January, as there must be a responsible person to anathematise, and as the company seem so slow about their dresses, that I foresee the strong probability of Nathan having a good deal to do at Rockingham without respect. |
| Wilson | will come on Saturday, 11th January. | |
| Tucker | will come on Saturday, 11th January. |
I shall be delighted to see your brother, and so no more at present from
I’ll be happy to see your brother, so that’s all for now from
Coldstream Freelove Dr. Dickens.
P.S.—As Boxall (with his head very much on one side and his spectacles on) danced backward from the canvas incessantly with great nimbleness, and returned, and made little digs at it with his pencil, with a horrible grin on his countenance, I augur that he pleased himself this morning.[238]
P.S.—As Boxall, with his head tilted and his glasses on, danced backward from the canvas constantly with great agility, and came back to make little marks on it with his pencil, a creepy grin on his face, I get the feeling that he was enjoying himself this morning.[238]
"Tag" added by Mr. Dickens to "Animal Magnetism," played at Rockingham Castle.
"Tag" added by Mr. Dickens to "Animal Magnetism," performed at Rockingham Castle.
[After The Flower says to the Marquis: "Sir, return him the wand; and
the ladies, I daresay, will fall in love with him again."]
Wand, Marquis, Doctor, Ward, Lisette, and Fate!
Upon your anger.
He's justly treated, as he might have known.
And if the wand were a divining one
It would have turn'd, within his very hands,
Point-blank to where your handsome husband stands.
To change his temper and his favour win.
As wave me back the eye of which I'm blind.
And has no influence for harm or good.
Yet stay! It surely draws me towards those
Indulgent, pleasant, smiling, beaming rows!
It surely charms me.
Before their gen'rous efforts to commend;
To cheer us on, through these few happy hours,
And strew our mimic way with real flowers.
All show respect.
Stay yet again. Among us all, I feel
One subtle, all-pervading influence steal,
Stirring one wish within one heart and head,
Bright be the path our host and hostess tread!
Blest be their children, happy be their race,
Long may they live, this ancient hall to grace
Long bear of English virtues noble fruit—
Green-hearted Rockingham! strike deep thy root
1851.
NARRATIVE.
But in the interval between the Macready banquet and the play at Devonshire House, Charles Dickens underwent great family trouble and sorrow. His father, whose health had been declining for some time, became seriously ill, and[240] Charles Dickens was summoned from Malvern to attend upon him. Mr. John Dickens died on the 31st March. On the 14th April, Charles Dickens had gone from Malvern to preside at the annual dinner of the General Theatrical Fund, and found his children all well at Devonshire Terrace. He was playing with his baby, Dora, before he went to the dinner; soon after he left the house the child died suddenly in her nurse's arms. The sad news was communicated to the father after his duties at the dinner were over. The next day, Mr. Forster went to Malvern to break the news to Mrs. Dickens, and she and her sister returned with him to London, and the Malvern lodgings were given up. But Mrs. Dickens being still out of health, and London being more than usually full (this being the year of the Great Exhibition), Charles Dickens decided to let the town house again for a few months, and engaged the Fort House, Broadstairs, from the beginning of May until November. This, which was his longest sojourn at Broadstairs, was also the last, as the following summer he changed his seaside resort, and never returned to that pretty little watering-place, although he always retained an affectionate interest in it.
But during the time between the Macready banquet and the play at Devonshire House, Charles Dickens faced significant family troubles and sadness. His father, whose health had been declining for a while, became seriously ill, and[240] Charles Dickens was called from Malvern to take care of him. Mr. John Dickens passed away on March 31. On April 14, Charles Dickens had traveled from Malvern to chair the annual dinner of the General Theatrical Fund and found his children all well at Devonshire Terrace. He was playing with his baby, Dora, before heading to the dinner; shortly after he left the house, the child died unexpectedly in her nurse's arms. The heartbreaking news was given to him after he finished his duties at the dinner. The next day, Mr. Forster went to Malvern to inform Mrs. Dickens, and she and her sister returned with him to London, and the Malvern lodgings were vacated. However, since Mrs. Dickens was still unwell and London was unusually crowded (this was the year of the Great Exhibition), Charles Dickens decided to rent the town house again for a few months and booked Fort House in Broadstairs from the beginning of May until November. This was his longest stay at Broadstairs, and it turned out to be the last, as the following summer he chose a different seaside destination and never returned to that charming little resort, even though he always kept a fond interest in it.
The lease of the Devonshire Terrace house was to expire this year. It was now too small for his family, so he could not renew it, although he left it with regret. From the beginning of the year, he had been in negotiation for a house in Tavistock Square, in which his friend Mr. Frank Stone had lived for some years. Many letters which follow are on the subject of this house and the improvements Charles Dickens made in it. His brother-in-law, Henry Austin—himself an architect—superintended the "works" at Tavistock House, as he did afterwards those at Gad's Hill—and there are many characteristic letters to Mr. Austin while these works were in progress. In the autumn, as a letter written in August to Mr. Stone will show, an exchange of houses was made—Mr. Stone removing with his family to Devonshire Terrace until his own new house was ready—while the alterations in Tavistock House went on, and Charles Dickens removed into it from Broadstairs, in November.
The lease on the Devonshire Terrace house was set to end this year. It had become too small for his family, so he couldn't renew it, even though he felt sad about leaving. Since the start of the year, he had been negotiating for a house in Tavistock Square, where his friend Mr. Frank Stone had lived for several years. Many letters that follow discuss this house and the improvements Charles Dickens made to it. His brother-in-law, Henry Austin—who was also an architect—supervised the renovations at Tavistock House, just as he later did at Gad's Hill. There are many noteworthy letters to Mr. Austin while these renovations were happening. In the autumn, as a letter written in August to Mr. Stone will show, a house exchange took place—Mr. Stone and his family moved to Devonshire Terrace until their new house was ready—while the renovations at Tavistock House continued, and Charles Dickens moved in from Broadstairs in November.
His eldest son was now an Eton boy. He had been one[241] of the party and had played a small part in the play at Rockingham Castle, in the Christmas holidays, and his father's letters to Mrs. Watson at the beginning of this year have reference to this play.
His oldest son was now a student at Eton. He had been part of the group and had a minor role in the play at Rockingham Castle during the Christmas holidays, and his father’s letters to Mrs. Watson at the start of this year refer to this play.
This year he wrote and published the "Haunted Man," which he had found himself unable to finish for the previous Christmas. It was the last of the Christmas books. He abandoned them in favour of a Christmas number of "Household Words," which he continued annually for many years in "Household Words" and "All the Year Round," and in which he had the collaboration of other writers. The "Haunted Man" was dramatised and produced at the Adelphi Theatre, under the management of Mr. Benjamin Webster. Charles Dickens read the book himself, at Tavistock House, to a party of actors and actresses.
This year he wrote and published "The Haunted Man," which he had found himself unable to finish the previous Christmas. It was the last of the Christmas books. He moved away from them in favor of a Christmas issue of "Household Words," which he continued to do annually for many years in "Household Words" and "All the Year Round," collaborating with other writers. "The Haunted Man" was adapted for the stage and produced at the Adelphi Theatre, managed by Mr. Benjamin Webster. Charles Dickens read the book himself at Tavistock House to a group of actors and actresses.
At the end of the year he wrote the first number of "Bleak House," although it was not published until March of the following year. With the close attention and the hard work he gave, from the time of its starting, to his weekly periodical, he found it to be most desirable, now, in beginning a new monthly serial, that he should be ready with some numbers in advance before the appearance of the first number.
At the end of the year, he wrote the first issue of "Bleak House," although it wasn't published until March of the following year. Given the intense focus and hard work he dedicated to his weekly publication from the start, he found it essential, now that he was beginning a new monthly serial, to have some issues prepared in advance before the first one was released.
A provincial tour for the "Guild" took place at the end of the year. A letter to his wife, from Clifton, in November, gives a notion of the general success and enthusiasm with which the plays were attended. The "new Hardman," to whom he alludes as taking that part in Sir E. B. Lytton's comedy in the place of Mr. Forster, was Mr. John Tenniel, who was a new addition, and a very valuable and pleasant one, to the company. Mr. Topham, the delightful water-colour painter, Mr. Dudley Costello, and Mr. Wilkie Collins were also new recruits to the company of "splendid strollers" about this time. A letter to Mr. Wills, asking him to take a part in the comedy, is given here. He never did act with the company, but he complied with Charles Dickens's desire that he should be "in the scheme" by giving it all sorts of assistance, and almost invariably being one of the party in the provincial tours.[242]
A provincial tour for the "Guild" took place at the end of the year. A letter to his wife from Clifton in November gives a sense of the overall success and enthusiasm with which the plays were received. The "new Hardman," whom he mentions as taking that role in Sir E. B. Lytton's comedy instead of Mr. Forster, was Mr. John Tenniel, who was a new and very valuable addition to the company. Mr. Topham, the wonderful watercolor artist, Mr. Dudley Costello, and Mr. Wilkie Collins were also new members of the "splendid strollers" at this time. A letter to Mr. Wills, asking him to take a role in the comedy, is included here. He never did act with the company but respected Charles Dickens's wish that he should be "in the scheme" by providing various forms of support and almost always being part of the group on the provincial tours.[242]
Devonshire Terrace, January 24th, 1851.
Kate will have told you, I daresay, that my despondency on coming to town was relieved by a talk with Lady John Russell, of which you were the subject, and in which she spoke of you with an earnestness of old affection and regard that did me good. I date my recovery (which has been slow) from that hour. I am still feeble, and liable to sudden outbursts of causeless rage and demoniacal gloom, but I shall be better presently. What a thing it is, that we can't be always innocently merry and happy with those we like best without looking out at the back windows of life! Well, one day perhaps—after a long night—the blinds on that side of the house will be down for ever, and nothing left but the bright prospect in front.
Kate probably told you that my sadness when I first came to town was lifted after a conversation with Lady John Russell, where you were the topic. She spoke about you with a warmth and fondness that really helped me. I mark my gradual recovery from that moment. I'm still a bit weak and prone to sudden fits of random anger and dark gloom, but I’ll get better soon. It’s strange how we can’t always be cheerfully happy with the people we care about without peeking out at the darker sides of life! Maybe one day—after a long night—the curtains on that side of the house will be drawn forever, leaving nothing but a bright future ahead.
Concerning supper-toast (of which I feel bound to make some mention), you did, as you always do, right, and exactly what was most agreeable to me.
Concerning supper-toast (which I feel I should mention), you did, as you always do, the right thing, exactly what I appreciated the most.
My love to your excellent husband (I wonder whether he and the dining-room have got to rights yet!), and to the jolly little boys and the calm little girl. Somehow, I shall always think of Lord Spencer as eternally walking up and down the platform at Rugby, in a high chill wind, with no apparent hope of a train—as I left him; and somehow I always think of Rockingham, after coming away, as if I belonged to it and had left a bit of my heart behind, which it is so very odd to find wanting twenty times a day.
My love to your wonderful husband (I wonder if he and the dining room have finally sorted things out!), and to the cheerful little boys and the calm little girl. I will always picture Lord Spencer endlessly walking up and down the platform at Rugby, in a cold, brisk wind, with no clear sign of a train—as I last saw him; and somehow I always think of Rockingham, after leaving, as if I belong there and left a piece of my heart behind, which is really strange to miss twenty times a day.
Devonshire Terrace, Tuesday Night, Jan. 28th, 1851.
I presume you mean Mr. Stafford and Mr. Stopford to pay Wilson (as I have instructed him) a guinea each? Am I right? In that just case I still owe you a guinea for[243] my part. I was going to send you a post-office order for that amount, when a faint sense of absurdity mantled my ingenuous visage with a blush, and I thought it better to owe you the money until we met. I hope it may be soon!
I assume you mean for Mr. Stafford and Mr. Stopford to pay Wilson (like I told him) a guinea each? Am I right? If so, I still owe you a guinea for[243] my part. I was about to send you a postal order for that amount when a sudden feeling of absurdity made me blush, and I thought it would be better to owe you the money until we meet. I hope that’s soon!
I believe I may lay claim to the mysterious inkstand, also to a volume lettered on the back, "Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, II.," which I left when I came down at Christmas. Will you take care of them as hostages until we effect an exchange?
I think I can claim the mysterious inkstand, along with a book marked on the spine, "Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, II.," which I left when I came down at Christmas. Can you hold onto them as collateral until we arrange an exchange?
Charley went back in great spirits, threatening to write to George. It was a very wet night, and John took him to the railway. He said, on his return: "Mas'r Charles went off very gay, sir. He found some young gen'lemen as was his friends in the train, sir." "Come," said I, "I am glad of that. How many were there? Two or three?" "Oh dear, sir, there was a matter of forty, sir! All with their heads out o' the coach-windows, sir, a-hallooing 'Dickens!' all over the station!"
Charley came back in high spirits, talking about writing to George. It was a really rainy night, and John took him to the train station. When he returned, he said, "Master Charles left very cheerfully, sir. He found some young gentlemen who were his friends on the train, sir." "Well," I said, "I’m glad to hear that. How many were there? Two or three?" "Oh dear, sir, there were about forty, sir! All with their heads out of the train windows, sir, shouting 'Dickens!' all over the station!"
Her ladyship and the ward of the Fiz-zish-un send their best loves, in which I heartily join. If you and your dear husband come to town before we bring out Bulwer's comedy, I think we must have a snug reading of it.
Her ladyship and the ward of the Physician send their best wishes, and I wholeheartedly join in. If you and your lovely husband come to town before we premiere Bulwer's comedy, I think we should have a cozy reading of it.
Devonshire Terrace, Friday, Jan. 31st, 1851.
We are deeply sorry to receive the mournful intelligence of your calamity. But we know you will both have found comfort in that blessed belief, from which the sacred figure with the child upon His knee is, in all stages of our lives, inseparable, for of such is the kingdom of God!
We are truly sorry to hear about your loss. However, we believe you will find solace in that wonderful faith, from which the sacred figure with the child on His lap is always present in our lives, for such is the kingdom of God!
We join in affectionate loves to you and your dear wife. She well deserves your praise, I am sure.
We send our love to you and your wonderful wife. She definitely deserves your praise, I'm sure.
Devonshire Terrace, Monday, Feb. 10th, 1851.
There is a small part in Bulwer's comedy, but very good what there is—not much—my servant, who opens the play, which I should be very glad if you would like to do.
There’s a small part in Bulwer's comedy, but what’s there is really good—not much—my servant, who kicks off the play, and I would be very happy if you would like to take it on.
Pray understand that there is no end of men who would do it, and that if you have the least objection to the trouble, I don't make this the expression of a wish even. Otherwise, I would like you to be in the scheme, which is a very great and important one, and which cannot have too many men who are steadily—not flightily, like some of our friends—in earnest, and who are not to be lightly discouraged.
Please understand that there are plenty of guys who would do this, and if you have even the slightest issue with the hassle, I’m not making this a request at all. Otherwise, I would love for you to be involved in the project, which is very significant and important, and it definitely can’t have too many people who are serious—truly committed, unlike some of our friends—and who won’t be easily discouraged.
If you do the part, I would like to have a talk with you about the secretarial duties. They must be performed by someone I clearly see, and will require good business direction. I should like to put some young fellow, to whom such work and its remuneration would be an object, under your eye, if we could find one entire and perfect chrysolite anywhere. Let me know whether I am to rate you on the ship's books or not. If yes, consider yourself "called" to the reading (by Macready) at Forster's rooms, on Wednesday, the 19th, at three.
If you take on the role, I’d like to talk to you about the secretarial tasks. They need to be handled by someone I can clearly trust, and will require solid business guidance. I’d like to put some young guy, who would find both the work and its pay worthwhile, under your supervision, if we can find the right candidate anywhere. Let me know if I should list you on the ship's payroll or not. If yes, you're "invited" to the reading (by Macready) at Forster's place on Wednesday, the 19th, at three.
And in the meantime you shall have a proof of the plan.
And in the meantime, you'll have proof of the plan.
Wagram Hotel, Paris, Thursday, Feb. 12th, 1851.
I received your letter this morning (on returning from an expedition to a market thirteen miles away, which involved the necessity of getting up at five), and am delighted to have such good accounts of all at home.
I got your letter this morning (after coming back from a trip to a market thirteen miles away, which meant getting up at five), and I'm really happy to hear such good news about everyone back home.
We had D'Orsay to dinner yesterday, and I am hurried to dress now, in order to pay a promised visit to his[245] atelier. He was very happy with us, and is much improved both in spirits and looks. Lord and Lady Castlereagh live downstairs here, and we went to them in the evening, and afterwards brought him upstairs to smoke. To-night we are going to see Lemaître in the renowned "Belphégor" piece. To-morrow at noon we leave Paris for Calais (the Boulogne boat does not serve our turn), and unless the weather for crossing should be absurd, I shall be at home, please God, early on the evening of Saturday. It continues to be delightful weather here—gusty, but very clear and fine. Leech and I had a charming country walk before breakfast this morning at Poissy and enjoyed it very much. The rime was on the grass and trees, and the country most delicious.
We had D'Orsay over for dinner yesterday, and I’m rushing to get dressed now so I can keep my promise to visit his[245] atelier. He seemed really happy with us and has improved a lot, both in mood and appearance. Lord and Lady Castlereagh live downstairs, and we went to see them in the evening. After that, we brought him upstairs to smoke. Tonight, we’re going to watch Lemaître in the famous "Belphégor" show. Tomorrow at noon, we're leaving Paris for Calais (the Boulogne boat doesn’t work for us), and unless the weather for the crossing is ridiculous, I should be home, hopefully, early Saturday evening. The weather here is still lovely—windy but very clear and nice. Leech and I had a beautiful country walk at Poissy before breakfast this morning and enjoyed it a lot. The frost was on the grass and trees, and the countryside was delightful.
Spencer Lyttelton is a capital companion on a trip, and a great addition to the party. We have got on famously and been very facetious. With best love to Georgina and the darlings,
Spencer Lyttelton is an excellent companion on this trip and a fantastic addition to the group. We've hit it off really well and have been quite playful. Sending my love to Georgina and the little ones,
Devonshire Terrace, Friday Night, late, Feb. 21st, 1851.
I have devoted a couple of hours this evening to going very carefully over your paper (which I had read before) and to endeavouring to bring it closer, and to lighten it, and to give it that sort of compactness which a habit of composition, and of disciplining one's thoughts like a regiment, and of studying the art of putting each soldier into his right place, may have gradually taught me to think necessary. I hope, when you see it in print, you will not be alarmed by my use of the pruning-knife. I have tried to exercise it with the utmost delicacy and discretion, and to suggest to you, especially towards the end, how this sort of[246] writing (regard being had to the size of the journal in which it appears) requires to be compressed, and is made pleasanter by compression. This all reads very solemnly, but only because I want you to read it (I mean the article) with as loving an eye as I have truly tried to touch it with a loving and gentle hand. I propose to call it "My Mahogany Friend." The other name is too long, and I think not attractive. Until I go to the office to-morrow and see what is actually in hand, I am not certain of the number in which it will appear, but Georgy shall write on Monday and tell you. We are always a fortnight in advance of the public or the mechanical work could not be done. I think there are many things in it that are very pretty. The Katie part is particularly well done. If I don't say more, it is because I have a heavy sense, in all cases, of the responsibility of encouraging anyone to enter on that thorny track, where the prizes are so few and the blanks so many; where——
I spent a few hours this evening carefully reviewing your paper (which I had read before) and trying to refine it, simplify it, and give it the kind of tightness that practicing writing, organizing your thoughts like a team, and learning the craft of placing each idea in its right spot has taught me is necessary. I hope that when you see it in print, you won’t be shocked by my edits. I’ve tried to apply them with great care and thoughtfulness, and to show you, especially towards the end, how this type of [246] writing (considering the size of the journal in which it appears) needs to be compacted, and can be made more enjoyable through that compression. This sounds quite serious, but I only want you to read it (I mean the article) with as much affection as I’ve genuinely tried to put into revising it with a loving and gentle touch. I plan to call it "My Mahogany Friend." The other title is too long and not very catchy. Until I go to the office tomorrow and see what's actually in progress, I can't be sure which issue it will appear in, but Georgy will write on Monday to let you know. We're always two weeks ahead of the public; otherwise, the mechanical work couldn’t be done. I believe there are many things in it that are very pretty. The part about Katie is especially well done. If I don’t say more, it’s because I feel a heavy responsibility in encouraging anyone to take that difficult path, where the rewards are so few and the disappointments so many; where——
But I won't write you a sermon. With the fire going out, and the first shadows of a new story hovering in a ghostly way about me (as they usually begin to do, when I have finished an old one), I am in danger of doing the heavy business, and becoming a heavy guardian, or something of that sort, instead of the light and airy Joe.
But I won’t give you a lecture. With the fire dying down and the first hints of a new story swirling around me (like they usually do when I’ve wrapped up an old one), I might end up getting too serious and turning into a heavy-handed caretaker, or something like that, instead of the light and easygoing Joe.
So good-night, and believe that you may always trust me, and never find a grim expression (towards you) in any that I wear.
So goodnight, and know that you can always trust me, and never see a harsh expression on my face towards you.
February 21st, 1851.
Oh my dear Roberts, if you knew the trouble we have had and the money we pay for Drury Lane for one night for the benefit, you would never dream of it for the dinner. There isn't possibility of getting a theatre.[247]
Oh my dear Roberts, if you only knew the trouble we've gone through and the money we spend on Drury Lane for just one night for the benefit, you would never consider it for the dinner. There's no way to get a theater.[247]
I will do all I can for your charming little daughter, and hope to squeeze in half-a-dozen ladies at the last; but we must not breathe the idea or we shall not dare to execute it, there will be such an outcry.
I will do everything I can for your lovely little daughter, and I hope to fit in half a dozen ladies at the end; but we must keep this idea to ourselves, or we won't have the courage to carry it out, there would be such a fuss.
Devonshire Terrace, February 27th, 1851.
Forster told me to-day that you wish Tennyson's sonnet to be read after your health is given on Saturday. I am perfectly certain that it would not do at that time. I am quite convinced that the audience would not receive it, under these exciting circumstances, as it ought to be received. If I had to read it, I would on no account undertake to do so at that period, in a great room crowded with a dense company. I have an instinctive assurance that it would fail. Being with Bulwer this morning, I communicated your wish to him, and he immediately felt as I do. I could enter into many reasons which induce me to form this opinion. But I believe that you have that confidence in me that I may spare you the statement of them.
Forster told me today that you want Tennyson's sonnet read after your health announcement on Saturday. I'm completely sure that it wouldn't be appropriate at that time. I firmly believe that the audience wouldn't appreciate it, given the excited atmosphere, as it should be. If I had to read it, there’s no way I would agree to do it then, in a large room packed with so many people. I have a strong feeling that it would fall flat. This morning while with Bulwer, I shared your request with him, and he quickly agreed with my thoughts. I could explain many reasons for my opinion, but I trust that you have enough confidence in me that I can skip detailing them.
I want to know one thing from you. As I shall be obliged to be at the London Tavern in the afternoon of to-morrow, Friday (I write, observe, on Thursday night), I shall be much helped in the arrangements if you will send me your answer by a messenger (addressed here) on the receipt of this. Which would you prefer—that "Auld Lang Syne" should be sung after your health is given and before you return thanks, or after you have spoken?
I want to ask you something. Since I need to be at the London Tavern tomorrow afternoon (I’m writing this on Thursday night), it would really help me plan if you could send me your answer by a messenger (addressed here) as soon as you get this. Which would you prefer—should “Auld Lang Syne” be sung after your toast and before you give thanks, or after you’ve spoken?
I cannot forbear a word about last night. I think I have told you sometimes, my much-loved friend, how, when I was a mere boy, I was one of your faithful and devoted adherents in the pit; I believe as true a member of that[248] true host of followers as it has ever boasted. As I improved myself and was improved by favouring circumstances in mind and fortune, I only became the more earnest (if it were possible) in my study of you. No light portion of my life arose before me when the quiet vision to which I am beholden, in I don't know how great a decree, or for how much—who does?—faded so nobly from my bodily eyes last night. And if I were to try to tell you what I felt—of regret for its being past for ever, and of joy in the thought that you could have taken your leave of me but in God's own time—I should only blot this paper with some drops that would certainly not be of ink, and give very faint expression to very strong emotions.
I can't help but say something about last night. I've mentioned before, my dear friend, how, when I was just a kid, I was one of your loyal fans in the crowd; I really was as devoted a follower as anyone could be. As I grew and improved in my mind and circumstances, I only became more dedicated (if that was even possible) in my study of you. A significant part of my life flashed before me when the calm vision I owe so much to, to an extent I can’t even measure—who can?—faded so beautifully from my sight last night. And if I tried to express what I felt—regret that it’s gone forever, and joy in knowing that you could only have left me in God’s own time—I would just end up smudging this paper with tears that definitely wouldn’t be from ink, and barely convey the strong emotions I feel.
What is all this in writing! It is only some sort of relief to my full heart, and shows very little of it to you; but that's something, so I let it go.
What’s all this in writing! It’s just a way to lighten my heavy heart, and it reveals only a little of it to you; but that’s something, so I’ll let it be.
Your most affectionate Friend.
P.S.—My very flourish departs from me for the moment.
P.S.—My little showy flair is taking a break for now.
Knutsford Lodge, Great Malvern, March 20th, 1851.
Mrs. Dickens has been unwell, and I am here with her. I want you to give a quarter of an hour to the perusal of the enclosed prospectus; to consider the immense value of the design, if it be successful, to artists young and old; and then to bestow your favourable consideration on the assistance I am going to ask of you for the sake and in the name of the cause.
Mrs. Dickens has been feeling unwell, and I'm here with her. I need you to take fifteen minutes to read the enclosed prospectus; think about the huge value of the design, if it succeeds, for both young and seasoned artists; and then please give your positive consideration to the help I’m about to ask for in the interest and name of the cause.
For the representation of the new comedy Bulwer has written for us, to start this scheme, I am having an ingenious theatre made by Webster's people, for erection on certain nights in the Hanover Square Rooms. But it will[249] first be put up in the Duke of Devonshire's house, where the first representation will take place before a brilliant company, including (I believe) the Queen.
For the performance of the new comedy Bulwer has written for us, I'm having an innovative theater built by Webster's team, which will be set up on certain nights in the Hanover Square Rooms. However, it will first be installed in the Duke of Devonshire's house, where the premiere will happen in front of a distinguished audience, including (I think) the Queen.
Now, will you paint us a scene—the scene of which I enclose Bulwer's description from the prompter's book? It will be a cloth with a set-piece. It should be sent to your studio or put up in a theatre painting-room, as you would prefer. I have asked Stanny to do another scene, Edwin Landseer, and Louis Haghe. The Devonshire House performance will probably be on Monday, the 28th of April. I should want to have the scenery complete by the 20th, as it would require to be elaborately worked and rehearsed. You could do it in no time after sending in your pictures, and will you?
Now, could you paint us a scene—the one I’ve included from Bulwer's description in the prompter's book? It will be a backdrop with a set piece. It should either be sent to your studio or set up in a theater painting room, whichever you prefer. I’ve asked Stanny to create another scene, along with Edwin Landseer and Louis Haghe. The performance at Devonshire House will likely be on Monday, April 28th. I’d like to have the scenery finished by the 20th, as it needs to be worked on in detail and rehearsed. You could take care of it quickly after sending in your pictures, so will you?
What the value of such aid would be I need not say. I say no more of the reasons that induce me to ask it, because if they are not in the prospectus they are nowhere.
What the value of such help would be, I don’t need to mention. I won't go into more detail about the reasons that lead me to request it, because if they're not in the prospectus, they're nowhere.
On Monday and Tuesday nights I shall be in town for rehearsal, but until then I shall be here. Will you let me have a line from you in reply?
On Monday and Tuesday nights, I’ll be in town for rehearsal, but until then, I'll be here. Can you send me a quick message in response?
Description of the Scene proposed:
Streets of London during the reign of George I.
In perspective, an alley inscribed Deadman's Lane; a large, old-fashioned, gloomy, mysterious house in the corner, marked No. 1. (This No. 1, Deadman's Lane, has been constantly referred to in the play as the abode of a mysterious female figure, who enters masked, and passes into this house on the scene being disclosed.) It is night, and there are moonlight mediums.
In perspective, an alley labeled Dead Man's Lane; a large, old-fashioned, gloomy, and mysterious house in the corner, marked No. 1. (This No. 1, Deadman's Lane, has been repeatedly mentioned in the play as the home of a mysterious woman who enters wearing a mask and goes into this house as the scene unfolds.) It’s night, and the moonlight creates a mystical atmosphere.
Home Office, Monday, March 26th, 1851.
I reserve all news of the play until I come down. The Queen appoints the 30th of April. There is no end of trouble.[250]
I’m saving all the news about the play until I get down there. The Queen has set April 30th. There’s no shortage of trouble.[250]
My father slept well last night, and is as well this morning (they send word) as anyone in such a state, so cut and slashed, can be. I have been waiting at home for Bulwer all the morning (it is now two), and am now waiting for Lemon before I go up there. I will not close this note until I have been.
My father slept well last night, and he’s doing as well this morning (they say) as anyone in such a state, all cut and bruised, can be. I’ve been waiting at home for Bulwer all morning (it’s now two), and I’m now waiting for Lemon before I head up there. I won’t close this note until I’ve been.
It is raining here incessantly. The streets are in a most miserable state. A van, containing the goods of some unfortunate family moving, has broken down close outside, and the whole scene is a picture of dreariness.
It’s been raining non-stop here. The streets are in terrible condition. A van, carrying the belongings of a struggling family moving in, has broken down right outside, and the whole scene feels incredibly gloomy.
The children are quite well and very happy. I had Dora down this morning, who was quite charmed to see me. That Miss Ketteridge appointed two to-day for seeing the house, and probably she is at this moment disparaging it.
The kids are doing great and really happy. I had Dora over this morning, and she was really happy to see me. Miss Ketteridge scheduled two people today to check out the house, and she’s probably busy putting it down right now.
My father is very weak and low, but not worse, I hope, than might be expected. I am going home to dine with the children. By working here late to-night (coming back after dinner) I can finish what I have to do for the play. Therefore I hope to be with you to-morrow, in good time for dinner.
My dad is really weak and not doing great, but I hope he's not worse than we expected. I'm going home to have dinner with the kids. By working late here tonight (coming back after dinner), I can wrap up what I need to do for the play. So, I hope to be with you tomorrow, in time for dinner.
P.S.—Love to Georgy.
P.S.—Love to Georgy.
Devonshire Terrace, Thursday Morning, April 3rd, 1851.
I took my threatened walk last night, but it yielded little but generalities.
I took my planned walk last night, but it only brought me vague thoughts.
However, I thought of something for to-night, that I think will make a splendid paper. I have an idea that it might be connected with the gas paper (making gas a great agent in an effective police), and made one of the articles. This is it: "A Night in a Station-house." If you would go down to our friend Mr. Yardley, at Scotland Yard, and[251] get a letter or order to the acting chief authority at that station-house in Bow Street, to enable us to hear the charges, observe the internal economy of the station-house all night, go round to the cells with the visiting policeman, etc., I would stay there, say from twelve to-night to four or five in the morning. We might have a "night-cap," a fire, and some tea at the office hard by. If you could conveniently borrow an hour or two from the night we could both go. If not, I would go alone. It would make a wonderful good paper at a most appropriate time, when the back slums of London are going to be invaded by all sorts of strangers.
However, I thought of something for tonight that I believe will make a fantastic article. I have an idea that it could be connected to the gas paper (making gas a major factor in effective policing), and became one of the pieces. Here it is: "A Night in a Police Station." If you could visit our friend Mr. Yardley at Scotland Yard and[251] get a letter or order for the acting chief at that station in Bow Street, it would allow us to hear the charges, observe how the station operates all night, tour the cells with the visiting officer, etc. I would stay there from midnight to four or five in the morning. We could have a "night-cap," a fire, and some tea at the nearby office. If you could borrow an hour or two from your night, we could both go. If not, I could go alone. It would make a really great article at a perfect time when the back alleys of London are about to be flooded with all kinds of newcomers.
You needn't exactly say that I was going in propriâ (unless it were necessary), and, of course, you wouldn't say that I propose to-night, because I am so worn by the sad arrangements in which I am engaged, and by what led to them, that I cannot take my natural rest. But to-morrow night we go to the gas-works. I might not be so disposed for this station-house observation as I shall be to-night for a long time, and I see a most singular and admirable chance for us in the descriptive way, not to be lost.
You don’t have to say that I was going in propriâ (unless it’s necessary), and of course, you wouldn’t say that I’m proposing tonight, because I’m so drained by the sad arrangements I’m dealing with and what led to them that I can’t get a good night’s rest. But tomorrow night we’re going to the gas works. I might not be as interested in observing the station house as I will be tonight for a long time, and I see a really unique and great opportunity for us in terms of description that we shouldn’t miss.
Therefore, if you will arrange the thing before I come down at four this afternoon, any of the Scotland Yard people will do it, I should think; if our friend by any accident should not be there, I will go into it.
Therefore, if you can sort it out before I get there at four this afternoon, any of the Scotland Yard folks should be able to handle it. If our friend happens to not be there, I'll take care of it.
If they should recommend any other station-house as better for the purpose, or would think it better for us to go to more than one under the guidance of some trustworthy man, of course we will pay any man and do as they recommend. But I think one topping station-house would be best.
If they suggest any other station house that would be better for this purpose, or if they think it would be better for us to visit more than one under the supervision of a reliable person, we’re totally open to paying that person and following their advice. However, I believe one top station house would be the best option.
Saturday, May 24th, 1851.
We are getting in a good heap of money for the Guild. The comedy has been very much improved, in many respects, since you read it. The scene to which you refer is certainly one of the most telling in the play. And there is a farce to be produced on Tuesday next, wherein a distinguished amateur will sustain a variety of assumption-parts, and in particular, Samuel Weller and Mrs. Gamp, of which I say no more. I am pining for Broadstairs, where the children are at present. I lurk from the sun, during the best part of the day, in a villainous compound of darkness, canvas, sawdust, general dust, stale gas (involving a vague smell of pepper), and disenchanted properties. But I hope to get down on Wednesday or Thursday.
We’re bringing in quite a bit of money for the Guild. The comedy has improved a lot in many ways since you last saw it. The scene you mentioned is definitely one of the strongest in the play. Plus, there's a farce set to be performed next Tuesday, where a well-known amateur will take on various roles, especially Samuel Weller and Mrs. Gamp, but I won’t say more about that. I'm really missing Broadstairs, where the kids are right now. I’m hiding from the sun during the best part of the day in a terrible mix of darkness, canvas, sawdust, dust, stale gas (which has a faint smell of pepper), and some disappointing props. But I hope to make it down there on Wednesday or Thursday.
Ah! you country gentlemen, who live at home at ease, how little do you think of us among the London fleas! But they tell me you are coming in for Dorsetshire. You must be very careful, when you come to town to attend to your parliamentary duties, never to ask your way of people in the streets. They will misdirect you for what the vulgar call "a lark," meaning, in this connection, a jest at your expense. Always go into some respectable shop or apply to a policeman. You will know him by his being dressed in blue, with very dull silver buttons, and by the top of his hat being made of sticking-plaster. You may perhaps see in some odd place an intelligent-looking man, with a curious little wooden table before him and three thimbles on it. He will want you to bet, but don't do it. He really desires to cheat you. And don't buy at auctions where the best plated goods are being knocked down for next to nothing. These, too, are delusions. If you wish to go to the play to see real good acting (though a little more subdued than perfect[253] tragedy should be), I would recommend you to see —— at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Anybody will show it to you. It is near the Strand, and you may know it by seeing no company whatever at any of the doors. Cab fares are eightpence a mile. A mile London measure is half a Dorsetshire mile, recollect. Porter is twopence per pint; what is called stout is fourpence. The Zoological Gardens are in the Regent's Park, and the price of admission is one shilling. Of the streets, I would recommend you to see Regent Street and the Quadrant, Bond Street, Piccadilly, Oxford Street, and Cheapside. I think these will please you after a time, though the tumult and bustle will at first bewilder you. If I can serve you in any way, pray command me. And with my best regards to your happy family, so remote from this Babel,
Ah! You country gentlemen who live comfortably at home, how little you think of us among the London crowds! But I've heard you're coming in for Dorsetshire. You need to be very careful when you come to town for your parliamentary duties; never ask strangers for directions in the streets. They'll mislead you for what the common folk call "a joke," meaning, in this situation, a trick at your expense. Always go into some reputable shop or ask a policeman. You'll recognize him by his blue uniform, with dull silver buttons, and the top of his hat made of sticking plaster. You might see an intelligent-looking guy in a strange spot with a little wooden table and three thimbles on it. He'll want you to place a bet, but don't fall for it. He really wants to cheat you. And stay away from auctions where the best plated items are going for next to nothing; those are tricks too. If you want to see some great acting (though a bit more reserved than perfect tragedy should be), I recommend you check out —— at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Anyone can direct you there. It's near the Strand, and you'll notice no crowds at any of the doors. Cab fares are eightpence per mile. Remember, a mile in London is half a mile in Dorset. Porter costs two pence per pint; stout is four pence. The Zoological Gardens are in Regent's Park, and admission is one shilling. I suggest you explore Regent Street and the Quadrant, Bond Street, Piccadilly, Oxford Street, and Cheapside. I think you'll enjoy these after a while, even though the chaos will shock you at first. If I can help you in any way, please let me know. And my best wishes to your happy family, so far from this chaotic place.
Ever affectionately yours.
P.S.—I forgot to mention just now that the black equestrian figure you will see at Charing Cross, as you go down to the House, is a statue of King Charles the First.
P.S.—I just remembered to mention that the black equestrian statue you'll see at Charing Cross, as you head down to the House, is a statue of King Charles the First.
Broadstairs, July 8th, 1851.
We shall be delighted to see you, if you will come down on Saturday. Mr. Lemon may perhaps be here, with his wife, but no one else. And we can give you a bed that may be surpassed, with a welcome that certainly cannot be.
We would be thrilled to see you if you can come down on Saturday. Mr. Lemon might be here with his wife, but no one else. We can offer you a bed that might be even better, but our welcome will definitely be unmatched.
The general character of Broadstairs as to size and accommodation was happily expressed by Miss Eden, when she wrote to the Duke of Devonshire (as he told me), saying how grateful she felt to a certain sailor, who asked leave to see her garden, for not plucking it bodily up, and sticking it in his button-hole.[254]
The overall vibe of Broadstairs in terms of size and amenities was nicely captured by Miss Eden when she wrote to the Duke of Devonshire (as he shared with me), expressing her gratitude to a particular sailor who asked for permission to see her garden, for not pulling it up completely and sticking it in his button-hole.[254]
As we think of putting mignonette-boxes outside the windows, for the younger children to sleep in by-and-by, I am afraid we should give your servant the cramp if we hardily undertook to lodge him. But in case you should decide to bring one, he is easily disposable hard by.
As we consider putting small boxes outside the windows for the younger kids to sleep in later, I worry that we might cramp your servant's style if we try to make him stay there. But if you decide to bring one, it's easy to get rid of nearby.
Don't come by the boat. It is rather tedious, and both departs and arrives at inconvenient hours. There is a railway train from the Dover terminus to Ramsgate, at half-past twelve in the day, which will bring you in three hours. Another at half-past four in the afternoon. If you will tell me by which you come (I hope the former), I will await you at the terminus with my little brougham.
Don't take the boat. It's quite a hassle, and it leaves and arrives at awkward times. There's a train from the Dover terminal to Ramsgate at 12:30 PM that will get you there in three hours. There's another one at 4:30 PM. If you let me know which one you take (I hope it's the first), I'll meet you at the terminal with my carriage.
You will have for a night-light in the room we shall give you, the North Foreland lighthouse. That and the sea and air are our only lions. It is a very rough little place, but a very pleasant one, and you will make it pleasanter than ever to me.
You will have the North Foreland lighthouse as your night-light in the room we’ll give you. That and the sea and air are our only highlights. It’s a pretty rough little place, but a very nice one, and you will make it even nicer for me.
Broadstairs, England, July 11th, 1851.
I am so desperately indignant with you for writing me that short apology for a note, and pretending to suppose that under any circumstances I could fail to read with interest anything you wrote to me, that I have more than half a mind to inflict a regular letter upon you. If I were not the gentlest of men I should do it!
I’m really upset with you for sending me that brief apology note and acting like I wouldn’t be interested in anything you wrote to me. It makes me want to write you a proper letter. If I weren't such a nice guy, I would definitely do it!
Poor dear Haldimand, I have thought of him so often. That kind of decay is so inexpressibly affecting and piteous to me, that I have no words to express my compassion and sorrow. When I was at Abbotsford, I saw in a vile glass case the last clothes Scott wore. Among them an old white hat, which seemed to be tumbled and bent and broken by the[255] uneasy, purposeless wandering, hither and thither, of his heavy head. It so embodied Lockhart's pathetic description of him when he tried to write, and laid down his pen and cried, that it associated itself in my mind with broken powers and mental weakness from that hour. I fancy Haldimand in such another, going listlessly about that beautiful place, and remembering the happy hours we have passed with him, and his goodness and truth. I think what a dream we live in, until it seems for the moment the saddest dream that ever was dreamed. Pray tell us if you hear more of him. We really loved him.
Poor dear Haldimand, I’ve thought about him so often. That kind of decline is so incredibly touching and sad to me that I can't find the right words to express my compassion and sorrow. When I was at Abbotsford, I saw in a terrible glass case the last clothes Scott wore. Among them was an old white hat, which looked messy, bent, and broken from the aimless, purposeless wandering of his heavy head. It perfectly captured Lockhart’s heartbreaking description of him when he tried to write but ended up laying down his pen and crying, which made me associate it with lost abilities and mental struggle from that moment on. I imagine Haldimand in a similar state, moving aimlessly around that beautiful place, remembering the happy times we spent with him, along with his kindness and honesty. I think about what a dream we’re living in, until it feels like the saddest dream that’s ever been dreamed. Please let us know if you hear more about him. We truly loved him.
To go to the opposite side of life, let me tell you that a week or so ago I took Charley and three of his schoolfellows down the river gipsying. I secured the services of Charley's godfather (an old friend of mine, and a noble fellow with boys), and went down to Slough, accompanied by two immense hampers from Fortnum and Mason, on (I believe) the wettest morning ever seen out of the tropics.
To talk about a different side of life, let me share that about a week ago, I took Charley and three of his school friends on a trip down the river. I arranged for Charley's godfather (an old friend of mine, and a great guy with kids) to join us, and we headed to Slough with two huge hampers from Fortnum and Mason, on what I think was the rainiest morning ever outside the tropics.
It cleared before we got to Slough; but the boys, who had got up at four (we being due at eleven), had horrible misgivings that we might not come, in consequence of which we saw them looking into the carriages before us, all face. They seemed to have no bodies whatever, but to be all face; their countenances lengthened to that surprising extent. When they saw us, the faces shut up as if they were upon strong springs, and their waistcoats developed themselves in the usual places. When the first hamper came out of the luggage-van, I was conscious of their dancing behind the guard; when the second came out with bottles in it, they all stood wildly on one leg. We then got a couple of flys to drive to the boat-house. I put them in the first, but they couldn't sit still a moment, and were perpetually flying up and down like the toy figures in the sham snuff-boxes. In[256] this order we went on to "Tom Brown's, the tailor's," where they all dressed in aquatic costume, and then to the boat-house, where they all cried in shrill chorus for "Mahogany"—a gentleman, so called by reason of his sunburnt complexion, a waterman by profession. (He was likewise called during the day "Hog" and "Hogany," and seemed to be unconscious of any proper name whatsoever.) We embarked, the sun shining now, in a galley with a striped awning, which I had ordered for the purpose, and all rowing hard, went down the river. We dined in a field; what I suffered for fear those boys should get drunk, the struggles I underwent in a contest of feeling between hospitality and prudence, must ever remain untold. I feel, even now, old with the anxiety of that tremendous hour. They were very good, however. The speech of one became thick, and his eyes too like lobsters' to be comfortable, but only temporarily. He recovered, and I suppose outlived the salad he took. I have heard nothing to the contrary, and I imagine I should have been implicated on the inquest if there had been one. We had tea and rashers of bacon at a public-house, and came home, the last five or six miles in a prodigious thunderstorm. This was the great success of the day, which they certainly enjoyed more than anything else. The dinner had been great, and Mahogany had informed them, after a bottle of light champagne, that he never would come up the river "with ginger company" any more. But the getting so completely wet through was the culminating part of the entertainment. You never in your life saw such objects as they were; and their perfect unconsciousness that it was at all advisable to go home and change, or that there was anything to prevent their standing at the station two mortal hours to see me off, was wonderful. As to getting them to their dames with any sort of sense that they were[257] damp, I abandoned the idea. I thought it a success when they went down the street as civilly as if they were just up and newly dressed, though they really looked as if you could have rubbed them to rags with a touch, like saturated curl-paper.
It cleared up before we reached Slough, but the boys, who woke up at four (we were supposed to arrive at eleven), were really worried that we might not show up. Because of this, we saw them peeking into the carriages ahead of us, their faces almost all we noticed. They looked like they had no bodies, just faces stretched out in a surprising way. When they spotted us, their faces snapped shut like they were on strong springs, and their vests puffed out in the usual places. When the first hamper came out of the luggage van, I noticed them moving around behind the guard; when the second one came out with bottles, they all stood on one leg in excitement. We then got a couple of carriages to drive to the boathouse. I put them in the first one, but they couldn’t sit still for a moment, constantly bouncing around like the toy figures in novelty snuff boxes. In[256] this way, we made our way to "Tom Brown's, the tailor's," where they all got into their swimming gear, and then to the boathouse, where they all shouted in a high-pitched chorus for "Mahogany"—a guy with a sunburnt complexion, working as a waterman. (Throughout the day, they also called him "Hog" and "Hogany," and it seemed like he didn’t even know his real name.) We got into a boat with a striped awning that I had ordered, and with everyone rowing hard, we headed down the river. We had dinner in a field; the fear that those boys would get drunk, and the struggle between being a good host and being sensible, was something I can’t fully explain. Even now, I feel old from the stress of that intense hour. They were pretty good, though. One of them started to slur his words, and his eyes turned as red as lobsters, but it only lasted a little while. He bounced back, and I assume he survived the salad he had. I haven’t heard anything to suggest otherwise, and I think I would have been involved in the inquest if there had been one. We had tea and bacon at a pub, then headed home, with the last five or six miles in a massive thunderstorm. This turned out to be the highlight of the day, which they definitely enjoyed more than anything else. The dinner was great, and after a bottle of light champagne, Mahogany told them he would never row up the river with “ginger company” again. But getting completely soaked was the best part of the fun. You’ve never seen such sights as they were; their complete cluelessness about needing to go home and change, or that there was anything preventing them from standing at the station for two whole hours to see me off, was amazing. As for getting them home to their mothers with any awareness that they were[257] damp, I gave up on that idea. I considered it a win when they walked down the street as well-behaved as if they had just woken up and dressed, even though they really looked like you could rub them to shreds with a touch, like soaked curling paper.
I am sorry you have not been able to see our play, which I suppose you won't now, for I take it you are not going on Monday, the 21st, our last night in town? It is worth seeing, not for the getting up (which modesty forbids me to approve), but for the little bijou it is, in the scenery, dresses, and appointments. They are such as never can be got together again, because such men as Stanfield, Roberts, Grieve, Haghe, Egg, and others, never can be again combined in such a work. Everything has been done at its best from all sorts of authorities, and it is really very beautiful to look at.
I’m sorry you haven’t been able to see our play, and I guess you won’t be able to now since I assume you’re not going on Monday, the 21st, our last night in town? It’s definitely worth seeing, not for how it was put together (which I’m too modest to praise), but for its charm in the scenery, costumes, and overall setup. The combination of talents like Stanfield, Roberts, Grieve, Haghe, Egg, and others is something that can’t be replicated. Everything has been done to the best standard by a variety of experts, and it’s truly beautiful to look at.
I find I am "used up" by the Exhibition. I don't say "there is nothing in it"—there's too much. I have only been twice; so many things bewildered me. I have a natural horror of sights, and the fusion of so many sights in one has not decreased it. I am not sure that I have seen anything but the fountain and perhaps the Amazon. It is a dreadful thing to be obliged to be false, but when anyone says, "Have you seen ——?" I say, "Yes," because if I don't, I know he'll explain it, and I can't bear that. —— took all the school one day. The school was composed of a hundred "infants," who got among the horses' legs in crossing to the main entrance from the Kensington Gate, and came reeling out from between the wheels of coaches undisturbed in mind. They were clinging to horses, I am told, all over the park.
I feel completely drained by the Exhibition. I’m not saying "there's nothing interesting"—there's actually too much. I've only been twice, and so many things confused me. I naturally have a fear of crowds, and combining so many sights into one place hasn’t helped. I’m not sure I really saw anything except the fountain and maybe the Amazon. It’s awful to have to pretend, but when someone asks, "Did you see ——?" I say, "Yes," because if I don’t, I know they’ll explain it, and I can’t stand that. —— took the whole school one day. The school had about a hundred "little kids," who got tangled up among the horses’ legs while crossing to the main entrance from the Kensington Gate, and came stumbling out from between the wheels of coaches completely unfazed. They were hanging onto horses, I hear, all over the park.
When they were collected and added up by the frantic monitors, they were all right. They were then regaled with cake, etc., and went tottering and staring all over the place;[258] the greater part wetting their forefingers and drawing a wavy pattern on every accessible object. One infant strayed. He was not missed. Ninety and nine were taken home, supposed to be the whole collection, but this particular infant went to Hammersmith. He was found by the police at night, going round and round the turnpike, which he still supposed to be a part of the Exhibition. He had the same opinion of the police, also of Hammersmith workhouse, where he passed the night. When his mother came for him in the morning, he asked when it would be over? It was a great Exhibition, he said, but he thought it long.
When they were gathered and counted by the frantic supervisors, everything was fine. They were then treated to cake and other things, stumbling and staring all around; [258] most were wetting their forefingers and drawing wavy patterns on anything they could reach. One child wandered off. Nobody noticed. Ninety-nine were taken home, believed to be the entire group, but this one child ended up in Hammersmith. The police found him at night, going around and around the tollbooth, which he still thought was part of the Exhibition. He felt the same way about the police and also about the Hammersmith workhouse, where he spent the night. When his mother came to get him in the morning, he asked when it would be over? It was a great Exhibition, he said, but he thought it was a bit long.
As I begin to have a foreboding that you will think the same of this act of vengeance of mine, this present letter, I shall make an end of it, with my heartiest and most loving remembrances to Watson. I should have liked him of all things to have been in the Eton expedition, tell him, and to have heard a song (by-the-bye, I have forgotten that) sung in the thunderstorm, solos by Charley, chorus by the friends, describing the career of a booby who was plucked at college, every verse ending:
As I start to worry that you might feel the same way about my act of revenge, this letter, I’ll wrap it up, sending my warmest and most loving thoughts to Watson. I really wish he could have joined the Eton trip, please tell him, and I would have loved to hear a song (by the way, I’ve forgotten what it was) sung during the thunderstorm, with solos by Charley and the friends joining in the chorus, telling the story of a fool who got kicked out of college, every verse ending:
But what will the governor say!
which was shouted with a deferential jollity towards myself, as a governor who had that day done a creditable action, and proved himself worthy of all confidence.
which was shouted with a respectful cheerfulness towards me, as a governor who had that day done something commendable and shown himself deserving of full trust.
Always, dear Mrs. Watson,
Most sincerely yours.
"Household Names," Sunday, July 20th, 1851.
I have been considering the great house question since you kindly called yesterday evening, and come to the conclusion that I had better not let it go. I am convinced it is the prudent thing for me to do, and that I am very unlikely to find the same comforts for the rising generation elsewhere, for the same money. Therefore, as Robins no doubt understands that you would come to me yesterday—passing his life as he does amidst every possible phase of such negotiations—I think it hardly worth while to wait for the receipt of his coming letter. If you will take the trouble to call on him in the morning, and offer the £1,450, I shall be very much obliged to you. If you will receive from me full power to conclude the purchase (subject of course to my solicitor's approval of the lease), pray do. I give you carte blanche to £1,500, but I think the £1,450 ought to win the day.
I've been thinking about the big house issue since you kindly visited yesterday evening, and I've decided that I shouldn't let this opportunity slip away. I truly believe it’s the smart choice for me, and that it’s unlikely I’ll find as much comfort for the next generation anywhere else for the same price. So, since Robins likely understands that you were coming to see me yesterday—being in the middle of all kinds of negotiations—there's really no need to wait for his upcoming letter. If you could take the time to visit him in the morning and offer £1,450, I would greatly appreciate it. If you could give me full authority to finalize the purchase (of course, pending my lawyer's approval of the lease), please do. I'm allowing up to £1,500, but I believe that £1,450 should be enough to seal the deal.
I don't make any apologies for thrusting this honour upon you, knowing what a thorough-going old pump you are. Lemon and his wife are coming here, after the rehearsal, to a gipsy sort of cold dinner. Time, half-past three. Viands, pickled salmon and cold pigeon-pie. Occupation afterwards, lying on the carpet as a preparation for histrionic strength. Will you come with us from the Hanover Square Rooms?
I don’t apologize for putting this honor on you, knowing what a complete old softy you are. Lemon and his wife are coming here after the rehearsal for a casual cold dinner. Time: half-past three. Food: pickled salmon and cold pigeon pie. After that, we’ll be lying on the carpet as practice for acting strength. Will you join us from the Hanover Square Rooms?
Broadstairs, Kent, Sunday, July 27th, 1851.
A most excellent Shadow![13] I have sent it up to the printer, and Wills is to send you a proof. Will you look carefully at all the earlier part, where the use of the past[260] tense instead of the present a little hurts the picturesque effect? I understand each phase of the thing to be always a thing present before the mind's eye—a shadow passing before it. Whatever is done, must be doing. Is it not so? For example, if I did the Shadow of Robinson Crusoe, I should not say he was a boy at Hull, when his father lectured him about going to sea, and so forth; but he is a boy at Hull. There he is, in that particular Shadow, eternally a boy at Hull; his life to me is a series of shadows, but there is no "was" in the case. If I choose to go to his manhood, I can. These shadows don't change as realities do. No phase of his existence passes away, if I choose to bring it to this unsubstantial and delightful life, the only death of which, to me, is my death, and thus he is immortal to unnumbered thousands. If I am right, will you look at the proof through the first third or half of the papers, and see whether the Factor comes before us in that way? If not, it is merely the alteration of the verb here and there that is requisite.
A really great Shadow![13] I’ve sent it to the printer, and Wills will send you a proof. Could you take a careful look at the earlier parts, where using the past tense instead of the present slightly affects the visual impact? I see each moment as always a thing present before the mind's eye—a shadow passing in front of it. Whatever is happening must be happening. Isn’t that right? For example, if I were to create the Shadow of Robinson Crusoe, I wouldn’t say he was a boy in Hull when his father lectured him about going to sea, and so on; instead, I would say he is a boy in Hull. There he is, in that specific Shadow, forever a boy in Hull; his life for me is a series of shadows, and there is no “was” in this case. If I choose to explore his adulthood, I can. These shadows don’t change like realities do. No part of his existence fades away if I decide to bring it to this ethereal and delightful life, the only death of which, for me, is my death, making him immortal to countless others. If I'm correct, could you check the proof through the first third or half of the papers and see if the Factor presents itself in that way? If not, it just requires some adjustments to the verb here and there.
You say you are coming down to look for a place next week. Now, Jerrold says he is coming on Thursday, by the cheap express at half-past twelve, to return with me for the play early on Monday morning. Can't you make that holiday too? I have promised him our only spare bed, but we'll find you a bed hard by, and shall be delighted "to eat and drink you," as an American once wrote to me. We will make expeditions to Herne Bay, Canterbury, where not? and drink deep draughts of fresh air. Come! They are beginning to cut the corn. You will never see the country so pretty. If you stay in town these days, you'll do nothing. I feel convinced you'll not buy the "Memoirs of a Man of Quality." Say you'll come!
You mentioned you're coming down to look for a place next week. Jerrold just told me he's arriving on Thursday, taking the cheap express at 12:30, and plans to head back with me for the play early Monday morning. Can't you take that holiday too? I've promised him our only spare bed, but we’ll find you a bed nearby, and we'd be thrilled "to eat and drink with you," as an American once wrote to me. We'll take trips to Herne Bay, Canterbury, and who knows where else, enjoying plenty of fresh air. Come on! They’re starting to harvest the corn. You'll never see the countryside looking so beautiful. If you stay in town right now, you won’t get anything done. I’m sure you won’t buy the "Memoirs of a Man of Quality." Just say you'll come!
Broadstairs, Kent, Saturday, August 23rd, 1851.
A "dim vision" occurs to me, arising out of your note; also presents itself to the brains of my other half.
A "dim vision" comes to my mind, coming from your note; it also appears in the thoughts of my other half.
Supposing you should find, on looking onward, a possibility of your being houseless at Michaelmas, what do you say to using Devonshire Terrace as a temporary encampment? It will not be in its usual order, but we would take care that there should be as much useful furniture of all sorts there, as to render it unnecessary for you to move a stick. If you should think this a convenience, then I should propose to you to pile your furniture in the middle of the rooms at Tavistock House, and go out to Devonshire Terrace two or three weeks before Michaelmas, to enable my workmen to commence their operations. This might be to our mutual convenience, and therefore I suggest it. Certainly the sooner I can begin on Tavistock House the better. And possibly your going into Devonshire Terrace might relieve you from a difficulty that would otherwise be perplexing.
If you find that you might be without a home by Michaelmas, what do you think about using Devonshire Terrace as a temporary place to stay? It won't be in perfect condition, but we'll make sure there's enough furniture there so you won’t need to move anything at all. If you think this could work for you, I suggest that you move your furniture into the middle of the rooms at Tavistock House and head over to Devonshire Terrace two or three weeks before Michaelmas. This would allow my workers to start their work. It could be convenient for both of us, which is why I’m suggesting it. The sooner I can start on Tavistock House, the better. Plus, moving into Devonshire Terrace might help ease a complication you’d otherwise have to deal with.
I make this suggestion (I need not say to you) solely on the chance of its being useful to both of us. If it were merely convenient to me, you know I shouldn't dream of it. Such an arrangement, while it would cost you nothing, would perhaps enable you to get your new house into order comfortably, and do exactly the same thing for me.
I’m making this suggestion (I don’t need to say to you) just in case it’s helpful for both of us. If it was only convenient for me, you know I wouldn’t even consider it. This arrangement wouldn’t cost you anything, and it might help you get your new house organized comfortably and do the same for me.
P.S.—I anticipated your suggestion some weeks ago, when I found I couldn't build a stable. I said I ought to have permission to take the piece of ground into my garden,[262] which was conceded. Loaden writes me this morning that he thinks he can get permission to build a stable one storey high, without a chimney. I reply that on the whole I would rather enlarge the garden than build a stable with those restrictions.
P.S.—I expected your suggestion a few weeks ago when I realized I couldn't build a stable. I mentioned that I should be allowed to take that piece of land for my garden,[262] which was agreed upon. Loaden told me this morning that he believes he can get permission to build a one-story stable without a chimney. I replied that overall, I would prefer to expand the garden rather than build a stable with those limitations.
Broadstairs, Sunday, September 7th, 1851.
I am in that state of mind which you may (once) have seen described in the newspapers as "bordering on distraction;" the house given up to me, the fine weather going on (soon to break, I daresay), the painting season oozing away, my new book waiting to be born, and
I am in that state of mind that you might have seen described in the newspapers as "bordering on distraction;" the house is all mine, the nice weather continues (though it will probably break soon), the painting season is slipping away, and my new book is waiting to be born, and
along of my not hearing from you!! I have torn all my hair off, and constantly beat my unoffending family. Wild notions have occurred to me of sending in my own plumber to do the drains. Then I remember that you have probably written to prepare your man, and restrain my audacious hand. Then Stone presents himself, with a most exasperatingly mysterious visage, and says that a rat has appeared in the kitchen, and it's his opinion (Stone's, not the rat's) that the drains want "compo-ing;" for the use of which explicit language I could fell him without remorse. In my horrible desire to "compo" everything, the very postman becomes my enemy because he brings no letter from you; and, in short, I don't see what's to become of me unless I hear from you to-morrow, which I have not the least expectation of doing.
I can't believe I haven't heard from you! I've pulled all my hair out and constantly take it out on my innocent family. I've even thought about hiring my own plumber to deal with the drains. But then I remember you probably already contacted your guy, and I stop myself from being so bold. Then Stone shows up, looking annoyingly mysterious, and tells me there's a rat in the kitchen. He thinks (not the rat, him) the drains need some serious work, which makes me want to take him down without feeling bad about it. In my desperation to fix everything, I can't help but see the postman as my enemy because he hasn't delivered any letter from you; and honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do unless I hear from you tomorrow, which I doubt will happen.
Going over the house again, I have materially altered the plans—abandoned conservatory and front balcony—decided to make Stone's painting-room the drawing-room (it[263] is nearly six inches higher than the room below), to carry the entrance passage right through the house to a back door leading to the garden, and to reduce the once intended drawing-room—now school-room—to a manageable size, making a door of communication between the new drawing-room and the study. Curtains and carpets, on a scale of awful splendour and magnitude, are already in preparation, and still—still—
Going over the house again, I've made some major changes to the plans—scrapped the conservatory and front balcony—decided to turn Stone's painting room into the living room (it's almost six inches higher than the room below), to extend the entrance hallway all the way through the house to a back door that leads to the garden, and to shrink the originally intended living room—now a school room—to a more manageable size, adding a doorway between the new living room and the study. Curtains and carpets, on a scale of ridiculous grandeur and size, are already being prepared, and still—still—
To pursue this theme is madness. Where are you? When are you coming home? Where is the man who is to do the work? Does he know that an army of artificers must be turned in at once, and the whole thing finished out of hand? O rescue me from my present condition. Come up to the scratch, I entreat and implore you!
To follow this theme is crazy. Where are you? When are you coming home? Where is the guy who's supposed to do the work? Does he realize that a team of skilled workers needs to be assembled right now, and everything has to be done immediately? Oh, please save me from my current situation. Step up to the plate, I beg you!
I send this to Lætitia to forward,
I’m sending this to Lætitia to pass along,
Completely floored by N. W., I
Rest.
I hope you may be able to read this. My state of mind does not admit of coherence.
I hope you can read this. My state of mind doesn't allow for clarity.
P.S.—No workmen on the premises!
P.S.—No workers on site!
Ha! ha! ha! (I am laughing demoniacally.)
Ha! ha! ha! (I’m laughing maniacally.)
Broadstairs, Sunday, September 21st, 1851.
It is quite clear we could do nothing else with the drains than what you have done. Will it be at all a heavy item in the estimate?[264]
It’s pretty obvious we couldn’t have done anything else with the drains except what you’ve done. Will this be a significant cost in the estimate?[264]
If there be the least chance of a necessity for the pillar, let us have it. Let us dance in peace, whatever we do, and only go into the kitchen by the staircase.
If there's the slightest chance we might need the pillar, let’s get it. Let’s enjoy ourselves peacefully, no matter what, and only enter the kitchen via the stairs.
Have they cut the door between the drawing-room and the study yet? The foreman will let Shoolbred know when the feat is accomplished.
Have they taken out the door between the living room and the study yet? The foreman will inform Shoolbred when it's done.
O! and did you tell him of another brass ventilator in the dining-room, opening into the dining-room flue?
O! Did you mention the other brass ventilator in the dining room that opens into the dining room flue?
I don't think I shall come to town until you want to show the progress, whenever that may be. I shall look forward to another dinner, and I think we must encourage the Oriental, for the goodness of its wine.
I don’t think I’ll come to town until you want to show the progress, whenever that is. I’m looking forward to another dinner, and I think we should support the Oriental because of its great wine.
I am getting a complete set of a certain distinguished author's works prepared for a certain distinguished architect, which I hope he will accept, as a slight, though very inadequate, etc. etc.; affectionate, etc.; so heartily and kindly taking so much interest, etc. etc.
I’m putting together a full set of a certain well-known author’s works for a certain well-known architect, and I hope he will accept it as a small, though very insufficient, token of my affection for him and appreciation for his genuine interest, etc. etc.
Ever affectionately.
Broadstairs, England, October 7th, 1851.
I will be at Tavistock House at twelve on Saturday, and then will wait for you until I see you. If we return together—as I hope we shall—our express will start at half-past four, and we ought to dine (somewhere about Temple Bar) at three.
I’ll be at Tavistock House at noon on Saturday, and I’ll wait for you until I see you. If we’re coming back together—as I hope we will—our train will leave at 4:30, and we should have dinner (somewhere near Temple Bar) at 3.
The infamous —— says the stoves shall be fixed to-morrow.
The infamous —— says the stoves will be fixed tomorrow.
O! if this were to last long; the distraction of the new book, the whirling of the story through one's mind, escorted[265] by workmen, the imbecility, the wild necessity of beginning to write, the not being able to do so, the, O! I should go—— O!
O! if this could go on for a while; the distraction of the new book, the spinning of the story in one's mind, accompanied[265] by workers, the foolishness, the intense urge to start writing, the inability to do so, the, O! I should go—— O!
P.S.—None. I have torn it off.
P.S.—None. I've taken it.
Broadstairs, Kent, October 10th, 1851.
upon the passing of her mother.
Your remembrance at such a time—not thrown away upon me, trust me—is a sufficient assurance that you know how truly I feel towards you, and with what an earnest sympathy I must think of you now.
Your memory at a time like this—not wasted on me, believe me—is enough to show you know how genuinely I feel about you, and with how much sincere compassion I must think of you right now.
God be with you! There is indeed nothing terrible in such a death, nothing that we would undo, nothing that we may remember otherwise than with deeply thankful, though with softened hearts.
God be with you! There is truly nothing awful about such a death, nothing we would change, nothing we can remember any way other than with deep gratitude, though with softened hearts.
Kate sends you her affectionate love. I enclose a note from Georgina. Pray give my kindest remembrances to your brother Cavendish, and believe me now and ever,
Kate sends you her warm love. I’m including a note from Georgina. Please send my best regards to your brother Cavendish, and trust that I am always sincere,
"Household Words" Office
Wednesday Evening, Oct. 22nd, 1851.
I send you the list I have made for the book-backs. I should like the "History of a Short Chancery Suit" to come at the bottom of one recess, and the "Catalogue of Statues of the Duke of Wellington" at the bottom of the other. If you should want more titles, and will let me know how many, I will send them to you.
I’m sending you the list I created for the book spines. I’d like the "History of a Short Chancery Suit" to be at the bottom of one section, and the "Catalogue of Statues of the Duke of Wellington" at the bottom of the other. If you need more titles, just let me know how many, and I’ll send them to you.
LIST OF IMITATION BOOK-BACKS.
Tavistock House, 1851.
| Five Minutes in China. 3 vols. |
| Forty Winks at the Pyramids. 2 vols. |
| Abernethy on the Constitution. 2 vols. |
| Mr. Green's Overland Mail. 2 vols. |
| Captain Cook's Life of Savage. 2 vols. |
| A Carpenter's Bench of Bishops. 2 vols. |
| Toot's Universal Letter-Writer. 2 vols. |
| Orson's Art of Etiquette. |
| Downeaster's Complete Calculator. |
| History of the Middling Ages. 6 vols. |
| Jonah's Account of the Whale. |
| Captain Parry's Virtues of Cold Tar. |
| Kant's Ancient Humbugs. 10 vols. |
| Bowwowdom. A Poem. |
| The Quarrelly Review. 4 vols. |
| The Gunpowder Magazine. 4 vols. |
| Steele. By the Author of "Ion." |
| The Art of Cutting the Teeth. |
| Matthew's Nursery Songs. 2 vols. |
| Paxton's Bloomers. 5 vols. |
| On the Use of Mercury by the Ancient Poets. |
| Drowsy's Recollections of Nothing. 3 vols. |
| Heavyside's Conversations with Nobody. 3 vols. |
| Commonplace Book of the Oldest Inhabitant. 2 vols. |
| Growler's Gruffiology, with Appendix. 4 vols. |
| The Books of Moses and Sons. 2 vols. |
| Burke (of Edinburgh) on the Sublime and Beautiful. 2 vols. |
| Teazer's Commentaries. |
| King Henry the Eighth's Evidences of Christianity. 5 vols. |
| Miss Biffin on Deportment. |
| Morrison's Pills Progress. 2 vols. |
| Lady Godiva on the Horse. |
| Munchausen's Modern Miracles. 4 vols. |
| Richardson's Show of Dramatic Literature. 12 vols. |
| Hansard's Guide to Refreshing Sleep. As many volumes as possible. |
Office of "Household Words",
Saturday, Oct. 25th, 1851.
On the day of our departure, I thought we were going—backward—at a most triumphant pace; but yesterday we rather recovered. The painters still mislaid their brushes every five minutes, and chiefly whistled in the intervals; and the carpenters (especially the Pantechnicon) continued to look sideways with one eye down pieces of wood, as if they were absorbed in the contemplation of the perspective of the Thames Tunnel, and had entirely relinquished the vanities of this transitory world; but still there was an improvement, and it is confirmed to-day. White lime is to be seen in kitchens, the bath-room is gradually resolving itself from[267] an abstract idea into a fact—youthful, extremely youthful, but a fact. The drawing-room encourages no hope whatever, nor the study. Staircase painted. Irish labourers howling in the school-room, but I don't know why. I see nothing. Gardener vigorously lopping the trees, and really letting in the light and air. Foreman sweet-tempered but uneasy. Inimitable hovering gloomily through the premises all day, with an idea that a little more work is done when he flits, bat-like, through the rooms, than when there is no one looking on. Catherine all over paint. Mister McCann, encountering Inimitable in doorways, fades obsequiously into areas, and there encounters him again, and swoons with confusion. Several reams of blank paper constantly spread on the drawing-room walls, and sliced off again, which looks like insanity. Two men still clinking at the new stair-rails. I think they must be learning a tune; I cannot make out any other object in their proceedings.
On the day we were supposed to leave, I felt like we were moving backward at a pretty fast pace; but yesterday we made some progress. The painters still mislaid their brushes every five minutes and mostly whistled in between; and the carpenters (especially the Pantechnicon) kept glancing sideways with one eye on pieces of wood, as if they were deep in thought about the perspective of the Thames Tunnel, completely ignoring the distractions of this fleeting world; but there was still an improvement, and it's confirmed today. White lime is visible in the kitchens, the bathroom is gradually turning from an abstract idea into a reality—youthful, very youthful, but still a reality. The drawing-room gives no hope at all, nor does the study. The staircase is painted. Irish laborers are making noise in the schoolroom, but I don’t know why. I see nothing. The gardener is vigorously pruning the trees and actually letting in light and air. The foreman is sweet-tempered but anxious. Inimitable is hovering gloomily around the place all day, with the notion that a little more work gets done when he flits around like a bat through the rooms than when no one is watching. Catherine is covered in paint. Mister McCann, running into Inimitable in the doorways, fades away politely into the side areas, only to encounter him again and swoon with embarrassment. Several reams of blank paper are constantly spread on the drawing-room walls and then sliced off again, which looks insane. Two men are still clinking away at the new stair-rails. I think they must be trying to learn a tune; I can’t figure out any other purpose in what they’re doing.
Since writing the above, I have been up there again, and found the young paper-hanger putting on his slippers, and looking hard at the walls of the servants' room at the top of the house, as if he meant to paper it one of these days. May Heaven prosper his intentions!
Since writing the above, I have been up there again, and found the young wallpaper guy putting on his slippers and staring at the walls of the servants' room at the top of the house, as if he plans to wallpaper it one of these days. May Heaven bless his intentions!
When do you come back? I hope soon.
When are you coming back? I hope it's soon.
Clifton, November 13th, 1851.
I have just received your second letter, and am quite delighted to find that all is going on so vigorously, and that you are in such a methodical, business-like, and energetic state. I shall come home by the express on Saturday morning, and shall hope to be at home between eleven and twelve.
I just got your second letter, and I'm really happy to see that everything is moving along so well and that you're in such an organized, professional, and energetic state. I’ll be back on the express train Saturday morning and hope to arrive home between eleven and twelve.
We had a noble night last night. The room (which is[268] the largest but one in England) was crammed in every part. The effect of from thirteen to fourteen hundred people, all well dressed, and all seated in one unbroken chamber, except that the floor rose high towards the end of the hall, was most splendid, and we never played to a better audience. The enthusiasm was prodigious; the place delightful for speaking in; no end of gas; another hall for a dressing-room; an immense stage; and every possible convenience. We were all thoroughly pleased, I think, with the whole thing, and it was a very great and striking success. To-morrow-night, having the new Hardman, I am going to try the play with all kinds of cuts, taking out, among other things, some half-dozen printed pages of "Wills's Coffee House."
We had an amazing night last night. The room (which is[268] the second largest in England) was packed in every corner. The sight of thirteen to fourteen hundred people, all well-dressed and seated in one continuous space, except for the floor that sloped up at the end of the hall, was truly spectacular, and we've never performed for a better audience. The energy was incredible; the venue was perfect for speaking; plenty of gas lighting; another hall for changing; a huge stage; and every possible convenience. I think we all felt really happy with the whole experience, and it was a huge and impressive success. Tomorrow night, with the new Hardman, I'm planning to try the play with all sorts of edits, removing, among other things, a few pages from "Wills's Coffee House."
We are very pleasant and cheerful. They are all going to Matthew Davenport Hill's to lunch this morning, and to see some woods about six or seven miles off. I prefer being quiet, and shall go out at my leisure and call on Elliot. We are very well lodged and boarded, and, living high up on the Downs, are quite out of the filth of Bristol.
We are really pleasant and cheerful. They are all going to Matthew Davenport Hill's for lunch this morning and to check out some woods about six or seven miles away. I prefer to keep it low-key and will head out at my own pace to visit Elliot. We are well accommodated and well-fed, and since we're living high up on the Downs, we're completely away from the grime of Bristol.
I saw old Landor at Bath, who has bronchitis. When he was last in town, "Kenyon drove him about, by God, half the morning, under a most damnable pretence of taking him to where Walter was at school, and they never found the confounded house!" He had in his pocket on that occasion a souvenir for Walter in the form of a Union shirt-pin, which is now in my possession, and shall be duly brought home.
I saw old Landor in Bath, who has bronchitis. When he was last in town, "Kenyon drove him around, damn it, half the morning, under the ridiculous pretense of taking him to where Walter was at school, and they never found the damn house!" He had a souvenir for Walter at that time in the form of a Union shirt-pin, which I now have and will definitely bring home.
I am tired enough, and shall be glad when to-morrow night is over. We expect a very good house. Forster came up to town after the performance last night, and promised to report to you that all was well. Jerrold is in extraordinary force. I don't think I ever knew him so[269] humorous. And this is all my news, which is quite enough. I am continually thinking of the house in the midst of all the bustle, but I trust it with such confidence to you that I am quite at my ease about it.
I’m pretty worn out and can’t wait for tomorrow night to be over. We’re expecting a great audience. Forster came to town after last night’s performance and promised to let you know that everything is fine. Jerrold is on fire; I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this funny. And that’s all the news I have, which is more than enough. I keep thinking about the house with everything going on, but I trust you with it so much that I feel completely at ease.
Ever, my dearest Kate, most affectionately yours.
P.S.—I forgot to say that Topham has suddenly come out as a juggler, and swallows candles, and does wonderful things with the poker very well indeed, but with a bashfulness and embarrassment extraordinarily ludicrous.
P.S.—I forgot to mention that Topham has unexpectedly revealed himself as a juggler, swallowing candles and doing amazing tricks with the poker very skillfully, but with a level of bashfulness and embarrassment that is hilariously awkward.
Tavistock House, Tavistock Square, Nov. 17th, 1851.
I must thank you for the admirable manner in which you have done the book-backs in my room. I feel personally obliged to you, I assure you, for the interest you have taken in my whim, and the promptitude with which you have completely carried it out.
I really want to thank you for the great way you handled the book spines in my room. I feel truly grateful to you for taking an interest in my quirky request and for executing it so quickly.
Tavistock House, Thursday Afternoon, Dec. 5th, 1851.
I write in great haste to tell you that Mr. Wills, in the utmost consternation, has brought me your letter, just received (four o'clock), and that it is too late to recall your tale. I was so delighted with it that I put it first in the number (not hearing of any objection to my proposed alteration by return of post), and the number is now made up and in the printer's hands. I cannot possibly take the tale out—it has departed from me.
I’m writing quickly to let you know that Mr. Wills, clearly in a panic, just brought me your letter I received at four o'clock, and it’s too late to take back your story. I was so pleased with it that I put it first in the issue (not hearing any objections to my suggested change by return of post), and the issue is now complete and with the printer. I can’t possibly remove the story—it’s already gone.
I am truly concerned for this, but I hope you will not blame me for what I have done in perfect good faith. Any[270] recollection of me from your pen cannot (as I think you know) be otherwise than truly gratifying to me; but with my name on every page of "Household Words," there would be—or at least I should feel—an impropriety in so mentioning myself. I was particular, in changing the author, to make it "Hood's Poems" in the most important place—I mean where the captain is killed—and I hope and trust that the substitution will not be any serious drawback to the paper in any eyes but yours. I would do anything rather than cause you a minute's vexation arising out of what has given me so much pleasure, and I sincerely beseech you to think better of it, and not to fancy that any shade has been thrown on your charming writing, by
I really care about this, but I hope you won’t blame me for what I did with the best intentions. Any mention of me from you can only be a real pleasure for me; however, with my name appearing on every page of "Household Words," I would feel—at least I should feel—awkward about bringing myself up. I was careful, when changing the author, to make it "Hood's Poems" in the most important spot—I mean where the captain gets killed—and I hope that this change won’t be a major issue in anyone's eyes except yours. I'd do anything to avoid causing you even a moment’s annoyance from something that has brought me so much joy, and I truly urge you to reconsider and not to think that any negative light has been cast on your wonderful writing by
P.S.—I write at a gallop, not to lose another post.
P.S.—I'm writing quickly so I don't miss another post.
Tavistock House, Sunday, December 21st, 1851.
If you were not the most suspicious of women, always looking for soft sawder in the purest metal of praise, I should call your paper delightful, and touched in the tenderest and most delicate manner. Being what you are, I confine myself to the observation that I have called it "A Love Affair at Cranford," and sent it off to the printer.
If you weren't the most skeptical of women, constantly searching for hidden motives in genuine compliments, I would call your paper charming and expressed in the most gentle and subtle way. Given who you are, I’ll just mention that I’ve titled it "A Love Affair at Cranford" and sent it off to the printer.
Tavistock House, December 26th, 1851.
About the three papers.
About the three articles.
1st. With Mr. Plowman of Oxford, Wills will communicate.
1st. Wills will connect with Mr. Plowman from Oxford.
2nd. (Now returned.) I have seen, in nearly the same form, before. The list of names is overwhelming.[271]
2nd. (Now back.) I have seen it before, in almost the same way. The list of names is huge.[271]
3rd. I am not at all earnest in the Savage matter; firstly, because I think so tremendous a vagabond never could have obtained an honest living in any station of existence or at any period of time; and secondly, because I think it of the highest importance that such an association as our Guild should not appear to resent upon society the faults of individuals who were flagrantly impracticable.
3rd. I'm not at all serious about the Savage situation; first, because I believe such a blatant drifter could never have made an honest living in any role or at any time; and second, because I think it's really important for our Guild to not seem like we're blaming society for the issues caused by individuals who were obviously unmanageable.
At its best, it is liable to that suspicion, as all such efforts have been on the part of many jealous persons, to whom it must look for aid. And any stop that in the least encourages it is one of a fatal kind.
At its best, it can be prone to that suspicion, as all such efforts often are from many envious individuals, whom it must rely on for support. And any pause that even slightly encourages it is truly dangerous.
I do not think myself, but this is merely an individual opinion, that Savage was a man of genius, or that anything of his writing would have attracted much notice but for the bastard's reference to his mother. For these reasons combined, I should not be inclined to add my subscription of two guineas to yours, unless the inscription were altered as I have altered it in pencil. But in that case I should be very glad to respond to your suggestion, and to snuff out all my smaller disinclination.
I don’t think of myself as someone important, but just my personal opinion, Savage was not a genius, and I doubt any of his writing would have received much attention if it weren’t for his mention of his mother. For these reasons combined, I wouldn’t want to contribute my two guineas to yours unless the inscription is changed as I have suggested in pencil. But if that happens, I would be happy to go along with your suggestion and put aside my smaller reluctance.
1852.
NARRATIVE.
In March, the first number of "Bleak House" appeared, and he was at work on this book all through the year, as well as being constantly occupied with his editorship of "Household Words."
In March, the first issue of "Bleak House" was published, and he worked on this book all year while also continually managing his role as editor of "Household Words."
We have, in the letters for this year, Charles Dickens's first to Lord John Russell (afterwards the Earl Russell); a friend whom he held in the highest estimation, and to whom he was always grateful for many personal kindnesses. We have also his first letter to Mr. Wilkie Collins, with whom he became most intimately associated in literary work. The affectionate friendship he had for him, the high value in which he held him as a brother-artist, are constantly expressed in Charles Dickens's own letters to Mr. Collins, and in his letters to other friends.
We have, in this year's letters, Charles Dickens's first letter to Lord John Russell (later the Earl Russell); a friend he deeply respected and to whom he was always thankful for many personal kindnesses. We also have his first letter to Mr. Wilkie Collins, with whom he formed a close partnership in literary work. His loving friendship for Collins and the high regard he had for him as a fellow artist are frequently reflected in Dickens's own letters to Collins and in his letters to other friends.
"Those gallant men" (in the letter to Mr. J. Crofton Croker) had reference to an antiquarian club, called the Noviomagians, who were about to give a dinner in honour of Sir Edward Belcher and Captain Kellett, the officers in command of the Arctic Exploring Expedition, to which Charles Dickens was also invited. Mr. Crofton Croker was the president of this club, and to denote his office it was customary to put on a cocked hat after dinner.
"Those brave men" (in the letter to Mr. J. Crofton Croker) referred to an antique club called the Noviomagians, who were about to host a dinner in honor of Sir Edward Belcher and Captain Kellett, the officers in charge of the Arctic Exploring Expedition, to which Charles Dickens was also invited. Mr. Crofton Croker was the president of this club, and it was customary for him to wear a cocked hat after dinner to signify his position.
The "lost character" he writes of in a letter to Mrs. Watson, refers to two different decipherings of his handwriting; this sort of study being in fashion then, and he and his friends at Rockingham Castle deriving much amusement from it.
The "lost character" he mentions in a letter to Mrs. Watson refers to two different interpretations of his handwriting; this kind of study was popular at the time, and he and his friends at Rockingham Castle enjoyed it a lot.
The letter dated July 9th was in answer to an anonymous correspondent, who wrote to him as follows: "I venture to trespass on your attention with one serious query, touching a sentence in the last number of 'Bleak House.' Do the supporters of Christian missions to the heathen really deserve the attack that is conveyed in the sentence about Jo' seated in his anguish on the door-step of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts? The allusion is severe, but is it just? Are such[273] boys as Jo' neglected? What are ragged schools, town missions, and many of those societies I regret to see sneered at in the last number of 'Household Words'?"
The letter dated July 9th was in response to an anonymous writer, who addressed him as follows: "I hope you don’t mind my bringing up a serious question regarding a sentence in the latest issue of 'Bleak House.' Do the supporters of Christian missions to those in need really deserve the criticism presented in the sentence about Jo' sitting in his despair on the steps of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts? The reference is harsh, but is it fair? Are boys like Jo' overlooked? What about ragged schools, town missions, and many of those organizations that I’m sad to see mocked in the latest issue of 'Household Words'?"
The "Duke of Middlesex," in the letter we have here to Mr. Charles Knight, was the name of the character played by Mr. F. Stone, in Sir E. B. Lytton's comedy of "Not so Bad as we Seem."
The "Duke of Middlesex," in the letter we have here to Mr. Charles Knight, was the name of the character played by Mr. F. Stone, in Sir E. B. Lytton's comedy "Not so Bad as We Seem."
Our last letter in this year, to Mr. G. Linnæus Banks, was in acknowledgment of one from him on the subject of a proposed public dinner to Charles Dickens, to be given by the people of Birmingham, when they were also to present him with a salver and a diamond ring. The dinner was given in the following year, and the ring and salver (the latter an artistic specimen of Birmingham ware) were duly presented by Mr. Banks, who acted as honorary secretary, in the names of the subscribers, at the rooms of the Birmingham Fine Arts Association. Mr. Banks, and the artist, Mr. J. C. Walker, were the originators of this demonstration.
Our last letter this year to Mr. G. Linnæus Banks was in response to his message about a planned public dinner for Charles Dickens, which would be hosted by the people of Birmingham. They also intended to present him with a salver and a diamond ring. The dinner took place the following year, and Mr. Banks, acting as honorary secretary, presented the ring and salver (the latter being a beautiful piece of Birmingham ware) on behalf of the subscribers at the Birmingham Fine Arts Association. Mr. Banks and the artist, Mr. J. C. Walker, initiated this tribute.
Tavistock House, January 31st, 1852.
If the "taxes on knowledge" mean the stamp duty, the paper duty, and the advertisement duty, they seem to me to be unnecessarily confounded, and unfairly too.
If the "taxes on knowledge" refer to the stamp duty, the paper duty, and the advertisement duty, I think they are being mixed up unnecessarily and unfairly.
I have already declined to sign a petition for the removal of the stamp duty on newspapers. I think the reduced duty is some protection to the public against the rash and hasty launching of blackguard newspapers. I think the newspapers are made extremely accessible to the poor man at present, and that he would not derive the least benefit from the abolition of the stamp. It is not at all clear to me, supposing he wants The Times a penny cheaper, that he would get it a penny cheaper if the tax were taken off. If he supposes he would get in competition two or three[274] new journals as good to choose from, he is mistaken; not knowing the immense resources and the gradually perfective machinery necessary to the production of such a journal. It appears to me to be a fair tax enough, very little in the way of individuals, not embarrassing to the public in its mode of being levied, and requiring some small consideration and pauses from the American kind of newspaper projectors. Further, a committee has reported in favour of the repeal, and the subject may be held to need no present launching.
I’ve already turned down signing a petition to remove the stamp duty on newspapers. I believe the reduced duty offers some protection to the public against the reckless and hasty creation of shady newspapers. Right now, newspapers are really accessible to those with fewer resources, and they wouldn’t benefit at all from getting rid of the stamp. It’s not clear to me that if he wants The Times for a penny less, he would actually get it for that price if the tax were eliminated. If he thinks he’d find two or three more journals of the same quality competing for him, he’s mistaken; he doesn't realize the huge resources and the progressively improving systems needed to produce a good journal. To me, it seems like a reasonable tax, not too burdensome on individuals, not inconvenient for the public in how it’s collected, and it demands some thought and hesitation from people trying to launch American-style newspapers. Also, a committee has reported in favor of the repeal, so there’s no immediate need to address the topic.
The repeal of the paper duty would benefit the producers of periodicals immensely. It would make a very large difference to me, in the case of such a journal as "Household Words." But the gain to the public would be very small. It would not make the difference of enabling me, for example, to reduce the price of "Household Words," by its fractional effect upon a copy, or to increase the quantity of matter. I might, in putting the difference into my pocket, improve the quality of the paper a little, but not one man in a thousand would notice it. It might (though I am not sure even of this) remove the difficulties in the way of a deserving periodical with a small sale. Charles Knight holds that it would. But the case, on the whole, appeared to me so slight, when I went to Downing Street with a deputation on the subject, that I said (in addressing the Chancellor of the Exchequer) I could not honestly maintain it for a moment as against the soap duty, or any other pressing on the mass of the poor.
The repeal of the paper duty would greatly benefit periodical publishers. It would make a significant difference to me, especially for a publication like "Household Words." However, the advantage for the public would be minimal. It wouldn’t allow me, for example, to lower the price of "Household Words," due to its minor impact per copy, or to increase the amount of content. I could use the extra money to slightly improve the quality of the paper, but hardly anyone would notice. It might (though I'm not even sure about this) help a worthy magazine with low sales. Charles Knight believes it would. Still, when I went to Downing Street with a delegation on the topic, the overall situation seemed so minor that I told the Chancellor of the Exchequer that I couldn’t honestly argue for it when compared to the soap duty or any other issue affecting the majority of the poor.
The advertisement duty has this preposterous anomaly, that a footman in want of a place pays as much in the way of tax for the expression of his want, as Professor Holloway pays for the whole list of his miraculous cures.
The advertising tax has this ridiculous quirk, that a servant looking for a job pays just as much in tax for expressing his need as Professor Holloway pays for his entire list of amazing cures.
But I think, at this time especially, there is so much to[275] be considered in the necessity the country will be under of having money, and the necessity of justice it is always under, to consider the physical and moral wants of the poor man's home, as to justify a man in saying: "I must wait a little, all taxes are more or less objectionable, and so no doubt are these, but we must have some; and I have not made up my mind that all these things that are mixed up together are taxes on knowledge in reality."
But I think, especially right now, we really need to consider how much the country will depend on having money and the ongoing need for justice. It's important to think about the physical and moral needs of the poor man’s home. This should justify someone saying: "I need to hold off a bit; all taxes are somewhat problematic, and these are no exception, but we need some; and I haven't decided that all these things that are intertwined truly are taxes on knowledge."
Kate and Georgy unite with me in kindest and heartiest love to dear Mrs. Macready. We are always with you in spirit, and always talking about you. I am obliged to conclude very hastily, being beset to-day with business engagements. Saw the lecture and was delighted; thought the idea admirable. Again, loves upon loves to dear Mrs. Macready and to Miss Macready also, and Kate and all the house. I saw —— play (O Heaven!) "Macbeth," the other night, in three hours and fifty minutes, which is quick, I think.
Kate, Georgy, and I send our warmest love to dear Mrs. Macready. We’re always thinking of you and talking about you. I have to wrap this up quickly since I’m swamped with work today. I saw the lecture and loved it; I thought the idea was brilliant. Once again, so much love to dear Mrs. Macready, Miss Macready, Kate, and everyone at home. I watched — play (Oh my!) "Macbeth" the other night, and it was three hours and fifty minutes long, which seems fast to me.
Tavistock House, March 6th, 1852.
I have the greatest interest in those gallant men, and should have been delighted to dine in their company. I feel truly obliged to you for your kind remembrance on such an occasion.
I have a huge interest in those brave men, and I would have loved to have dinner with them. I really appreciate your thoughtfulness on this occasion.
But I am engaged to Lord Lansdowne on Wednesday, and can only drink to them in the spirit, which I have often done when they have been farther off.
But I’m engaged to Lord Lansdowne on Wednesday, and I can only toast to them in spirit, which I’ve done many times when they've been farther away.
I hope you will find occasion to put on your cocked hat, that they may see how terrific and imposing "a fore-and-after" can be made on shore.
I hope you’ll get the chance to wear your fancy hat, so they can see how amazing and impressive a "fore-and-after" can look on land.
Tavistock House, April 6th, 1852.
My "lost character" was one of those awful documents occasionally to be met with, which will be everywhere. It glared upon me from every drawer I had, fell out of books, lurked under keys, hid in empty inkstands, got into portfolios, frightened me by inscrutably passing into locked despatch-boxes, and was not one character, but a thousand. This was when I didn't want it. I look for it this morning, and it is nowhere! Probably will never be beheld again.
My "lost character" was one of those annoying documents you sometimes come across that seem to show up everywhere. It stared at me from every drawer I had, fell out of books, hid under keys, was tucked away in empty inkstands, ended up in portfolios, scared me by mysteriously slipping into locked briefcases, and wasn’t just one character, but a thousand. This was when I didn’t want it. I looked for it this morning, and it’s nowhere! I probably will never see it again.
But it was very unlike this one; and there is no doubt that when these ventures come out good, it is only by lucky chance and coincidence. She never mentioned my love of order before, and it is so remarkable (being almost a disorder), that she ought to have fainted with surprise when my handwriting was first revealed to her.
But it was really different from this one; and there’s no doubt that when these efforts succeed, it’s purely by luck and coincidence. She never brought up my love for order before, and it’s so striking (almost a disorder) that she should have been shocked when my handwriting was first shown to her.
I was very sorry to leave Rockingham the other day, and came away in quite a melancholy state. The Birmingham people were very active; and the Shrewsbury gentry quite transcendent. I hope we shall have a very successful and dazzling trip. It is delightful to me to think of your coming to Birmingham; and, by-the-bye, if you will tell me in the previous week what hotel accommodation you want, Mr. Wills will look to it with the greatest pleasure.
I was really sad to leave Rockingham the other day and left feeling quite down. The people from Birmingham were very lively, and the folks from Shrewsbury were truly impressive. I'm hoping we have an incredibly successful and exciting trip. I'm really excited about you coming to Birmingham; and by the way, if you let me know the hotel arrangements you need the week before, Mr. Wills will take care of it with great pleasure.
Your bookseller ought to be cashiered. I suppose "he" (as Rogers calls everybody's husband) went out hunting with the idea of diverting his mind from dwelling on its loss. Abortive effort!
Your bookseller should be fired. I guess "he" (as Rogers refers to everyone's husband) went out hunting to distract himself from thinking about his loss. Complete failure!
Best regards,
Ever, dear Mrs. Watson, most faithfully yours.
Tavistock House, June 29th, 1852.
A thousand thanks for the Shadow, which, is charming. May you often go (out of town) and do likewise!
A thousand thanks for the Shadow, which is delightful. May you often go out of town and do the same!
I dined with Charles Kemble, yesterday, to meet Emil Devrient, the German actor. He said (Devrient is my antecedent) that Ophelia spoke the snatches of ballads in their German version of "Hamlet," because they didn't know the airs. Tom Taylor said that you had published the airs in your "Shakespeare." I said that if it were so, I knew you would be happy to place them at the German's service. If you have got them and will send them to me, I will write to Devrient (who knows no English) a French explanation and reminder of the circumstance, and will tell him that you responded like a man and a—I was going to say publisher, but you are nothing of the sort, except as Tonson. Then indeed you are every inch a pub.!
I had dinner with Charles Kemble yesterday to meet Emil Devrient, the German actor. He mentioned (Devrient is my predecessor) that Ophelia sang the snippets of ballads in their German version of "Hamlet" because they didn’t know the melodies. Tom Taylor said you published the melodies in your "Shakespeare." I mentioned that if that’s the case, I knew you would be happy to make them available to the German actor. If you have them and can send them to me, I’ll write to Devrient (who doesn’t know any English) with a French explanation and a reminder about the situation, and I’ll let him know that you responded like a man and a—I was going to say publisher, but you’re not really that, except as Tonson. In that case, you truly are a publisher!
Tavistock House, Wednesday, June 30th, 1852.
I am most truly obliged to you for your kind note, and for your so generously thinking of me in the midst of your many occupations. I do assure you that your ever ready consideration had already attached me to you in the warmest manner, and made me very much your debtor. I thank you unaffectedly and very earnestly, and am proud to be held in your remembrance.
I’m really grateful for your kind note and for thinking of me despite your busy schedule. I truly appreciate your constant thoughtfulness, which has made me feel very close to you and has put me in your debt. Thank you sincerely and wholeheartedly; I’m proud to be in your thoughts.
Tavistock House, Tavistock Square, July 9th, 1852.
I have received your letter of yesterday's date, and shall content myself with a brief reply.[278]
I've received your letter from yesterday, and I'll keep my response short.[278]
There was a long time during which benevolent societies were spending immense sums on missions abroad, when there was no such thing as a ragged school in England, or any kind of associated endeavour to penetrate to those horrible domestic depths in which such schools are now to be found, and where they were, to my most certain knowledge, neither placed nor discovered by the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts.
There was a long period when charitable organizations were investing huge amounts of money in missions overseas, while there was no such thing as a ragged school in England, or any collective effort to reach those terrible social conditions where such schools are now established, and where, to my absolute knowledge, they were neither set up nor found by the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts.
If you think the balance between the home mission and the foreign mission justly held in the present time, I do not. I abstain from drawing the strange comparison that might be drawn between the sums even now expended in endeavours to remove the darkest ignorance and degradation from our very doors, because I have some respect for mistakes that may be founded in a sincere wish to do good. But I present a general suggestion of the still-existing anomaly (in such a paragraph as that which offends you), in the hope of inducing some people to reflect on this matter, and to adjust the balance more correctly. I am decidedly of opinion that the two works, the home and the foreign, are not conducted with an equal hand, and that the home claim is by far the stronger and the more pressing of the two.
If you believe that the balance between local missions and foreign missions is fair right now, I don't agree. I won't make the odd comparison that could be drawn between the amounts of money currently spent trying to eliminate serious ignorance and hardship right at our doorstep, because I respect the fact that these efforts often come from a genuine desire to make a difference. However, I want to point out the ongoing inconsistency (in a statement like the one that bothers you), hoping to encourage some people to think about this issue and find a better balance. I firmly believe that the two efforts, local and foreign, are not being managed equally, and that the need for local support is much more urgent and significant than the foreign efforts.
Indeed, I have very grave doubts whether a great commercial country, holding communication with all parts of the world, can better Christianise the benighted portions of it than by the bestowal of its wealth and energy on the making of good Christians at home, and on the utter removal of neglected and untaught childhood from its streets, before it wanders elsewhere. For, if it steadily persist in this work, working downward to the lowest, the travellers of all grades whom it sends abroad will be good, exemplary, practical missionaries, instead of undoers of what the best professed missionaries can do.[279]
Honestly, I seriously doubt that a major commercial nation, connected to every part of the world, can do a better job of spreading Christianity to the less fortunate areas than by investing its wealth and energy in raising good Christians at home and fully addressing the needs of neglected and uneducated children on its streets before they go elsewhere. If it consistently focuses on this mission, reaching out to those in the greatest need, the travelers of all kinds it sends abroad will be positive, inspiring, and effective missionaries, rather than people who undo the hard work of the best-trained missionaries.[279]
These are my opinions, founded, I believe, on some knowledge of facts and some observation. If I could be scared out of them, let me add in all good humour, by such easily-impressed words as "antichristian" or "irreligious," I should think that I deserved them in their real signification.
These are my opinions, which I believe are based on some knowledge of the facts and some observation. If I could be swayed from them, let me add with a sense of humor, by such easily-triggered words as "antichristian" or "irreligious," then I would think I truly deserved those labels in their actual meaning.
I have referred in vain to page 312 of "Household Words" for the sneer to which you call my attention. Nor have I, I assure you, the least idea where else it is to be found.
I have looked in vain at page 312 of "Household Words" for the sneer you mentioned. I also assure you that I have no idea where else it might be found.
10, Camden Crescent, Dover, July 22nd, 1852.
This is indeed a noble letter. The description of the family is quite amazing. I must return it myself to say that I have appreciated it.
This is truly a wonderful letter. The portrayal of the family is incredible. I must return it myself to express that I have appreciated it.
I am going to do "Used Up" at Manchester on the 2nd of September. O, think of that! With another Mary!!! How can I ever say, "Dear Joe, if you like!" The voice may fully frame the falsehood, but the heart—the heart, Mr. Wurzel—will have no part in it.
I’m going to perform "Used Up" in Manchester on September 2nd. Oh, just think about that! With another Mary!!! How can I ever say, "Dear Joe, if you want!" The voice might completely mask the lie, but the heart—the heart, Mr. Wurzel—won’t be involved in it at all.
My dear Mary, you do scant justice to Dover. It is not quite a place to my taste, being too bandy (I mean musical, no reference to its legs), and infinitely too genteel. But the sea is very fine, and the walks are quite remarkable. There are two ways of going to Folkestone, both lovely and striking in the highest degree; and there are heights, and downs, and country roads, and I don't know what, everywhere.
My dear Mary, you don’t give Dover enough credit. It’s not exactly my kind of place, as it has too much of a showy vibe (I mean in a musical sense, not about its appearance), and it feels overly refined. But the sea is beautiful, and the walking paths are impressive. There are two stunning routes to Folkestone, both very picturesque; plus, there are hills, cliffs, country roads, and all sorts of scenic views everywhere.
To let you into a secret, I am not quite sure that I ever did like, or ever shall like, anything quite so well as "Copperfield." But I foresee, I think, some very good things in "Bleak House." I shouldn't wonder if they[280] were the identical things that D'Israeli sees looming in the distance. I behold them in the months ahead and weep.
To let you in on a secret, I’m not really sure that I ever liked, or ever will like, anything as much as "Copperfield." But I think I see some really good things coming in "Bleak House." It wouldn’t surprise me if they[280] are the same things that D'Israeli sees on the horizon. I can see them in the coming months and I'm emotional about it.
Watson seemed, when I saw him last, to be holding on as by a sheet-anchor to theatricals at Christmas. Then, O rapture! but be still, my fluttering heart.
Watson appeared, when I last saw him, to be clinging to Christmas performances like a lifeline. Then, oh joy! but calm down, my racing heart.
This is one of what I call my wandering days before I fall to work. I seem to be always looking at such times for something I have not found in life, but may possibly come to a few thousands of years hence, in some other part of some other system. God knows. At all events I won't put your pastoral little pipe out of tune by talking about it. I'll go and look for it on the Canterbury road among the hop-gardens and orchards.
This is one of those days when I wander around before I start working. I always seem to be searching for something I haven't discovered in life yet, but maybe it’ll show up a few thousand years from now in some other part of a different system. Who knows? Anyway, I won't ruin your peaceful little tune by bringing it up. I’ll head out and look for it on the Canterbury road among the hop gardens and orchards.
Joe.
10, Camden Crescent, Dover, Sunday, Aug. 1st, 1852.
I don't see why you should go to the Ship, and I won't stand it. The state apartment will be occupied by the Duke of Middlesex (whom I think you know), but we can easily get a bed for you hard by. Therefore you will please to drive here next Saturday evening. Our regular dinner hour is half-past five. If you are later, you will find something ready for you.
I don't understand why you want to go to the Ship, and I can't agree to it. The state apartment will be taken by the Duke of Middlesex (whom I believe you know), but we can easily get a bed for you nearby. So please drive here next Saturday evening. Our usual dinner time is 5:30. If you're later, you'll find something ready for you.
If you go on in that way about your part, I shall think you want to play Mr. Gabblewig. Your rôle, though a small one on the stage, is a large one off it; and no man is more important to the Guild, both on and off.
If you keep acting that way about your role, I'll think you want to play Mr. Gabblewig. Your part, while small on stage, is actually a big deal off it; and no one is more important to the Guild, both on stage and off.
My dear friend Watson! Dead after an illness of four days. He dined with us this day three weeks. I loved him as my heart, and cannot think of him without tears.
My dear friend Watson! He passed away after just four days of illness. He had dinner with us three weeks ago today. I loved him with all my heart, and I can't think of him without crying.
Dover, August 5th, 1852.
Poor dear Watson was dead when the paragraph in the paper appeared. He was buried in his own church yesterday. Last Sunday three weeks (the day before he went abroad) he dined with us, and was quite well and happy. She has come home, is at Rockingham with the children, and does not weakly desert his grave, but sets up her rest by it from the first. He had been wandering in his mind a little before his death, but recovered consciousness, and fell asleep (she says) quite gently and peacefully in her arms.
Poor dear Watson was dead when the paragraph in the paper came out. He was buried in his own church yesterday. Three weeks ago last Sunday (the day before he went abroad), he had dinner with us and was doing well and happy. She has come home, is at Rockingham with the kids, and doesn't weakly abandon his grave, but rests beside it from the start. He had been a bit confused in his mind before he died, but he regained consciousness and fell asleep (she says) quite gently and peacefully in her arms.
I loved him very much, and God knows he deserved it.
I loved him a lot, and God knows he earned it.
10, Camden Crescent, Dover, Thursday, Aug. 5th, 1852.
'Peared to me (as Uncle Tom would say) until within these last few days, that I should be able to write to you, joyfully accepting your Saturday's invitation after Newcastle, in behalf of all whom it concerned. But the Sunderland people rushed into the field to propose our acting there on that Saturday, the only possible night. And as it is the concluding Guild expedition, and the Guild has a paramount claim on us, I have been obliged to knock my own inclinations on the head, cut the throat of my own wishes, and bind the Company hand and foot to the Sunderland lieges. I don't mean to tell them now of your invitation until we shall have got out of that country. There might be rebellion. We are staying here for the autumn.
'It seemed to me (as Uncle Tom would say) until just a few days ago, that I would be able to write to you, happily accepting your invitation for Saturday after Newcastle, on behalf of everyone involved. But the people in Sunderland jumped in to suggest that we perform there on that Saturday, which is the only possible night. Since this is the final Guild event, and the Guild has a top priority on our time, I’ve had to put my own desires aside, abandon my own wishes, and lock the Company into commitment to the Sunderland folks. I won’t tell them about your invitation until we leave that area. There might be some backlash. We're staying here for the autumn.'
Is there any hope of your repeating your visit to these coasts?
Is there any chance you’ll visit these shores again?
10, Camden Crescent, Dover, August 5th, 1852.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. WATSON.
I cannot bear to be silent longer, though I know full well—no one better I think—how your love for him, and your trust in God, and your love for your children will have come to the help of such a nature as yours, and whispered better things than any friendship can, however faithful and affectionate.
I can’t keep quiet any longer, even though I know well—better than anyone, I think—how your love for him, your trust in God, and your love for your children have supported someone like you, and have offered you better guidance than any friendship could, no matter how loyal and caring.
We held him so close in our hearts—all of us here—and have been so happy with him, and so used to say how good he was, and what a gentle, generous, noble spirit he had, and how he shone out among commoner men as something so real and genuine, and full of every kind of worthiness, that it has often brought the tears into my eyes to talk of him; we have been so accustomed to do this when we looked forward to years of unchanged intercourse, that now, when everything but truth goes down into the dust, those recollections which make the sword so sharp pour balm into the wound. And if it be a consolation to us to know the virtues of his character, and the reasons that we had for loving him, O how much greater is your comfort who were so devoted to him, and were the happiness of his life!
We held him so closely in our hearts—all of us here—and we were so happy with him. We often said how good he was, how gentle, generous, and noble his spirit was, and how he stood out among ordinary people as something so real and genuine, full of every kind of worthiness. It often brought tears to my eyes just to talk about him. We got so used to doing this while looking forward to years of being together that now, when everything but the truth fades away, those memories that make the pain sharper also bring comfort. And if knowing his virtues and the reasons we loved him is a consolation to us, oh how much greater is your comfort, having been so devoted to him and being the joy of his life!
We have thought of you every day and every hour; we think of you now in the dear old house, and know how right it is, for his dear children's sake, that you should have bravely set up your rest in the place consecrated by their father's memory, and within the same summer shadows that fall upon his grave. We try to look on, through a few years, and to see the children brightening it, and George a comfort and a pride and an honour to you; and although it is hard to think of what we have lost, we know how something of[283] it will be restored by your example and endeavours, and the blessing that will descend upon them. We know how the time will come when some reflection of that cordial, unaffected, most affectionate presence, which we can never forget, and never would forget if we could—such is God's great mercy—will shine out of your boy's eyes upon you, his best friend and his last consoler, and fill the void there is now.
We think about you every day and every hour; we’re thinking of you now in the beloved old house, and we know how right it is, for the sake of his dear children, that you’ve bravely settled in the place honored by their father’s memory, and under the same summer shadows that fall over his grave. We try to look ahead a few years and imagine the children filling it with joy, and George being a comfort, pride, and honor to you; and even though it’s hard to think about what we’ve lost, we know that a part of it will be restored by your example and efforts, along with the blessings that will come upon them. We understand that the time will come when some reflection of that warm, genuine, and deeply affectionate presence, which we can never forget—and never would want to forget if we could—such is God’s great mercy—will shine out of your boy’s eyes upon you, his best friend and his last comforter, and fill the emptiness that exists now.
May God, who has received into His rest through this affliction as good a man as ever I can know and love and mourn for on this earth, be good to you, dear friends, through these coming years! May all those compassionate and hopeful lessons of the great Teacher who shed divine tears for the dead bring their full comfort to you! I have no fear of that, my confidence is certainty.
May God, who has welcomed into His peace a man as good as anyone I’ve ever known, loved, and grieved for in this world, be kind to you, dear friends, in the years ahead! May all those caring and hopeful lessons from the great Teacher who shed divine tears for the dead bring you complete comfort! I’m not worried about that; my confidence is absolute.
I cannot write what I wish; I had so many things to say, I seem to have said none. It is so with the remembrances we send. I cannot put them into words.
I can't express what I want to say; I had so much to share, but it feels like I've said nothing at all. That's how it is with the memories we share. I can't find the right words for them.
If you should ever set up a record in the little church, I would try to word it myself, and God knows out of the fulness of my heart, if you should think it well.
If you ever decide to create a record in the small church, I would try to write it myself, and God knows from the depth of my heart, if you would consider it appropriate.
Yours, with the truest affection and sympathy.
Hôtel Des Bains, Boulogne,
Tuesday Night, Oct. 5th, 1852.
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. MACREADY.
I received your melancholy letter while we were staying at Dover, a few days after it was written; but I thought it best not to write to you until you were at home again, among your dear children.[284]
I got your sad letter while we were in Dover, just a few days after you wrote it; but I thought it would be better not to reply until you were back home with your cherished kids.[284]
Its tidings were not unexpected to us, had been anticipated in many conversations, often thought of under many circumstances; but the shock was scarcely lessened by this preparation. The many happy days we have passed together came crowding back; all the old cheerful times arose before us; and the remembrance of what we had loved so dearly and seen under so many aspects—all natural and delightful and affectionate and ever to be cherished—was, how pathetic and touching you know best!
Its news wasn't surprising to us; we had anticipated it in many discussions and thought about it in various situations. But that didn't make the shock any less intense. All the wonderful days we spent together rushed back; all the joyful memories came flooding in. Remembering what we had cherished so deeply and seen in so many ways—so natural, delightful, loving, and always to be treasured—was truly heart-wrenching and touching, as you know.
But my dear, dear Macready, this is not the first time you have felt that the recollection of great love and happiness associated with the dead soothes while it wounds. And while I can imagine that the blank beside you may grow wider every day for many days to come, I know—I think—that from its depths such comfort will arise as only comes to great hearts like yours, when they can think upon their trials with a steady trust in God.
But my dear Macready, this isn't the first time you've realized that remembering great love and happiness tied to those we've lost can be both comforting and painful. I know that the emptiness next to you might grow wider each day for a long time, but I believe that from that deep well of sorrow, a comfort will emerge that only great hearts like yours can find, especially when they reflect on their challenges with a steadfast faith in God.
My dear friend, I have known her so well, have been so happy in her regard, have been so light-hearted with her, have interchanged so many tender remembrances of you with her when you were far away, and have seen her ever so simply and truly anxious to be worthy of you, that I cannot write as I would and as I know I ought. As I would press your hand in your distress, I let this note go from me. I understand your grief, I deeply feel the reason that there is for it, yet in that very feeling find a softening consolation that must spring up a hundred-thousandfold for you. May Heaven prosper it in your breast, and the spirits that have gone before, from the regions of mercy to which they have been called, smooth the path you have to tread alone! Children are left you. Your good sister (God bless her!) is by your side. You have devoted friends, and more reasons than most men to be self-reliant and stedfast.[285] Something is gone that never in this world can be replaced, but much is left, and it is a part of her life, her death, her immortality.
My dear friend, I know her so well, and I've been so happy to have her in my life. We've shared so many sweet memories of you while you were away, and I've seen her genuinely and simply wanting to be worthy of you. Because of this, I can't write the way I want to or know I should. Just as I would hold your hand in your time of sadness, I'm sending you this note. I understand your pain, and I truly feel the reasons behind it; yet in that feeling, there's a comforting solace that must be multiplied a hundred thousand times for you. May Heaven support you in your heart, and may the spirits of those who have passed, called to the realms of mercy, help ease your path as you walk it alone! You have children to care for. Your wonderful sister (God bless her!) is by your side. You have devoted friends and more reasons than most to be strong and steadfast.[285] Something has been lost that can never be replaced, but much remains, and it is part of her life, her death, her immortality.
Catherine and Georgina, who are with me here, send you their overflowing love and sympathy. We hope that in a little while, and for a little while at least, you will come among us, who have known the happiness of being in this bond with you, and will not exclude us from participation in your past and future.
Catherine and Georgina, who are here with me, send you their heartfelt love and support. We hope that soon, even if just for a bit, you’ll join us, those who have shared the joy of this connection with you, and won’t shut us out from being part of your past and future.
Yours in all love and truth.
Hotel Des Bains, Boulogne, Tuesday, Oct. 12th, 1852.
I have thought of the Christmas number, but not very successfully, because I have been (and still am) constantly occupied with "Bleak House." I purpose returning home either on Sunday or Monday, as my work permits, and we will, immediately thereafter, dine at the office and talk it over, so that you may get all the men to their work.
I’ve been thinking about the Christmas issue, but not very effectively, because I’ve been (and still am) busy with "Bleak House." I plan to head home either on Sunday or Monday, depending on my work schedule, and after that, we’ll have dinner at the office and discuss it so you can get everyone back to work.
The fault of ——'s poem, besides its intrinsic meanness as a composition, is that it goes too glibly with the comfortable ideas (of which we have had a great deal too much in England since the Continental commotions) that a man is to sit down and make himself domestic and meek, no matter what is done to him. It wants a stronger appeal to rulers in general to let men do this, fairly, by governing them well. As it stands, it is at about the tract-mark ("Dairyman's Daughter," etc.) of political morality, and don't think that it is necessary to write down to any part of our audience. I always hold that to be as great a mistake as can be made.
The problem with ——'s poem, aside from its fundamental lack of substance as a piece of writing, is that it flows too easily with the comforting ideas (which we've seen far too much of in England since the upheavals in Europe) that a man should simply sit back and become domestic and submissive, regardless of what happens to him. It lacks a stronger message to those in power to allow people to do this, fairly, by governing them properly. As it is, it sits at about the level of tracts like "Dairyman's Daughter," and I don’t believe it's necessary to write down to any segment of our audience. I always think that's one of the biggest mistakes you can make.
I wish you would mention to Thomas, that I think the[286] paper on hops extremely well done. He has quite caught the idea we want, and caught it in the best way. In pursuing the bridge subject, I think it would be advisable to look up the Thames police. I have a misty notion of some capital papers coming out of it. Will you see to this branch of the tree among the other branches?
I wish you would tell Thomas that I think the[286] paper on hops is extremely well done. He really got the idea we want and expressed it perfectly. For the bridge topic, I think it would be a good idea to check into the Thames police. I have a vague recollection of some great papers coming from that. Can you look into this part of the project along with the other topics?
To Chapman I will write. My impression is that I shall not subscribe to the Hood monument, as I am not at all favourable to such posthumous honours.
To Chapman, I will write. I don’t think I’ll contribute to the Hood monument since I’m not really in favor of such honors after someone has passed away.
Hotel des Bains, Boulogne,
Wednesday Night, Oct. 13th, 1852.
The number coming in after dinner, since my letter was written and posted, I have gone over it.
The number that came in after dinner, since I wrote and sent my letter, I've reviewed it.
I am grievously depressed by it; it is so exceedingly bad. If you have anything else to put first, don't put ——'s paper first. (There is nothing better for a beginning in the number as it stands, but this is very bad.) It is a mistake to think of it as a first article. The article itself is in the main a mistake. Firstly, the subject requires the greatest discretion and nicety of touch. And secondly, it is all wrong and self-contradictory. Nobody can for a moment suppose that "sporting" amusements are the sports of the people; the whole gist of the best part of the description is to show that they are the amusements of a peculiar and limited class. The greater part of them are at a miserable discount (horse-racing excepted, which has been already sufficiently done in H. W.), and there is no reason for running amuck at them at all. I have endeavoured to remove much of my objection[287] (and I think have done so), but, both in purpose and in any general address, it is as wide of a first article as anything can well be. It would do best in the opening of the number.
I am really upset about it; it’s so bad. If you have anything else to prioritize, don’t put ——'s paper first. (There’s nothing better for a beginning in the issue as it is, but this is really poor.) It’s a mistake to consider it a first article. The article itself is fundamentally flawed. First, the topic requires great care and sensitivity. Secondly, it is completely wrong and self-contradictory. No one can seriously think that "sporting" activities are the sports of the people; the main point of the best part of the description is to show that they’re the pastimes of a specific and limited group. Most of them are quite undervalued (except for horse racing, which has already been sufficiently covered in H. W.), and there’s no reason to attack them at all. I have tried to address many of my objections[287] (and I think I have), but in terms of purpose and overall appeal, it’s as far from being a first article as anything could be. It would work better at the start of the issue.
About Sunday in Paris there is no kind of doubt. Take it out. Such a thing as that crucifixion, unless it were done in a masterly manner, we have no business to stagger families with. Besides, the name is a comprehensive one, and should include a quantity of fine matter. Lord bless me, what I could write under that head!
About Sunday in Paris, there’s no doubt at all. Forget it. A thing like that crucifixion, unless it’s done really well, we shouldn’t burden families with. Also, the name covers a lot, and should include plenty of great content. Goodness, what I could write under that title!
Strengthen the number, pray, by anything good you may have. It is a very dreary business as it stands.
Strengthen the numbers, pray, with anything good you have. It's a really dull situation as it is.
The proofs want a thorough revision.
The proofs need a thorough review.
In haste, going to bed.
In a hurry, going to bed.
P.S.—I want a name for Miss Martineau's paper.
P.S.—I need a name for Miss Martineau's paper.
Dublin Courage.
Pride and Prejudice.
Take which you like best.
Take what you like best.
Monday, October 18th, 1852.
On my return to town I find the letter awaiting me which you did me the favour to address to me, I believe—for it has no date—some days ago.
On my return to town, I find the letter you kindly sent me, I believe—since it has no date—some days ago.
I have the greatest tenderness for the memory of Hood, as I had for himself. But I am not very favourable to posthumous memorials in the monument way, and I should exceedingly regret to see any such appeal as you contemplate made public, remembering another public appeal that was made and responded to after Hood's death. I think that I best discharge my duty to my deceased friend, and best consult the respect and love with which I remember him, by declining to join in any such public endeavours as[288] that which you (in all generosity and singleness of purpose, I am sure) advance. I shall have a melancholy gratification in privately assisting to place a simple and plain record over the remains of a great writer that should be as modest as he was himself, but I regard any other monument in connection with his mortal resting-place as a mistake.
I have the deepest affection for the memory of Hood, just as I did for him when he was alive. However, I'm not really in favor of posthumous memorials in the form of monuments, and I would genuinely regret seeing any such tribute that you're considering made public, especially thinking of another public appeal that was made and responded to after Hood's death. I believe that the best way to honor my late friend, and to show the respect and love I have for him, is by opting out of any public efforts like [288] the one you (in all your generosity and good intentions, I’m sure) propose. I will find a bittersweet pleasure in quietly helping to place a simple and plain marker over the remains of a great writer that should be as humble as he was, but I see any other monument at his final resting place as a mistake.
Office of "Everyday Words"," Tuesday, Oct. 19th, 1852.
We are now getting our Christmas extra number together, and I think you are the boy to do, if you will, one of the stories.
We are now putting together our extra Christmas issue, and I think you're the perfect person to write one of the stories, if you're interested.
I propose to give the number some fireside name, and to make it consist entirely of short stories supposed to be told by a family sitting round the fire. I don't care about their referring to Christmas at all; nor do I design to connect them together, otherwise than by their names, as:
I suggest giving the number a cozy name and filling it with short stories imagined to be told by a family gathered around the fire. I don't mind if they don't mention Christmas at all; nor do I plan to link them together in any way other than through their titles, such as:
| The Grandfather's Tale. |
| The Dad's Story. |
| The Daughter's Story. |
| The Schoolboy's Tale. |
| The Kid's Story. |
| The Guest's Story. |
| The Old Nurse's Tale. |
The grandfather might very well be old enough to have lived in the days of the highwaymen. Do you feel disposed, from fact, fancy, or both, to do a good winter-hearth story of a highwayman? If you do, I embrace you (per post), and throw up a cap I have purchased for the purpose into mid-air.
The grandfather might very well be old enough to have lived during the time of highway robbers. Are you interested, whether from fact, imagination, or both, in sharing a good winter’s evening story about a highwayman? If you are, I send you a hug (through the mail), and I’ll throw a cap I bought for this purpose into the air.
Think of it and write me a line in reply. We are all well and blooming.[289]
Consider it and send me a response. We're all doing well and thriving.[289]
Are you never coming to town any more? Never going to drink port again, metropolitaneously, but always with Fielden?
Are you never coming to town again? Never going to drink port in the city anymore, but always with Fielden?
Love to Mrs. White and the children, if Lotty be not out of the list long ago.
Love to Mrs. White and the kids, if Lotty isn't already off the list.
Athenaeum, Monday, November 22nd, 1852.
Having just now finished my work for the time being, I turn in here in the course of a rainy walk, to have the gratification of writing a few lines to you. If my occupations with this same right hand were less numerous, you would soon be tired of me, I should write to you so often.
Having just finished my work for now, I’m stopping here during a rainy walk to enjoy writing a few lines to you. If I had fewer things to do with this same right hand, you’d quickly get tired of me because I would write to you all the time.
You asked Catherine a question about "Bleak House." Its circulation is half as large again as "Copperfield"! I have just now come to the point I have been patiently working up to in the writing, and I hope it will suggest to you a pretty and affecting thing. In the matter of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," I partly though not entirely agree with Mr. James. No doubt a much lower art will serve for the handling of such a subject in fiction, than for a launch on the sea of imagination without such a powerful bark; but there are many points in the book very admirably done. There is a certain St. Clair, a New Orleans gentleman, who seems to me to be conceived with great power and originality. If he had not "a Grecian outline of face," which I began to be a little tired of in my earliest infancy, I should think him unexceptionable. He has a sister too, a maiden lady from New England, in whose person the besetting weaknesses and prejudices of the Abolitionists themselves, on the subject of the blacks, are set forth in the liveliest and truest colours and with the greatest boldness.
You asked Catherine a question about "Bleak House." Its circulation is one and a half times bigger than "Copperfield"! I've finally reached the point I've been slowly working toward in the writing, and I hope it will inspire you with something beautiful and moving. When it comes to "Uncle Tom's Cabin," I agree with Mr. James to some extent, but not entirely. There's no doubt a much simpler style works for addressing such a subject in fiction compared to diving into the sea of imagination without a strong vessel; however, many aspects of the book are very well done. There's a character named St. Clair, a gentleman from New Orleans, who I think is created with great strength and originality. If he didn’t have "a Grecian outline of face," which I started to get a bit tired of in my early childhood, I'd find him perfect. He also has a sister, a single woman from New England, who embodies the weaknesses and biases of the Abolitionists regarding the black community in a vivid, truthful, and bold way.
I have written for "Household Words" of this next[290] publication-day an article on the State funeral,[14] showing why I consider it altogether a mistake, to be temperately but firmly objected to; which I daresay will make a good many of the admirers of such things highly indignant. It may have right and reason on its side, however, none the less.
I’ve written an article for "Household Words" for the next[290] publication day about the State funeral,[14] explaining why I think it’s completely a mistake, something that should be addressed calmly but firmly; I’m sure this will upset many who support such events. Still, it might have its reasons and justifications.
Charley and I had a great talk at Dover about his going into the army, when I thought it right to set before him fairly and faithfully the objections to that career, no less than its advantages. The result was that he asked in a very manly way for time to consider. So I appointed to go down to Eton on a certain day at the beginning of this month, and resume the subject. We resumed it accordingly at the White Hart, at Windsor, and he came to the conclusion that he would rather be a merchant, and try to establish some good house of business, where he might find a path perhaps for his younger brothers, and stay at home, and make himself the head of that long, small procession. I was very much pleased with him indeed; he showed a fine sense and a fine feeling in the whole matter. We have arranged, therefore, that he shall leave Eton at Christmas, and go to Germany after the holidays, to become well acquainted with that language, now most essential in such a walk of life as he will probably tread.
Charley and I had a great conversation in Dover about him joining the army. I thought it was important to lay out both the pros and cons of that path honestly. In the end, he maturely asked for some time to think it over. So, I planned to go down to Eton on a specific day at the start of this month to continue the discussion. We picked it up again at the White Hart in Windsor, and he decided that he would prefer to be a merchant and try to establish a reputable business, where he could potentially pave the way for his younger brothers, stay at home, and become the leader of that small family group. I was really impressed with him; he displayed real insight and sensitivity about the whole issue. We've agreed that he will finish up at Eton by Christmas and then go to Germany after the holidays to become fluent in the language, which is essential for the career path he’s likely to pursue.
And I think this is the whole of my news. We are always talking of you at home. Mary Boyle dined with us a little while ago. You look out, I imagine, on a waste of water. When I came from Windsor, I thought I must have made a mistake and got into a boat (in the dark) instead of a railway-carriage. Catherine and Georgina send their kindest loves. I am ever, with the best and truest wishes of my heart, my dear Mrs. Watson,
And I think that’s all my news. We’re always talking about you at home. Mary Boyle had dinner with us not too long ago. I imagine you’re looking out over a stretch of water. When I left Windsor, I thought I must have made a mistake and ended up in a boat (in the dark) instead of a train. Catherine and Georgina send their love. I’m always, with the best and truest wishes from my heart, my dear Mrs. Watson,
Household Words Office," Monday, Nov. 22nd, 1852.
First and foremost, there is no doubt whatever of your story suiting "Household Words." It is a very good story indeed, and would be serviceable at any time. I am not quite so clear of its suiting the Christmas number, for this reason. You know what the spirit of the Christmas number is. When I suggested the stories being about a highwayman, I got hold of that idea as being an adventurous one, including various kinds of wrong, expressing a state of society no longer existing among us, and pleasant to hear (therefore) from an old man. Now, your highwayman not being a real highwayman after all, the kind of suitable Christmas interest I meant to awaken in the story is not in it. Do you understand? For an ordinary number it is quite unobjectionable. If you should think of any other idea, narratable by an old man, which you think would strike the chord of the season; and if you should find time to work it out during the short remainder of this month, I should be greatly pleased to have it. In any case, this story goes straightway into type.
First of all, there’s no doubt your story is perfect for "Household Words." It’s a really great story and would be useful anytime. I'm not so sure it fits the Christmas edition, though, for this reason. You know what the spirit of the Christmas edition is. When I suggested stories about a highwayman, I thought of that as an adventurous idea, involving various kinds of wrongdoing, showing a society that no longer exists, and nice to hear from an old man. However, since your highwayman isn’t a real one after all, the kind of Christmas interest I wanted to spark in the story isn’t there. Do you see what I mean? For a regular edition, it’s completely fine. If you think of any other idea, something an old man could narrate that would resonate with the season, and if you can find the time to develop it in the short time left this month, I would love to have it. In any case, this story is going straight to typesetting.
What tremendous weather it is! Our best loves to all at home. (I have just bought thirty bottles of the most stunning port on earth, which Ellis of the Star and Garter, Richmond, wrote to me of.)
What amazing weather it is! Sending our love to everyone at home. (I just bought thirty bottles of the best port in the world, which Ellis from the Star and Garter in Richmond told me about.)
I think you will find some good going in the next "Bleak House." I write shortly, having been working my head off.
I think you’ll find some good stuff in the next "Bleak House." I’m writing this quickly because I’ve been working really hard.
Household Words Office," Wednesday, Dec. 1st, 1852.
I send you the proof of "The Old Nurse's Story," with my proposed alteration. I shall be glad to know whether you approve of it. To assist you in your decision, I send you, also enclosed, the original ending. And I have made a line with ink across the last slip but one, where the alteration begins. Of course if you wish to enlarge, explain, or re-alter, you will do it. Do not keep the proof longer than you can help, as I want to get to press with all despatch.
I’m sending you the proof of "The Old Nurse's Story," along with my suggested changes. I’d love to know if you approve. I’ve also included the original ending to help you decide. I've marked the spot where the changes start with a line of ink on the second-to-last page. If you want to make any further changes, feel free to do so. Please don’t hold on to the proof any longer than necessary, as I’d like to get it to press as soon as possible.
I hope I address this letter correctly. I am far from sure. In haste.
I hope I'm sending this letter to the right address. I'm not completely sure. Gotta rush.
Tavistock House, Thursday, December 9th, 1852.
I am driven mad by dogs, who have taken it into their accursed heads to assemble every morning in the piece of ground opposite, and who have barked this morning for five hours without intermission; positively rendering it impossible for me to work, and so making what is really ridiculous quite serious to me. I wish, between this and dinner, you would send John to see if he can hire a gun, with a few caps, some powder, and a few charges of small shot. If you duly commission him with a card, he can easily do it. And if I get those implements up here to-night, I'll be the death of some of them to-morrow morning.
I'm going crazy because of the dogs, who have decided to gather every morning in the field across from me, and they’ve been barking for five hours straight this morning; it’s making it impossible for me to work and turning something that’s actually ridiculous into something very serious for me. I wish you would send John before dinner to see if he can rent a gun, along with a few caps, some powder, and a few rounds of small shot. If you give him a note, he should be able to manage it easily. And if I can get those supplies up here tonight, I’ll make sure to take care of some of them tomorrow morning.
Tavistock House, Thursday Evening, Dec. 9th, 1852.
I hear you are not going to poor Macready's. Now, don't you think it would do you good to come here instead?[293] I say it would, and I ought to know! We can give you everything but a bed (all ours are occupied in consequence of the boys being at home), and shall all be delighted to see you. Leave the bed to us, and we'll find one hard by. I say nothing of the last day of the old year, and the dancing out of that good old worthy that will take place here (for you might like to hear the bells at home); but after the twentieth, I shall be comparatively at leisure, and good for anything or nothing. Don't you consider it your duty to your family to come? I do, and I again say that I ought to know.
I hear you're not going to see poor Macready. Don't you think it would be good for you to come here instead? [293] I think it would, and I should know! We can offer you everything except a bed (all of ours are filled since the boys are home), and we’d all be thrilled to see you. Leave the bed to us, and we'll find one nearby. I won't mention the last day of the old year and the celebration for that good old guy happening here (you might want to hear the bells at home); but after the twentieth, I'll be pretty free and available for anything or nothing. Don’t you think it’s your duty to your family to come? I do, and I’ll say it again—I should know.
Our best love to Mrs. White and Lotty—happily so much better, we rejoice to hear—and all.
Our best wishes to Mrs. White and Lotty—so glad to hear they’re doing much better—and everyone else.
The Unique B.
Tavistock House, Friday, Dec. 17th, 1852.
I received your kind note yesterday morning with the truest gratification, for I am the writer of "The Child's Story" as well as of "The Poor Relation's." I assure you, you have given me the liveliest and heartiest pleasure by what you say of it.
I got your nice note yesterday morning and it truly made me happy because I am the author of "The Child's Story" and "The Poor Relation's." I want you to know that your words brought me the greatest joy.
I don't claim for my ending of "The Nurse's Story" that it would have made it a bit better. All I can urge in its behalf is, that it is what I should have done myself. But there is no doubt of the story being admirable as it stands, and there is some doubt (I think) whether Forster would have found anything wrong in it, if he had not known of my hammering over the proofs in making up the number, with all the three endings before me.
I don't say that my ending of "The Nurse's Story" would have improved it at all. All I can argue for it is that it’s what I would have chosen myself. But there’s no doubt that the story is great as it is, and I think there’s some question about whether Forster would have found anything wrong with it if he hadn't known that I was working through the proofs while deciding on the issue, with all three endings in front of me.
Ever faithfully yours.
Tavistock House, Monday, Dec. 20th, 1852.
If I did not know that you are likely to have a forbearing remembrance of my occupation, I should be full of remorse for not having sooner thanked you for "Basil."
If I didn't think you would probably remember my job kindly, I would feel really sorry for not thanking you for "Basil" sooner.
Not to play the sage or the critic (neither of which parts, I hope, is at all in my line), but to say what is the friendly truth, I may assure you that I have read the book with very great interest, and with a very thorough conviction that you have a call to this same art of fiction. I think the probabilities here and there require a little more respect than you are disposed to show them, and I have no doubt that the prefatory letter would have been better away, on the ground that a book (of all things) should speak for and explain itself. But the story contains admirable writing, and many clear evidences of a very delicate discrimination of character. It is delightful to find throughout that you have taken great pains with it besides, and have "gone at it" with a perfect knowledge of the jolter-headedness of the conceited idiots who suppose that volumes are to be tossed off like pancakes, and that any writing can be done without the utmost application, the greatest patience, and the steadiest energy of which the writer is capable.
Not to come off as a wise guy or a critic (neither of which roles, I hope, fit me at all), but to share the honest truth, I can assure you that I read the book with a lot of interest and a strong belief that you have a talent for this kind of fiction. I think some parts could use a bit more respect than you seem willing to give them, and I believe the introductory letter would be better left out, since a book should be able to speak for itself and explain its own meaning. However, the story features excellent writing and shows clear evidence of a very fine understanding of character. It's wonderful to see that you've put in a lot of effort and approached it with a full awareness of the foolish people who think that writing a book is as easy as flipping pancakes, and that any writing can be done without the utmost dedication, patience, and energy that a writer can muster.
For all these reasons, I have made "Basil's" acquaintance with great gratification, and entertain a high respect for him. And I hope that I shall become intimate with many worthy descendants of his, who are yet in the limbo of creatures waiting to be born.
For all these reasons, I have come to know "Basil" with great pleasure and hold him in high regard. I also hope to become close with many of his worthy descendants, who are still in the limbo of beings waiting to be born.
P.S.—I am open to any proposal to go anywhere any day or days this week. Fresh air and change in any amount I am ready for. If I could only find an idle man (this is a general observation), he would find the warmest recognition in this direction.[295]
P.S.—I’m open to any suggestion to go somewhere any day or days this week. I’m ready for some fresh air and a change, no matter how small. If I could just find someone who has some free time (just a general thought), they would definitely get the warmest welcome in this regard.[295]
Tavistock House, Monday Evening, Dec. 20th, 1852.
Every appearance of brightness! Shall I expect you to-morrow morning? If so, at what hour?
Every sign of hope! Should I look for you tomorrow morning? If so, what time?
I think of taking train afterwards, and going down for a walk on Chatham lines. If you can spare the day for fresh air and an impromptu bit of fish and chop, I can recommend you one of the most delightful of men for a companion. O, he is indeed refreshing!!!
I’m thinking about taking a train later and going for a walk along the Chatham lines. If you can take the day for some fresh air and a spontaneous bite to eat, I can recommend one of the most wonderful guys to join us. Oh, he is really refreshing!!!
Household Words Office," Christmas Eve, 1852.
I have gone carefully through the number—an awful one for the amount of correction required—and have made everything right. If my mind could have been materialised, and drawn along the tops of all the spikes on the outside of the Queen's Bench prison, it could not have been more agonised than by the ——, which, for imbecility, carelessness, slovenly composition, relatives without antecedents, universal chaos, and one absorbing whirlpool of jolter-headedness, beats anything in print and paper I have ever "gone at" in my life.
I’ve gone through the numbers carefully—it's an awful amount of corrections needed—and I've fixed everything. If my thoughts could have been made physical and traced along the tops of all the spikes outside the Queen's Bench prison, they couldn’t have been more tormented than by the ——, which, due to stupidity, negligence, messy writing, relatives with no background, complete disorder, and one overwhelming whirlpool of confusion, surpasses anything in print and on paper I’ve ever tackled in my life.
I shall come and see how you are to-morrow. Meantime everything is in perfect trim in these parts, and I have sent down to Stacey to come here and top up with a final interview before I go.
I’ll come and check on you tomorrow. In the meantime, everything is perfectly ready here, and I’ve asked Stacey to come over for a final meeting before I leave.
Just after I had sent the messenger off to you, yesterday, concerning the toll-taker memoranda, the other idea came into my head, and in the most obliging manner came out of it.
Just after I sent the messenger to you yesterday about the toll-taker notes, another idea popped into my head, and it came out in the nicest way.
P.S.—Here is —— perpetually flitting about Brydges[296] Street, and hovering in the neighbourhood, with a veil of secrecy drawn down over his chin, so ludicrously transparent, that I can't help laughing while he looks at me.
P.S.—Here is —— constantly moving around Brydges[296] Street, and hanging out in the area, with a veil of secrecy pulled down over his chin, so ridiculously transparent that I can't help but laugh while he stares at me.
Tavistock House, Sunday, Dec. 26th, 1852.
I will not attempt to tell you how affected and gratified I am by the intelligence your kind letter conveys to me. Nothing would be more welcome to me than such a mark of confidence and approval from such a source, nothing more precious, or that I could set a higher worth upon.
I won't try to explain just how touched and grateful I am by the news your thoughtful letter brings me. There’s nothing I would appreciate more than this sign of trust and support from someone like you, nothing more valuable, or that I could value more highly.
I hasten to return the gauges, of which I have marked one as the size of the finger, from which this token will never more be absent as long as I live.
I quickly return the gauges, one of which I've marked as finger-sized, and this token will never leave my side for as long as I live.
With feelings of the liveliest gratitude and cordiality towards the many friends who so honour me, and with many thanks to you for the genial earnestness with which you represent them,
With the warmest gratitude and friendliness towards the many friends who honor me, and with many thanks to you for the genuine enthusiasm with which you represent them,
P.S.—Will you do me the favour to inform the dinner committee that a friend of mine, Mr. Clement, of Shrewsbury, is very anxious to purchase a ticket for the dinner, and that if they will be so good as to forward one for him to me I shall feel much obliged.
P.S.—Could you please let the dinner committee know that a friend of mine, Mr. Clement, from Shrewsbury, is really eager to buy a ticket for the dinner? If they could be kind enough to send one to me for him, I would really appreciate it.
1853.
NARRATIVE.
During the summer, besides his other work, he was employed in dictating "The Child's History of England," which he published in "Household Words," and which was the only book he ever wrote by dictation. But, as at Broadstairs and other seaside homes, he had always plenty of relaxation and enjoyment in the visits of his friends. In September he finished "Bleak House," and in October he started with Mr. Wilkie Collins and Mr. Egg from Boulogne, on an excursion through parts of Switzerland and Italy; his wife and family going home at the same time, and he himself returning to Tavistock House early in December. His eldest son, Charles, had left Eton some time before this, and had gone for the completion of his education to Leipsic. He was to leave Germany at the end of the year, therefore it was arranged that he should meet the travellers in Paris on their homeward journey, and they all returned together.
During the summer, in addition to his other work, he was busy dictating "The Child's History of England," which he published in "Household Words," and it was the only book he ever wrote by dictation. However, just like at Broadstairs and other beach houses, he always had plenty of relaxation and fun from visits with friends. In September, he finished "Bleak House," and in October, he set off with Mr. Wilkie Collins and Mr. Egg from Boulogne on a trip through parts of Switzerland and Italy; his wife and family went home at the same time, and he returned to Tavistock House early in December. His eldest son, Charles, had left Eton some time before this and had gone to Leipsic to finish his education. He was scheduled to leave Germany at the end of the year, so it was planned for him to meet the travelers in Paris on their way home, and they all returned together.
Just before Christmas he went to Birmingham in fulfilment of an offer which he had made at the dinner given to him at Birmingham on the 6th of January (of which he writes to Mr. Macready in the first letter that follows here),[298] to give two readings from his own books for the benefit of the New Midland Institute. They were his first public readings. He read "The Christmas Carol" on one evening, and "The Cricket on the Hearth" on the next, before enormous audiences. The success was so great, and the sum of money realised for the institute so large, that he consented to give a second reading of "The Christmas Carol," remaining another night in Birmingham for the purpose, on the condition that seats were reserved, at prices within their means, for the working men. And to his great satisfaction they formed a large proportion, and were among the most enthusiastic and appreciative of his audience. He was accompanied by his wife and sister-in-law, and on this occasion a breakfast was given to him after his last reading, at which a silver flower-basket, duly inscribed, was very gracefully presented to Mrs. Charles Dickens.
Just before Christmas, he traveled to Birmingham to fulfill an offer he made during the dinner held in his honor on January 6th (which he mentions in his first letter to Mr. Macready that follows here),[298] to give two readings from his own books for the benefit of the New Midland Institute. These were his first public readings. He read "The Christmas Carol" one evening and "The Cricket on the Hearth" the next, in front of huge audiences. The response was so overwhelming, and the amount raised for the institute so significant, that he agreed to do a second reading of "The Christmas Carol," staying an extra night in Birmingham for that purpose, as long as seats were reserved at affordable prices for the working-class attendees. To his great satisfaction, they made up a large portion of the crowd and were among the most enthusiastic and appreciative listeners. He was joined by his wife and sister-in-law, and on this occasion, a breakfast was held for him after his last reading, during which a beautifully inscribed silver flower basket was presented to Mrs. Charles Dickens.
The letters in this year require little explanation. Those to his wife and sister-in-law and Mr. Wills give a little history of his Italian journey. At Naples he found his excellent friend Sir James Emerson Tennent, with his wife and daughter, with whom he joined company in the ascent of Vesuvius.
The letters from this year need little explanation. The ones to his wife, sister-in-law, and Mr. Wills provide a brief history of his travels in Italy. In Naples, he met up with his good friend Sir James Emerson Tennent, along with his wife and daughter, and they all went together to climb Vesuvius.
The two letters to M. Regnier, the distinguished actor of the Théâtre Français—with whom Charles Dickens had formed a sincere friendship during his first residence in Paris—on the subject of a projected benefit to Miss Kelly, need no further explanation.
The two letters to M. Regnier, the famous actor of the Théâtre Français—who had developed a genuine friendship with Charles Dickens during his first stay in Paris—regarding a planned benefit for Miss Kelly, require no further explanation.
Mr. John Delane, editor of The Times, and always a highly-esteemed friend of Charles Dickens, had given him an introduction to a school at Boulogne, kept by two English gentlemen, one a clergyman and the other a former Eton master, the Rev. W. Bewsher and Mr. Gibson. He had at various times four boys at this school, and very frequently afterwards he expressed his gratitude to Mr. Delane for having given him the introduction, which turned out so satisfactory in every respect.
Mr. John Delane, editor of The Times, and a longtime respected friend of Charles Dickens, had introduced him to a school in Boulogne run by two English men: one a clergyman, the Rev. W. Bewsher, and the other a former Eton teacher, Mr. Gibson. Over time, he had four boys attend this school, and he often expressed his gratitude to Mr. Delane for the introduction, which proved to be very satisfying in every way.
The letter of grateful acknowledgment from Mr. Poole[299] and Charles Dickens to Lord Russell was for the pension for which the old dramatic author was indebted to that nobleman, and which enabled him to live comfortably until the end of his life.
The letter of gratitude from Mr. Poole[299] and Charles Dickens to Lord Russell was about the pension that the old playwright received from that nobleman, which allowed him to live comfortably until the end of his life.
A note to Mr. Marcus Stone was sent with a copy of "The Child's History of England." The sketch referred to was one of "Jo'," in "Bleak House," which showed great feeling and artistic promise, since fully fulfilled by the young painter, but very remarkable in a boy so young as he was at that time. The letter to Mr. Stanfield, in seafaring language, is a specimen of a playful way in which he frequently addressed that dear friend.
A note to Mr. Marcus Stone was sent with a copy of "The Child's History of England." The mentioned sketch was of "Jo" from "Bleak House," which demonstrated strong emotion and artistic potential, later fully realized by the young painter, but was quite impressive for someone so young at that time. The letter to Mr. Stanfield, written in nautical language, showcases the playful way he often communicated with that dear friend.
"A curiosity from him. No date. No signature."—W. H. H.
I have not a shadow of a doubt about Miss Martineau's story. It is certain to tell. I think it very effectively, admirably done; a fine plain purpose in it; quite a singular novelty. For the last story in the Christmas number it will be great. I couldn't wish for a better.
I have no doubt about Miss Martineau's story. It's definitely worth telling. I think it's very well done, with a clear purpose; it's quite unique. For the last story in the Christmas issue, it will be excellent. I couldn't ask for anything better.
Mrs. Gaskell's ghost story I have got this morning; have not yet read. It is long.
Mrs. Gaskell's ghost story arrived this morning; I haven't read it yet. It's long.
H.M.S. Tavistock, January 2nd, 1853.
Yoho, old salt! Neptun' ahoy! You don't forget, messmet, as you was to meet Dick Sparkler and Mark Porpuss on the fok'sle of the good ship Owssel Words, Wednesday next, half-past four? Not you; for when did Stanfell ever pass his word to go anywheers and not come! Well. Belay, my heart of oak, belay! Come alongside the Tavistock same day and hour, 'stead of Owssel Words. Hail your shipmets, and they'll drop over the side and join[300] you, like two new shillings a-droppin' into the purser's pocket. Damn all lubberly boys and swabs, and give me the lad with the tarry trousers, which shines to me like di'mings bright!
Hey there, old sailor! Neptune's calling! You haven't forgotten, have you, that you were supposed to meet Dick Sparkler and Mark Porpuss on the forecastle of the good ship Owssel Words next Wednesday at half-past four? I know you haven't; when has Stanfell ever made plans and not shown up? Well, hold on, my sturdy friend, hold on! Come over to the Tavistock at the same day and time instead of Owssel Words. Give a shout to your mates, and they'll hop over the side and join you, just like two shiny new coins dropping into the purser's pocket. Forget all those clumsy boys and losers, and give me the guy with the tarry trousers, shining bright like diamonds!
Tavistock House, Friday Night, Jan. 14th, 1853.
I have been much affected by the receipt of your kindest and best of letters; for I know out of the midst of what anxieties it comes to me, and I appreciate such remembrance from my heart. You and yours are always with us, however. It is no new thing for you to have a part in any scene of my life. It very rarely happens that a day passes without our thoughts and conversation travelling to Sherborne. We are so much there that I cannot tell you how plainly I see you as I write.
I’ve been really touched by your kindest and best letter; I know what worries you’re dealing with, and I truly appreciate your remembering me. You and your family are always in our thoughts. It’s not a new thing for you to be part of my life. It hardly ever happens that a day goes by without us thinking and talking about Sherborne. We’re so connected to it that I can clearly picture you as I write this.
I know you would have been full of sympathy and approval if you had been present at Birmingham, and that you would have concurred in the tone I tried to take about the eternal duties of the arts to the people. I took the liberty of putting the court and that kind of thing out of the question, and recognising nothing but the arts and the people. The more we see of life and its brevity, and the world and its varieties, the more we know that no exercise of our abilities in any art, but the addressing of it to the great ocean of humanity in which we are drops, and not to bye-ponds (very stagnant) here and there, ever can or ever will lay the foundations of an endurable retrospect. Is it not so? You should have as much practical information on this subject, now, my dear friend, as any man.
I know you would have been sympathetic and supportive if you had been at Birmingham, and that you would have agreed with the perspective I tried to express about the ongoing responsibilities of the arts to the people. I took the liberty of setting aside the court and similar matters, focusing only on the arts and the people. The more we experience life and its fleeting nature, and the world with all its differences, the more we realize that no use of our talents in any art can truly lay the foundation for a lasting legacy unless it speaks to the vast sea of humanity in which we are merely drops, instead of just stagnant pools here and there. Isn't that right? You should have as much practical knowledge on this topic now, my dear friend, as anyone else.
My dearest Macready, I cannot forbear this closing word. I still look forward to our meeting as we used to do in the[301] happy times we have known together, so far as your old hopefulness and energy are concerned. And I think I never in my life have been more glad to receive a sign, than I have been to hail that which I find in your handwriting.
My dearest Macready, I can’t help but add this final note. I’m still looking forward to our meeting like we used to during the[301] good times we've shared, especially considering your old optimism and energy. I don't think I've ever been happier to receive a sign than I am to see something written in your handwriting.
Some of your old friends at Birmingham are full of interest and enquiry. Kate and Georgina send their dearest loves to you, and to Miss Macready, and to all the children. I am ever, and no matter where I am—and quite as much in a crowd as alone—my dearest Macready,
Some of your old friends in Birmingham are really interested and curious about you. Kate and Georgina send their love to you, Miss Macready, and all the kids. I am always thinking of you, no matter where I am—even in a crowd or when I'm by myself—my dearest Macready,
Tavistock House, May 3rd, 1853.
The subject is certainly not too serious, so sensibly treated. I have no doubt that you may do a great deal of good by pursuing it in "Household Words." I thoroughly agree in all you say in your note, have similar reasons for giving it some anxious consideration, and shall be greatly interested in it. Pray decide to do it. Send the papers, as you write them, to me. Meanwhile I will think of a name for them, and bring it to bear upon yours, if I think yours improvable. I am sure you may rely on being widely understood and sympathised with.
The topic isn’t too serious, so it’s best approached sensibly. I’m sure you can do a lot of good by exploring it in "Household Words." I completely agree with everything you mentioned in your note and have similar reasons to give it some careful thought, so I’ll be very interested in it. Please go ahead and decide to do it. Send me the papers as you write them. In the meantime, I’ll think of a title for them and see if it can enhance yours, if I think there’s room for improvement. I’m confident you can count on being understood and supported by many.
Forget that I called those two women my dear friends! Why, if I told you a fiftieth part of what I have thought about them, you would write me the most suspicious of notes, refusing to receive the fiftieth part of that. So I don't write, particularly as you laid your injunctions on me concerning Ruth. In revenge, I will now mention one word that I wish you would take out whenever you reprint that book. She would never—I am ready to make affidavit before any[302] authority in the land—have called her seducer "Sir," when they were living at that hotel in Wales. A girl pretending to be what she really was would have done it, but she—never!
Forget that I called those two women my dear friends! If I told you even a fraction of what I think about them, you would send me the most suspicious note, refusing to accept even that small amount. So I won't write, especially since you instructed me regarding Ruth. As a form of revenge, I want to mention one word that I wish you'd remove whenever you reprint that book. She would never—I would swear this before any[302] authority in the country—referred to her seducer as "Sir" when they were staying at that hotel in Wales. A girl pretending to be what she truly was might have done it, but she—never!
Tavistock House, Monday, May 9th, 1853.
I meant to have spoken to you last night about a matter in which I hope you can assist me, but I forgot it. I think I must have been quite bouleversé by your supposing (as you pretended to do, when you went away) that it was not a great pleasure and delight to me to see you act!
I meant to talk to you about something last night that I hope you can help me with, but I completely forgot. I think I must have been pretty shaken by your assumption (as you pretended to believe when you left) that it wasn’t a huge pleasure and joy for me to see you perform!
There is a certain Miss Kelly, now sixty-two years old, who was once one of the very best of English actresses, in the greater and better days of the English theatre. She has much need of a benefit, and I am exerting myself to arrange one for her, on about the 9th of June, if possible, at the St. James's Theatre. The first piece will be an entertainment of her own, and she will act in the last. Between these two (and at the best time of the night), it would be a great attraction to the public, and a great proof of friendship to me, if you would act. If we could manage, through your influence and with your assistance, to present a little French vaudeville, such as "Le bon Homme jadis," it would make the night a grand success.
There’s a lady named Miss Kelly, who is now sixty-two years old, and she used to be one of the best English actresses during the golden years of the English theater. She really needs a benefit performance, and I’m doing my best to organize one for her, probably on June 9th, at the St. James's Theatre. The first show will be an entertainment piece created by her, and she will perform in the last act. Between these two acts (and at the peak time of the night), it would be a big draw for the audience and a meaningful gesture of friendship to me if you could perform. If we could arrange, with your help and influence, to present a bit of French vaudeville, like "Le bon Homme jadis," it would ensure the night is a huge success.
Mitchell's permission, I suppose, would be required. That I will undertake to apply for, if you will tell me that you are willing to help us, and that you could answer for the other necessary actors in the little French piece, whatever the piece might be, that you would choose for the purpose. Pray write me a short note in answer, on this point.
Mitchell's permission, I guess, would be needed. I'll make sure to apply for it if you let me know that you're willing to help us and that you can vouch for the other key people in the little French play, whatever it may be, that you decide to select for this. Please write me a quick note in response about this.
I ought to tell you that the benefit will be "under distinguished patronage." The Duke of Devonshire, the Duke of Leinster, the Duke of Beaufort, etc. etc., are members of the committee with me, and I have no doubt that the audience will be of the élite.
I should let you know that the event will have "notable support." The Duke of Devonshire, the Duke of Leinster, the Duke of Beaufort, and others are on the committee with me, and I’m sure the audience will be from the elite.
I have asked Mr. Chapman to come to me to-morrow, to arrange for the hiring of the theatre. Mr. Harley (a favourite English comedian whom you may know) is our secretary. And if I could assure the committee to-morrow afternoon of your co-operation, I am sure they would be overjoyed.
I have asked Mr. Chapman to meet with me tomorrow to discuss hiring the theater. Mr. Harley (a popular English comedian you might know) is our secretary. If I could guarantee the committee tomorrow afternoon that you’ll be on board, I know they would be thrilled.
Tavistock House, May 20th, 1853.
I am heartily obliged to you for your kind letter respecting Miss Kelly's benefit. It is to take place on Thursday, the 16th June; Thursday the 9th (the day originally proposed) being the day of Ascot Races, and therefore a bad one for the purpose.
I really appreciate your thoughtful letter about Miss Kelly's benefit. It's scheduled for Thursday, June 16; Thursday the 9th (the day we initially suggested) coincides with the Ascot Races, making it a bad choice for the event.
Mitchell, like a brave garçon as he is, most willingly consents to your acting for us. Will you think what little French piece it will be best to do, in order that I may have it ready for the bills?
Mitchell, being the brave guy he is, gladly agrees to you acting for us. Will you think about which short French play it would be best to do so I can have it ready for the bills?
Boulogne-sur-Mer, Monday, June 13th, 1853.
You will be glad, I know, to hear that we had a delightful passage yesterday, and that I made a perfect phenomenon of a dinner. It is raining hard to-day, and my back feels the draught; but I am otherwise still mending.
You’ll be happy to know that we had a wonderful trip yesterday, and I prepared an amazing dinner. It’s raining heavily today, and I feel the chill in my back; but other than that, I’m still recovering.
I have signed, sealed, and delivered a contract for a house (once occupied for two years by a man I knew in[304] Switzerland), which is not a large one, but stands in the middle of a great garden, with what the landlord calls a "forest" at the back, and is now surrounded by flowers, vegetables, and all manner of growth. A queer, odd, French place, but extremely well supplied with all table and other conveniences, and strongly recommended.
I have signed, sealed, and delivered a contract for a house (previously lived in for two years by a guy I knew in [304] Switzerland). It's not a big house, but it sits in the middle of a huge garden, with what the landlord refers to as a "forest" at the back, and it's now surrounded by flowers, vegetables, and all sorts of plants. It's a quirky, unusual French place, but it comes well-stocked with all the dining and other amenities, and I highly recommend it.
The address is:
The address is:
Rue Beaurepaire, Boulogne.
There is a coach-house, stabling for half-a-dozen horses, and I don't know what.
There’s a carriage house, stables for six horses, and I’m not sure what else.
We take possession this afternoon, and I am now laying in a good stock of creature comforts. So no more at present from
We’re moving in this afternoon, and I’m currently stocking up on some nice things for comfort. So that’s all for now from
P.S.—Mrs. Dickens and her sister unite in kindest regards.
P.S.—Mrs. Dickens and her sister send their warmest regards.
Château des Moulineaux, Boulogne,
Saturday Night, June 18th, 1853.
Thank God, I have done half the number with great care, and hope to finish on Thursday or Friday next. O how thankful I feel to be able to have done it, and what a relief to get the number out!
Thank God, I’ve completed half the work with great care, and I hope to finish by Thursday or Friday next. Oh, how thankful I am to have done it, and what a relief it is to get it done!
I don't think (I am not sure) I shall come to London until after the completion of "Bleak House," No. 18—the number after this now in hand—for it strikes me that I am better here at present. I have picked up in the most extraordinary manner, and I believe you would[305] never suppose to look at me that I had had that week or barely an hour of it. If there should be any occasion for our meeting in the meantime, a run over here would do you no harm, and we should be delighted to see you at any time. If you suppose this place to be in a street, you are much mistaken. It is in the country, though not more than ten minutes' walk from the post-office, and is the best doll's-house of many rooms, in the prettiest French grounds, in the most charming situation I have ever seen; the best place I have ever lived in abroad, except at Genoa. You can scarcely imagine the beauty of the air in this richly-wooded hill-side. As to comforts in the house, there are all sorts of things, beginning with no end of the coldest water and running through the most beautiful flowers down to English foot-baths and a Parisian liqueur-stand. Your parcel (frantic enclosures and all) arrived quite safely last night. This will leave by steamer to-morrow, Sunday evening. There is a boat in the morning, but having no one to send to-night I can't reach it, and to-morrow being Sunday it will come to much the same thing.
I don't think (I'm not sure) I'll come to London until after I finish "Bleak House," No. 18—the number after the one I'm currently working on—because it feels like I'm better off here for now. I've picked up in the most unbelievable way, and I believe you wouldn't[305] guess by looking at me that I've had that week, or barely an hour of it. If there’s a reason for us to meet in the meantime, a quick trip over here would do you no harm, and we’d be thrilled to see you anytime. If you think this place is on a street, you’re mistaken. It's in the countryside, though only a ten-minute walk from the post office, and it’s the best dollhouse with many rooms, in the prettiest French grounds, in the most charming location I’ve ever seen; the best place I’ve lived abroad, except for Genoa. You can hardly imagine the beauty of the air in this lush, wooded hillside. As for comforts in the house, there’s everything you could want, starting with an abundance of cold water and going through beautiful flowers, all the way down to English footbaths and a Parisian liqueur stand. Your package (frantic enclosures and all) arrived safely last night. This will leave by steamer tomorrow, Sunday evening. There's a boat in the morning, but since I have no one to send tonight, I can't make it, and with tomorrow being Sunday, it comes to about the same thing.
I think that's all at present.
I think that’s it for now.
Château des Moulineaux, Beaurepaire Street, Boulogne,
Thursday, June 23rd, 1853.
I take the earliest opportunity, after finishing my number—ahem!—to write you a line, and to report myself (thank God) brown, well, robust, vigorous, open to fight any man in England of my weight, and growing a moustache. Any person of undoubted pluck, in want of a customer, may hear of me at the bar of Bleak House, where my money is down.[306]
I’m writing to you as soon as I can after finishing my performance—excuse me!—to let you know that I’m (thank God) tanned, healthy, strong, full of energy, ready to take on any man in England my size, and I’m growing a mustache. Anyone with real courage looking for a challenge can find me at the bar of Bleak House, where I’ve put my money on the table.[306]
I think there is an abundance of places here that would suit you well enough; and Georgina is ready to launch on voyages of discovery and observation with you. But it is necessary that you should consider for how long a time you want it, as the folks here let much more advantageously for the tenant when they know the term—don't like to let without. It seems to me that the best thing you can do is to get a paper of the South Eastern tidal trains, fix your day for coming over here in five hours (when you will pay through to Boulogne at London Bridge), let me know the day, and come and see how you like the place. I like it better than ever. We can give you a bed (two to spare, at a pinch three), and show you a garden and a view or so. The town is not so cheap as places farther off, but you get a great deal for your money, and by far the best wine at tenpence a bottle that I have ever drank anywhere. I really desire no better.
I think there are plenty of places here that would be perfect for you, and Georgina is excited to go on adventures and explore with you. But you need to consider how long you want to stay, as the locals are more willing to rent to tenants when they know the duration— they don’t like to rent without knowing. It seems to me that the best thing you can do is get a schedule of the South Eastern tidal trains, plan your trip here for five hours (when you can pay through to Boulogne at London Bridge), let me know the date, and come see how you like the place. I like it more than ever. We can offer you a bed (we have two available, or three if necessary), and show you a garden and a nice view or two. The town isn’t as cheap as places farther out, but you get a lot for your money, and the best wine at ten pence a bottle that I've ever had. I honestly couldn't ask for anything better.
I may mention for your guidance (for I count upon your coming to overhaul the general aspect of things), that you have nothing on earth to do with your luggage when it is once in the boat, until after you have walked ashore. That you will be filtered with the rest of the passengers through a hideous, whitewashed, quarantine-looking custom-house, where a stern man of a military aspect will demand your passport. That you will have nothing of the sort, but will produce your card with this addition: "Restant à Boulogne, chez M. Charles Dickens, Château des Moulineaux." That you will then be passed out at a little door, like one of the ill-starred prisoners on the bloody September night, into a yelling and shrieking crowd, cleaving the air with the names of the different hotels, exactly seven thousand six hundred and fifty-four in number. And that your heart will be on the point of sinking with dread, then you will[307] find yourself in the arms of the Sparkler of Albion. All unite in kindest regards.
I should mention for your guidance (since I’m counting on your arrival to look over everything), that you won’t have any responsibility for your luggage once it’s on the boat, until you’ve walked ashore. You’ll be funneled through a grim, whitewashed, quarantine-style customs area, where a stern-looking military guy will ask for your passport. You won’t have one, but you’ll show your card with this note: "Restant à Boulogne, chez M. Charles Dickens, Château des Moulineaux." After that, you’ll be let out through a small door, like one of the unfortunate prisoners on that bloody September night, into a chaotic crowd shouting the names of different hotels—exactly seven thousand six hundred and fifty-four, to be precise. Just when your heart feels like it’s going to drop from fear, you’ll find yourself in the arms of the Sparkler of Albion. Everyone sends their warmest regards.
P.S.—I thought you might like to see the flourish again.
P.S.—I thought you might want to see the flourish again.
Boulogne-sur-Mer, Wednesday, July 27th, 1853.
I have thought of another article to be called "Frauds upon the Fairies," à propos of George Cruikshank's editing. Half playfully and half seriously, I mean to protest most strongly against alteration, for any purpose, of the beautiful little stories which are so tenderly and humanly useful to us in these times, when the world is too much with us, early and late; and then to re-write "Cinderella" according to Total Abstinence, Peace Society, and Bloomer principles, and expressly for their propagation.
I’ve come up with another article titled "Frauds upon the Fairies," à propos of George Cruikshank's editing. Half playfully and half seriously, I want to strongly protest any changes to the beautiful little stories that are so tenderly and humanely beneficial to us right now, when the world is overwhelming us both day and night; and then I plan to rewrite "Cinderella" based on Total Abstinence, Peace Society, and Bloomer principles, specifically to promote those ideas.
I shall want his book of "Hop o' my Thumb" (Forster noticed it in the last Examiner), and the most simple and popular version of "Cinderella" you can get me. I shall not be able to do it until after finishing "Bleak House," but I shall do it the more easily for having the books by me. So send them, if convenient, in your next parcel.
I want his book "Hop o' my Thumb" (Forster mentioned it in the latest Examiner), and the simplest, most popular version of "Cinderella" you can find for me. I won't be able to get to it until I finish "Bleak House," but it will be easier if I have the books on hand. So please send them, if it's convenient, in your next package.
Château des Moulineaux, Boulogne
Sunday, Aug. 24th, 1853.
Some unaccountable delay in the transmission here of the parcel which contained your letter, caused me to come into the receipt of it a whole week after its date. I immediately wrote to Miss Coutts, who has written to you, and I[308] hope some good may come of it. I know it will not be her fault if none does. I was very much concerned to read your account of poor Mrs. Warner, and to read her own plain and unaffected account of herself. Pray assure her of my cordial sympathy and remembrance, and of my earnest desire to do anything in my power to help to put her mind at ease.
Some unexpected delay in getting the parcel with your letter here meant I received it a whole week after it was sent. I immediately wrote to Miss Coutts, who has reached out to you, and I[308] hope something positive comes from it. I know it won't be her fault if it doesn't. I was very saddened to read your account of poor Mrs. Warner, as well as her own honest and straightforward account of herself. Please let her know I send my warm sympathy and thoughts, and I'm genuinely eager to do whatever I can to help ease her mind.
We are living in a beautiful little country place here, where I have been hard at work ever since I came, and am now (after an interval of a week's rest) going to work again to finish "Bleak House." Kate and Georgina send their kindest loves to you, and Miss Macready, and all the rest. They look forward, I assure you, to their Sherborne visit, when I—a mere forlorn wanderer—shall be roaming over the Alps into Italy. I saw "The Midsummer Night's Dream" of the Opéra Comique, done here (very well) last night. The way in which a poet named Willyim Shay Kes Peer gets drunk in company with Sir John Foll Stayffe, fights with a noble 'night, Lor Latimeer (who is in love with a maid-of-honour you may have read of in history, called Mees Oleevia), and promises not to do so any more on observing symptoms of love for him in the Queen of England, is very remarkable. Queen Elizabeth, too, in the profound and impenetrable disguise of a black velvet mask, two inches deep by three broad, following him into taverns and worse places, and enquiring of persons of doubtful reputation for "the sublime Williams," was inexpressibly ridiculous. And yet the nonsense was done with a sense quite admirable.
We’re living in a lovely little rural area, where I’ve been busy ever since I arrived, and I’m now (after taking a week off) about to dive back into finishing "Bleak House." Kate and Georgina send their warmest regards to you, Miss Macready, and everyone else. They are really looking forward to their visit to Sherborne, while I—a lonely wanderer—will be roaming over the Alps into Italy. Last night, I saw a great performance of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at the Opéra Comique. The way a poet named William Shakespeer gets drunk with Sir John Falstaff, fights with a noble knight, Lord Latham (who is in love with a maid of honor you might have heard of in history, named Miss Olivia), and promises not to drink again after noticing signs of affection from the Queen of England, is quite remarkable. Queen Elizabeth, too, in her deep black velvet mask—two inches thick and three broad—following him into bars and other questionable places, asking shady characters for "the sublime Williams," was utterly ridiculous. And yet, the silliness was delivered with a truly admirable flair.
I have been very much struck by the book you sent me. It is one of the wisest, the manliest, and most serviceable I ever read. I am reading it again with the greatest pleasure and admiration.
I have been really impressed by the book you sent me. It’s one of the wisest, most courageous, and most useful books I've ever read. I'm reading it again with a lot of enjoyment and admiration.
My dear Macready.
Villa des Moulineaux, Boulogne
Saturday, Aug. 27th, 1853.
I received your letter—most welcome and full of interest to me—when I was hard at work finishing "Bleak House." We are always talking of you; and I had said but the day before, that one of the first things I would do on my release would be to write to you. To finish the topic of "Bleak House" at once, I will only add that I like the conclusion very much and think it very pretty indeed. The story has taken extraordinarily, especially during the last five or six months, when its purpose has been gradually working itself out. It has retained its immense circulation from the first, beating dear old "Copperfield" by a round ten thousand or more. I have never had so many readers. We had a little reading of the final double number here the night before last, and it made a great impression I assure you.
I got your letter—such a delightful surprise and really interesting to me—while I was busy wrapping up "Bleak House." We talk about you all the time, and just the day before, I mentioned that one of the first things I would do once I was done would be to write to you. To wrap up the discussion on "Bleak House," I’ll just say that I really like the ending and think it's very beautiful indeed. The story has been incredibly popular, especially over the last five or six months, as its purpose has gradually come together. It's maintained its huge readership from the start, surpassing dear old "Copperfield" by a good ten thousand or more. I've never had this many readers. We had a little reading of the final double issue here the night before last, and it made a big impact, I assure you.
We are all extremely well, and like Boulogne very much indeed. I laid down the rule before we came, that we would know nobody here, and we do know nobody here. We evaded callers as politely as we could, and gradually came to be understood and left to ourselves. It is a fine bracing air, a beautiful open country, and an admirable mixture of town and country. We live on a green hill-side out of the town, but are in the town (on foot) in ten minutes. Things are tolerably cheap, and exceedingly good; the people very cheerful, good-looking, and obliging; the houses very clean; the distance to London short, and easily traversed. I think if you came to know the place (which I never did myself until last October, often as I have been through it), you could be but in one mind about it.[310]
We are all doing quite well, and we really like Boulogne. Before we arrived, I decided that we wouldn’t get to know anyone here, and we truly don’t know anyone here. We politely avoided visitors as much as we could, and eventually, people got the hint and left us alone. The air is refreshing, the countryside is beautiful, and there’s a great mix of city and rural life. We live on a green hillside outside of town, but it only takes us ten minutes to walk into the town. Things are fairly inexpensive and really good; the people are cheerful, attractive, and helpful; the houses are very clean; and it’s a short, easy trip to London. I think if you got to know the place (which I didn’t really do until last October, despite having passed through often), you would have only positive thoughts about it.[310]
Charley is still at Leipzig. I shall take him up somewhere on the Rhine, to bring him home for Christmas, as I come back on my own little tour. He has been in the Hartz Mountains on a walking tour, and has written a journal thereof, which he has sent home in portions. It has cost about as much in postage as would have bought a pair of ponies.
Charley is still in Leipzig. I plan to pick him up somewhere along the Rhine to bring him home for Christmas as I return from my own little trip. He has been hiking in the Harz Mountains and has written a journal about it, which he’s been sending home in parts. The postage has cost about as much as it would take to buy a pair of ponies.
I contemplate starting from here on Monday, the 10th of October; Catherine, Georgina, and the rest of them will then go home. I shall go first by Paris and Geneva to Lausanne, for it has a separate place in my memory. If the autumn should be very fine (just possible after such a summer), I shall then go by Chamonix and Martigny, over the Simplon to Milan, thence to Genoa, Leghorn, Pisa, and Naples, thence, I hope, to Sicily. Back by Bologna, Florence, Rome, Verona, Mantua, etc., to Venice, and home by Germany, arriving in good time for Christmas Day. Three nights in Christmas week, I have promised to read in the Town Hall at Birmingham, for the benefit of a new and admirable institution for working men projected there. The Friday will be the last night, and I shall read the "Carol" to two thousand working people, stipulating that they shall have that night entirely to themselves.
I’m thinking of starting my journey on Monday, October 10th. Catherine, Georgina, and the others will head home then. I plan to go first through Paris and Geneva to Lausanne because it holds a special place in my heart. If the weather is really nice in the fall (which is possible after such a summer), I’ll take the route through Chamonix and Martigny, then cross the Simplon to Milan, and then on to Genoa, Livorno, Pisa, and Naples, and hopefully to Sicily after that. I’ll return through Bologna, Florence, Rome, Verona, Mantua, etc., to Venice, and then home through Germany, getting back in plenty of time for Christmas Day. I’ve committed to reading three nights during Christmas week at the Town Hall in Birmingham, all for the benefit of a new and fantastic institution for working men being set up there. The last night will be Friday, and I’ll read the "Carol" to two thousand working people, making sure they have that night completely to themselves.
It just occurs to me that I mean to engage, for the two months odd, a travelling servant. I have not yet got one. If you should happen to be interested in any good foreigner, well acquainted with the countries and the languages, who would like such a master, how delighted I should be to like him!
It just occurred to me that I plan to hire a traveling servant for a couple of months. I haven't found one yet. If you happen to know of a good foreigner, someone familiar with different countries and languages, who would want a master like me, I would be thrilled to have him!
Ever since I have been here, I have been very hard at work, often getting up at daybreak to write through many hours. I have never had the least return of illness, thank[311] God, though I was so altered (in a week) when I came here, that I doubt if you would have known me. I am redder and browner than ever at the present writing, with the addition of a rather formidable and fierce moustache. Lowestoft I know, by walking over there from Yarmouth, when I went down on an exploring expedition, previous to "Copperfield." It is a fine place. I saw the name "Blunderstone" on a direction-post between it and Yarmouth, and took it from the said direction-post for the book. We imagined the Captain's ecstasies when we saw the birth of his child in the papers. In some of the descriptions of Chesney Wold, I have taken many bits, chiefly about trees and shadows, from observations made at Rockingham. I wonder whether you have ever thought so! I shall hope to hear from you again soon, and shall not fail to write again before I go away. There seems to be nothing but "I" in this letter; but "I" know, my dear friend, that you will be more interested in that letter in the present connection, than in any other I could take from the alphabet.
Ever since I got here, I've been working really hard, often waking up at dawn to write for hours. I haven’t had any issues with my health, thank God, even though I looked so different when I arrived that I doubt you would have recognized me. I'm redder and tanner now, with a pretty impressive and fierce mustache. I know Lowestoft from walking there from Yarmouth when I went on an exploration trip before "Copperfield." It’s a lovely place. I saw the name "Blunderstone" on a signpost between it and Yarmouth and used it for the book. We imagined the Captain's excitement when he saw the news of his child's birth in the papers. In some descriptions of Chesney Wold, I've taken many fragments, mostly about trees and shadows, from what I observed at Rockingham. I wonder if you've ever thought about that! I hope to hear from you soon, and I’ll make sure to write again before I leave. This letter seems to be all about "I," but I know, my dear friend, that you're more interested in this letter in the current context than in any other I could pick from the alphabet.
Catherine and Georgina send their kindest loves, and more messages than this little sheet would hold. If I were to give you a hint of what we feel at the sight of your handwriting, and at the receipt of a word from yourself about yourself, and the dear boys, and the precious little girls, I should begin to be sorrowful, which is rather the tendency of my mind at the close of another long book. I heard from Cerjat two or three days since. Goff, by-the-bye, lived in this house two years.
Catherine and Georgina send their warmest regards and more messages than this little note can contain. If I were to express what we feel when we see your handwriting and receive a word from you about yourself, the dear boys, and the lovely little girls, I would start to feel sad, which tends to happen to me at the end of another long book. I heard from Cerjat a couple of days ago. By the way, Goff lived in this house for two years.
Yours, with true affection and regard.
Château des Moulineaux, Rue Beaurepaire, Boulogne.
A note—like Cerberus—with three heads.
First. I know you will be glad to hear that the manager is himself again. Vigorous, brown, energetic, muscular; the pride of Albion and the admiration of Gaul.
First. I know you'll be happy to hear that the manager is back to his old self. Strong, tan, lively, and fit; the pride of England and the envy of France.
Secondly. I told Wills when I left home, that I was quite pained to see the end of your excellent "Bowl of Punch" altered. I was unaffectedly touched and gratified by the heartiness of the original; and saw no earthly, celestial, or subterranean objection to its remaining, as it did not so unmistakably apply to me as to necessitate the observance of my usual precaution in the case of such references, by any means.
Secondly. I told Wills when I left home that I was really disappointed to see the end of your excellent "Bowl of Punch" changed. I was genuinely moved and pleased by the warmth of the original; and I saw no earthly, heavenly, or underground reason for it to be altered, since it didn’t clearly relate to me in a way that would require me to take my usual precautions regarding such references at all.
Thirdly. If you ever have a holiday that you don't know what to do with, do come and pass a little time here. We live in a charming garden in a very pleasant country, and should be delighted to receive you. Excellent light wines on the premises, French cookery, millions of roses, two cows (for milk punch), vegetables cut for the pot, and handed in at the kitchen window; five summer-houses, fifteen fountains (with no water in 'em), and thirty-seven clocks (keeping, as I conceive, Australian time; having no reference whatever to the hours on this side of the globe).
Thirdly, if you ever have a holiday and don’t know what to do with it, do come and spend some time here. We live in a lovely garden in a really nice area, and we would be thrilled to host you. There are great light wines available, French cuisine, countless roses, two cows (for milk punch), vegetables picked fresh for cooking, and passed through the kitchen window; five summer houses, fifteen fountains (with no water in them), and thirty-seven clocks (which I think run on Australian time; they have no relation to the hours on this side of the world).
I know, my dear Cunningham, that the British nation can ill afford to lose you; and that when the Audit Office mice are away, the cats of that great public establishment will play. But pray consider that the bow may be sometimes bent too long, and that ever-arduous application, even in patriotic service, is to be avoided. No one can more highly estimate your devotion to the best interests of Britain than I. But I wish to see it tempered with a wise consideration[313] for your own amusement, recreation, and pastime. All work and no play may make Peter a dull boy as well as Jack. And (if I may claim the privilege of friendship to remonstrate) I would say that you do not take enough time for your meals. Dinner, for instance, you habitually neglect. Believe me, this rustic repose will do you good. Winkles also are to be obtained in these parts, and it is well remarked by Poor Richard, that a bird in the handbook is worth two in the bush.
I know, my dear Cunningham, that the British nation can't afford to lose you; and that when the Audit Office staff is away, the cats of that large public institution will have their fun. But please consider that sometimes the bow can be stretched too far, and that constant hard work, even in the name of patriotism, should be avoided. No one values your dedication to Britain's best interests more than I do. But I want to see it balanced with some wise thought for your own enjoyment, relaxation, and hobbies. All work and no play can make Peter a dull boy just like Jack. And (if I may take the liberty of a friend to point this out) I would say that you don't take enough time for your meals. Dinner, for example, you often skip. Believe me, this countryside break will do you good. Winkles are also available around here, and as Poor Richard wisely said, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.[313]
Tavistock House, London, Sept. 8th, 1853.
I am in town for a day or two, and Forster tells me I may now write to thank you for the happiness you have given me by honouring my name with such generous mention, on such a noble place, in your great book. I believe he has told you already that I wrote to him from Boulogne, not knowing what to do, as I had not received the precious volume, and feared you might have some plan of sending it to me, with which my premature writing would interfere.
I’m in town for a day or two, and Forster told me I could write to thank you for the happiness you’ve given me by honoring my name with such a generous mention in your amazing book. I think he’s already informed you that I wrote to him from Boulogne, not knowing what to do since I hadn’t received the precious volume and was worried you might have some plan to send it to me, which my premature writing could mess up.
You know how heartily and inexpressibly I prize what you have written to me, or you never would have selected me for such a distinction. I could never thank you enough, my dear Landor, and I will not thank you in words any more. Believe me, I receive the dedication like a great dignity, the worth of which I hope I thoroughly know. The Queen could give me none in exchange that I wouldn't laughingly snap my fingers at.
You know how much I truly value what you’ve written to me, or you wouldn’t have chosen me for such an honor. I could never thank you enough, my dear Landor, and I won’t express my gratitude in words anymore. Believe me, I see the dedication as a significant honor, one that I hope I fully appreciate. The Queen could offer me nothing in return that I wouldn’t laugh off.
We are staying at Boulogne until the 10th of October, when I go into Italy until Christmas, and the rest come home.[314]
We’re staying in Boulogne until October 10th, when I’ll head to Italy until Christmas, and the others will go home.[314]
Kate and Georgina would send you their best loves if they were here, and would never leave off talking about it if I went back and told them I had written to you without such mention of them. Walter is a very good boy, and comes home from school with honourable commendation. He passed last Sunday in solitary confinement (in a bath-room) on bread and water, for terminating a dispute with the nurse by throwing a chair in her direction. It is the very first occasion of his ever having got into trouble, for he is a great favourite with the whole house, and one of the most amiable boys in the boy world. (He comes out on birthdays in a blaze of shirt-pin).
Kate and Georgina would send you their love if they were here and would never stop talking about it if I told them I wrote to you without mentioning them. Walter is a really good kid and comes home from school with great praise. He spent last Sunday in solitary confinement (in a bathroom) on bread and water for ending an argument with the nurse by throwing a chair in her direction. It's the very first time he's ever gotten into trouble because he’s a favorite with everyone in the house and one of the nicest boys around. (He shines on birthdays in a blaze of shirt pins).
If I go and look at your old house, as I shall if I go to Florence, I shall bring you back another leaf from the same tree as I plucked the last from.
If I visit your old house, which I will if I go to Florence, I’ll bring you back another leaf from the same tree I got the last one from.
Heartily and affectionately yours.
Villa Des Moulineaux, Boulogne
Monday, Sept. 12th, 1853.
I am very much obliged to you, I assure you, for your frank and full reply to my note. Nothing could be more satisfactory, and I have to-day seen Mr. Gibson and placed my two small representatives under his charge. His manner is exactly what you describe him. I was greatly pleased with his genuineness altogether.
I really appreciate your honest and thorough response to my note. Nothing could be more satisfying, and today I met with Mr. Gibson and left my two small representatives in his care. His demeanor is exactly as you described. I was very impressed by his sincerity overall.
We remain here until the tenth of next month, when I am going to desert my wife and family and run about Italy until Christmas. If I can execute any little commission for you or Mrs. Delane—in the Genoa street of silversmiths, or anywhere else—I shall be delighted to do so. I have been in the receipt of several letters from Macready lately, and[315] rejoice to find him quite himself again, though I have great misgivings that he will lose his eldest boy before he can be got to India.
We’ll be here until the tenth of next month, when I plan to leave my wife and family and travel around Italy until Christmas. If there’s any small task you or Mrs. Delane would like me to take care of—whether it’s in the Genoa street of silversmiths or elsewhere—I’d be happy to help. I’ve received several letters from Macready lately, and[315] I’m glad to see he’s back to his old self, although I worry he might lose his oldest son before he can get him to India.
Mrs. Dickens and her sister are proud of your message, and beg their kind regards to be forwarded in return; my other half being particularly comforted and encouraged by your account of Mr. Gibson. In this charge I am to include Mrs. Delane, who, I hope, will make an exchange of remembrances, and give me hers for mine.
Mrs. Dickens and her sister are really pleased with your message and ask me to send their regards back to you. My partner is especially comforted and encouraged by what you said about Mr. Gibson. I also need to include Mrs. Delane in this, and I hope she'll share her thoughts with me as well.
I never saw anything so ridiculous as this place at present. They expected the Emperor ten or twelve days ago, and put up all manner of triumphal arches made of evergreens, which look like tea-leaves now, and will take a withered and weird appearance hardly to be foreseen, long before the twenty-fifth, when the visit is vaguely expected to come off. In addition to these faded garlands all over the leading streets, there are painted eagles hoisted over gateways and sprawling across a hundred ways, which have been washed out by the rain and are now being blistered by the sun, until they look horribly ludicrous. And a number of our benighted compatriots who came over to see a perfect blaze of fêtes, go wandering among these shrivelled preparations and staring at ten thousand flag-poles without any flags upon them, with a kind of indignant curiosity and personal injury quite irresistible. With many thanks,
I’ve never seen anything as ridiculous as this place right now. They were expecting the Emperor ten or twelve days ago and set up all sorts of triumphal arches made of evergreens, which now resemble tea leaves, and will soon look withered and strange, likely before the twenty-fifth, when the visit is kind of expected to happen. Along with these faded garlands all over the main streets, there are painted eagles hanging over gates and sprawled across hundreds of places, which have been washed out by the rain and are now blistered by the sun, making them look horribly silly. And a bunch of our confused fellow citizens who came to see a perfect spectacle of festivities are strolling among these shriveled decorations, staring at ten thousand flagpoles with no flags on them, feeling a mix of indignation and personal offense that's hard to shake off. Thanks a lot,
Boulogne-sur-Mer, Sunday, Sept. 18th, 1853.
Edward Kaub will bring this. He turned up yesterday, accounting for his delay by waiting for a written recommendation, and having at the last moment (as a[316] foreigner, not being an Englishman) a passport to get. I quite agree with you as to his appearance and manner, and have engaged him. It strikes me that it would be an excellent beginning if you would deliver him a neat and appropriate address, telling him what in your conscience you can find to tell of me favourably as a master, and particularly impressing upon him readiness and punctuality on his part as the great things to be observed. I think it would have a much better effect than anything I could say in this stage, if said from yourself. But I shall be much obliged to you if you will act upon this hint forthwith.
Edward Kaub will bring this. He showed up yesterday, saying he was delayed because he was waiting for a written recommendation, and at the last minute (since he’s a foreigner and not an Englishman) he had to get a passport. I completely agree with you about his appearance and demeanor, and I have hired him. I think it would be a great start if you could give him a concise and suitable address, telling him whatever you genuinely feel you can say positively about me as a boss, and especially emphasizing readiness and punctuality as the most important things he needs to focus on. I believe it would have a much stronger impact coming from you at this point than anything I could say. I would really appreciate it if you could follow up on this suggestion right away.
No letter having arrived from the popular author of "The Larboard Fin,"[15] by this morning's post, I rather think one must be on the way in the pocket of Gordon's son. If Kaub calls for this before young Scotland arrives, you will understand if I do not herein refer to an unreceived letter. But I shall leave this open, until Kaub comes for it.
No letter has come in from the popular author of "The Larboard Fin,"[15] by this morning's mail, so I think one must be on the way in Gordon's son's pocket. If Kaub picks this up before young Scotland arrives, you’ll understand why I haven’t mentioned the missing letter. But I’ll keep this open until Kaub comes for it.
Villa des Moulineaux, Boulogne
Wednesday, Sept. 21st, 1853.
Your note having been forwarded to me here, I cannot forbear thanking you with all my heart for your great kindness. Mr. Forster had previously sent me a copy of your letter to him, together with the expression of the high and lasting gratification he had in your handsome response. I know he feels it most sincerely.
Your note was forwarded to me, and I can't help but thank you from the bottom of my heart for your kindness. Mr. Forster had already sent me a copy of your letter to him, along with his genuine appreciation for your generous response. I know he truly feels this way.
I became the prey of a perfect spasm of sensitive twinges,[317] when I found that the close of "Bleak House" had not penetrated to "the wilds of the North" when your letter left those parts. I was so very much interested in it myself when I wrote it here last month, that I have a fond sort of faith in its interesting its readers. But for the hope that you may have got it by this time, I should refuse comfort. That supports me.
I was completely overwhelmed by a wave of nervous tension,[317] when I realized that the end of "Bleak House" hadn't reached "the wilds of the North" by the time your letter left there. I was really excited about it when I wrote it here last month, so I genuinely believe it would interest its readers. If I didn't hope that you've received it by now, I wouldn't find any comfort. That keeps me going.
The book has been a wonderful success. Its audience enormous.
The book has been a huge success. Its audience is massive.
I fear there is not much chance of my being able to execute any little commission for Lady John anywhere in Italy. But I am going across the Alps, leaving here on the tenth of next month, and returning home to London for Christmas Day, and should indeed be happy if I could do her any dwarf service.
I doubt I'll be able to carry out any small favor for Lady John anywhere in Italy. However, I'm crossing the Alps, leaving here on the tenth of next month and heading back to London for Christmas Day, and I would really be glad if I could do her any small service.
You will be interested, I think, to hear that Poole lives happily on his pension, and lives within it. He is quite incapable of any mental exertion, and what he would have done without it I cannot imagine. I send it to him at Paris every quarter. It is something, even amid the estimation in which you are held, which is but a foreshadowing of what shall be by-and-by as the people advance, to be so gratefully remembered as he, with the best reason, remembers you. Forgive my saying this. But the manner of that transaction, no less than the matter, is always fresh in my memory in association with your name, and I cannot help it.
You’ll probably be interested to know that Poole is living happily on his pension and is managing to live within his means. He’s completely unable to handle any mental effort, and I can't imagine what he would have done without it. I send it to him in Paris every three months. It’s something, even with all the respect you have, which is just a hint of what’s to come as people progress, to be remembered with gratitude like he remembers you, for very good reasons. I hope you don’t mind me saying this. But the way that situation went down, just like the details of it, is always fresh in my mind when I think of you, and I can’t help it.
Yours very faithfully and obliged.
Boulogne-sur-Mer, Wednesday, Sept. 21st, 1853.
The courier was unfortunately engaged. He offered to recommend another, but I had several applicants, and[318] begged Mr. Wills to hold a grand review at the "Household Words" office, and select the man who is to bring me down as his victim. I am extremely sorry the man you recommend was not to be had. I should have been so delighted to take him.
The courier was unfortunately busy. He suggested another one, but I had several candidates, and[318] I asked Mr. Wills to hold a big meeting at the "Household Words" office and pick the person who would bring me down as his next job. I'm really sorry the person you recommended wasn't available. I would have loved to hire him.
I am finishing "The Child's History," and clearing the way through "Household Words," in general, before I go on my trip. I forget whether I told you that Mr. Egg the painter and Mr. Collins are going with me. The other day I was in town. In case you should not have heard of the condition of that deserted village, I think it worth mentioning. All the streets of any note were unpaved, mountains high, and all the omnibuses were sliding down alleys, and looking into the upper windows of small houses. At eleven o'clock one morning I was positively alone in Bond Street. I went to one of my tailors, and he was at Brighton. A smutty-faced woman among some gorgeous regimentals, half finished, had not the least idea when he would be back. I went to another of my tailors, and he was in an upper room, with open windows and surrounded by mignonette boxes, playing the piano in the bosom of his family. I went to my hosier's, and two of the least presentable of "the young men" of that elegant establishment were playing at draughts in the back shop. (Likewise I beheld a porter-pot hastily concealed under a Turkish dressing-gown of a golden pattern.) I then went wandering about to look for some ingenious portmanteau, and near the corner of St. James's Street saw a solitary being sitting in a trunk-shop, absorbed in a book which, on a close inspection, I found to be "Bleak House." I thought this looked well, and went in. And he really was more interested in seeing me, when he knew who I was, than any face I had seen in any house, every house I knew being occupied by[319] painters, including my own. I went to the Athenæum that same night, to get my dinner, and it was shut up for repairs. I went home late, and had forgotten the key and was locked out.
I’m finishing "The Child's History" and catching up on "Household Words" before my trip. I can’t remember if I told you, but Mr. Egg the painter and Mr. Collins are coming with me. The other day, I was in town. Just in case you haven’t heard about the state of that deserted village, I think it’s worth mentioning. All the notable streets were unpaved, with huge potholes, and all the buses were sliding down alleys, peeking into the upper windows of small houses. At eleven in the morning, I was completely alone on Bond Street. I went to one of my tailors, but he was in Brighton. A dirty-faced woman among some fancy uniforms that were only partly finished had no idea when he’d be back. I went to another tailor, and he was upstairs with the windows open, surrounded by mignonette boxes, playing the piano with his family. I visited my hosier, and two of the least presentable “young men” from that stylish shop were playing checkers in the back room. (I also spotted a chamber pot hastily hidden under a gold-patterned Turkish dressing gown.) Then I wandered around looking for a clever suitcase, and near the corner of St. James's Street, I saw a lone guy sitting in a trunk shop, engrossed in a book that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be "Bleak House." I thought that looked promising, so I went in. He seemed more interested in seeing me, once he realized who I was, than anyone I’d encountered in any house, as every house I knew was occupied by[319] painters, including my own. That same night, I went to the Athenæum for dinner, but it was closed for repairs. I got home late, forgot my key, and ended up locked out.
Preparations were made here, about six weeks ago, to receive the Emperor, who is not come yet. Meanwhile our countrymen (deluded in the first excitement) go about staring at these arrangements, with a personal injury upon them which is most ridiculous. And they will persist in speaking an unknown tongue to the French people, who will speak English to them.
Preparations were made here, about six weeks ago, to welcome the Emperor, who hasn't arrived yet. In the meantime, our fellow countrymen (caught up in the initial excitement) walk around looking at these arrangements, feeling personally offended, which is pretty ridiculous. And they will keep speaking a language no one understands to the French people, who will respond to them in English.
Kate and Georgina send their kindest loves. We are all quite well. Going to drop two small boys here, at school with a former Eton tutor highly recommended to me. Charley was heard of a day or two ago. He says his professor "is very short-sighted, always in green spectacles, always drinking weak beer, always smoking a pipe, and always at work." The last qualification seems to appear to Charley the most astonishing one.
Kate and Georgina send their warmest regards. We are all doing well. I'm about to drop off two little boys here at school with a former Eton tutor who comes highly recommended. I heard from Charley a day or two ago. He mentioned that his professor "is very short-sighted, always wears green glasses, always drinks weak beer, always smokes a pipe, and is always working." The last point seems to impress Charley the most.
Most affectionately yours.
Villa Hotel, Milan, Tuesday, Oct. 25th, 1853.
I have walked to that extent in Switzerland (walked over the Simplon on Sunday, as an addition to the other feats) that one pair of the new strong shoes has gone to be mended this morning, and the other is in but a poor way; the snow having played the mischief with them.
I have walked so much in Switzerland (crossed the Simplon on Sunday, as an extra challenge on top of the others) that one pair of my new sturdy shoes went in for repairs this morning, and the other pair is barely holding up; the snow has really messed them up.
On the Swiss side of the Simplon, we slept at the beastliest little town, in the wildest kind of house, where[320] some fifty cats tumbled into the corridor outside our bedrooms all at once in the middle of the night—whether through the roof or not, I don't know; for it was dark when we got up—and made such a horrible and terrific noise that we started out of our beds in a panic. I strongly objected to opening the door lest they should get into the room and tear at us; but Edward opened his, and laid about him until he dispersed them. At Domo D'Ossola we had three immense bedrooms (Egg's bed twelve feet wide!), and a sala of imperceptible extent in the dim light of two candles and a wood fire; but were very well and very cheaply entertained. Here, we are, as you know, housed in the greatest comfort.
On the Swiss side of the Simplon, we stayed in the ugliest little town, in the wildest kind of house, where[320] about fifty cats suddenly spilled into the hallway outside our bedrooms all at once in the middle of the night—whether they came through the roof or not, I don't know; it was dark when we got up—and made such a terrible and loud noise that we jumped out of our beds in a panic. I was really against opening the door in case they got into the room and attacked us; but Edward opened his and scared them away. At Domo D'Ossola, we had three huge bedrooms (Egg's bed was twelve feet wide!), and a living room of impossible size in the dim light of two candles and a wood fire; but we were very well looked after and it was really cheap. Here, as you know, we're staying in great comfort.
We continue to get on very well together. We really do admirably. I lose no opportunity of inculcating the lesson that it is of no use to be out of temper in travelling, and it is very seldom wanted for any of us. Egg is an excellent fellow, and full of good qualities; I am sure a generous and staunch man at heart, and a good and honourable nature.
We get along really well. We actually do it impressively. I take every chance to emphasize that getting irritated while traveling is pointless, and it hardly ever happens to any of us. Egg is a great guy, full of good traits; I’m sure he’s a kind and loyal person at heart, with a good and honorable character.
I shall send Catherine from Genoa a list of the places where letters will find me. I shall hope to hear from you too, and shall be very glad indeed to do so. No more at present.
I will send Catherine from Genoa a list of places where you can reach me. I hope to hear from you as well, and I'll be very happy to do so. That's all for now.
Malta Cross, Genoa, Saturday, Oct. 29th, 1853.
We had thirty-one hours consecutively on the road between this and Milan, and arrived here in a rather damaged condition. We live at the top of this immense house, overlooking the port and sea, pleasantly and airily[321] enough, though it is no joke to get so high, and though the apartment is rather vast and faded.
We spent thirty-one straight hours on the road between here and Milan and arrived in pretty rough shape. We live at the top of this huge house, with a nice view of the port and sea, which is pleasant and airy[321], but getting up so high is no easy task, and the apartment is quite spacious but a bit worn out.
The old walks are pretty much the same as ever, except that they have built behind the Peschiere on the San Bartolomeo hill, and changed the whole town towards San Pietro d'Arena, where we seldom went. The Bisagno looks just the same, strong just now, and with very little water in it. Vicoli stink exactly as they used to, and are fragrant with the same old flavour of very rotten cheese kept in very hot blankets. The Mezzaro pervades them as before. The old Jesuit college in the Strada Nuova is under the present government the Hôtel de Ville, and a very splendid caffé with a terrace garden has arisen between it and Palavicini's old palace. Another new and handsome caffé has been built in the Piazza Carlo Felice, between the old caffé of the Bei Arti (where Fletcher stopped for the bouquets in the green times, when we went to the ——'s party), and the Strada Carlo Felice. The old beastly gate and guardhouse on the Albaro road are still in their dear old beastly state, and the whole of that road is just as it was. The man without legs is still in the Strada Nuova; but the beggars in general are all cleared off, and our old one-armed Belisario made a sudden evaporation a year or two ago. I am going to the Peschiere to-day. The puppets are here, and the opera is open, but only with a buffo company, and without a buffet. We went to the Scala, where they did an opera of Verdi's, called "Il Trovatore," and a poor enough ballet. The whole performance miserable indeed. I wish you were here to take some of the old walks. It is quite strange to walk about alone. Good-bye, my dear Georgy. Pray tell me how Kate is. I rather fancy from her letter, though I scarcely know why, that she is not quite as well as she was at Boulogne. I was[322] charmed with your account of the Plornishghenter and everything and everybody else. Kiss them all for me.
The old walks are pretty much the same as ever, except they’ve built behind the Peschiere on San Bartolomeo hill, changing the whole town towards San Pietro d'Arena, where we hardly ever went. The Bisagno looks exactly the same, strong right now, and with very little water in it. The alleys smell just like they used to, and have that same old scent of very rotten cheese wrapped in really hot blankets. The Mezzaro fills them as before. The old Jesuit college on Strada Nuova is now the Hôtel de Ville under the current government, and a really nice café with a garden terrace has popped up between it and Palavicini's old palace. Another new and attractive café has been built in Piazza Carlo Felice, between the old Bei Arti café (where Fletcher used to stop for the bouquets in the green times when we went to the ——'s party) and Strada Carlo Felice. The old, grimy gate and guardhouse on the Albaro road are still in their usual shabby state, and that entire road is just like it was. The man without legs is still in Strada Nuova; however, most of the beggars have cleared out, and our old one-armed Belisario vanished suddenly a year or two ago. I’m going to the Peschiere today. The puppets are here, and the opera is open, but only with a comedy troupe, and no buffet. We went to the Scala, where they performed a Verdi opera, "Il Trovatore," and a rather poor ballet. The whole performance was pretty miserable. I wish you were here to take some of the old walks. It feels quite strange to walk around alone. Goodbye, my dear Georgy. Please let me know how Kate is. I have a feeling from her letter, though I’m not quite sure why, that she isn’t as well as she was in Boulogne. I was[322] charmed by your account of the Plornishghenter and everything and everyone else. Kiss them all for me.
Hotel of Foreigners, Naples,
Friday Night, Nov. 4th, 1853.
Instead of embarking on Monday at Genoa, we were delayed (in consequence of the boat's being a day later when there are thirty-one days in the month) until Tuesday. Going aboard that morning at half-past nine, we found the steamer more than full of passengers from Marseilles, and in a state of confusion not to be described. We could get no places at the table, got our dinners how we could on deck, had no berths or sleeping accommodation of any kind, and had paid heavy first-class fares! To add to this, we got to Leghorn too late to steam away again that night, getting the ship's papers examined first—as the authorities said so, not being favourable to the new express English ship, English officered—and we lay off the lighthouse all night long. The scene on board beggars description. Ladies on the tables, gentlemen under the tables, and ladies and gentlemen lying indiscriminately on the open deck, arrayed like spoons on a sideboard. No mattresses, no blankets, nothing. Towards midnight, attempts were made by means of an awning and flags to make this latter scene remotely approach an Australian encampment; and we three lay together on the bare planks covered with overcoats. We were all gradually dozing off when a perfectly tropical rain fell, and in a moment drowned the whole ship. The rest of the night was passed upon the stairs, with an immense jumble of men and women. When anybody came[323] up for any purpose we all fell down; and when anybody came down we all fell up again. Still, the good-humour in the English part of the passengers was quite extraordinary. There were excellent officers aboard, and the first mate lent me his cabin to wash in in the morning, which I afterwards lent to Egg and Collins. Then we and the Emerson Tennents (who were aboard) and the captain, the doctor, and the second officer went off on a jaunt together to Pisa, as the ship was to lie at Leghorn all day.
Instead of leaving on Monday from Genoa, we were delayed (because the boat was a day late, especially when there are thirty-one days in the month) until Tuesday. Boarding that morning at 9:30, we found the steamer completely packed with passengers from Marseilles and in a state of chaos that’s hard to describe. We couldn’t find seats at the table, awkwardly had our dinners on deck, had no berths or sleeping arrangements at all, and we had paid expensive first-class fares! To make matters worse, we arrived in Leghorn too late to set out again that night; we had to get the ship’s papers checked first, as the authorities were not very welcoming to the new express English ship, which was run by English officers; so we stayed off the lighthouse all night long. The scene on board was beyond description. Ladies on the tables, gentlemen under the tables, and ladies and gentlemen sprawled on the open deck, piled up like spoons on a sideboard. No mattresses, no blankets, nothing. Toward midnight, attempts were made using an awning and flags to make the scene a bit like an Australian campsite; and the three of us lay together on the bare planks covered with overcoats. We were all slowly dozing off when a torrential rain came down, instantly soaking the whole ship. The rest of the night was spent on the stairs, in a huge jumble of men and women. When someone came up for any reason, we all tumbled down; and when someone came down, we all tumbled up again. Still, the good humor among the English passengers was truly remarkable. There were great officers on board, and the first mate let me use his cabin to wash up in the morning, which I later lent to Egg and Collins. Then the three of us, along with the Emerson Tennents (who were on board), and the captain, the doctor, and the second officer set off on a trip together to Pisa, as the ship was to stay in Leghorn all day.
The captain was a capital fellow, but I led him, facetiously, such a life all day, that I got almost everything altered at night. Emerson Tennent, with the greatest kindness, turned his son out of his state room (who, indeed, volunteered to go in the most amiable manner), and I got a good bed there. The store-room down by the hold was opened for Egg and Collins, and they slept with the moist sugar, the cheese in cut, the spices, the cruets, the apples and pears—in a perfect chandler's shop; in company with what the ——'s would call a "hold gent"—who had been so horribly wet through overnight that his condition frightened the authorities—a cat, and the steward—who dozed in an arm-chair, and all night long fell headforemost, once in every five minutes, on Egg, who slept on the counter or dresser. Last night I had the steward's own cabin, opening on deck, all to myself. It had been previously occupied by some desolate lady, who went ashore at Civita Vecchia. There was little or no sea, thank Heaven, all the trip; but the rain was heavier than any I have ever seen, and the lightning very constant and vivid. We were, with the crew, some two hundred people; with boats, at the utmost stretch, for one hundred, perhaps. I could not help thinking what would happen if we met with any accident; the crew being chiefly Maltese, and evidently fellows who would cut off alone in[324] the largest boat on the least alarm. The speed (it being the crack express ship for the India mail) very high; also the running through all the narrow rocky channels. Thank God, however, here we are. Though the more sensible and experienced part of the passengers agreed with me this morning that it was not a thing to try often. We had an excellent table after the first day, the best wines and so forth, and the captain and I swore eternal friendship. Ditto the first officer and the majority of the passengers. We got into the bay about seven this morning, but could not land until noon. We towed from Civita Vecchia the entire Greek navy, I believe, consisting of a little brig-of-war, with great guns, fitted as a steamer, but disabled by having burst the bottom of her boiler in her first run. She was just big enough to carry the captain and a crew of six or so, but the captain was so covered with buttons and gold that there never would have been room for him on board to put these valuables away if he hadn't worn them, which he consequently did, all night.
The captain was a great guy, but I playfully gave him such a hard time all day that I managed to get almost everything changed by night. Emerson Tennent, being very kind, let his son leave his cabin (the kid graciously volunteered to go), and I got a nice bed there. They opened the storeroom down by the hold for Egg and Collins, and they ended up sleeping among the damp sugar, cheese, spices, cruets, apples, and pears—in a perfect grocery store, along with what some would call a "hold gent"—who had gotten so soaked overnight that his state worried the authorities—a cat, and the steward—who dozed in an armchair and kept falling headfirst onto Egg, who was sleeping on the counter or dresser, every five minutes. Last night, I had the steward's cabin, which opens onto the deck, all to myself. It had been previously occupied by some lonely lady who went ashore at Civita Vecchia. Thankfully, there was little to no sea during the whole trip; however, the rain was heavier than I’ve ever seen, and the lightning was constant and bright. There were about two hundred people in total, including the crew; with the boats being pushed to the limit, maybe one hundred at most. I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if we encountered any issues, since the crew was mainly Maltese, and they clearly seemed like guys who would bail at the first sign of trouble in the largest boat. The speed was high (it was the fastest express ship for the India mail), and we were running through all the narrow, rocky channels. Thank God we made it here. Although the more sensible and experienced passengers agreed with me this morning that we shouldn’t do this too often. We had an amazing dining experience after the first day, with the best wines and all that, and the captain and I promised to be lifelong friends. The same goes for the first officer and most of the passengers. We reached the bay around seven this morning but couldn't land until noon. We towed what I believe was the entire Greek navy from Civita Vecchia, which consisted of a small warship equipped with big guns and set up as a steamer, but it was out of commission because the bottom of its boiler burst during its first trip. It was just big enough to carry the captain and a crew of six or so, but the captain was so covered in buttons and gold that there wouldn’t have been room for him on board to store all those valuables if he hadn’t worn them, which he did all night.
Whenever anything was wanted to be done, as slackening the tow-rope or anything of that sort, our officers roared at this miserable potentate, in violent English, through a speaking-trumpet, of which he couldn't have understood a word under the most favourable circumstances, so he did all the wrong things first, and the right things always last. The absence of any knowledge of anything not English on the part of the officers and stewards was most ridiculous. I met an Italian gentleman on the cabin steps, yesterday morning, vainly endeavouring to explain that he wanted a cup of tea for his sick wife. And when we were coming out of the harbour at Genoa, and it was necessary to order away that boat of music you remember, the chief officer (called aft for the purpose, as "knowing something of[325] Italian,") delivered himself in this explicit and clear manner to the principal performer: "Now, signora, if you don't sheer off, you'll be run down; so you had better trice up that guitar of yours, and put about."
Whenever something needed to be done, like slackening the tow-rope or anything similar, our officers yelled at this poor guy, in very loud English, through a megaphone, which he couldn’t have understood at all, even under the best circumstances. So he always ended up doing everything in the wrong order, doing the right things last. It was pretty silly how the officers and stewards didn’t know anything other than English. I met an Italian man on the cabin steps yesterday morning, trying unsuccessfully to explain that he needed a cup of tea for his sick wife. And when we were leaving the harbor in Genoa, and it was time to send off that music boat you remember, the chief officer (called back for the job because he "knew a bit of[325] Italian") said to the lead performer in this clear and straightforward way: "Now, miss, if you don't move along, you'll get run over; so you’d better put down that guitar of yours and head out."
We get on as well as possible, and it is extremely pleasant and interesting, and I feel that the change is doing me great and real service, after a long continuous strain upon the mind; but I am pleased to think that we are at our farthest point, and I look forward with joy to coming home again, to my old room, and the old walks, and all the old pleasant things.
We’re getting along as best as we can, and it’s really enjoyable and engaging. I feel like this change is doing me a lot of good after a long period of mental stress. However, I’m happy to think that we’ve reached our farthest point, and I’m looking forward with excitement to returning home, to my old room, the familiar walks, and all the things I love from before.
I wish I had arranged, or could have done so—for it would not have been easy—to find some letters here. It is a blank to stay for five days in a place without any.
I wish I had organized it, or could have done so—because it wouldn't have been easy—to find some letters here. It's dull to be in a place for five days without any.
I don't think Edward knows fifty Italian words; but much more French is spoken in Italy now than when we were here, and he stumbles along somehow.
I don't think Edward knows fifty Italian words, but a lot more French is spoken in Italy now than when we were here, and he manages to get by somehow.
I am afraid this is a dull letter, for I am very tired. You must take the will for the deed, my dear, and good night.
I’m sorry this letter is so boring, but I’m really tired. You have to appreciate the thought behind it, my dear, and good night.
Rome, Sunday Night, Nov. 13th, 1853.
We arrived here yesterday afternoon, at between three and four. On sending to the post-office this morning, I received your pleasant little letter, and one from Miss Coutts, who is still at Paris. But to my amazement there was none from Catherine! You mention her writing, and I cannot but suppose that your two letters must have been posted together. However, I received none from her, and I have all manner of doubts respecting the plainness of its [326]direction. They will not produce the letters here as at Genoa, but persist in looking them out at the post-office for you. I shall send again to-morrow, and every day until Friday, when we leave here. If I find no letter from her to-morrow, I shall write to her nevertheless by that post which brings this, so that you may both hear from me together.
We got here yesterday afternoon, around three or four. When I checked the post office this morning, I found your lovely little letter and one from Miss Coutts, who is still in Paris. But to my surprise, there wasn’t anything from Catherine! You mentioned her writing, so I assume your two letters must have been mailed together. Still, I didn’t receive anything from her, and I have all sorts of doubts about the clarity of its [326]address. They won’t bring the letters out to you here like they do in Genoa, but they’re still looking for them at the post office. I’ll check again tomorrow and every day until Friday, when we leave here. If I don’t get a letter from her tomorrow, I’ll write to her anyway with the post that brings this, so you can both hear from me at the same time.
One night, at Naples, Edward came in, open-mouthed, to the table d'hôte where we were dining with the Tennents, to announce "The Marchese Garofalo." I at first thought it must be the little parrot-marquess who was once your escort from Genoa; but I found him to be a man (married to an Englishwoman) whom we used to meet at Ridgway's. He was very glad to see me, and I afterwards met him at dinner at Mr. Lowther's, our chargé d'affaires. Mr. Lowther was at the Rockingham play, and is a very agreeable fellow. We had an exceedingly pleasant dinner of eight, preparatory to which I was near having the ridiculous adventure of not being able to find the house and coming back dinnerless. I went in an open carriage from the hotel in all state, and the coachman, to my surprise, pulled up at the end of the Chiaja. "Behold the house," says he, "of Il Signor Larthoor!"—at the same time pointing with his whip into the seventh heaven, where the early stars were shining. "But the Signor Larthoor," returns the Inimitable darling, "lives at Pausilippo." "It is true," says the coachman (still pointing to the evening star), "but he lives high up the Salita Sant' Antonio, where no carriage ever yet ascended, and that is the house" (evening star as aforesaid), "and one must go on foot. Behold the Salita Sant' Antonio!" I went up it, a mile and a half I should think. I got into the strangest places, among the wildest Neapolitans—kitchens, washing-places, archways, stables, vineyards—was baited by dogs, answered in profoundly unintelligible Neapolitan, from behind lonely locked[327] doors, in cracked female voices, quaking with fear; could hear of no such Englishman or any Englishman. By-and-by I came upon a Polenta-shop in the clouds, where an old Frenchman, with an umbrella like a faded tropical leaf (it had not rained for six weeks) was staring at nothing at all, with a snuff-box in his hand. To him I appealed concerning the Signor Larthoor. "Sir," said he, with the sweetest politeness, "can you speak French?" "Sir," said I, "a little." "Sir," said he, "I presume the Signor Loothere"—you will observe that he changed the name according to the custom of his country—"is an Englishman." I admitted that he was the victim of circumstances and had that misfortune. "Sir," said he, "one word more. Has he a servant with a wooden leg?" "Great Heaven, sir," said I, "how do I know! I should think not, but it is possible." "It is always," said the Frenchman, "possible. Almost all the things of the world are always possible." "Sir," said I—you may imagine my condition and dismal sense of my own absurdity, by this time—"that is true." He then took an immense pinch of snuff, wiped the dust off his umbrella, led me to an arch commanding a wonderful view of the bay of Naples, and pointed deep into the earth from which I had mounted. "Below there, near the lamp, one finds an Englishman, with a servant with a wooden leg. It is always possible that he is the Signor Loothere." I had been asked at six, and it was now getting on for seven. I went down again in a state of perspiration and misery not to be described, and without the faintest hope of finding the place. But as I was going down to the lamp, I saw the strangest staircase up a dark corner, with a man in a white-waistcoat (evidently hired) standing on the top of it, fuming. I dashed in at a venture, found it was the place, made the most of the whole story, and was indescribably popular.[328] The best of it was, that as nobody ever did find the place, he had put a servant at the bottom of the Salita, to "wait for an English gentleman." The servant (as he presently pleaded), deceived by the moustache, had allowed the English gentleman to pass unchallenged.
One night in Naples, Edward came in, wide-eyed, to the dining room where we were having dinner with the Tennents, to announce "The Marchese Garofalo." At first, I thought it was the little parrot-marquess who once accompanied you from Genoa; but it turned out to be a man (married to an Englishwoman) whom we used to see at Ridgway's. He was really happy to see me, and later I met him again at dinner at Mr. Lowther's, our chargé d'affaires. Mr. Lowther was at the Rockingham play and is a very pleasant guy. We had a wonderfully enjoyable dinner of eight, but almost had the ridiculous adventure of not being able to find the house and returning without dinner. I took an open carriage from the hotel in style, and to my surprise, the coachman stopped at the end of the Chiaja. "Here's the house," he said, "of Il Signor Larthoor!"—pointing with his whip up into the sky, where the early stars were shining. "But the Signor Larthoor," replied the delightful darling, "lives at Pausilippo." "That's true," said the coachman (still pointing at the evening star), "but he lives high up the Salita Sant' Antonio, where no carriage has ever gone, and that is the house" (evening star as mentioned), "and you have to go on foot. Look, there's the Salita Sant' Antonio!" I walked up it, probably about a mile and a half. I ended up in the strangest places, among the wildest Neapolitans—kitchens, wash areas, archways, stables, vineyards—was barked at by dogs, answered in completely incomprehensible Neapolitan from behind lonely locked doors, in shaky female voices, trembling with fear; couldn't find any such Englishman or any Englishman at all. Eventually, I stumbled upon a Polenta-shop in the clouds, where an old Frenchman, with an umbrella like a faded tropical leaf (it hadn’t rained in six weeks), was staring off into space, holding a snuff-box. I asked him about Signor Larthoor. "Sir," he said, with the kindest politeness, "can you speak French?" "Sir," I replied, "a little." "Sir," he said, "I presume the Signor Loothere"—you'll notice he changed the name according to his country's custom—"is an Englishman." I admitted he was a victim of circumstances and unfortunate in that regard. "Sir," he continued, "one more question. Does he have a servant with a wooden leg?" "Good heavens, sir," I responded, "how would I know! I wouldn’t think so, but it’s possible." "It is always," said the Frenchman, "possible. Almost all things in the world are always possible." "Sir," I said—you can imagine how I felt, and my gloomy sense of absurdity by this point—"that is true." He then took a huge pinch of snuff, wiped the dust off his umbrella, led me to an arch with a stunning view of the bay of Naples, and pointed deep down to the earth from which I had climbed. "Down there, near the lamp, you’ll find an Englishman, with a servant who has a wooden leg. It’s always possible that he is the Signor Loothere." I had been asked at six, and it was now approaching seven. I went back down in a state of sweat and misery that’s hard to describe, with no hope at all of finding the place. But as I headed down to the lamp, I saw the oddest staircase in a dark corner, with a man in a white waistcoat (clearly hired) standing at the top, looking frustrated. I dashed in impulsively, found it was the right place, made the best of the whole story, and became incredibly popular. The best part was that since no one ever found the place, he had stationed a servant at the bottom of the Salita to "wait for an English gentleman." The servant (as he later explained) had mistaken me for someone else because of my moustache and let the English gentleman pass unchallenged.
The night before we left Naples we were at the San Carlo, where, with the Verdi rage of our old Genoa time, they were again doing the "Trovatore." It seemed rubbish on the whole to me, but was very fairly done. I think "La Tenco," the prima donna, will soon be a great hit in London. She is a very remarkable singer and a fine actress, to the best of my judgment on such premises. There seems to be no opera here, at present. There was a Festa in St. Peter's to-day, and the Pope passed to the Cathedral in state. We were all there.
The night before we left Naples, we went to the San Carlo, where they were performing "Trovatore" with the intense energy reminiscent of our time in Genoa. Overall, it seemed pretty mediocre to me, but it was done quite well. I think "La Tenco," the leading lady, is going to be a big hit in London soon. She’s an exceptional singer and a great actress, in my opinion. Right now, there doesn't seem to be any opera here. Today, there was a festival at St. Peter's, and the Pope made a grand entrance to the Cathedral. We were all there.
We leave here, please God, on Friday morning, and post to Florence in three days and a half. We came here by Vetturino. Upon the whole, the roadside inns are greatly improved since our time. Half-past three and half-past four have been, however, our usual times of rising on the road.
We’re hoping to leave here on Friday morning and reach Florence in three and a half days. We arrived here by Vetturino. Overall, the roadside inns have definitely gotten better since we were last here. Our usual wake-up times on the road have typically been around three-thirty and four-thirty.
I was in my old place at the Coliseum this morning, and it was as grand as ever. With that exception the ruined part of Rome—the real original Rome—looks smaller than my remembrance made it. It is the only place on which I have yet found that effect. We are in the old hotel.
I was at my old spot at the Coliseum this morning, and it was just as magnificent as always. Except for that, the ruined part of Rome—the genuine original Rome—seems smaller than I remembered. It's the only place where I've noticed that effect. We're in the old hotel.
You are going to Bonchurch I suppose? will be there, perhaps, when this letter reaches you? I shall be pleased to think of you as at home again, and making the commodious family mansion look natural and home-like. I don't like to think of my room without anybody to peep [329]into it now and then. Here is a world of travelling arrangements for me to settle, and here are Collins and Egg looking sideways at me with an occasional imploring glance as beseeching me to settle it. So I leave off. Good-night.
You’re going to Bonchurch, I guess? You might be there by the time this letter reaches you? I’ll be happy to picture you back home, making the spacious family house feel cozy and inviting. I really don’t like thinking about my room empty without someone peeking in now and then. There’s a ton of travel plans I need to sort out, and here are Collins and Egg glancing at me every so often, practically begging me to figure it out. So, I’ll wrap it up here. Goodnight.
Most affectionately yours.
Hotel of the British Isles, Piazza del Popolo, Rome,
Monday, Nov. 14th, 1853.
As I never made a good bargain in my life—except once, when, on going abroad, I let my house on excellent terms to an admirable tenant, who never paid anything—I sent Edward into the Casa Dies yesterday morning, while I invested the premises from the outside, and carefully surveyed them. It is a very clean, large, bright-looking house at the corner of the Via Gregoriana; not exactly in a part of Rome I should pick out for living in, and on what I should be disposed to call the wrong side of the street. However, this is not to the purpose. Signor Dies has no idea of letting an apartment for a short time—scouted the idea of a month—signified that he could not be brought to the contemplation of two months—was by no means clear that he could come down to the consideration of three. This of course settled the business speedily.
As I’ve never made a good deal in my life—except once, when I rented my house out on great terms to an amazing tenant who never paid anything—I sent Edward into the Casa Dies yesterday morning while I checked out the place from the outside and looked it over. It’s a very clean, big, bright-looking house at the corner of Via Gregoriana; not exactly in a part of Rome I’d choose to live in, and on what I’d call the wrong side of the street. But that’s beside the point. Signor Dies has no intention of renting an apartment for a short time—he dismissed the idea of a month—indicated that he wouldn’t consider two months—and wasn’t sure he could even think about three. This, of course, wrapped things up quickly.
This hotel is no longer kept by the Melloni I spoke of, but is even better kept than in his time, and is a very admirable house. I have engaged a small apartment for you to be ready on Thursday afternoon (at two piastres and a half—two-and-a-half per day—sitting-room and three bedrooms, one double-bedded and two not). If you would like to change to ours, which is a very good one, on Friday morning, you can of course do so. As our dining-room is large, and there is no table d'hôte here, I will order dinner[330] in it for our united parties at six on Thursday. You will be able to decide how to arrange for the remainder of your stay, after being here and looking about you—two really necessary considerations in Rome.
This hotel is no longer managed by the Melloni I mentioned, but it's actually better maintained than it was in his time, and it's a really impressive place. I've booked a small apartment for you that will be ready on Thursday afternoon (at two and a half piastres—two and a half per day—it's got a sitting room and three bedrooms, one with a double bed and two with single beds). If you’d like to switch to our apartment, which is quite nice, on Friday morning, you can definitely do that. Since our dining room is spacious and there's no set dinner here, I’ll arrange for dinner[330] for our group at six on Thursday. You can figure out the details for the rest of your stay after you get here and explore—those are two really important things to consider in Rome.
Pray make my kind regards to Lady Tennent, and Miss Tennent, and your good son, who became homeless for my sake. Mr. Egg and Mr. Collins desire to be also remembered.
Please send my best regards to Lady Tennent, Miss Tennent, and your wonderful son, who became homeless for my benefit. Mr. Egg and Mr. Collins also want to be remembered.
It has been beautiful weather since we left Naples, until to-day, when it rains in a very dogged, sullen, downcast, and determined manner. We have been speculating at breakfast on the possibility of its raining in a similar manner at Naples, and of your wandering about the hotel, refusing consolation.
It has been great weather since we left Naples, until today, when it’s raining in a very stubborn, gloomy, and determined way. We were speculating at breakfast about the chance of it raining like this in Naples, and you wandering around the hotel, turning down any comfort.
I grieve to report the Orvieto considerably damaged by the general vine failure, but still far from despicable. Montefiascone (the Est wine you know) is to be had here; and we have had one bottle in the very finest condition, and one in a second-rate state.
I regret to inform you that the Orvieto has been significantly affected by the overall vine failure, but it's still quite good. Montefiascone (the Est wine you know) is available here; we've had one bottle in excellent condition and another that was just okay.
The Coliseum, in its magnificent old decay, is as grand as ever; and with the electric telegraph darting through one of its ruined arches like a sunbeam and piercing direct through its cruel old heart, is even grander.
The Coliseum, in its impressive old decay, is as magnificent as ever; and with the electric telegraph shooting through one of its crumbling arches like a sunbeam and stabbing directly into its cruel old heart, it’s even more magnificent.
Rome, Monday, Nov. 14th, 1853.
As I have mentioned in my letter to Georgy (written last night but posted with this), I received her letter without yours, to my unbounded astonishment. This morning, on sending again to the post-office, I at last got yours, and most welcome it is with all its contents.[331]
As I mentioned in my letter to Georgy (written last night but posted with this), I received her letter without yours, which completely surprised me. This morning, when I checked at the post office again, I finally got yours, and I’m really happy about everything in it.[331]
I found Layard at Naples, who went up Vesuvius with us, and was very merry and agreeable. He is travelling with Lord and Lady Somers, and Lord Somers being laid up with an attack of malaria fever, Layard had a day to spare. Craven, who was Lord Normanby's Secretary of Legation in Paris, now lives at Naples, and is married to a French lady. He is very hospitable and hearty, and seemed to have vague ideas that something might be done in a pretty little private theatre he has in his house. He told me of Fanny Kemble and the Sartoris's being here. I have also heard of Thackeray's being here—I don't know how truly. Lockhart is here, and, I fear, very ill. I mean to go and see him.
I found Layard in Naples, who went up Vesuvius with us and was very cheerful and pleasant. He’s traveling with Lord and Lady Somers, and since Lord Somers is laid up with malaria, Layard had a day to spare. Craven, who was Lord Normanby's Secretary of Legation in Paris, now lives in Naples and is married to a French woman. He’s very hospitable and warm-hearted, and he seemed to have some ideas about doing something in a nice little private theater he has in his house. He mentioned that Fanny Kemble and the Sartoris were here. I’ve also heard that Thackeray is here—I’m not sure how true that is. Lockhart is here as well, and I’m afraid he’s very ill. I plan to go and see him.
We are living in the old hotel, which is not now kept by Meloni, who has retired. I don't know whether you recollect an apartment at the top of the house, to which we once ran up with poor Roche to see the horses start in the race at the Carnival time? That is ours, in which I at present write. We have a large back dining-room, a handsome front drawing-room, looking into the Piazza del Popolo, and three front bedrooms, all on a floor. The whole costs us about four shillings a day each. The hotel is better kept than ever. There is a little kitchen to each apartment where the dinner is kept hot. There is no house comparable to it in Paris, and it is better than Mivart's. We start for Florence, post, on Friday morning, and I am bargaining for a carriage to take us on to Venice.
We’re staying at the old hotel, which is no longer run by Meloni since he’s retired. I don’t know if you remember the apartment at the top of the building, where we once rushed up with poor Roche to watch the horses start in the race during Carnival? That’s ours, where I’m writing now. We have a big dining room in the back, a beautiful front living room overlooking the Piazza del Popolo, and three front bedrooms, all on the same floor. It costs us about four shillings a day each. The hotel is better maintained than ever. Each apartment has a small kitchen to keep dinner warm. There’s no place like it in Paris, and it’s better than Mivart's. We’re heading to Florence by post on Friday morning, and I’m negotiating for a carriage to take us to Venice.
Edward is an excellent servant, and always cheerful and ready for his work. He knows no Italian, except the names of a few things, but French is far more widely known here now than in our time. Neither is he an experienced courier as to roads and so forth; but he picks up all that I want to know, here and there, somehow or other. I am perfectly[332] pleased with him, and would rather have him than an older hand. Poor dear Roche comes back to my mind though, often.
Edward is a great servant, always cheerful and ready to work. He doesn't know much Italian, just a few names, but French is much more common here now than it was in our time. He isn't very experienced as a courier in terms of roads and stuff, but he manages to pick up everything I need to know, here and there. I'm really[332] happy with him and would prefer him over someone more experienced. Still, I often think about poor dear Roche.
I have written to engage the courier from Turin into France, from Tuesday, the 6th December. This will bring us home some two days after the tenth, probably. I wrote to Charley from Naples, giving him his choice of meeting me at Lyons, in Paris, or at Boulogne. I gave him full instructions what to do if he arrived before me, and he will write to me at Turin saying where I shall find him. I shall be a day or so later than I supposed as the nearest calculation I could make when I wrote to him; but his waiting for me at an hotel will not matter.
I’ve arranged for a courier from Turin to France starting on Tuesday, December 6th. This should get us home about two days after the tenth. I texted Charley from Naples, giving him the option to meet me in Lyons, Paris, or Boulogne. I provided him with detailed instructions on what to do if he arrives before me, and he will write to me in Turin to let me know where I can find him. I’ll be a day or so later than I initially thought when I wrote to him; however, it won’t be an issue for him to wait for me at a hotel.
We have had delightful weather, with one day's exception, until to-day, when it rained very heavily and suddenly. Egg and Collins have gone to the Vatican, and I am "going" to try whether I can hit out anything for the Christmas number. Give my love to Forster, and tell him I won't write to him until I hear from him.
We’ve had great weather, except for one day, until today when it suddenly poured rain. Egg and Collins have gone to the Vatican, and I’m going to try to come up with something for the Christmas issue. Send my love to Forster and let him know I won’t write to him until I hear from him.
I have not come across any English whom I know except Layard and the Emerson Tennents, who will be here on Thursday from Civita Vecchia, and are to dine with us. The losses up to this point have been two pairs of shoes (one mine and one Egg's), Collins's snuff-box, and Egg's dressing-gown.
I haven't run into any English people I know except Layard and the Emerson Tennents, who are arriving here on Thursday from Civita Vecchia and are coming over for dinner. So far, we've lost two pairs of shoes (one of mine and one of Egg's), Collins's snuff-box, and Egg's dressing gown.
We observe the managerial punctuality in all our arrangements, and have not had any difference whatever.
We ensure that our management is always punctual in all our plans, and we haven't encountered any issues at all.
I have been reserving this side all through my letter, in the conviction that I had something else to tell you. If I had, I cannot remember what it is. I introduced myself to Salvatore at Vesuvius, and reminded him of the night when poor Le Gros fell down the mountains. He was full of interest directly, remembered the very hole, put on his gold-banded[333] cap, and went up with us himself. He did not know that Le Gros was dead, and was very sorry to hear it. He asked after the ladies, and hoped they were very happy, to which I answered, "Very." The cone is completely changed since our visit, is not at all recognisable as the same place; and there is no fire from the mountain, though there is a great deal of smoke. Its last demonstration was in 1850.
I’ve been holding off on this part of my letter, thinking I had something more to say. If I did, I can't recall what it was. I introduced myself to Salvatore at Vesuvius and reminded him of the night when poor Le Gros fell down the mountain. He was immediately interested, remembered the exact spot, put on his gold-banded [333] cap, and came along with us. He didn’t know Le Gros had died and was very sorry to hear it. He asked about the ladies and hoped they were happy, to which I responded, "Absolutely." The cone has completely changed since our visit; it’s unrecognizable as the same place, and there’s no fire from the mountain, though there is a lot of smoke. Its last activity was in 1850.
I shall be glad to think of your all being at home again, as I suppose you will be soon after the receipt of this. Will you see to the invitations for Christmas Day, and write to Lætitia? I shall be very happy to be at home again myself, and to embrace you; for of course I miss you very much, though I feel that I could not have done a better thing to clear my mind and freshen it up again, than make this expedition. If I find Charley much ahead of me, I shall start on through a night or so to meet him, and leave the others to catch us up. I look upon the journey as almost closed at Turin. My best love to Mamey, and Katey, and Sydney, and Harry, and the darling Plornishghenter. We often talk about them, and both my companions do so with interest. They always send all sorts of messages to you, which I never deliver. God bless you! Take care of yourself.
I’ll be really happy to think of all of you being at home again, which I assume will be soon after you get this. Can you handle the invitations for Christmas Day and write to Lætitia? I can’t wait to be home again myself and hug you; I miss you so much, but I believe I couldn’t have done anything better to clear my head and refresh myself than to go on this trip. If I see that Charley is ahead of me, I’ll travel through the night to catch up with him and let the others follow us. I see the journey almost coming to an end in Turin. Send my love to Mamey, Katey, Sydney, Harry, and the sweet Plornishghenter. We often talk about them, and my companions are genuinely interested. They always send all kinds of messages for you, which I never pass along. God bless you! Take care of yourself.
Rome, Thursday Afternoon, Nov. 17th, 1853.
Just as I wrote the last words of the enclosed little story for the Christmas number just now, Edward brought in your letter. Also one from Forster (tell him) which I have not yet opened. I will write again—and write to him—from Florence. I am delighted to have news of you.[334]
Just as I finished the last words of the enclosed little story for the Christmas issue just now, Edward brought in your letter. There's also one from Forster (let him know) which I haven't opened yet. I'll write again—and will write to him—from Florence. I'm so happy to hear from you.[334]
The enclosed little paper for the Christmas number is in a character that nobody else is likely to hit, and which is pretty sure to be considered pleasant. Let Forster have the MS. with the proof, and I know he will correct it to the minutest point. I have a notion of another little story, also for the Christmas number. If I can do it at Venice, I will, and send it straight on. But it is not easy to work under these circumstances. In travelling we generally get up about three; and in resting we are perpetually roaming about in all manner of places. Not to mention my being laid hold of by all manner of people.
The attached little piece for the Christmas issue has a style that no one else is likely to capture, and it will probably be seen as enjoyable. Let Forster have the manuscript along with the proof, and I trust he’ll revise it down to the smallest detail. I’ve also got an idea for another short story for the Christmas issue. If I can manage it in Venice, I’ll send it right away. However, it’s not easy to write under these conditions. While traveling, we usually get up around three, and during our downtime, we’re constantly moving around in all sorts of places. Not to mention, I keep getting approached by all kinds of people.
Keep "Household Words" Imaginative! is the solemn and continual Conductorial Injunction. Delighted to hear of Mrs. Gaskell's contributions.
Household Words! is the serious and ongoing directive from the editor. It's great to hear about Mrs. Gaskell's contributions.
Yes by all manner of means to Lady Holland. Will you ask her whether she has Sydney Smith's letters to me, which I placed (at Mrs. Smith's request) either in Mrs. Smith's own hands or in Mrs. Austin's? I cannot remember which, but I think the latter.
Yes, definitely ask Lady Holland. Can you check if she has Sydney Smith's letters to me, which I gave (at Mrs. Smith's request) to either Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Austin? I can’t recall which one, but I think it was the latter.
In making up the Christmas number, don't consider my paper or papers, with any reference saving to where they will fall best. I have no liking, in the case, for any particular place.
In putting together the Christmas edition, don't worry about my article or articles, except for where they will fit best. I don't have any preference for a specific placement in this case.
All perfectly well. Companion moustaches (particularly Egg's) dismal in the extreme. Kindest regards to Mrs. Wills.
All is perfectly fine. The companion moustaches (especially Egg's) are incredibly gloomy. Best wishes to Mrs. Wills.
Florence, Monday, Nov. 21st, 1853.
I sent you by post from Rome, on Wednesday last, a little story for the Christmas number, called "The Schoolboy's[335] Story." I have an idea of another short one, to be called "Nobody's Story," which I hope to be able to do at Venice, and to send you straight home before this month is out. I trust you have received the first safely.
I sent you a little story for the Christmas issue called "The Schoolboy's[335] Story" by post from Rome last Wednesday. I have an idea for another short one, titled "Nobody's Story," which I hope to write in Venice and send it straight home before the end of this month. I hope you received the first one safely.
Edward continues to do extremely well. He is always, early and late, what you have seen him. He is a very steady fellow, a little too bashful for a courier even; settles prices of everything now, as soon as we come into an hotel; and improves fast. His knowledge of Italian is painfully defective, and, in the midst of a howling crowd at a post-house or railway station, this deficiency perfectly stuns him. I was obliged last night to get out of the carriage, and pluck him from a crowd of porters who were putting our baggage into wrong conveyances—by cursing and ordering about in all directions. I should think about ten substantives, the names of ten common objects, form his whole Italian stock. It matters very little at the hotels, where a great deal of French is spoken now; but, on the road, if none of his party knew Italian, it would be a very serious inconvenience indeed.
Edward is doing really well. He's consistently the same, whether early or late. He's a very reliable guy, maybe a bit too shy to be a courier; he figures out the prices for everything as soon as we arrive at a hotel and is improving quickly. His Italian is pretty poor, and in the middle of a noisy crowd at a post office or train station, this really throws him off. Last night, I had to get out of the carriage and pull him away from a group of porters who were loading our luggage onto the wrong vehicles by yelling and giving orders in all directions. I think he knows about ten nouns, the names of ten common things, and that's his entire Italian vocabulary. It doesn't matter much at the hotels since a lot of French is spoken, but on the road, if none of his group knew Italian, it would be a pretty big problem.
Will you write to Ryland if you have not heard from him, and ask him what the Birmingham reading-nights are really to be? For it is ridiculous enough that I positively don't know. Can't a Saturday Night in a Truck District, or a Sunday Morning among the Ironworkers (a fine subject) be knocked out in the course of the same visit?
Will you write to Ryland if you haven't heard from him and ask him what the Birmingham reading nights are actually going to be? It's pretty ridiculous that I don't know. Can't we squeeze in a Saturday night in a trucking district or a Sunday morning with the ironworkers (that's a great subject) during the same visit?
If you should see any managing man you know in the Oriental and Peninsular Company, I wish you would very gravely mention to him from me that if they are not careful what they are about with their steamship Valetta, between Marseilles and Naples, they will suddenly find that they[336] will receive a blow one fine day in The Times, which it will be a very hard matter for them ever to recover. When I sailed in her from Genoa, there had been taken on board, with no caution in most cases from the agent, or hint of discomfort, at least forty people of both sexes for whom there was no room whatever. I am a pretty old traveller as you know, but I never saw anything like the manner in which pretty women were compelled to lie among the men in the great cabin and on the bare decks. The good humour was beyond all praise, but the natural indignation very great; and I was repeatedly urged to stand up for the public in "Household Words," and to write a plain description of the facts to The Times. If I had done either, and merely mentioned that all these people paid heavy first-class fares, I will answer for it that they would have been beaten off the station in a couple of months. I did neither, because I was the best of friends with the captain and all the officers, and never saw such a fine set of men; so admirable in the discharge of their duty, and so zealous to do their best by everybody. It is impossible to praise them too highly. But there is a strong desire at all the ports along the coast to throw impediments in the way of the English service, and to favour the French and Italian boats. In those boats (which I know very well) great care is taken of the passengers, and the accommodation is very good. If the Peninsula and Oriental add to all this the risk of such an exposure as they are certain to get (if they go on so) in The Times, they are dead sure to get a blow from the public which will make them stagger again. I say nothing of the number of the passengers and the room in the ship's boats, though the frightful consideration the contrast presented must have been in more minds than mine. I speak only of the taking people for whom there is no sort of accommodation[337] as the most decided swindle, and the coolest, I ever did with my eyes behold.
If you happen to see anyone in charge at the Oriental and Peninsular Company, please seriously tell him from me that if they’re not careful with their steamship Valetta, running between Marseilles and Naples, they might wake up one day to find a damaging article in The Times, which could be really hard for them to recover from. When I traveled on her from Genoa, at least forty passengers, men and women, were brought on board with little caution from the agent or any hint that they might be uncomfortable, and there was simply no room for them. I’ve traveled a lot, as you know, but I’ve never seen anything like the way attractive women had to lie among the men in the main cabin and on the bare decks. The good humor was commendable, but the natural indignation was significant, and I was frequently encouraged to stand up for the public in "Household Words" and to write a straightforward account of the situation to The Times. If I had done either, just mentioning that all these passengers paid hefty first-class fares, I can guarantee that they would have been kicked off the route in a couple of months. I didn’t do anything, because I was on good terms with the captain and all the officers, who were an outstanding group of men; they handled their duties admirably and were dedicated to doing their best for everyone. They deserve the highest praise. However, there is a strong intention at all the ports along the coast to create obstacles for the English service and support the French and Italian boats. On those boats (which I know well), passengers receive great care, and the accommodations are very good. If the Peninsula and Oriental continue to risk a public outcry like the one they’re sure to face in The Times if they keep this up, they can be certain that they’ll take a hit from the public that will knock them back. I’m not even mentioning the number of passengers and the space on the ship's lifeboats, although the shocking contrast must have crossed more minds than just mine. I’m only referring to taking on people for whom there’s absolutely no lodging as the clearest scam, and the most audacious I’ve ever witnessed.
Ever, my dear Wills, faithfully yours.
Venice, Friday, November 25th, 1853.
We found an English carriage from Padua at Florence, and hired it to bring it back again. We travelled post with four horses all the way (from Padua to this place there is a railroad) and travelled all night. We left Florence at half-past six in the morning, and got to Padua at eleven next day—yesterday. The cold at night was most intense. I don't think I have ever felt it colder. But our carriage was very comfortable, and we had some wine and some rum to keep us warm. We came by Bologna (where we had tea) and Ferrara. You may imagine the delays in the night when I tell you that each of our passports, after receiving six visés at Florence, received in the course of the one night, nine more, every one of which was written and sealed; somebody being slowly knocked out of bed to do it every time! It really was excruciating.
We found an English carriage from Padua in Florence and hired it to take us back. We traveled overnight with four horses the whole way (there’s a railroad from Padua to this place) and left Florence at 6:30 AM, arriving in Padua at 11 AM the next day—yesterday. The cold at night was incredibly intense; I don't think I’ve ever felt it this cold. But our carriage was very comfortable, and we had some wine and rum to keep us warm. We passed through Bologna (where we had tea) and Ferrara. You can imagine the delays at night when I tell you that each of our passports received six stamps in Florence and then nine more throughout the night, each one written and sealed; someone was slowly pulled out of bed to do it each time! It really was torturous.
Landor had sent me a letter to his son, and on the day before we left Florence I thought I would go out to Fiesoli and leave it. So I got a little one-horse open carriage and drove off alone. We were within half a mile of the Villa Landoro, and were driving down a very narrow lane like one of those at Albaro, when I saw an elderly lady coming towards us, very well dressed in silk of the Queen's blue, and walking freshly and briskly against the wind at a good round pace. It was a bright, cloudless, very cold day, and I thought she walked with great spirit, as if she enjoyed it. I also thought (perhaps that was having him in my mind)[338] that her ruddy face was shaped like Landor's. All of a sudden the coachman pulls up, and looks enquiringly at me. "What's the matter?" says I. "Ecco la Signora Landoro?" says he. "For the love of Heaven, don't stop," says I. "I don't know her, I am only going to the house to leave a letter—go on!" Meanwhile she (still coming on) looked at me, and I looked at her, and we were both a good deal confused, and so went our several ways. Altogether, I think it was as disconcerting a meeting as I ever took part in, and as odd a one. Under any other circumstances I should have introduced myself, but the separation made the circumstances so peculiar that "I didn't like."
Landor had sent me a letter for his son, and the day before we left Florence, I decided to go out to Fiesoli to deliver it. So, I rented a small horse-drawn carriage and set off by myself. We were about half a mile from Villa Landoro, driving down a very narrow lane similar to those in Albaro when I spotted an elderly lady walking toward us. She was dressed elegantly in Queen's blue silk and was walking briskly against the wind at a good pace. It was a bright, clear, and very cold day, and I thought she carried herself with great spirit, as if she was enjoying the weather. I also thought (maybe because I had him on my mind) that her rosy face resembled Landor's. Suddenly, the coachman stopped and looked at me questioningly. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Is that Signora Landoro?" he replied. "For heaven's sake, don't stop," I said. "I don’t know her; I’m just going to the house to drop off a letter—keep going!" Meanwhile, she was still approaching, looking at me while I looked at her, and we both felt quite confused, so we went our separate ways. Overall, I think it was one of the most awkward meetings I’ve ever experienced, and rather strange as well. Under normal circumstances, I would have introduced myself, but the separation made things so unusual that I "didn't want to."
The Plornishghenter is evidently the greatest, noblest, finest, cleverest, brightest, and most brilliant of boys. Your account of him is most delightful, and I hope to find another letter from you somewhere on the road, making me informed of his demeanour on your return. On which occasion, as on every other, I have no doubt he will have distinguished himself as an irresistibly attracting, captivating May-Roon-Ti-Groon-Ter. Give him a good many kisses for me. I quite agree with Syd as to his ideas of paying attention to the old gentleman. It's not bad, but deficient in originality. The usual deficiency of an inferior intellect with so great a model before him. I am very curious to see whether the Plorn remembers me on my reappearance.
The Plornishghenter is clearly the greatest, noblest, finest, smartest, brightest, and most brilliant boy. Your description of him is so enjoyable, and I hope to find another letter from you somewhere on the way, updating me on how he behaves when you return. As always, I’m sure he will stand out as an irresistibly charming, captivating May-Roon-Ti-Groon-Ter. Please give him lots of kisses for me. I completely agree with Syd about how he should show respect to the old gentleman. It's not bad, but it lacks originality. That's the typical shortcoming of a lesser mind when faced with such a great example. I'm really curious to see if the Plorn remembers me when I come back.
I meant to have gone to work this morning, and to have tried a second little story for the Christmas number of "Household Words," but my letters have (most pleasantly) put me out, and I defer all such wise efforts until to-morrow. Egg and Collins are out in a gondola with a servitore di piazza.
I intended to go to work this morning and try writing a second short story for the Christmas edition of "Household Words," but my letters have (in a lovely way) distracted me, so I'm postponing all those smart efforts until tomorrow. Egg and Collins are out in a gondola with a street performer.
You will find this but a stupid letter, but I really have no news. We go to the opera, whenever there is one, see[339] sights, eat and drink, sleep in a natural manner two or three nights, and move on again. Edward was a little crushed at Padua yesterday. He had been extraordinarily cold all night in the rumble, and had got out our clothes to dress, and I think must have been projecting a five or six hours' sleep, when I announced that he was to come on here in an hour and a half to get the rooms and order dinner. He fell into a sudden despondency of the profoundest kind, but was quite restored when we arrived here between eight and nine. We found him waiting at the Custom House with a gondola in his usual brisk condition.
You might think this is just a silly letter, but I honestly have no news to share. We go to the opera whenever there's one, check out the sights, eat and drink, sleep normally for two or three nights, and then move on again. Edward was a bit down in Padua yesterday. He had been freezing all night in the carriage and had gotten our clothes out to get ready, probably hoping for a five or six-hour sleep, when I told him he needed to come here in an hour and a half to get the rooms and order dinner. He suddenly fell into a deep sadness, but he was totally back to his usual self by the time we arrived here between eight and nine. We found him waiting at the Customs House with a gondola, as upbeat as ever.
It is extraordinary how few English we see. With the exception of a gentlemanly young fellow (in a consumption I am afraid), married to the tiniest little girl, in a brown straw hat, and travelling with his sister and her sister, and a consumptive single lady, travelling with a maid and a Scotch terrier christened Trotty Veck, we have scarcely seen any, and have certainly spoken to none, since we left Switzerland. These were aboard the Valetta, where the captain and I indulged in all manner of insane suppositions concerning the straw hat—the "Little Matron" we called her; by which name she soon became known all over the ship. The day we entered Rome, and the moment we entered it, there was the Little Matron, alone with antiquity—and Murray—on the wall. The very first church I entered, there was the Little Matron. On the last afternoon, when I went alone to St. Peter's, there was the Little Matron and her party. The best of it is, that I was extremely intimate with them, invited them to Tavistock House, when they come home in the spring, and have not the faintest idea of their name.
It’s amazing how few English people we’ve encountered. Aside from a gentlemanly young guy (who seems to be sick), married to a tiny little girl in a brown straw hat, traveling with his sister and her sister, plus a sick single woman traveling with her maid and a Scotch terrier named Trotty Veck, we’ve hardly seen anyone and definitely haven’t talked to anyone since leaving Switzerland. These were on the Valetta, where the captain and I came up with all sorts of wild theories about the straw hat—we referred to her as the "Little Matron," and soon everyone on the ship called her that. The day we arrived in Rome, the very moment we entered, there was the Little Matron, standing alone among the ruins—and a Murray—on the wall. In the first church I walked into, there was the Little Matron again. On my last afternoon, when I went to St. Peter's on my own, there was the Little Matron and her group. The best part is that I became really friendly with them, invited them to Tavistock House when they return in the spring, and I still don’t have a clue what their last name is.
There was no table d'hôte at Rome, or at Florence, but there is one here, and we dine at it to-day, so perhaps we[340] may stumble upon somebody. I have heard from Charley this morning, who appoints (wisely) Paris as our place of meeting. I had a letter from Coote, at Florence, informing me that his volume of "Household Songs" was ready, and requesting permission to dedicate it to me. Which of course I gave.
There wasn't a set menu in Rome or Florence, but there is one here, and we're dining at it today, so maybe we[340] might run into someone. I heard from Charley this morning, and he's wisely chosen Paris as our meeting spot. I got a letter from Coote in Florence, letting me know that his book of "Household Songs" is ready and asking if he can dedicate it to me. Of course, I agreed.
I am beginning to think of the Birmingham readings. I suppose you won't object to be taken to hear them? This is the last place at which we shall make a stay of more than one day. We shall stay at Parma one, and at Turin one, supposing De la Rue to have been successful in taking places with the courier into France for the day on which we want them (he was to write to bankers at Turin to do it), and then we shall come hard and fast home. I feel almost there already, and shall be delighted to close the pleasant trip, and get back to my own Piccola Camera—if, being English, you understand what that is. My best love and kisses to Mamey, Katey, Sydney, Harry, and the noble Plorn. Last, not least, to yourself, and many of them. I will not wait over to-morrow, tell Kate, for her letter; but will write then, whether or no.
I’m starting to think about the readings in Birmingham. I guess you won’t mind being taken to hear them? This is the last place where we’ll stay for more than one day. We’ll spend one night in Parma and one in Turin, assuming De la Rue has been successful in booking places with the courier to France for the day we need them (he was supposed to write to bankers in Turin to arrange it), and then we’ll head straight home. I almost feel like I’m there already and would be thrilled to wrap up this nice trip and get back to my own Piccola Camera—if you understand what that means, being English. Please send my love and kisses to Mamey, Katey, Sydney, Harry, and the wonderful Plorn. Last but not least, to you, and many of them. I won’t wait until tomorrow to tell Kate about her letter; I’ll write anyway, whether or not.
Most affectionately yours.
Tavistock House, December 19th, 1853.
You made an excellent sketch from a book of mine which I have received (and have preserved) with great pleasure. Will you accept from me, in remembrance of it, this little book? I believe it to be true, though it may be sometimes not as genteel as history has a habit of being.
You created a great sketch from one of my books that I have received (and kept) with much joy. Would you accept this little book from me as a keepsake? I think it's true, even if it might not always be as polished as history tends to be.
1854.
NARRATIVE.
In the early part of the year Charles Dickens paid several visits to the English provinces, giving readings from his books at many of the large manufacturing towns, and always for some good and charitable purpose.
In the early part of the year, Charles Dickens visited several regions in England, giving readings from his books in many large industrial towns, always for a good cause.
He was still at work upon "Hard Times," which was finished during the summer, and was constantly occupied with "Household Words." Many of our letters for this year are to the contributors to this journal. The last is an unusually interesting one. He had for some time past been much charmed with the writings of a certain Miss Berwick, who, he knew, to be a contributor under a feigned name. When at last the lady confided her real name, and he discovered in the young poetess the daughter of his dear friends, Mr.[16] and Mrs. Procter, the "new sensation" caused him intense surprise, and the greatest pleasure and delight. Miss Adelaide Procter was, from this time, a frequent contributor to "Household Words," more especially to the Christmas numbers.
He was still working on "Hard Times," which he finished during the summer, and was constantly busy with "Household Words." Many of our letters from this year are addressed to the contributors of this journal. The last one is particularly interesting. He had been really impressed by the writing of a certain Miss Berwick, who he knew was contributing under a pseudonym. When the lady finally revealed her real name, he was stunned to find out that this young poetess was the daughter of his dear friends, Mr.[16] and Mrs. Procter. The "new sensation" brought him intense surprise, as well as great pleasure and delight. From then on, Miss Adelaide Procter frequently contributed to "Household Words," especially in the Christmas editions.
There are really very few letters in this year requiring any explanation from us—many explaining themselves, and many having allusion to incidents in the past year, which have been duly noted by us for 1853.
There are actually very few letters this year that need any explanation from us—many explain themselves, and many reference events from the past year, which we have properly recorded for 1853.
The portrait mentioned in the letter to Mr. Collins, for which he was sitting to Mr. E. M. Ward, R.A., was to be one of a series of oil sketches of the then celebrated literary men of the day, in their studies. We believe this portrait to be now in the possession of Mrs. Ward.
The portrait referred to in the letter to Mr. Collins, which he was sitting for with Mr. E. M. Ward, R.A., was intended to be part of a series of oil sketches of the famous literary figures of the time, in their workspaces. We believe this portrait is now in the hands of Mrs. Ward.
In explanation of the letter to Mr. John Saunders on the subject of the production of the latter's play, called[342] "Love's Martyrdom," we will give the dramatist's own words:
In explaining the letter to Mr. John Saunders about the production of his play, titled [342] "Love's Martyrdom," we will share the dramatist's own words:
"Having printed for private circulation a play entitled 'Love's Martyrdom,' and for which I desired to obtain the independent judgment of some of our most eminent literary men, before seeking the ordeal of the stage, I sent a copy to Mr. Dickens, and the letter in question is his acknowledgment.
"Having published a play called 'Love's Martyrdom' for private circulation, I wanted to get the honest opinions of some of our most respected literary figures before putting it on stage. So, I sent a copy to Mr. Dickens, and the letter here is his response."
"He immediately took steps for the introduction of the play to the theatre. At first he arranged with Mr. Phelps, of Sadler's Wells, but subsequently, with that gentleman's consent, removed it to the Haymarket. There it was played with Miss Helen Faucit in the character of Margaret, Miss Swanborough (who shortly after married and left the stage) as Julia, Mr. Barry Sullivan as Franklyn, and Mr. Howe as Laneham.
"He quickly made arrangements to bring the play to the theater. Initially, he coordinated with Mr. Phelps from Sadler's Wells, but later, with that gentleman's agreement, moved it to the Haymarket. There, it was performed with Miss Helen Faucit as Margaret, Miss Swanborough (who soon after got married and left the stage) as Julia, Mr. Barry Sullivan as Franklyn, and Mr. Howe as Laneham."
"As far as the play itself was concerned, it was received on all sides as a genuine dramatic and poetic success, achieved, however, as an eminent critic came to my box to say, through greater difficulties than he had ever before seen a dramatic work pass through. The time has not come for me to speak freely of these, but I may point to two of them: the first being the inadequate rehearsals, which caused Mr. Dickens to tell me on the stage, four or five days only before the first performance, that the play was not then in as good a state as it would have been in at Paris three weeks earlier. The other was the breakdown of the performer of a most important secondary part; a collapse so absolute that he was changed by the management before the second representation of the piece."
"As for the play itself, it was received all around as a real dramatic and poetic success, achieved, as a well-known critic came to tell me in my box, through greater challenges than he had ever seen a dramatic work face before. The time hasn’t come for me to discuss these openly, but I can point out two of them: the first was the inadequate rehearsals, which led Mr. Dickens to tell me on stage, just four or five days before the opening night, that the play wasn’t in as good shape as it could have been in Paris three weeks earlier. The second was the breakdown of the actor in a crucial supporting role; a meltdown so complete that he was replaced by the management before the second performance."
This ill-luck of the beginning, pursued the play to its close.
This bad luck at the start followed the play to its end.
"The Haymarket Theatre was at the time in the very lowest state of prostration, through the Crimean War; the habitual frequenters were lovers of comedy, and enjoyers of farce and burlesque; and there was neither the money nor the faith to call to the theatre by the usual methods,[343] vigorously and discriminatingly pursued, the multitudes that I believed could have been so called to a better and more romantic class of comedy.
"The Haymarket Theatre was at that time in a really low place due to the Crimean War. The regulars were fans of comedy and enjoyed farce and burlesque. There was neither the money nor the belief to attract the audience to the theatre using the usual methods,[343] which I felt could have drawn in a better and more romantic style of comedy."
"Even under these and other, similarly depressing circumstances, the nightly receipts were about £60, the expenses being £80; and on the last—an author's—night, there was an excellent and enthusiastic house, yielding, to the best of my recollection, about £140, but certainly between £120 and £140. And with that night—the sixth or seventh—the experiment ended."
"Even in these and other equally discouraging situations, the nightly income was around £60, while the expenses were £80; and on the last night—an author's night—there was a great and enthusiastic audience, bringing in, if I remember correctly, about £140, but definitely between £120 and £140. And with that night—the sixth or seventh—the experiment came to a close."
Tavistock House, January 7th, 1854.
I heartily assure you that to have your name coupled with anything I have done is an honour and a pleasure to me. I cannot say that I am sorry that you should have thought it necessary to write to me, for it is always delightful to me to see your hand, and to know (though I want no outward and visible sign as an assurance of the fact) that you are ever the same generous, earnest, gallant man.
I truly want you to know that having your name associated with anything I've done is both an honor and a pleasure for me. I can't say I'm sorry you felt the need to write to me because it always makes me happy to see your handwriting and to know—though I don't need any outward confirmation—that you are still the same kind, sincere, and brave person.
Catherine and Georgina send their kind loves. So does Walter Landor, who came home from school with high judicial commendation and a prize into the bargain.
Catherine and Georgina send their love. So does Walter Landor, who came home from school with great praise and a prize to boot.
Tavistock House, Friday, January 13th, 1854.
On the very day after I sent the Christmas number to Rockingham, I heard of your being at Brighton. I should have sent another there, but that I had a misgiving I might seem to be making too much of it. For, when I thought of the probability of the Rockingham copy going on to Brighton, and pictured to myself the advent of two of those very large envelopes at once at Junction House at breakfast time, a sort of comic modesty overcame me. I was heartily pleased[344] with the Birmingham audience, which was a very fine one. I never saw, nor do I suppose anybody ever did, such an interesting sight as the working people's night. There were two thousand five hundred of them there, and a more delicately observant audience it is impossible to imagine. They lost nothing, misinterpreted nothing, followed everything closely, laughed and cried with most delightful earnestness, and animated me to that extent that I felt as if we were all bodily going up into the clouds together. It is an enormous place for the purpose; but I had considered all that carefully, and I believe made the most distant person hear as well as if I had been reading in my own room. I was a little doubtful before I began on the first night whether it was quite practicable to conceal the requisite effort; but I soon had the satisfaction of finding that it was, and that we were all going on together, in the first page, as easily, to all appearance, as if we had been sitting round the fire.
On the very day after I sent the Christmas issue to Rockingham, I heard you were in Brighton. I would have sent another copy there, but I worried it might seem like I was making too big a deal of it. When I thought about the chance of the Rockingham copy reaching Brighton and imagined two of those big envelopes arriving at Junction House at breakfast, a kind of funny modesty kicked in. I was genuinely pleased with the Birmingham audience, which was quite impressive. I've never seen, nor do I think anyone ever has, such an interesting scene as that of working people's night. There were two thousand five hundred of them, and you can't imagine a more attentive audience. They didn't miss a thing, misinterpret anything, followed everything closely, and laughed and cried with genuine enthusiasm, which inspired me so much that I felt like we were all floating up into the clouds together. It's a huge venue for this purpose, but I thought it all through carefully, and I believe I made even the person farthest away hear me as well as if I were reading in my own living room. I was a bit uncertain before starting on the first night whether I could hide the necessary effort, but I quickly found that I could, and that we were all moving along together from the first page, as effortlessly, it seemed, as if we were gathered around the fire.
I am obliged to go out on Monday at five and to dine out; but I will be at home at any time before that hour that you may appoint. You say you are only going to stay one night in town; but if you could stay two, and would dine with us alone on Tuesday, that is the plan that we should all like best. Let me have one word from you by post on Monday morning. Few things that I saw, when I was away, took my fancy so much as the Electric Telegraph, piercing, like a sunbeam, right through the cruel old heart of the Coliseum at Rome. And on the summit of the Alps, among the eternal ice and snow, there it was still, with its posts sustained against the sweeping mountain winds by clusters of great beams—to say nothing of its being at the bottom of the sea as we crossed the Channel. With kindest loves,
I have to go out on Monday at five and have dinner out, but I’ll be home anytime before then that works for you. You mentioned that you're only staying one night in town, but if you could stay for two and have dinner with us alone on Tuesday, that would be the plan we’d all prefer. Please send me a quick note by mail on Monday morning. Few things I saw while I was away impressed me as much as the Electric Telegraph, cutting through the tough old heart of the Coliseum in Rome like a sunbeam. And on the peak of the Alps, amidst the eternal ice and snow, it stood firm, its posts held against the strong mountain winds by big beams—not to mention how it reached the bottom of the sea while we crossed the Channel. With warmest regards,
Most faithfully yours.
Tavistock House, Monday, January 16th, 1854.
It is all very well to pretend to love me as you do. Ah! If you loved as I love, Mary! But, when my breast is tortured by the perusal of such a letter as yours, Falkland, Falkland, madam, becomes my part in "The Rivals," and I play it with desperate earnestness.
It’s all well and good to act like you love me the way you do. Oh! If you loved me like I love you, Mary! But when I’m tormented by reading a letter like yours, I become Falkland in "The Rivals," and I play that role with desperate seriousness.
As thus:
Understood. Please provide the text for modernization.
Scene opens, and discloses coals of fire, heaped up[346] into form of letters, representing the following inscription:
Scene opens, revealing piles of glowing coals shaped into letters that display the following inscription: [346]
To thine ear is sweetest,
O then
Remember Joe!
(Curtain falls.)
Tavistock House, Monday, Jan. 16th, 1854.
Guilty. The accused pleads guilty, but throws himself upon the mercy of the court. He humbly represents that his usual hour for getting up, in the course of his travels, was three o'clock in the morning, and his usual hour for going to bed, nine or ten the next night. That the places in which he chiefly deviated from these rules of hardship, were Rome and Venice; and that at those cities of fame he shut himself up in solitude, and wrote Christmas papers for the incomparable publication known as "Household Words." That his correspondence at all times, arising out of the business of the said "Household Words" alone, was very heavy. That his offence, though undoubtedly committed, was unavoidable, and that a nominal punishment will meet the justice of the case.
Guilty. The defendant pleads guilty but asks for the court's mercy. He respectfully states that his usual wake-up time during his travels was 3 AM, and he typically went to bed around 9 or 10 PM the following night. He notes that the only times he strayed from this challenging schedule were in Rome and Venice, where he isolated himself to write Christmas articles for the outstanding publication known as "Household Words." He mentions that his correspondence related solely to the business of "Household Words" was quite extensive. He argues that, although he committed the offense, it was unavoidable, and that a light punishment would be a fair resolution.
We had only three bad days out of the whole time. After Naples, which was very hot, we had very cold, clear, bright weather. When we got to Chamounix, we found the greater part of the inns shut up and the people gone. No visitors whatsoever, and plenty of snow. These were the very best circumstances under which to see the place, and we stayed a couple of days at the Hôtel de Londres (hastily re-furbished for our entertainment), and climbed through the snow to the Mer de Glace, and thoroughly enjoyed it. Then we went, in mule procession (I walking) to the old hotel at Martigny, where Collins was ill, and I[347] suppose I bored Egg to death by talking all the evening about the time when you and I were there together. Naples (a place always painful to me, in the intense degradation of the people) seems to have only three classes of inhabitants left in it—priests, soldiers (standing army one hundred thousand strong), and spies. Of macaroni we ate very considerable quantities everywhere; also, for the benefit of Italy, we took our share of every description of wine. At Naples I found Layard, the Nineveh traveller, who is a friend of mine and an admirable fellow; so we fraternised and went up Vesuvius together, and ate more macaroni and drank more wine. At Rome, the day after our arrival, they were making a saint at St. Peter's; on which occasion I was surprised to find what an immense number of pounds of wax candles it takes to make the regular, genuine article. From Turin to Paris, over the Mont Cenis, we made only one journey. The Rhone, being frozen and foggy, was not to be navigated, so we posted from Lyons to Chalons, and everybody else was doing the like, and there were no horses to be got, and we were stranded at midnight in amazing little cabarets, with nothing worth mentioning to eat in them, except the iron stove, which was rusty, and the billiard-table, which was musty. We left Turin on a Tuesday evening, and arrived in Paris on a Friday evening; where I found my son Charley, hot—or I should rather say cold—from Germany, with his arms and legs so grown out of his coat and trousers, that I was ashamed of him, and was reduced to the necessity of taking him, under cover of night, to a ready-made establishment in the Palais Royal, where they put him into balloon-waisted pantaloons, and increased my confusion. Leaving Calais on the evening of Sunday, the 10th of December; fact of distinguished author's being aboard, was telegraphed to Dover; thereupon[348] authorities of Dover Railway detained train to London for distinguished author's arrival, rather to the exasperation of British public. D. A. arrived at home between ten and eleven that night, thank God, and found all well and happy.
We had only three bad days during the whole trip. After Naples, which was really hot, we enjoyed cold, clear, bright weather. When we got to Chamonix, most of the inns were closed and the people were gone. There were no visitors at all, and plenty of snow. These were the perfect conditions to explore the area, so we stayed a couple of days at the Hôtel de Londres (quickly refurbished for our comfort), and we hiked through the snow to the Mer de Glace, which we thoroughly enjoyed. Then, we made our way on mules (I walked) to the old hotel in Martigny, where Collins was sick, and I suppose I bored Egg to death by talking all evening about the time you and I were there together. Naples, a place that always hurts me because of the extreme degradation of the people, seems to have only three groups left—priests, soldiers (the standing army is a hundred thousand strong), and spies. We ate a lot of macaroni everywhere; also, for Italy’s sake, we sampled every kind of wine. In Naples, I ran into Layard, the Nineveh explorer, who is a friend of mine and a great guy; so we bonded and climbed Vesuvius together, eating more macaroni and drinking more wine. In Rome, the day after we arrived, they were making a saint at St. Peter's; I was surprised to see how many pounds of wax candles it takes to make the regular, genuine kind. From Turin to Paris, we only took one journey over Mont Cenis. The Rhone was frozen and foggy, making it impossible to navigate, so we traveled by carriage from Lyons to Chalons. Everyone else was doing the same, and there were no horses available, leaving us stranded at midnight in tiny inns that had nothing notable to eat except for the rusty iron stove and the musty billiard table. We left Turin on a Tuesday evening and arrived in Paris on a Friday evening, where I found my son Charley, who had just come from Germany, looking hot—or rather cold—because he had outgrown his coat and trousers, making me feel embarrassed. I had to take him, under the cover of night, to a ready-made clothing store in the Palais Royal, where they fitted him with balloon-waisted pants, which just added to my embarrassment. Leaving Calais on the evening of Sunday, December 10th, the fact that a distinguished author was on board was telegraphed to Dover; as a result, the Dover Railway authorities held the train to London for the distinguished author's arrival, which annoyed the British public. The distinguished author finally got home between ten and eleven that night, thank God, and found everything well and happy.
I think you see The Times, and if so, you will have seen a very graceful and good account of the Birmingham readings. It was the most remarkable thing that England could produce, I think, in the way of a vast intelligent assemblage; and the success was most wonderful and prodigious—perfectly overwhelming and astounding altogether. They wound up by giving my wife a piece of plate, having given me one before; and when you come to dine here (may it be soon!) it shall be duly displayed in the centre of the table.
I think you've seen The Times, and if that's the case, you would have noticed a very graceful and positive review of the Birmingham readings. It was, I believe, the most impressive event England could offer in terms of a large and intelligent gathering; the success was incredible and truly astounding—absolutely overwhelming. They ended by presenting my wife with a plate, having given me one earlier; and when you come over for dinner (hopefully soon!), it will be proudly displayed in the center of the table.
Tell Mrs. Cerjat, to whom my love, and all our loves, that I have highly excited them at home here by giving them an account in detail of all your daughters; further, that the way in which Catherine and Georgina have questioned me and cross-questioned me about you all, notwithstanding, is maddening. Mrs. Watson has been obliged to pass her Christmas at Brighton alone with her younger children, in consequence of her two eldest boys coming home to Rockingham from school with the whooping-cough. The quarantine expires to-day, however; and she drives here, on her way back into Northamptonshire, to-morrow.
Tell Mrs. Cerjat, whom I send my love along with all our love, that I've really stirred things up at home by sharing all the details about your daughters. Also, the way Catherine and Georgina have grilled me about all of you is driving me crazy. Mrs. Watson has had to spend Christmas alone in Brighton with her younger kids because her two oldest boys came home from school to Rockingham with whooping cough. However, the quarantine ends today, and she’ll be driving here on her way back to Northamptonshire tomorrow.
The sad affair of the Preston strike remains unsettled; and I hear, on strong authority, that if that were settled, the Manchester people are prepared to strike next. Provisions very dear, but the people very temperate and quiet in general. So ends this jumble, which looks like the index to a chapter in a book, I find, when I read it over.
The unfortunate situation with the Preston strike is still unresolved; and I’ve heard from reliable sources that if that gets resolved, the folks in Manchester are ready to strike next. It's expensive to buy food, but overall, people are calm and restrained. So that wraps up this mess, which reminds me of an index to a chapter in a book when I read it again.
Tavistock House, January 18th, 1854.
I am quite delighted to find that you are so well satisfied, and that the enterprise has such a light upon it. I think I never was better pleased in my life than I was with my Birmingham friends.
I’m really happy to see that you’re so content and that the project has such a positive vibe. I think I’ve never been more pleased in my life than I was with my friends in Birmingham.
That principle of fair representation of all orders carefully carried out, I believe, will do more good than any of us can yet foresee. Does it not seem a strange thing to consider that I have never yet seen with these eyes of mine, a mechanic in any recognised position on the platform of a Mechanics' Institution?
That principle of fair representation for all groups, if carefully implemented, will bring more benefits than any of us can currently imagine. Isn't it strange to think that I've never actually seen a mechanic in a recognized role on the platform of a Mechanics' Institution?
Mr. Wills may be expected to sink, shortly, under the ravages of letters from all parts of England, Ireland, and Scotland, proposing readings. He keeps up his spirits, but I don't see how they are to carry him through.
Mr. Wills is likely to soon be overwhelmed by requests for readings from all over England, Ireland, and Scotland. He tries to stay positive, but I don't see how he can manage it.
Mrs. Dickens and Miss Hogarth beg their kindest regards; and I am, my dear sir, with much regard, too,
Mrs. Dickens and Miss Hogarth send their warmest regards; and I am, dear sir, sending my best wishes as well,
Tavistock House, January 30th, 1854.
Indeed there is no fear of my thinking you the owner of a cold heart. I am more than three parts disposed, however, to be ferocious with you for ever writing down such a preposterous truism.
Indeed, I have no fear that you think I believe you have a cold heart. However, I am more than ready to be furious with you for ever writing down such a ridiculous truth.
My satire is against those who see figures and averages, and nothing else—the representatives of the wickedest and most enormous vice of this time—the men who, through long years to come, will do more to damage the real useful truths of political economy than I could do (if I tried) in my whole life; the addled heads who would take the average of cold in the Crimea during twelve months as a reason[350] for clothing a soldier in nankeens on a night when he would be frozen to death in fur, and who would comfort the labourer in travelling twelve miles a day to and from his work, by telling him that the average distance of one inhabited place from another in the whole area of England, is not more than four miles. Bah! What have you to do with these?
My satire targets those who only look at numbers and averages, and ignore everything else—the representatives of the most wicked and significant vice of our time—people who, for years to come, will harm the real, practical truths of political economy more than I ever could (even if I wanted to) in my entire life. Those clueless individuals who would use the average temperature in the Crimea over a year as a reason to dress a soldier in light fabric on a night when he would freeze to death in warm clothing, and who would comfort a laborer making a twelve-mile round trip to work by claiming that the average distance between populated places across England is only four miles. Ugh! What do you have to do with them?
I shall put the book upon a private shelf (after reading it) by "Once upon a Time." I should have buried my pipe of peace and sent you this blast of my war-horn three or four days ago, but that I have been reading to a little audience of three thousand five hundred at Bradford.
I’ll place the book on a private shelf (after reading it) next to "Once upon a Time." I should have set aside my peace pipe and sent you this message from my war horn three or four days ago, but I’ve been reading to a small audience of three thousand five hundred in Bradford.
Tavistock House, Tuesday, March 7th, 1854.
I am tardy in answering your letter; but "Hard Times," and an immense amount of enforced correspondence, are my excuse. To you a sufficient one, I know.
I apologize for the delay in responding to your letter; but "Hard Times," along with a huge amount of required correspondence, is my reason. I know it’s a sufficient one for you.
As I should judge from outward and visible appearances, I have exactly as much chance of seeing the Russian fleet reviewed by the Czar as I have of seeing the English fleet reviewed by the Queen.
As I can tell from what I see on the surface, I have just as much chance of watching the Russian fleet being reviewed by the Czar as I do of seeing the English fleet being reviewed by the Queen.
"Club Law" made me laugh very much when I went over it in the proof yesterday. It is most capitally done, and not (as I feared it might be) too directly. It is in the next number but one.
"Club Law" made me laugh a lot when I read it in the proof yesterday. It’s really well done, and not (as I worried it might be) too on the nose. It will be in the next issue but one.
Mrs. —— has gone stark mad—and stark naked—on the spirit-rapping imposition. She was found t'other day in the street, clothed only in her chastity, a pocket-handkerchief and a visiting card. She had been informed, it appeared, by the spirits, that if she went out in that trim she would be invisible. She is now in a madhouse, and, I fear, hopelessly[351] insane. One of the curious manifestations of her disorder is that she can bear nothing black. There is a terrific business to be done, even when they are obliged to put coals on her fire.
Mrs. —— has completely lost her mind—and she's also completely naked—because of the spirit-rapping nonsense. The other day, she was found in the street, wearing nothing but her modesty, a pocket-handkerchief, and a visiting card. It seems that the spirits told her that if she went out like that, she would be invisible. Now she's in a mental institution, and I fear she might be hopelessly[351] insane. One of the strange signs of her condition is that she can't stand anything black. There’s a lot of trouble when they have to put coals on her fire.
—— has a thing called a Psycho-grapher, which writes at the dictation of spirits. It delivered itself, a few nights ago, of this extraordinarily lucid message:
—— has something called a Psycho-grapher that writes based on what spirits dictate. A few nights ago, it delivered this incredibly clear message:
upon which it was gravely explained by the true believers that "the spirits were out of temper about something." Said —— had a great party on Sunday, when it was rumoured "a count was going to raise the dead." I stayed till the ghostly hour, but the rumour was unfounded, for neither count nor plebeian came up to the spiritual scratch. It is really inexplicable to me that a man of his calibre can be run away with by such small deer.
upon which it was seriously explained by the true believers that "the spirits were upset about something." Said —— had a big party on Sunday, when it was rumored "a count was going to raise the dead." I stayed until the ghostly hour, but the rumor turned out to be false, as neither count nor commoner showed up to make contact with the spirits. It’s really puzzling to me that a man of his caliber can be swayed by such petty matters.
À propos of spiritual messages comes in Georgina, and, hearing that I am writing to you, delivers the following enigma to be conveyed to Mrs. White:
About spiritual messages comes in Georgina, and, hearing that I am writing to you, delivers the following enigma to be shared with Mrs. White:
Feeling my brain going after this, I only trust it with loves from all to all.
Feeling my mind slipping after this, I only trust it with loves from everyone to everyone.
Tavistock House, March 17th, 1854.
I have read the article with much interest. It is most conscientiously done, and presents a great mass of curious information condensed into a surprisingly small space.
I found the article really interesting. It’s very well done and packs a lot of intriguing information into a surprisingly small amount of space.
I have made a slight note or two here and there, with a soft pencil, so that a touch of indiarubber will make all blank again.[352]
I’ve jotted down a note or two here and there with a soft pencil, so a little eraser will wipe it all clean again.[352]
And I earnestly entreat your attention to the point (I have been working upon it, weeks past, in "Hard Times") which I have jocosely suggested on the last page but one. The English are, so far as I know, the hardest-worked people on whom the sun shines. Be content if, in their wretched intervals of pleasure, they read for amusement and do no worse. They are born at the oar, and they live and die at it. Good God, what would we have of them!
And I sincerely ask for your attention to the point (I’ve been working on it for weeks in "Hard Times") that I playfully mentioned on the second-to-last page. As far as I know, the English are the hardest-working people under the sun. Just be glad that in their miserable moments of enjoyment, they read for fun and don’t do worse. They are born to toil, and they live and die doing it. Good grief, what more do we expect from them!
Office of "Household Words",
16 Wellington Street, North Strand,
Wednesday, April 12th, 1854.
I know all the walks for many and many miles round about Malvern, and delightful walks they are. I suppose you are already getting very stout, very red, very jovial (in a physical point of view) altogether.
I know all the paths for miles around Malvern, and they’re truly lovely. I guess you’re probably getting quite plump, really red, and very cheerful (in a physical sense) overall.
Mark and I walked to Dartford from Greenwich, last Monday, and found Mrs. —— acting "The Stranger" (with a strolling company from the Standard Theatre) in Mr. Munn's schoolroom. The stage was a little wider than your table here, and its surface was composed of loose boards laid on the school forms. Dogs sniffed about it during the performances, and the carpenter's highlows were ostentatiously taken off and displayed in the proscenium.
Mark and I walked to Dartford from Greenwich last Monday and found Mrs. —— performing "The Stranger" with a traveling company from the Standard Theatre in Mr. Munn's classroom. The stage was slightly wider than your table here, and its surface was made of loose boards laid on the school benches. Dogs wandered around it during the performances, and the carpenter's boots were proudly removed and shown off in the proscenium.
We stayed until a quarter to ten, when we were obliged to fly to the railroad, but we sent the landlord of the hotel down with the following articles:
We stayed until 9:45, when we had to rush to the train station, but we had the hotel owner take the following items down:
| 1 | bottle | superior | old port, |
| 1 | do. | do. | golden sherry, |
| 1 | do. | do. | best French brandy, |
| [353]1 | do. | do. | 1st quality old Tom gin, |
| 1 | bottle | superior | prime Jamaica rum, |
| 1 | do. | do. | small still Isla whiskey, |
| 1 | kettle | boiling | water, two pounds finest white lump sugar, |
| Our cards, | |||
| 1 | lemon, | ||
| and | |||
| Our compliments. | |||
The effect we had previously made upon the theatrical company by being beheld in the first two chairs—there was nearly a pound in the house—was altogether electrical.
The impression we had made on the theater company by being seen in the first two seats—there was almost a pound in the house—was completely electrifying.
My ladies send their kindest regards, and are disappointed at your not saying that you drink two-and-twenty tumblers of the limpid element, every day. The children also unite in "loves," and the Plornishghenter, on being asked if he would send his, replies "Yes—man," which we understand to signify cordial acquiescence.
My ladies send their warmest regards and are disappointed that you didn't mention you drink twenty-two glasses of water every day. The kids also send their love, and when the Plornishghenter was asked if he would send his, he replied, "Yes—man," which we understand to mean he agrees wholeheartedly.
Forster just come back from lecturing at Sherborne. Describes said lecture as "Blaze of Triumph."
Forster just came back from giving a lecture at Sherborne. He describes the lecture as a "Blaze of Triumph."
Miss—I mean Mrs.—Bell's story very nice. I have sent it to the printer, and entitled it "The Green Ring and the Gold Ring."
Miss—I mean Mrs.—Bell's story is very nice. I have sent it to the printer and titled it "The Green Ring and the Gold Ring."
This apartment looks desolate in your absence; but, O Heavens, how tidy!
This apartment looks empty without you; but, oh wow, it’s so neat!
Mrs. Wills supposed to have gone into a convent at Somers Town.
Mrs. Wills was supposed to have gone to a convent in Somers Town.
Ever faithfully yours.
Tavistock House, Saturday Night, April 15th, 1854.
I have read the "Fatal Revenge." Don't do what the minor theatrical people call "despi-ser" me, but I think it's very bad. The concluding narrative is by far the most meritorious part of the business. Still, the people are so very convulsive and tumble down so many places, and are always knocking other people's bones about in such a very irrational way, that I object. The way in which earthquakes won't swallow the monsters, and volcanoes in eruption won't boil them, is extremely aggravating. Also their habit of bolting when they are going to explain anything.
I’ve read "Fatal Revenge." Please don’t try to convince me otherwise, but I really think it’s terrible. The ending is definitely the best part. However, the characters are so over-the-top and fall down so often, always wreaking havoc on others in such a ridiculous way, that I can’t approve. It’s really frustrating how earthquakes don’t swallow up the monsters and volcanoes don’t incinerate them. Plus, their tendency to run away whenever they’re about to explain something is just annoying.
You have sent me a very different and a much better book; and for that I am truly grateful. With the dust of "Maturin" in my eyes, I sat down and read "The Death of Friends," and the dust melted away in some of those tears it is good to shed. I remember to have read "The Backroom Window" some years ago, and I have associated it with you ever since. It is a most delightful paper. But the two volumes are all delightful, and I have put them on a shelf where you sit down with Charles Lamb again, with Talfourd's vindication of him hard by.
You’ve sent me a very different and much better book, and I’m really grateful for that. With the dust of "Maturin" in my eyes, I sat down and read "The Death of Friends," and the dust melted away in some of those tears it’s good to shed. I remember reading "The Backroom Window" a few years ago, and I’ve associated it with you ever since. It’s a truly delightful piece. But both volumes are wonderful, and I’ve placed them on a shelf where you can sit down with Charles Lamb again, with Talfourd’s vindication of him nearby.
We never meet. I hope it is not irreligious, but in this strange London I have an inclination to adapt a portion of the Church Service to our common experience. Thus:
We never meet. I hope it's not disrespectful, but in this strange London, I feel the urge to tweak a part of the Church Service to fit our shared experience. So:
"We have left unmet the people whom we ought to have met, and we have met the people whom we ought not to have met, and there seems to be no help in us."
"We have missed the people we should have met, and we have encountered the people we shouldn’t have met, and it feels like there’s no way out for us."
From afar,
Very cordially yours.
Tavistock House, April 21st, 1854.
I safely received the paper from Mr. Shaen, welcomed it with three cheers, and instantly despatched it to the printer, who has it in hand now.
I safely got the paper from Mr. Shaen, celebrated it with three cheers, and immediately sent it to the printer, who is working on it now.
I have no intention of striking. The monstrous claims at domination made by a certain class of manufacturers, and the extent to which the way is made easy for working men to slide down into discontent under such hands, are within my scheme; but I am not going to strike, so don't be afraid of me. But I wish you would look at the story yourself, and judge where and how near I seem to be approaching what you have in your mind. The first two months of it will show that.
I have no plans to go on strike. The outrageous claims of control made by certain manufacturers, along with how easily they push workers into discontent, are part of my perspective; but I'm not going to strike, so there's no need to worry about me. I’d appreciate it if you could review the situation yourself and see how closely my thoughts align with yours. The first two months will reveal that.
I will "make my will" on the first favourable occasion. We were playing games last night, and were fearfully clever. With kind regards to Mr. Gaskell, always, my dear Mrs. Gaskell,
I will "make my will" at the first good opportunity. We played games last night and were incredibly clever. Sending warm regards to Mr. Gaskell, always, my dear Mrs. Gaskell,
Tavistock House, May 30th, 1854.
I cannot stand a total absence of ventilation, and I should have liked (in an amiable and persuasive manner) to have punched ——'s head, and opened the register stoves. I saw the supper tables, sir, in an empty state, and was charmed with them. Likewise I recovered myself from a swoon, occasioned by long contact with an unventilated man of a strong flavour from Copenhagen, by drinking an unknown species of celestial lemonade in that enchanted apartment.
I can't stand being in a place without any ventilation, and I would have liked to, in a friendly and convincing way, punch ——'s head and open the register stoves. I saw the dinner tables, sir, all set and empty, and I was delighted by them. I also came to after fainting, caused by spending too long with an unventilated man who had a strong smell from Copenhagen, by drinking some kind of amazing lemonade in that magical room.
I am grieved to say that on Saturday I stand engaged to dine, at three weeks' notice, with one ——, a man who has read every book that ever was written,[356] and is a perfect gulf of information. Before exploding a mine of knowledge he has a habit of closing one eye and wrinkling up his nose, so that he seems perpetually to be taking aim at you and knocking you over with a terrific charge. Then he looks again, and takes another aim. So you are always on your back, with your legs in the air.
I’m sorry to say that on Saturday I have plans to have dinner, with just three weeks' notice, with a guy who has read every book that’s ever been written,[356] and is a total wealth of information. Before unleashing a torrent of knowledge, he has this habit of closing one eye and scrunching up his nose, making it look like he’s always aiming at you and hitting you with an overwhelming blast of facts. Then he reassesses and aims again. So you’re always flat on your back, legs in the air.
How can a man be conversed with, or walked with, in the county of Middlesex, when he is reviewing the Kentish Militia on the shores of Dover, or sailing, every day for three weeks, between Dover and Calais?
How can a man be talked to or walked with in Middlesex when he’s inspecting the Kentish Militia on the shores of Dover or sailing back and forth between Dover and Calais every day for three weeks?
P.S.—"Humphry Clinker" is certainly Smollett's best. I am rather divided between "Peregrine Pickle" and "Roderick Random," both extraordinarily good in their way, which is a way without tenderness; but you will have to read them both, and I send the first volume of "Peregrine" as the richer of the two.
P.S.—"Humphry Clinker" is definitely Smollett's best. I’m kind of torn between "Peregrine Pickle" and "Roderick Random," both of which are exceptionally good in their own way, though neither is very tender. But you really should read both, and I’m sending you the first volume of "Peregrine" since it's the better one of the two.
Tavistock House, June 7th, 1854.
I cannot become one of the committee for Wilson's statue, after entertaining so strong an opinion against the expediency of such a memorial in poor dear Talfourd's case. But I will subscribe my three guineas, and will pay that sum to the account at Coutts's when I go there next week, before leaving town.
I can’t be a part of the committee for Wilson's statue, especially after having such a strong opinion against the idea of a memorial in poor dear Talfourd's situation. However, I will donate my three guineas and will transfer that amount to the account at Coutts’s when I go there next week, before I leave town.
"The Goldsmiths" admirably done throughout. It is a book I have long desired to see done, and never expected to see half so well done. Many thanks to you for it.
"The Goldsmiths" is excellently done throughout. It's a book I've wanted to see completed for a long time, and I never expected it to be done so well. Thank you very much for it.
P.S.—Please to observe the address at Boulogne: "Villa du Camp de Droite."[357]
P.S.—Please note the address in Boulogne: "Villa du Camp de Droite."[357]
Villa du Camp de Droite, Thursday, June 22nd, 1854.
I have nothing to say, but having heard from you this morning, think I may as well report all well.
I don't have much to say, but since I heard from you this morning, I might as well say that everything is fine.
We have a most charming place here. It beats the former residence all to nothing. We have a beautiful garden, with all its fruits and flowers, and a field of our own, and a road of our own away to the Column, and everything that is airy and fresh. The great Beaucourt hovers about us like a guardian genius, and I imagine that no English person in a carriage could by any possibility find the place.
We have a really lovely place here. It makes our old home look bad in comparison. We have a beautiful garden filled with fruits and flowers, our own field, and a private road leading to the Column, along with everything that feels light and fresh. The grand Beaucourt feels like a protective spirit here, and I doubt any English person in a car could possibly find this place.
Of the wonderful inventions and contrivances with which a certain inimitable creature has made the most of it, I will say nothing, until you have an opportunity of inspecting the same. At present I will only observe that I have written exactly seventy-two words of "Hard Times," since I have been here.
Of the amazing inventions and gadgets that a certain one-of-a-kind being has created, I won't say anything until you get a chance to see them for yourself. For now, I'll just point out that I've written exactly seventy-two words of "Hard Times" since I arrived here.
The children arrived on Tuesday night, by London boat, in every stage and aspect of sea-sickness.
The kids showed up on Tuesday night, by boat from London, all feeling sick from the sea in every way possible.
The camp is about a mile off, and huts are now building for (they say) sixty thousand soldiers. I don't imagine it to be near enough to bother us.
The camp is about a mile away, and they are currently building huts for (they say) sixty thousand soldiers. I don't think it's close enough to cause us any trouble.
If the weather ever should be fine, it might do you good sometimes to come over with the proofs on a Saturday, when the tide serves well, before you and Mrs. W. make your annual visit. Recollect there is always a bed, and no sudden appearance will put us out.
If the weather is nice, it could be good for you to come over with the proofs on a Saturday, when the tide is right, before you and Mrs. W. make your yearly visit. Remember, there’s always a bed available, and a surprise visit won’t throw us off.
Ever faithfully.
Villa du Camp de Droite, Boulogne,
Wednesday Night, July 12th, 1854.
Bobbing up, corkwise, from a sea of "Hard Times" I beg to report this tenement—amazing!!! Range of view and air, most free and delightful; hill-side garden, delicious; field, stupendous; speculations in haycocks already effected by the undersigned, with the view to the keeping up of a "home" at rounders.
Bobbing up, cork-like, from a sea of "Hard Times" I’m excited to report this apartment—awesome!!! The view and air are wonderfully free and delightful; the hillside garden is lovely; the field is huge; I've already made some plans for haycocks with the goal of maintaining a "home" at rounders.
I hope to finish and get to town by next Wednesday night, the 19th; what do you say to coming back with me on the following Tuesday? The interval I propose to pass in a career of amiable dissipation and unbounded license in the metropolis. If you will come and breakfast with me about midnight—anywhere—any day, and go to bed no more until we fly to these pastoral retreats, I shall be delighted to have so vicious an associate.
I hope to finish and get to town by next Wednesday night, the 19th; how about coming back with me the following Tuesday? I plan to spend the time indulging in some fun and relaxation in the city. If you’ll join me for breakfast around midnight—any place—any day, and not go to bed again until we escape to these peaceful spots, I’d be thrilled to have such a wild companion.
Will you undertake to let Ward know that if he still wishes me to sit to him, he shall have me as long as he likes, at Tavistock House, on Monday, the 24th, from ten a.m.?
Will you let Ward know that if he still wants me to sit for him, he can have me for as long as he wants, at Tavistock House, on Monday, the 24th, from ten AM?
I have made it understood here that we shall want to be taken the greatest care of this summer, and to be fed on nourishing meats. Several new dishes have been rehearsed and have come out very well. I have met with what they call in the City "a parcel" of the celebrated 1846 champagne. It is a very fine wine, and calculated to do us good when weak.
I’ve made it clear that we’ll need to be well taken care of this summer and fed nourishing meals. Several new dishes have been tried and turned out really well. I’ve come across what they call a “parcel” of the famous 1846 champagne. It’s an excellent wine and should help us when we’re feeling weak.
The camp is about a mile off. Voluptuous English authors reposing from their literary fatigues (on their laurels) are expected, when all other things fail, to lie on straw in the midst of it when the days are sunny, and stare at the blue sea until they fall asleep. (About one hundred[359] and fifty soldiers have been at various times billeted on Beaucourt since we have been here, and he has clinked glasses with them every one, and read a MS. book of his father's, on soldiers in general, to them all.)
The camp is about a mile away. Overindulgent English writers taking a break from their literary efforts, resting on their successes, are expected, when nothing else is going on, to lie on straw in the middle of it when the weather is nice, and gaze at the blue sea until they drift off to sleep. (Around one hundred[359] and fifty soldiers have been stationed at Beaucourt at different times since we've been here, and he has raised a glass with each of them and read a manuscript from his father's book about soldiers in general to all of them.)
I shall be glad to hear what you say to these various proposals. I write with the Emperor in the town, and a great expenditure of tricolour floating thereabouts, but no stir makes its way to this inaccessible retreat. It is like being up in a balloon. Lionising Englishmen and Germans start to call, and are found lying imbecile in the road halfway up. Ha! ha! ha!
I would love to hear your thoughts on these different proposals. I'm writing while the Emperor is in town, and there's a lot of tricolor flags flying around, but nothing seems to reach this isolated hideaway. It's like being in a balloon. English and German tourists stop by, but you find them just lying dumbfounded in the road halfway up. Ha! ha! ha!
Kindest regards from all. The Plornishghenter adds Mr. and Mrs. Goose's duty.
Kind regards from everyone. The Plornishghenter includes Mr. and Mrs. Goose's duty.
P.S.—The cobbler has been ill these many months, and unable to work; has had a carbuncle in his back, and has it cut three times a week. The little dog sits at the door so unhappy and anxious to help, that I every day expect to see him beginning a pair of top boots.
P.S.—The cobbler has been sick for many months now and hasn't been able to work; he has a carbuncle on his back and has it cut three times a week. The little dog sits at the door looking so sad and eager to help that I expect to see him starting a pair of top boots any day now.
Office of "Household Words"," Saturday, July 22nd, 1854.
Neither you nor Catherine did justice to Collins's book.[17] I think it far away the cleverest novel I have ever seen written by a new hand. It is in some respects masterly. "Valentine Blyth" is as original, and as well done as anything can be. The scene where he shows his pictures is full of an admirable humour. Old Mat is admirably done. In short, I call it a very remarkable book, and have been very much surprised by its great merit.
Neither you nor Catherine did justice to Collins's book.[17] I think it's by far the cleverest novel I've seen from a new author. It's masterful in many ways. "Valentine Blyth" is as original and as well executed as anything could be. The scene where he shows his pictures is full of excellent humor. Old Mat is wonderfully portrayed. In short, I consider it a truly remarkable book, and I've been very surprised by its high quality.
Tell Kate, with my love, that she will receive to-morrow in a little parcel, the complete proofs of "Hard Times."[360] They will not be corrected, but she will find them pretty plain. I am just now going to put them up for her. I saw Grisi the night before last in "Lucrezia Borgia"—finer than ever. Last night I was drinking gin-slings till daylight, with Buckstone of all people, who saw me looking at the Spanish dancers, and insisted on being convivial. I have been in a blaze of dissipation altogether, and have succeeded (I think), in knocking the remembrance of my work out.
Tell Kate, with my love, that she will get a little package tomorrow containing the complete proofs of "Hard Times."[360] They won’t be corrected, but they should be pretty clear. I'm about to get them ready for her. I saw Grisi the night before last in "Lucrezia Borgia"—better than ever. Last night, I was drinking gin slings until dawn, with Buckstone of all people, who noticed me watching the Spanish dancers and insisted on having a good time. I've been on quite a spree, and I think I've managed to push the thought of my work out of my mind.
Loves to all the darlings, from the Plornish-Maroon upward. London is far hotter than Naples.
Loves to all the darlings, from the Plornish-Maroon upward. London is way hotter than Naples.
Villa du Camp de Droite, Boulogne,
Thursday, Aug. 17th, 1854.
I sent your MS. off to Wills yesterday, with instructions to forward it to you without delay. I hope you will have received it before this notification comes to hand.
I sent your manuscript to Wills yesterday, with instructions to send it to you right away. I hope you got it before you received this message.
The usual festivity of this place at present—which is the blessing of soldiers by the ten thousand—has just now been varied by the baptising of some new bells, lately hung up (to my sorrow and lunacy) in a neighbouring church. An English lady was godmother; and there was a procession afterwards, wherein an English gentleman carried "the relics" in a highly suspicious box, like a barrel organ; and innumerable English ladies in white gowns and bridal wreaths walked two and two, as if they had all gone to school again.
The usual celebration of this place right now—which is the blessing of soldiers by the thousands—has just been changed by the christening of some new bells that were recently installed (to my dismay and madness) in a nearby church. An English woman was the godmother; and there was a procession afterward, where an English man carried "the relics" in a very suspicious box, like a barrel organ; and countless English women in white dresses and bridal wreaths walked two by two, as if they had all gone back to school.
At a review, on the same day, I was particularly struck by the commencement of the proceedings, and its singular contrast to the usual military operations in Hyde Park. Nothing would induce the general commanding in chief to[361] begin, until chairs were brought for all the lady-spectators. And a detachment of about a hundred men deployed into all manner of farmhouses to find the chairs. Nobody seemed to lose any dignity by the transaction, either.
At a review on the same day, I was especially impressed by how the proceedings started and how different it was from the usual military events in Hyde Park. The commanding general wouldn’t start until chairs were brought for all the ladies watching. A group of about a hundred men scattered to various farmhouses to find the chairs. It didn’t seem to take away anyone's dignity, either.
Faithfully yours always.
Villa du Camp de Droite, Boulogne,
Saturday, Aug. 19th, 1854.
Yes. The book came from me. I could not put a memorandum to that effect on the title-page, in consequence of my being here.
Yes. The book came from me. I couldn't put a note to that effect on the title page because I'm here.
I am heartily glad you like it. I know the piece you mention, but am far from being convinced by it. A great misgiving is upon me, that in many things (this thing among the rest) too many are martyrs to our complacency and satisfaction, and that we must give up something thereof for their poor sakes.
I’m really glad to hear you like it. I know the piece you’re talking about, but I’m not convinced by it at all. I have a strong feeling that in many cases (this one included), too many people suffer because of our own complacency and satisfaction, and we need to sacrifice some of that for their sake.
My kindest regards to your sister, and my love (if I may send it) to another of your relations.
My best wishes to your sister, and my love (if I can send it) to another one of your family members.
Villa du Camp de Droite, Boulogne,
Wednesday, Sept. 6th, 1854.
Any Saturday on which the tide serves your purpose (next Saturday excepted) will suit me for the flying visit you hint at; and we shall be delighted to see you. Although the camp is not above a mile from this gate, we never see or hear of it, unless we choose. If you could come here in dry weather you would find it as pretty, airy, and pleasant a situation as you ever saw. We illuminated[362] the whole front of the house last night—eighteen windows—and an immense palace of light was seen sparkling on this hill-top for miles and miles away. I rushed to a distance to look at it, and never saw anything of the same kind half so pretty.
Any Saturday that works for you (next Saturday excluded) will be fine for the quick visit you mentioned, and we’d love to see you. Even though the camp is just about a mile from here, we don’t see or hear anything about it unless we want to. If you could come during dry weather, you would find it as beautiful, breezy, and pleasant a spot as you’ve ever seen. We lit up[362] the whole front of the house last night—eighteen windows—and a massive palace of light sparkled on this hilltop for miles around. I went to check it out from a distance and had never seen anything quite as beautiful.
The town[18] looks like one immense flag, it is so decked out with streamers; and as the royal yacht approached yesterday—the whole range of the cliff tops lined with troops, and the artillery matches in hand, all ready to fire the great guns the moment she made the harbour; the sailors standing up in the prow of the yacht, the Prince in a blazing uniform, left alone on the deck for everybody to see—a stupendous silence, and then such an infernal blazing and banging as never was heard. It was almost as fine a sight as one could see under a deep blue sky. In our own proper illumination I laid on all the servants, all the children now at home, all the visitors (it is the annual "Household Words" time), one to every window, with everything ready to light up on the ringing of a big dinner-bell by your humble correspondent. St. Peter's on Easter Monday was the result.
The town[18] looks like one giant flag, all decked out with streamers; and as the royal yacht approached yesterday—the whole line of cliff tops filled with troops, and the artillery lined up, ready to fire the big guns as soon as she entered the harbor; the sailors standing in the front of the yacht, the Prince in a bright uniform, left alone on the deck for everyone to see—a huge silence, and then an incredible explosion of noise like never before. It was almost as amazing a sight as you could see under a bright blue sky. In our own proper celebration, I had all the servants, all the kids now at home, and all the visitors (it's the annual "Household Words" time), one at every window, with everything set to light up when the big dinner bell rang from your humble correspondent. St. Peter's on Easter Monday was the result.
Ever affectionately.
Boulogne-sur-Mer, Tuesday, Sept. 26th, 1854.
First, I have to report that I received your letter with much pleasure.
First, I have to say that I was really happy to get your letter.
Secondly, that the weather has entirely changed. It is so cool that we have not only a fire in the drawing-room regularly, but another to dine by. The delicious freshness of the air is charming, and it is generally bright and windy besides.
Secondly, the weather has completely changed. It’s so cool that we not only have a fire going in the living room regularly, but also one to dine by. The refreshing chill in the air is lovely, and it’s usually bright and breezy too.
Thirdly, that ——'s intellectual faculties appear to have developed suddenly. He has taken to borrowing money; from which I infer (as he has no intention whatever of repaying) that his mental powers are of a high order. Having got a franc from me, he fell upon Mrs. Dickens for five sous. She declining to enter into the transaction, he beleaguered that feeble little couple, Harry and Sydney, into paying two sous each for "tickets" to behold the ravishing spectacle of an utterly-non-existent-and-there-fore-impossible-to-be-produced toy theatre. He eats stony apples, and harbours designs upon his fellow-creatures until he has become light-headed. From the couch rendered uneasy by this disorder he has arisen with an excessively protuberant forehead, a dull slow eye, a complexion of a leaden hue, and a croaky voice. He has become a horror to me, and I resort to the most cowardly expedients to avoid meeting him. He, on the other hand, wanting another franc, dodges me round those trees at the corner, and at the back door; and I have a presentiment upon me that I shall fall a sacrifice to his cupidity at last.
Thirdly, it seems that ——'s intelligence has suddenly developed. He's started borrowing money, which makes me think (since he has no plans to pay it back) that his mental abilities are quite high. After getting a franc from me, he pestered Mrs. Dickens for five sous. When she refused to go along with it, he cornered that weak little couple, Harry and Sydney, into paying two sous each for "tickets" to see the amazing spectacle of an entirely non-existent and therefore impossible-to-produce toy theater. He consumes hard apples and plots against others until he drives himself crazy. From the uncomfortable spot this madness has put him in, he's gotten up with a very prominent forehead, a dull slow gaze, a lead-colored complexion, and a croaky voice. He has become a nightmare for me, and I resort to the most cowardly tactics to avoid running into him. He, on the other hand, wanting another franc, sneaks around those trees at the corner and the back door; and I have a feeling that I'll eventually fall victim to his greed.
On the Sunday night after you left, or rather on the Monday morning at half-past one, Mary was taken very ill. English cholera. She was sinking so fast, and the sickness was so exceedingly alarming, that it evidently would not do to wait for Elliotson. I caused everything to be done that we had naturally often thought of, in a lonely house so full of children, and fell back upon the old remedy; though the difficulty of giving even it was rendered very great by the frightful sickness. Thank God, she recovered so favourably that by breakfast time she was fast asleep. She slept twenty-four hours, and has never had the least uneasiness since. I heard—of course afterwards—that she had had an attack of sickness two nights before. I think that long ride[364] and those late dinners had been too much for her. Without them I am inclined to doubt whether she would have been ill.
On the Sunday night after you left, or rather on Monday morning at 1:30, Mary got very sick. English cholera. She was getting worse so quickly, and the illness was so alarming, that it was clear we couldn't wait for Elliotson. I made sure everything was done that we had often thought about in a lonely house so full of kids, and I fell back on the old remedy; although it was very difficult to give even that because of her extreme sickness. Thank God, she recovered so well that by breakfast time, she was fast asleep. She slept for twenty-four hours and hasn’t had the slightest discomfort since. I heard—of course later on—that she had had a bout of sickness two nights before. I think that long ride[364] and those late dinners were too much for her. Without those, I doubt she would have gotten sick.
Last Sunday as ever was, the theatre took fire at half-past eleven in the forenoon. Being close by the English church, it showered hot sparks into that temple through the open windows. Whereupon the congregation shrieked and rose and tumbled out into the street; —— benignly observing to the only ancient female who would listen to him, "I fear we must part;" and afterwards being beheld in the street—in his robes and with a kind of sacred wildness on him—handing ladies over the kennel into shops and other structures, where they had no business whatever, or the least desire to go. I got to the back of the theatre, where I could see in through some great doors that had been forced open, and whence the spectacle of the whole interior, burning like a red-hot cavern, was really very fine, even in the daylight. Meantime the soldiers were at work, "saving" the scenery by pitching it into the next street; and the poor little properties (one spinning-wheel, a feeble imitation of a water-mill, and a basketful of the dismalest artificial flowers very conspicuous) were being passed from hand to hand with the greatest excitement, as if they were rescued children or lovely women. In four or five hours the whole place was burnt down, except the outer walls. Never in my days did I behold such feeble endeavours in the way of extinguishment. On an average I should say it took ten minutes to throw half a gallon of water on the great roaring heap; and every time it was insulted in this way it gave a ferocious burst, and everybody ran off. Beaucourt has been going about for two days in a clean collar; which phenomenon evidently means something, but I don't know what. Elliotson reports that the great conjuror lives at his hotel, has extra wine every day, and fares expensively. Is he the devil?[365]
Last Sunday, just like any other, the theater caught fire at half-past eleven in the morning. Being close to the English church, it sent hot sparks flying into that place through the open windows. The congregation screamed, jumped up, and rushed out into the street. One old lady who would listen to him heard the priest calmly say, "I fear we must part," as he was later seen in the street—in his robes and with a sort of sacred frenzy—helping ladies across the gutter into shops and other places where they had no business at all or didn’t want to go. I made my way to the back of the theater, where I could see inside through some large doors that had been forced open. The sight of the whole interior burning like a fiery cavern was quite a spectacle, even in the daylight. Meanwhile, the soldiers were busy "saving" the scenery by throwing it into the next street, and the poor little props—a spinning wheel, a weak imitation of a water mill, and a basket full of the saddest fake flowers—were being passed around with great excitement, as if they were rescued children or beautiful women. In four or five hours, the whole place was reduced to ashes, except for the outer walls. I had never seen such pathetic attempts to put out a fire in my life. On average, it took about ten minutes to dump half a gallon of water on the huge, roaring pile of flames, and every time it was doused like this, it exploded with a fierce burst, sending everyone running away. Beaucourt has been walking around for two days in a clean collar; this strange sight clearly means something, but I have no idea what. Elliotson says the great magician is staying at his hotel, has extra wine every day, and is living expensively. Is he the devil?[365]
I have heard from the Kernel.[19] Wa'al, sir, sayin' as he minded to locate himself with us for a week, I expected to have heard from him again this morning, but have not. Beard comes to-morrow.
I heard from the Kernel.[19] Well, sir, he said he planned to stay with us for a week. I thought I would hear from him again this morning, but I haven't. Beard is coming tomorrow.
Kindest regards and remembrances from all. Ward lives in a little street between the two Tintilleries. The Plornish-Maroon desires his duty. He had a fall yesterday, through overbalancing himself in kicking his nurse.
Kindest regards and memories from everyone. Ward lives on a small street between the two Tintilleries. The Plornish-Maroon sends his regards. He fell yesterday while overbalancing himself while kicking his nurse.
Boulogne-sur-Mer, Friday, Oct. 13th, 1854.
Having some little matters that rather press on my attention to see to in town, I have made up my mind to relinquish the walking project, and come straight home (by way of Folkestone) on Tuesday. I shall be due in town at midnight, and shall hope to see you next day, with the top of your coat-collar mended.
Having a few small matters that need my attention in town, I've decided to scrap the walking plan and head straight home (via Folkestone) on Tuesday. I should arrive in town at midnight and hope to see you the next day, with the top of your coat collar fixed.
Everything that happens here we suppose to be an announcement of the taking of Sebastopol. When a church-clock strikes, we think it is the joy-bell, and fly out of the house in a burst of nationality—to sneak in again. If they practise firing at the camp, we are sure it is the artillery celebrating the fall of the Russian, and we become enthusiastic in a moment. I live in constant readiness to illuminate the whole house. Whatever anybody says I believe; everybody says, every day, that Sebastopol is in flames. Sometimes the Commander-in-Chief has blown himself up, with seventy-five thousand men. Sometimes he has "cut" his way through Lord Raglan, and has fallen back on the advancing body[366] of the Russians, one hundred and forty-two thousand strong, whom he is going to "bring up" (I don't know where from, or how, or when, or why) for the destruction of the Allies. All these things, in the words of the catechism, "I steadfastly believe," until I become a mere driveller, a moonstruck, babbling, staring, credulous, imbecile, greedy, gaping, wooden-headed, addle-brained, wool-gathering, dreary, vacant, obstinate civilian.
Everything that happens here is supposed to be an announcement about the capture of Sebastopol. When a church clock strikes, we think it’s the celebration bell, and we rush out of the house in a burst of national pride—only to sneak back in again. If they practice firing at the camp, we’re sure it’s the artillery celebrating the fall of the Russians, and we get excited in an instant. I’m always ready to light up the whole house. Whatever anyone says, I believe it; everyone says, every day, that Sebastopol is on fire. Sometimes the Commander-in-Chief has blown himself up, along with seventy-five thousand men. Other times, he has “cut” his way past Lord Raglan and has retreated back to the advancing group of Russians, one hundred and forty-two thousand strong, whom he is going to “bring up” (I have no idea from where, or how, or when, or why) to destroy the Allies. All these things, in the words of the catechism, “I steadfastly believe,” until I become a complete fool, a moonstruck, babbling, staring, gullible, clueless, greedy, gawking, thick-headed, brainless, daydreaming, dreary, vacant, stubborn civilian.
Tavistock House, October 26th, 1854.
I have had much gratification and pleasure in the receipt of your obliging communication. Allow me to thank you for it, in the first place, with great cordiality.
I feel a lot of joy and satisfaction from receiving your kind message. First of all, let me express my sincere thanks for it.
Although I cannot say that I came without any prepossessions to the perusal of your play (for I had favourable inclinings towards it before I began), I can say that I read it with the closest attention, and that it inspired me with a strong interest, and a genuine and high admiration. The parts that involve some of the greatest difficulties of your task appear to me those in which you shine most. I would particularly instance the end of Julia as a very striking example of this. The delicacy and beauty of her redemption from her weak rash lover, are very far, indeed beyond the range of any ordinary dramatist, and display the true poetical strength.
Although I can't say I came to read your play without any bias (since I had positive feelings about it before I started), I can say that I read it very carefully, and it sparked a strong interest in me, along with genuine and deep admiration. The parts that show some of the greatest challenges of your work seem to be where you really excel. I would specifically point out the end of Julia as a striking example of this. The delicacy and beauty of her redemption from her weak, impulsive lover are certainly beyond the capabilities of any ordinary playwright and demonstrate true poetic strength.
As your hopes now centre in Mr. Phelps, and in seeing the child of your fancy on his stage, I will venture to point out to you not only what I take to be very dangerous portions of "Love's Martyrdom" as it stands, for presentation on the stage, but portions which I believe Mr. Phelps will speedily regard in that light when he sees it before[367] him in the persons of live men and women on the wooden boards. Knowing him, I think he will be then as violently discouraged as he is now generously exalted; and it may be useful to you to be prepared for the consideration of those passages.
As your hopes now focus on Mr. Phelps and seeing your imagined child on his stage, I want to point out what I believe are very risky parts of "Love's Martyrdom" as it currently stands, for presentation on the stage. I think Mr. Phelps will quickly see these aspects in that way when he views them in front[367] of him with real actors on stage. Knowing him, I think he will feel as discouraged as he is now excited, and it might be helpful for you to be ready to think about those passages.
I do not regard it as a great stumbling-block that the play of modern times best known to an audience proceeds upon the main idea of this, namely, that there was a hunchback who, because of his deformity, mistrusted himself. But it is certainly a grain in the balance when the balance is going the wrong way, and therefore it should be most carefully trimmed. The incident of the ring is an insignificant one to look at over a row of gaslights, is difficult to convey to an audience, and the least thing will make it ludicrous. If it be so well done by Mr. Phelps himself as to be otherwise than ludicrous, it will be disagreeable. If it be either, it will be perilous, and doubly so, because you revert to it. The quarrel scene between the two brothers in the third act is now so long that the justification of blind passion and impetuosity—which can alone bear out Franklyn, before the bodily eyes of a great concourse of spectators, in plunging at the life of his own brother—is lost. That the two should be parted, and that Franklyn should again drive at him, and strike him, and then wound him, is a state of things to set the sympathy of an audience in the wrong direction, and turn it from the man you make happy to the man you leave unhappy. I would on no account allow the artist to appear, attended by that picture, more than once. All the most sudden inconstancy of Clarence I would soften down. Margaret must act much better than any actress I have ever seen, if all her lines fall in pleasant places; therefore, I think she needs compression too.[368]
I don't see it as a huge obstacle that the most well-known modern play revolves around the main idea of this one, which is about a hunchback who, due to his deformity, lacks self-confidence. However, it is definitely a small issue when the situation is already off balance, so it needs to be carefully addressed. The incident with the ring looks trivial under a row of gaslights, is hard to portray effectively to an audience, and anything small could make it ridiculous. If Mr. Phelps manages to present it in a way that's not silly, it may still come off as unpleasant. If it's either of those, it becomes risky, especially since you refer back to it. The quarrel scene between the two brothers in the third act is now so drawn out that the cause of Franklyn’s blind rage, which would justify him attacking his own brother in front of a large audience, gets lost. When they separate, and Franklyn goes after him again, hitting him, and then injuring him, it misguides the audience's sympathy away from the character you're trying to make happy and toward the one you leave unhappy. I wouldn't allow the artist to show that picture more than once. I would tone down Clarence's sudden shifts in temperament. Margaret would need to perform much better than any actress I've ever seen if all her lines are to land well; therefore, I think she needs cutting down too.[368]
All this applies solely to the theatre. If you ever revise the sheets for readers, will you note in the margin the broken laughter and the appeals to the Deity? If, on summing them up, you find you want them all, I would leave them as they stand by all means. If not, I would blot accordingly.
All of this only concerns the theater. If you ever edit the sheets for readers, will you mark in the margin the interrupted laughter and the calls to God? If, after reviewing them, you decide you want to keep them all, I would definitely leave them as they are. If not, I would remove them as needed.
It is only in the hope of being slightly useful to you by anticipating what I believe Mr. Phelps will discover—or what, if ever he should pass it, I have a strong conviction the audience will find out—that I have ventured on these few hints. Your concurrence with them generally, on reconsideration, or your preference for the poem as it stands, can not in the least affect my interest in your success. On the other hand, I have a perfect confidence in your not taking my misgivings ill; they arise out of my sincere desire for the triumph of your work.
It’s only out of a desire to be somewhat helpful by anticipating what I think Mr. Phelps will discover—or what I’m sure the audience will notice if he doesn’t—that I’ve shared these few suggestions. Whether you mostly agree with them after thinking it over or prefer the poem as it is, it won’t change my interest in your success at all. I’m also confident you won’t take my concerns the wrong way; they come from my genuine hope for the success of your work.
With renewed thanks for the pleasure you have afforded me,
With grateful appreciation for the enjoyment you have given me,
Tavistock House, November 1, 1854.
(And a constitutionally foggy day.)
I thought it better not to encumber the address to working men with details. Firstly, because they would detract from whatever fiery effect the words may have in them; secondly, because writing and petitioning and pressing a subject upon members and candidates are now so clearly understood; and thirdly, because the paper was meant as an opening to a persistent pressure of the whole question on the public, which would yield other opportunities of touching on such points.
I thought it was better not to overload the address to working men with details. First, because they would take away from the impact of the words; second, because writing, petitioning, and urging a topic with members and candidates are now well understood; and third, because the paper was intended as a first step in consistently pushing the entire issue to the public, which would provide other chances to address those points.
In the number for next week—not this—is one of those[369] following-up articles called "A Home Question." It is not written by me, but is generally of my suggesting, and is exceedingly well done by a thorough and experienced hand. I think you will find in it, generally, what you want. I have told the printers to send you a proof by post as soon as it is corrected—that is to say, as soon as some insertions I made in it last night are in type and in their places.
In the issue for next week—not this one—is one of those[369] follow-up articles called "A Home Question." It's not written by me, but it’s generally based on my suggestions, and it’s really well done by a skilled and experienced writer. I think you’ll find everything you need in it. I've asked the printers to send you a proof by mail as soon as it’s corrected—that is to say, as soon as some changes I made to it last night are typeset and in their right places.
My dear old Parr, I don't believe a word you write about King John! That is to say, I don't believe you take into account the enormous difference between the energy summonable-up in your study at Sherborne and the energy that will fire up in you (without so much as saying "With your leave" or "By your leave") in the Town Hall at Birmingham. I know you, you ancient codger, I know you! Therefore I will trouble you to be so good as to do an act of honesty after you have been to Birmingham, and to write to me, "Ingenuous boy, you were correct. I find I could have read 'em 'King John' with the greatest ease."
My dear old Parr, I don't believe a word you say about King John! I mean, I don't think you consider the huge difference between the energy you can muster up in your study at Sherborne and the energy that will ignite in you (without even saying "With your leave" or "By your leave") in the Town Hall at Birmingham. I know you, you ancient codger, I know you! So, I would appreciate it if you could be honest after you visit Birmingham and write to me, "Ingenuous boy, you were right. I find I could have read 'King John' with the greatest ease."
In that vast hall in the busy town of Sherborne, in which our illustrious English novelist is expected to read next month—though he is strongly of opinion that he is deficient in power, and too old—I wonder what accommodation there is for reading! because our illustrious countryman likes to stand at a desk breast-high, with plenty of room about him, a sloping top, and a ledge to keep his book from tumbling off. If such a thing should not be there, however, on his arrival, I suppose even a Sherborne carpenter could knock it up out of a deal board. Is there a deal board in Sherborne though? I should like to hear Katey's opinion on that point.
In that large hall in the bustling town of Sherborne, where our famous English novelist is scheduled to read next month—despite his strong belief that he lacks talent and is too old—I wonder what the setup is for reading! Because our notable countryman prefers to stand at a desk that's about chest-high, with plenty of space around him, a slanted top, and a ledge to keep his book from falling off. If there isn’t something like that available when he arrives, I guess even a Sherborne carpenter could whip something up from a scrap of wood. Is there a scrap of wood in Sherborne, though? I’d like to hear Katey's thoughts on that.
In this week's "Household Words" there is an exact portrait of our Boulogne landlord, which I hope you will like. I think of opening the next long book I write with[370] a man of juvenile figure and strong face, who is always persuading himself that he is infirm. What do you think of the idea? I should like to have your opinion about it. I would make him an impetuous passionate sort of fellow, devilish grim upon occasion, and of an iron purpose. Droll, I fancy?
In this week's "Household Words," there's a detailed portrait of our Boulogne landlord, which I hope you'll enjoy. I'm considering starting my next long book with[370] a young-looking man with a strong face who constantly convinces himself that he's weak. What do you think of this idea? I would love to hear your opinion on it. I'd make him an impulsive and passionate guy, quite serious at times, and with a strong will. Interesting, I think?
—— is getting a little too fat, but appears to be troubled by the great responsibility of directing the whole war. He doesn't seem to be quite clear that he has got the ships into the exact order he intended, on the sea point of attack at Sebastopol. We went to the play last Saturday night with Stanfield, whose "high lights" (as Maclise calls those knobs of brightness on the top of his cheeks) were more radiant than ever. We talked of you, and I told Stanny how they are imitating his "Acis and Galatea" sea in "Pericles," at Phelps's. He didn't half like it; but I added, in nautical language, that it was merely a piratical effort achieved by a handful of porpoise-faced swabs, and that brought him up with a round turn, as we say at sea.
—— is getting a bit overweight, but seems to be stressed by the huge responsibility of managing the entire war. He doesn’t seem to fully grasp that he has positioned the ships exactly as he planned for the sea attack at Sebastopol. We went to see a play last Saturday night with Stanfield, whose "high lights" (as Maclise calls those bright spots on his cheeks) were more dazzling than ever. We talked about you, and I mentioned to Stanny how they are copying his "Acis and Galatea" sea scene in "Pericles," at Phelps's. He didn’t really like it; but I added, in nautical terms, that it was just a pirate's attempt pulled off by a bunch of porpoise-faced amateurs, and that caught his attention, as we say at sea.
We are looking forward to the twentieth of next month with great pleasure. All Tavistock House send love and kisses to all Sherborne House. If there is anything I can bring down for you, let me know in good course of time.
We are excited about the twentieth of next month. Everyone at Tavistock House sends love and kisses to everyone at Sherborne House. If there’s anything I can bring for you, just let me know in advance.
Most affectionately yours.
Tavistock House, Wednesday, Nov. 1st, 1854.
I take upon myself to answer your letter to Catherine, as I am referred to in it.
I’m responding to your letter to Catherine since I’m mentioned in it.
The "Walk" is not my writing. It is very well done by a close imitator. Why I found myself so "used up" after[371] "Hard Times" I scarcely know, perhaps because I intended to do nothing in that way for a year, when the idea laid hold of me by the throat in a very violent manner, and because the compression and close condensation necessary for that disjointed form of publication gave me perpetual trouble. But I really was tired, which is a result so very incomprehensible that I can't forget it. I have passed an idle autumn in a beautiful situation, and am dreadfully brown and big. For further particulars of Boulogne, see "Our French Watering Place," in this present week of "Household Words," which contains a faithful portrait of our landlord there.
The "Walk" isn't my own work. It's really well done by a close imitator. I'm not sure why I felt so drained after[371] "Hard Times." Maybe it was because I planned to take a break from writing for a year, but then the idea hit me really hard. The tight and condensed format required for that kind of publication was constantly challenging for me. But honestly, I was exhausted, which is such a strange result that I can't shake it off. I've had a lazy autumn in a gorgeous spot, and I've gotten really tanned and bulky. For more details about Boulogne, check out "Our French Watering Place" in this week's issue of "Household Words," which includes an accurate depiction of our landlord there.
If you carry out that bright Croydon idea, rely on our glad co-operation, only let me know all about it a few days beforehand; and if you feel equal to the contemplation of the moustache (which has been cut lately) it will give us the heartiest pleasure to come and meet you. This in spite of the terrific duffery of the Crystal Palace. It is a very remarkable thing in itself; but to have so very large a building continually crammed down one's throat, and to find it a new page in "The Whole Duty of Man" to go there, is a little more than even I (and you know how amiable I am) can endure.
If you go ahead with that great Croydon idea, count on our enthusiastic support—just let me know the details a few days in advance. And if you're up for seeing the moustache (which has been trimmed recently), it would bring us immense joy to come and meet you. This is despite the overwhelming experience of the Crystal Palace. It's quite an impressive place on its own, but having such a massive building constantly shoved in your face and treating it like a new chapter in "The Whole Duty of Man" is more than even I (and you know how easygoing I am) can take.
You always like to know what I am going to do, so I beg to announce that on the 19th of December I am going to read the "Carol" at Reading, where I undertook the presidency of the Literary Institution on the death of poor dear Talfourd. Then I am going on to Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, to do the like for another institution, which is one of the few remaining pleasures of Macready's life. Then I am coming home for Christmas Day. Then I believe I must go to Bradford, in Yorkshire, to read once more to a little fireside party of four thousand. Then I am coming[372] home again to get up a new little version of "The Children in the Wood" (yet to be written, by-the-bye), for the children to act on Charley's birthday.
You always want to know what I’m up to, so I’m excited to share that on December 19th, I’ll be reading the "Carol" in Reading, where I took over as president of the Literary Institution after the passing of dear Talfourd. After that, I’m heading to Sherborne in Dorset to do the same for another institution, which is one of the last remaining joys of Macready's life. Then I’ll be coming home for Christmas Day. After that, I think I need to go to Bradford in Yorkshire to read once more to a cozy fireside audience of four thousand. Then I’ll be coming[372] home again to put together a new little version of "The Children in the Wood" (yet to be written, by the way), for the kids to perform on Charley’s birthday.
I am full of mixed feeling about the war—admiration of our valiant men, burning desires to cut the Emperor of Russia's throat, and something like despair to see how the old cannon-smoke and blood-mists obscure the wrongs and sufferings of the people at home. When I consider the Patriotic Fund on the one hand, and on the other the poverty and wretchedness engendered by cholera, of which in London alone, an infinitely larger number of English people than are likely to be slain in the whole Russian war have miserably and needlessly died—I feel as if the world had been pushed back five hundred years. If you are reading new books just now, I think you will be interested with a controversy between Whewell and Brewster, on the question of the shining orbs about us being inhabited or no. Whewell's book is called, "On the Plurality of Worlds;" Brewster's, "More Worlds than One." I shouldn't wonder if you know all about them. They bring together a vast number of points of great interest in natural philosophy, and some very curious reasoning on both sides, and leave the matter pretty much where it was.
I have mixed feelings about the war—admiration for our brave soldiers, a strong desire to take down the Emperor of Russia, and a sense of despair seeing how the smoke and blood from the cannons hide the suffering and struggles of people back home. When I think about the Patriotic Fund on one hand, and on the other the poverty and misery caused by cholera, which has killed many more people in London than will likely die in the entire Russian war, I feel like the world has rolled back five hundred years. If you’re reading new books right now, you might be interested in the debate between Whewell and Brewster about whether the stars around us are inhabited. Whewell’s book is titled "On the Plurality of Worlds," and Brewster’s is "More Worlds than One." I wouldn’t be surprised if you know all about them. They discuss a lot of fascinating points in natural philosophy and offer some very intriguing arguments on both sides, but ultimately, the issue remains unresolved.
We had a fine absurdity in connection with our luggage, when we left Boulogne. The barometer had within a few hours fallen about a foot, in honour of the occasion, and it was a tremendous night, blowing a gale of wind and raining a little deluge. The luggage (pretty heavy, as you may suppose), in a cart drawn by two horses, stuck fast in a rut in our field, and couldn't be moved. Our man, made a lunatic by the extremity of the occasion, ran down to the town to get two more horses to help it out, when he returned with those horses and carter B, the most beaming[373] of men; carter A, who had been soaking all the time by the disabled vehicle, descried in carter B the acknowledged enemy of his existence, took his own two horses out, and walked off with them! After which, the whole set-out remained in the field all night, and we came to town, thirteen individuals, with one comb and a pocket-handkerchief. I was upside-down during the greater part of the passage.
We had quite the ridiculous situation with our luggage when we left Boulogne. The barometer had dropped about a foot in just a few hours to mark the occasion, and it was an awful night, blowing a strong gale and pouring rain. The luggage (pretty heavy, as you can imagine), stuck in a rut in our field in a cart pulled by two horses, couldn’t be moved. Our guy, driven to madness by the urgency, ran down to town to get two more horses to pull it out, but when he came back with those horses and carter B, the friendliest guy, carter A, who had been drenched the whole time by the stuck cart, saw carter B as his sworn enemy, took out his two horses, and just walked away! After that, the whole situation stayed in the field all night, and we headed to town, thirteen people, with just one comb and a handkerchief. I was upside down for most of the trip.
Dr. Rae's account of Franklin's unfortunate party is deeply interesting; but I think hasty in its acceptance of the details, particularly in the statement that they had eaten the dead bodies of their companions, which I don't believe. Franklin, on a former occasion, was almost starved to death, had gone through all the pains of that sad end, and lain down to die, and no such thought had presented itself to any of them. In famous cases of shipwreck, it is very rare indeed that any person of any humanising education or refinement resorts to this dreadful means of prolonging life. In open boats, the coarsest and commonest men of the shipwrecked party have done such things; but I don't remember more than one instance in which an officer had overcome the loathing that the idea had inspired. Dr. Rae talks about their cooking these remains too. I should like to know where the fuel came from.
Dr. Rae's account of Franklin's unfortunate expedition is really interesting, but I think it's too quick to accept the details, especially the claim that they ate the dead bodies of their companions, which I don't believe. Franklin had nearly starved to death before, gone through all the pain of that tragic end, and had lain down to die, yet none of them had this idea. In well-known cases of shipwreck, it’s incredibly rare for anyone with a sense of humanity or refinement to resort to such a horrific way of staying alive. In open boats, it’s usually the roughest individuals in the shipwrecked group who have done such things; however, I can only recall one instance where an officer was able to overcome the horror that the thought inspired. Dr. Rae even mentions their cooking these remains. I'd like to know where they got the fuel from.
Ever, my dear Mrs. Watson, affectionately yours.
Tavistock House, Friday Night, Nov. 3rd, 1854.
First of all, here is enclosed a letter for Mrs. Stanfield, which, if you don't immediately and faithfully deliver, you will hear of in an unpleasant way from the station-house at the curve of the hill above you.[374]
First of all, I’ve attached a letter for Mrs. Stanfield, which, if you don’t deliver promptly and accurately, you’ll hear about in an unpleasant way from the police station at the curve of the hill above you.[374]
Secondly, this is not to remind you that we meet at the Athenæum next Monday at five, because none but a mouldy swab as never broke biscuit or lay out on the for'sel-yardarm in a gale of wind ever forgot an appointment with a messmate.
Secondly, this isn't to remind you that we meet at the Athenæum next Monday at five, because only a total loser who’s never been through a storm at sea would forget an appointment with a friend.
But what I want you to think of at your leisure is this: when our dear old Macready was in town last, I saw it would give him so much interest and pleasure if I promised to go down and read my "Christmas Carol" to the little Sherborne Institution, which is now one of the few active objects he has in the life about him, that I came out with that promise in a bold—I may say a swaggering way. Consequently, on Wednesday, the 20th of December, I am going down to see him, with Kate and Georgina, returning to town in good time for Christmas, on Saturday, the 23rd. Do you think you could manage to go and return with us? I really believe there is scarcely anything in the world that would give him such extraordinary pleasure as such a visit; and if you would empower me to send him an intimation that he may expect it, he will have a daily joy in looking forward to the time (I am seriously sure) which we—whose light has not gone out, and who are among our old dear pursuits and associations—can scarcely estimate.
But what I want you to think about at your convenience is this: when our good friend Macready was in town last, I realized it would bring him so much joy if I promised to go down and read my "Christmas Carol" to the little Sherborne Institution, which is now one of the few things he actively engages with in his life. So, I made that promise confidently—maybe even a bit boastfully. Therefore, on Wednesday, December 20th, I will be going to see him, along with Kate and Georgina, and we'll return to the city in time for Christmas on Saturday, December 23rd. Do you think you could manage to come with us? I genuinely believe there’s almost nothing in the world that would bring him as much happiness as this visit; and if you could give me the green light to let him know to expect us, he will have the joy of looking forward to it every day (I am truly convinced) in a way that we—whose light has not dimmed, and who are still connected to our old cherished pursuits and memories—can hardly appreciate.
I don't like to broach the idea in a careless way, and so I propose it thus, and ask you to think of it.
I don't want to bring it up lightly, so I'm suggesting it like this and asking you to consider it.
Tavistock House, Sunday, Dec. 17th, 1854.
You have given me a new sensation. I did suppose that nothing in this singular world could surprise me, but you have done it.
You’ve given me a new feeling. I thought nothing in this unique world could surprise me, but you have.
You will believe my congratulations on the delicacy and[375] talent of your writing to be sincere. From the first, I have always had an especial interest in that Miss Berwick, and have over and over again questioned Wills about her. I suppose he has gone on gradually building up an imaginary structure of life and adventure for her, but he has given me the strangest information! Only yesterday week, when we were "making up" "The Poor Travellers," as I sat meditatively poking the office fire, I said to him, "Wills, have you got that Miss Berwick's proof back, of the little sailor's song?" "No," he said. "Well, but why not?" I asked him. "Why, you know," he answered, "as I have often told you before, she don't live at the place to which her letters are addressed, and so there's always difficulty and delay in communicating with her." "Do you know what age she is?" I said. Here he looked unfathomably profound, and returned, "Rather advanced in life." "You said she was a governess, didn't you?" said I; to which he replied in the most emphatic and positive manner, "A governess."
You will believe my congratulations on the delicacy and[375] talent of your writing are sincere. From the beginning, I've always had a special interest in Miss Berwick, and I've repeatedly asked Wills about her. I guess he's been gradually creating an imaginary life and adventures for her, but he's shared the strangest details! Just last week, while we were "making up" "The Poor Travellers," as I sat thinking and poking the office fire, I asked him, "Wills, have you got Miss Berwick's proof back for the little sailor's song?" "No," he replied. "Well, why not?" I asked. "Well, you know," he said, "as I've told you many times before, she doesn’t live where her letters are sent, so there's always trouble and delays in reaching her." "Do you know how old she is?" I asked. He then looked mysteriously serious and said, "Rather advanced in life." "You said she's a governess, right?" I said, to which he confidently replied, "A governess."
He then came and stood in the corner of the hearth, with his back to the fire, and delivered himself like an oracle concerning you. He told me that early in life (conveying to me the impression of about a quarter of a century ago) you had had your feelings desperately wounded by some cause, real or imaginary—"It does not matter which," said I, with the greatest sagacity—and that you had then taken to writing verses. That you were of an unhappy temperament, but keenly sensitive to encouragement. That you wrote after the educational duties of the day were discharged. That you sometimes thought of never writing any more. That you had been away for some time "with your pupils." That your letters were of a mild and melancholy character, and that you did not seem to care as much as might be expected about money. All this time I sat[376] poking the fire, with a wisdom upon me absolutely crushing; and finally I begged him to assure the lady that she might trust me with her real address, and that it would be better to have it now, as I hoped our further communications, etc. etc. etc. You must have felt enormously wicked last Tuesday, when I, such a babe in the wood, was unconsciously prattling to you. But you have given me so much pleasure, and have made me shed so many tears, that I can only think of you now in association with the sentiment and grace of your verses.
He then came and stood in the corner of the fireplace, with his back to the fire, and spoke like an oracle about you. He told me that early in your life (giving me the impression it was about twenty-five years ago) your feelings were deeply hurt by something, whether real or imagined—"It doesn’t matter which," I said wisely—and that you then started writing poetry. He mentioned that you had an unhappy disposition but were very sensitive to encouragement. That you wrote after finishing your educational duties for the day. That sometimes you thought about never writing again. That you had been away for a while "with your students." That your letters were gentle and melancholic, and that you didn’t seem as concerned about money as one might expect. All this time I sat[376] poking the fire, feeling extremely wise; and finally, I asked him to assure the lady that she could trust me with her real address, and that it would be better to get it now, as I hoped for further communications, etc. etc. etc. You must have felt incredibly guilty last Tuesday when I, so naive, was unknowingly chatting with you. But you have brought me so much joy and made me shed so many tears that I can only think of you now in connection with the feelings and elegance of your poetry.
So pray accept the blessing and forgiveness of Richard Watts, though I am afraid you come under both his conditions of exclusion.[20]
So please accept the blessing and forgiveness of Richard Watts, even though I fear you fall under both his criteria for exclusion.[20]
1855.
NARRATIVE.
In this summer Charles Dickens made a speech at a great meeting at Drury Lane Theatre on the subject of "Administrative Reform," of which he writes to Mr. Macready. On this subject of "Administrative Reform," too, we give two letters to the great Nineveh traveller Mr. Layard (now Sir Austen H. Layard), for whom, as his letters show, he conceived at once the affectionate friendship which went on increasing from this time for the rest of his life. Mr. Layard also spoke at the Drury Lane meeting.
In the summer, Charles Dickens gave a speech at a big meeting at Drury Lane Theatre about "Administrative Reform," which he wrote to Mr. Macready about. We also include two letters on the topic of "Administrative Reform" addressed to the renowned Nineveh traveler Mr. Layard (now Sir Austen H. Layard), for whom, as his letters reveal, Dickens developed a warm friendship that grew stronger for the rest of his life. Mr. Layard also spoke at the Drury Lane meeting.
Charles Dickens had made a promise to give another reading at Birmingham for the funds of the institute which still needed help; and in a letter to Mr. Arthur Ryland, asking him to fix a time for it, he gives the first idea of a selection from "David Copperfield," which was afterwards one of the most popular of his readings.
Charles Dickens promised to give another reading in Birmingham to raise funds for the institute that still needed support. In a letter to Mr. Arthur Ryland, asking him to set a time for it, he shares the initial idea for a selection from "David Copperfield," which later became one of his most popular readings.
He was at all times fond of making excursions for a day—or two or three days—to Rochester and its neighbourhood; and after one of these, this year, he writes to Mr. Wills that he has seen a "small freehold" to be sold, opposite the house on which he had fixed his childish affections (and which he calls in this letter the "Hermitage," its real name being "Gad's Hill Place"). The latter house was not, at that time, to be had, and he made some approach to negotiations as to the other "little freehold," which, however, did not come to anything. Later in the year,[378] however, Mr. Wills, by an accident, discovered that Gad's Hill Place, the property of Miss Lynn, the well-known authoress, and a constant contributor to "Household Words," was itself for sale; and a negotiation for its purchase commenced, which was not, however, completed until the following spring.
He always enjoyed taking trips for a day—or two or three days—to Rochester and its surrounding area. After one of these trips this year, he wrote to Mr. Wills that he had seen a "small freehold" for sale, opposite the house where he had formed his childhood attachments (he referred to it in this letter as the "Hermitage," although its actual name is "Gad's Hill Place"). At that time, the latter house wasn't available, and he tried to negotiate for the other "little freehold," but it didn't lead anywhere. Later in the year,[378] though, Mr. Wills accidentally found out that Gad's Hill Place, owned by Miss Lynn, the well-known author and regular contributor to "Household Words," was for sale; negotiations for its purchase began, but they weren't finalized until the following spring.
Later in the year, the performance of "The Lighthouse" was repeated, for a charitable purpose, at the Campden House theatre.
Later in the year, the performance of "The Lighthouse" was restaged for a charitable cause at the Campden House theater.
This autumn was passed at Folkestone. Charles Dickens had decided upon spending the following winter in Paris, and the family proceeded there from Folkestone in October, making a halt at Boulogne; from whence his sister-in-law preceded the party to Paris, to secure lodgings, with the help of Lady Olliffe. He followed, to make his choice of apartments that had been found, and he writes to his wife and to Mr. Wills, giving a description of the Paris house. Here he began "Little Dorrit." In a letter to Mrs. Watson, from Folkestone, he gives her the name which he had first proposed for this story—"Nobody's Fault."
This autumn was spent in Folkestone. Charles Dickens decided to spend the upcoming winter in Paris, and the family left for Paris from Folkestone in October, making a stop in Boulogne. His sister-in-law went ahead to Paris to secure accommodations with the help of Lady Olliffe. He followed to choose from the apartments that had been found, and he wrote to his wife and Mr. Wills, providing a description of the Paris house. Here, he began "Little Dorrit." In a letter to Mrs. Watson from Folkestone, he mentions the name he initially proposed for this story—"Nobody's Fault."
During his absence from England, Mr. and Mrs. Hogarth occupied Tavistock House, and his eldest son, being now engaged in business, remained with them, coming to Paris only for Christmas. Three of his boys were at school at Boulogne at this time, and one, Walter Landor, at Wimbledon, studying for an Indian army appointment.
During his time away from England, Mr. and Mrs. Hogarth stayed at Tavistock House, and their eldest son, who was now working, stayed with them, visiting Paris only for Christmas. Three of their boys were attending school in Boulogne at that time, and one, Walter Landor, was at Wimbledon, preparing for a position in the Indian army.
Tavistock House, January 3rd, 1855.
When your Christmas letter did not arrive according to custom, I felt as if a bit of Christmas had fallen out and there was no supplying the piece. However, it was soon supplied by yourself, and the bowl became round and sound again.
When your Christmas letter didn't come as usual, I felt like a piece of Christmas was missing and couldn't be replaced. However, you soon made up for it, and everything felt complete and whole again.
The Christmas number of "Household Words," I suppose, will reach Lausanne about midsummer. The first ten pages or so—all under the head of "The First Poor[379] Traveller"—are written by me, and I hope you will find, in the story of the soldier which they contain, something that may move you a little. It moved me not a little in the writing, and I believe has touched a vast number of people. We have sold eighty thousand of it.
The Christmas edition of "Household Words" will probably get to Lausanne around midsummer. The first ten pages or so—all titled "The First Poor Traveller"—are written by me, and I hope you’ll find something in the story of the soldier that moves you a bit. It definitely moved me while I was writing it, and I believe it has touched a lot of people. We’ve sold eighty thousand copies of it.
I am but newly come home from reading at Reading (where I succeeded poor Talfourd as the president of an institution), and at Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, and at Bradford, in Yorkshire. Wonderful audiences! and the number at the last place three thousand seven hundred. And yet but for the noise of their laughing and cheering, they "went" like one man.
I just got back from speaking at Reading (where I took over from poor Talfourd as the president of an institution), and also at Sherborne in Dorsetshire and Bradford in Yorkshire. Amazing audiences! The last one had three thousand seven hundred people. And yet, apart from the sound of their laughter and cheers, they all reacted as if they were one person.
The absorption of the English mind in the war is, to me, a melancholy thing. Every other subject of popular solicitude and sympathy goes down before it. I fear I clearly see that for years to come domestic reforms are shaken to the root; every miserable red-tapist flourishes war over the head of every protester against his humbug; and everything connected with it is pushed to such an unreasonable extent, that, however kind and necessary it may be in itself, it becomes ridiculous. For all this it is an indubitable fact, I conceive, that Russia must be stopped, and that the future peace of the world renders the war imperative upon us. The Duke of Newcastle lately addressed a private letter to the newspapers, entreating them to exercise a larger discretion in respect of the letters of "Our Own Correspondents," against which Lord Raglan protests as giving the Emperor of Russia information for nothing which would cost him (if indeed he could get it at all) fifty or a hundred thousand pounds a year. The communication has not been attended with much effect, so far as I can see. In the meantime I do suppose we have the wretchedest Ministry that ever was—in whom nobody not in office of some sort[380] believes—yet whom there is nobody to displace. The strangest result, perhaps, of years of Reformed Parliaments that ever the general sagacity did not foresee.
The obsession of the English public with the war is, to me, a sad situation. Every other issue that garners popular concern and sympathy falls by the wayside. I fear I clearly see that for years to come, domestic reforms are fundamentally shaken; every miserable bureaucrat flaunts the war over the heads of every protester against his nonsense, and everything related to it is taken to such an extreme that, no matter how kind and necessary it may be, it becomes ridiculous. Despite all this, I firmly believe that Russia must be stopped, and that the future peace of the world makes this war necessary for us. The Duke of Newcastle recently wrote a private letter to the newspapers, urging them to exercise more discretion regarding the letters from "Our Own Correspondents," which Lord Raglan protests against, claiming it gives the Emperor of Russia information for free that would cost him (if he could even get it at all) fifty or a hundred thousand pounds a year. So far, this communication hasn’t had much of an impact, from what I can see. In the meantime, I suppose we have the most miserable government ever—in whom no one outside of a position of some kind believes—yet there's no one to replace them. Perhaps the strangest outcome of years of Reformed Parliaments that general common sense did not foresee.
Let me recommend you, as a brother-reader of high distinction, two comedies, both Goldsmith's—"She Stoops to Conquer" and "The Good-natured Man." Both are so admirable and so delightfully written that they read wonderfully. A friend of mine, Forster, who wrote "The Life of Goldsmith," was very ill a year or so ago, and begged me to read to him one night as he lay in bed, "something of Goldsmith's." I fell upon "She Stoops to Conquer," and we enjoyed it with that wonderful intensity, that I believe he began to get better in the first scene, and was all right again in the fifth act.
Let me recommend to you, as a fellow reader of great taste, two comedies by Goldsmith—"She Stoops to Conquer" and "The Good-natured Man." Both are so brilliant and wonderfully written that they are a pleasure to read. A friend of mine, Forster, who wrote "The Life of Goldsmith," was very sick about a year ago and asked me to read something by Goldsmith to him one night while he was in bed. I picked "She Stoops to Conquer," and we enjoyed it so much that I believe he started to recover during the first scene, and by the fifth act, he was completely well again.
I am charmed by your account of Haldimand, to whom my love. Tell him Sydney Smith's daughter has privately printed a life of her father with selections from his letters, which has great merit, and often presents him exactly as he used to be. I have strongly urged her to publish it, and I think she will do so, about March.
I’m really taken by your story about Haldimand, to whom I send my love. Let him know that Sydney Smith’s daughter has privately printed a biography of her father with some of his letters, which is quite impressive and often shows him just as he was. I’ve strongly encouraged her to publish it, and I believe she will around March.
My eldest boy has come home from Germany to learn a business life at Birmingham (I think), first of all. The whole nine are well and happy. Ditto, Mrs. Dickens. Ditto, Georgina. My two girls are full of interest in yours; and one of mine (as I think I told you when I was at Elysée) is curiously like one of yours in the face. They are all agog now about a great fairy play, which is to come off here next Monday. The house is full of spangles, gas, Jew theatrical tailors, and pantomime carpenters. We all unite in kindest and best loves to dear Mrs. Cerjat and all the blooming daughters. And I am, with frequent thoughts of you and cordial affection, ever, my dear Cerjat,
My oldest son has come back from Germany to learn about business in Birmingham (I think). The whole family is doing well and happy. Same goes for Mrs. Dickens. Also, Georgina is doing well. My two daughters are really interested in yours; and one of mine (as I mentioned when I was at Elysée) looks quite a bit like one of yours. They’re all excited about a big fairy play that’s happening here next Monday. The house is filled with sparkles, lights, theatrical tailors, and carpenters for the show. We all send our warmest and best wishes to dear Mrs. Cerjat and all the lovely daughters. And I am, thinking of you often and with lots of affection, always, my dear Cerjat,
Tavistock House, January 3rd, 1855.
This is a word of heartfelt greeting; in exchange for yours, which came to me most pleasantly, and was received with a cordial welcome. If I had leisure to write a letter, I should write you, at this point, perhaps the very best letter that ever was read; but, being in the agonies of getting up a gorgeous fairy play for the postboys, on Charley's birthday (besides having the work of half-a-dozen to do as a regular thing), I leave the merits of the wonderful epistle to your lively fancy.
This is a warm hello in return for your letter, which I received very happily and welcomed with open arms. If I had time to write, I would probably send you the best letter you've ever read; but since I'm busy putting together an amazing fairy play for the postboys for Charley's birthday (not to mention my regular workload), I’ll leave the greatness of the letter to your imagination.
Enclosing a kiss, if you will have the kindness to return it when done with.
Enclosing a kiss, if you would be kind enough to give it back when you're done.
I have just been reading my "Christmas Carol" in Yorkshire. I should have lost my heart to the beautiful young landlady of my hotel (age twenty-nine, dress, black frock and jacket, exquisitely braided) if it had not been safe in your possession.
I just finished reading my "Christmas Carol" in Yorkshire. I would have fallen for the beautiful young landlady of my hotel (she's twenty-nine, wearing a black dress and jacket, looking perfectly styled) if my heart wasn't already yours.
Many, many happy years to you! My regards to that obstinate old Wurzell[21] and his dame, when you have them under lock and key again.
Many, many happy years to you! Please say hi to that stubborn old Wurzell[21] and his lady when you have them secured again.
Tavistock House, January 27th, 1855.
Let me congratulate you on the conclusion of your story; not because it is the end of a task to which you had conceived a dislike (for I imagine you to have got the better of that delusion by this time), but because it is the vigorous and powerful accomplishment of an anxious labour. It seems to me that you have felt the ground thoroughly firm under your feet, and have strided on with a force and purpose that must now give you pleasure.
Let me congratulate you on finishing your story; not because it's the end of a task you disliked (I'm sure you've moved past that by now), but because it's the strong and impressive result of a lot of hard work. It looks like you've really felt the ground beneath you and have moved forward with a strength and determination that must now make you happy.
You will not, I hope, allow that not-lucid interval of dissatisfaction with yourself (and me?), which beset you for a minute or two once upon a time, to linger in the shape of any disagreeable association with "Household Words." I shall still look forward to the large sides of paper, and shall soon feel disappointed if they don't begin to reappear.
I hope you won't let that unclear moment of frustration with yourself (and me?) from a little while back stick around as an unpleasant memory of "Household Words." I'm still looking forward to the big sheets of paper and will feel let down if they don't start coming back.
I thought it best that Wills should write the business letter on the conclusion of the story, as that part of our communications had always previously rested with him. I trust you found it satisfactory? I refer to it, not as a matter of mere form, but because I sincerely wish everything between us to be beyond the possibility of misunderstanding or reservation.
I thought it would be best for Wills to write the business letter at the end of the story, since he has always handled that part of our communications. I hope you found it satisfactory? I mention this, not just as a formality, but because I genuinely want everything between us to be completely clear and without any misunderstandings or reservations.
Tavistock House, Monday, Jan. 29th, 1855.
I have been in the greatest difficulty—which I am not yet out of—to know what to read at Birmingham. I fear the idea of next month is now impracticable. Which of two other months do you think would be preferable for your Birmingham objects? Next May, or next December?
I have been in a really tough spot—one I'm still in—trying to figure out what to read in Birmingham. I'm afraid the plan for next month is no longer doable. Which of the two other months do you think would be better for your Birmingham plans? Next May or next December?
Having already read two Christmas books at Birmingham, I should like to get out of that restriction, and have a swim in the broader waters of one of my long books. I have been poring over "Copperfield" (which is my favourite), with the idea of getting a reading out of it, to be called by some such name as "Young Housekeeping and Little Emily." But there is still the huge difficulty that I constructed the whole with immense pains, and have so woven it up and blended it together, that I cannot yet so separate the parts as to tell the story of David's married life with Dora, and the story of Mr. Peggotty's search for his niece, within the[383] time. This is my object. If I could possibly bring it to bear, it would make a very attractive reading, with, a strong interest in it, and a certain completeness.
Having already read two Christmas books in Birmingham, I’d like to break away from that and dive into one of my longer books. I’ve been deeply engrossed in "Copperfield" (which is my favorite), thinking of how to create a reading from it, possibly titled "Young Housekeeping and Little Emily." However, there's still the big challenge that I put immense effort into crafting it, and I’ve woven everything together so tightly that I can’t yet separate the parts enough to tell the story of David’s married life with Dora and Mr. Peggotty’s search for his niece at the same time. This is my goal. If I could somehow make that work, it would result in a really engaging read, with strong interest and a sense of completeness.
This is exactly the state of the case. I don't mind confiding to you, that I never can approach the book with perfect composure (it had such perfect possession of me when I wrote it), and that I no sooner begin to try to get it into this form, than I begin to read it all, and to feel that I cannot disturb it. I have not been unmindful of the agreement we made at parting, and I have sat staring at the backs of my books for an inspiration. This project is the only one that I have constantly reverted to, and yet I have made no progress in it!
This is exactly how things stand. I’m not shy about sharing that I can never look at the book with complete calm (it had such a grip on me when I wrote it), and as soon as I start trying to put it into this format, I end up reading it all and feeling like I can’t change it. I haven’t forgotten the agreement we made when we parted, and I’ve been sitting here staring at the spines of my books for inspiration. This project is the only one I keep coming back to, and yet I haven’t made any progress on it!
Tavistock House, London, Saturday Evening, Feb. 3rd, 1855.
I am coming to Paris for a week, with my friend Collins—son of the English painter who painted our green lanes and our cottage children so beautifully. Do not tell this to Le Vieux. Unless I have the ill fortune to stumble against him in the street I shall not make my arrival known to him.
I’m coming to Paris for a week with my friend Collins—he’s the son of the English painter who beautifully painted our green lanes and our cottage kids. Don’t mention this to Le Vieux. Unless I accidentally run into him on the street, I won’t let him know I’m here.
I purpose leaving here on Sunday, the 11th, but I shall stay that night at Boulogne to see two of my little boys who are at school there. We shall come to Paris on Monday, the 12th, arriving there in the evening.
I plan to leave here on Sunday, the 11th, but I’ll stay that night in Boulogne to see two of my little boys who are in school there. We'll head to Paris on Monday, the 12th, arriving in the evening.
Now, mon cher, do you think you can, without inconvenience, engage me for a week an apartment—cheerful, light, and wholesome—containing a comfortable salon et deux chambres à coucher. I do not care whether it is an hotel or not, but the reason why I do not write for an apartment to the Hôtel Brighton is, that there they[384] expect one to dine at home (I mean in the apartment) generally; whereas, as we are coming to Paris expressly to be always looking about us, we want to dine wherever we like every day. Consequently, what we want to find is a good apartment, where we can have our breakfast but where we shall never dine.
Now, my dear, do you think you could, without any trouble, book me an apartment for a week—bright, airy, and welcoming—featuring a comfortable living room and two bedrooms? I don’t mind if it’s in a hotel or not, but the reason I haven't reached out to the Hôtel Brighton is that there they[384] expect guests to dine in (I mean in the apartment) regularly; however, since we’re coming to Paris specifically to explore, we want to eat wherever we prefer each day. So, what we need is a good apartment where we can have breakfast but where we will never have dinner.
Can you engage such accommodation for me? If you can, I shall feel very much obliged to you. If the apartment should happen to contain a little bed for a servant I might perhaps bring one, but I do not care about that at all. I want it to be pleasant and gay, and to throw myself en garçon on the festive diableries de Paris.
Can you arrange that for me? If you can, I would really appreciate it. If the apartment happens to have a small bed for a servant, I might consider bringing one, but I'm not really concerned about that. I want it to be nice and cheerful, so I can enjoy the festive fun of Paris.
Mrs. Dickens and her sister send their kindest regards to Madame Regnier and you, in which I heartily join. All the children send their loves to the two brave boys and the Normandy bonnes.
Mrs. Dickens and her sister send their warmest regards to Madame Regnier and you, which I wholeheartedly echo. All the kids send their love to the two brave boys and the Normandy bonnes.
I shall hope for a short answer from you one day next week. My dear Regnier,
I hope to get a quick response from you sometime next week. My dear Regnier,
Household Words Office," Friday, Feb. 9th, 1855.
I want to alter the arrangements for to-morrow, and put you to some inconvenience.
I want to change the plans for tomorrow and put you in a bit of a bind.
When I was at Gravesend t'other day, I saw, at Gad's Hill—just opposite to the Hermitage, where Miss Lynn used to live—a little freehold to be sold. The spot and the very house are literally "a dream of my childhood," and I should like to look at it before I go to Paris. With that purpose I must go to Strood by the North Kent, at a quarter-past ten to-morrow morning, and I want you, strongly booted, to go with me! (I know the particulars from the agent.)[385]
When I was in Gravesend the other day, I saw a little piece of land for sale at Gad's Hill—right across from the Hermitage where Miss Lynn used to live. The place and the house are truly "a dream from my childhood," and I’d like to check it out before I head to Paris. To do that, I need to take the North Kent train to Strood at a quarter past ten tomorrow morning, and I want you, all geared up, to come with me! (I have the details from the agent.)[385]
Can you? Let me know. If you can, can you manage so that we can take the proofs with us? If you can't, will you bring them to Tavistock House at dinner time to-morrow, half-past five? Forster will dine with us, but no one else.
Can you? Let me know. If you can, can you arrange it so we can take the proofs with us? If you can't, will you bring them to Tavistock House tomorrow at dinner time, 5:30? Forster will be dining with us, but no one else.
I am uncertain of your being in town to-night, but I send John up with this.
I’m not sure if you're in town tonight, but I’m sending John up with this.
Hôtel Meurice, Paris, Friday, Feb. 16th, 1855.
I heard from home last night; but the posts are so delayed and put out by the snow, that they come in at all sorts of times except the right times, and utterly defy all calculation. Will you tell Catherine with my love, that I will write to her again to-morrow afternoon; I hope she may then receive my letter by Monday morning, and in it I purpose telling her when I may be expected home. The weather is so severe and the roads are so bad, that the journey to and from Bordeaux seems out of the question. We have made up our minds to abandon it for the present, and to return about Tuesday night or Wednesday. Collins continues in a queer state, but is perfectly cheerful under the stoppage of his wine and other afflictions.
I heard from home last night, but the mail is so delayed and disrupted by the snow that letters arrive at all sorts of random times instead of when they're supposed to, completely making it impossible to predict. Can you please tell Catherine, with my love, that I'll write to her again tomorrow afternoon? I hope she gets my letter by Monday morning, and I plan to tell her when I might be expected back home. The weather is really harsh and the roads are in terrible condition, so traveling to and from Bordeaux seems totally unfeasible. We've decided to scrap that plan for now and aim to return around Tuesday night or Wednesday. Collins is still in a strange mood, but he’s managing to stay cheerful despite not having his wine and dealing with other problems.
We have a beautiful apartment, very elegantly furnished, very thickly carpeted, and as warm as any apartment in Paris can be in such weather. We are very well waited on and looked after. We breakfast at ten, read and write till two, and then I go out walking all over Paris, while the invalid sits by the fire or is deposited in a café. We dine at five, in a different restaurant every day, and at seven or so go to the theatre—sometimes to two theatres, sometimes to three. We get home about twelve, light the fire, and drink[386] lemonade, to which I add rum. We go to bed between one and two. I live in peace, like an elderly gentleman, and regard myself as in a negative state of virtue and respectability.
We have a beautiful apartment, very stylishly furnished, with thick carpets, and it's as warm as any apartment in Paris can be in this weather. We’re well taken care of. We have breakfast at ten, read and write until two, and then I go for long walks around Paris while the one who's not well sits by the fire or spends time in a café. We have dinner at five, trying out a different restaurant each day, and around seven, we go to the theater—sometimes to two theaters, sometimes to three. We get home around midnight, light the fire, and drink lemonade, to which I add rum. We go to bed between one and two. I live in peace, like an older gentleman, and consider myself in a state of quiet virtue and respectability.
The theatres are not particularly good, but I have seen Lemaître act in the most wonderful and astounding manner. I am afraid we must go to the Opéra Comique on Sunday. To-morrow we dine with Regnier and to-day with the Olliffes.
The theaters aren't great, but I've seen Lemaître perform in the most impressive and amazing way. I'm afraid we'll have to go to the Opéra Comique on Sunday. Tomorrow we’re having dinner with Regnier, and today with the Olliffes.
"La Joie fait Peur," at the Français, delighted me. Exquisitely played and beautifully imagined altogether. Last night we went to the Porte St. Martin to see a piece (English subject) called "Jane Osborne," which the characters pronounce "Ja Nosbornnne." The seducer was Lord Nottingham. The comic Englishwoman's name (she kept lodgings and was a very bad character) was Missees Christmas. She had begun to get into great difficulties with a gentleman of the name of Meestair Cornhill, when we were obliged to leave, at the end of the first act, by the intolerable stench of the place. The whole theatre must be standing over some vast cesspool. It was so alarming that I instantly rushed into a café and had brandy.
"La Joie fait Peur" at the Français was a delight. Exquisitely performed and beautifully conceived overall. Last night we went to the Porte St. Martin to see a play (English subject) called "Jane Osborne," which the characters pronounce "Ja Nosbornnne." The seducer was Lord Nottingham. The comic Englishwoman's name (she ran a boarding house and was a very bad character) was Missees Christmas. She had started to get into serious trouble with a man named Meestair Cornhill when we had to leave, at the end of the first act, due to the unbearable stench of the place. The whole theater must be built over some huge cesspool. It was so alarming that I immediately dashed into a café and had brandy.
My ear has gradually become so accustomed to French, that I understand the people at the theatres (for the first time) with perfect ease and satisfaction. I walked about with Regnier for an hour and a half yesterday, and received many compliments on my angelic manner of speaking the celestial language. There is a winter Franconi's now, high up on the Boulevards, just like the round theatre on the Champs Elysées, and as bright and beautiful. A clown from Astley's is all in high favour there at present. He talks slang English (being evidently an idiot), as if he felt a perfect confidence that everybody understands him. His[387] name is Boswell, and the whole cirque rang last night with cries for Boz Zwilllll! Boz Zweellll! Boz Zwuallll! etc. etc. etc. etc.
My ear has gradually gotten so used to French that I can understand the people at the theaters (for the first time) with complete ease and satisfaction. I strolled around with Regnier for an hour and a half yesterday, and I received many compliments on my angelic way of speaking the beautiful language. There's a winter Franconi's now, located high up on the Boulevards, just like the round theater on the Champs Elysées, and as bright and stunning. A clown from Astley's is currently very popular there. He speaks slang English (clearly an idiot), as if he has perfect confidence that everyone understands him. His[387] name is Boswell, and the whole circus rang last night with cries for Boz Zwilllll! Boz Zweellll! Boz Zwuallll! etc. etc. etc. etc.
I must begin to look out for the box of bon-bons for the noble and fascinating Plornish-Maroon. Give him my love and a thousand kisses.
I need to start looking for the box of chocolates for the amazing Plornish-Maroon. Send him my love and a thousand kisses.
Loves to Mamey, Katey, Sydney, Harry, and the following stab to Anne—she forgot to pack me any shaving soap.
Loves to Mamey, Katey, Sydney, Harry, and the next jab at Anne—she forgot to pack any shaving soap for me.
P.S.—Collins sends kind regards.
P.S.—Collins says hi.
Hôtel Meurice, Paris, Friday, Feb. 16th, 1855.
I received your letter yesterday evening. I have not yet seen the lists of trains and boats, but propose arranging to return about Tuesday or Wednesday. In the meantime I am living like Gil Blas and doing nothing. I am very much obliged to you, indeed, for the trouble you have kindly taken about the little freehold. It is clear to me that its merits resolve themselves into the view and the spot. If I had more money these considerations might, with me, overtop all others. But, as it is, I consider the matter quite disposed of, finally settled in the negative, and to be thought no more about. I shall not go down and look at it, as I could add nothing to your report.
I got your letter yesterday evening. I haven’t yet seen the lists of trains and boats, but I'm planning to return around Tuesday or Wednesday. In the meantime, I’m just relaxing and doing nothing. I really appreciate the effort you’ve put into the little freehold. To me, its value really comes down to the view and the location. If I had more money, those factors might overshadow everything else for me. But as it stands, I think the matter is settled and I won’t be thinking about it anymore. I won’t go down to check it out since I wouldn’t be able to add anything to your report.
Paris is finer than ever, and I go wandering about it all day. We dine at all manner of places, and go to two or three theatres in the evening. I suppose, as an old farmer said of Scott, I am "makin' mysel'" all the time; but I seem to be rather a free-and-easy sort of superior vagabond.[388]
Paris is better than ever, and I spend all day exploring it. We eat at all sorts of restaurants and go to two or three theaters in the evening. I guess, like an old farmer said about Scott, I'm "just figuring things out" all the time; but I feel like a pretty laid-back, sophisticated wanderer.[388]
I live in continual terror of ——, and am strongly fortified within doors, with a means of retreat into my bedroom always ready. Up to the present blessed moment, his staggering form has not appeared.
I live in constant fear of ——, and I’m securely locked inside, with a way to escape into my bedroom always prepared. Up to this very moment, his staggering figure hasn’t shown up.
As to yesterday's post from England, I have not, at the present moment, the slightest idea where it may be. It is under the snow somewhere, I suppose; but nobody expects it, and Galignani reprints every morning leaders from The Times of about a fortnight or three weeks old.
As for yesterday's post from England, I currently have no clue where it might be. I assume it’s buried under the snow somewhere; however, no one expects it, and Galignani prints articles from The Times that are about two or three weeks old every morning.
Collins, who is not very well, sends his "penitent regards," and says he is enjoying himself as much as a man with the weight of a broken promise on his conscience can.
Collins, who isn’t feeling well, sends his "apologies" and says he’s having as much fun as someone grappling with the burden of a broken promise can.
Tavistock House, February 26th, 1855.
Charley came home, I assure you, perfectly delighted with his visit to you, and rapturous in his accounts of your great kindness to him.
Charley came home, I promise you, completely thrilled with his visit to you, and he couldn't stop talking about how kind you were to him.
It appears to me that the first question in reference to my reading (I have not advanced an inch in my "Copperfield" trials by-the-bye) is, whether you think you could devise any plan in connection with the room at Dee's, which would certainly bring my help in money up to five hundred pounds. That is what I want. If it could be done by a subscription for two nights, for instance, I would not be chary of my time and trouble. But if you cannot see your way clearly to that result in that connection, then I think it would be better to wait until we can have the Town Hall at Christmas. I have promised to read, about Christmas time, at Sheffield and at Peterboro'. I could add Birmingham to the list, then, if need were. But[389] what I want is, to give the institution in all five hundred pounds. That is my object, and nothing less will satisfy me.
It seems to me that the first question regarding my reading (I haven't made any progress in my "Copperfield" efforts, by the way) is whether you think you could come up with any plan related to the room at Dee's that would definitely help me raise five hundred pounds. That’s what I’m after. If it could be done with a subscription for two nights, for example, I wouldn’t hesitate to invest my time and effort. But if you can’t see a clear way to achieve that, then I think it’s better to wait until we can use the Town Hall at Christmas. I’ve already promised to read around Christmas time in Sheffield and Peterborough. I could add Birmingham to the schedule if necessary. But what I really want is to donate a total of five hundred pounds to the institution. That’s my goal, and anything less won’t satisfy me.
Will you think it over, taking counsel with whomsoever you please, and let me know what conclusion you arrive at. Only think of me as subservient to the institution.
Will you consider it, discussing it with anyone you like, and let me know what you decide? Just remember to see me as subordinate to the institution.
Tavistock House, February 28th, 1855.
I hope to make it quite plain to you, in a few words, why I think it right to stay away from the Lord Mayor's dinner to the club. If I did not feel a kind of rectitude involved in my non-acceptance of his invitation, your note would immediately induce me to change my mind.
I want to be clear with you, in just a few words, about why I believe it's right to skip the Lord Mayor's dinner at the club. If I didn’t feel a sense of integrity tied to my decision not to accept his invitation, your message would quickly make me reconsider.
Entertaining a strong opinion on the subject of the City Corporation as it stands, and the absurdity of its pretensions in an age perfectly different, in all conceivable respects, from that to which it properly belonged as a reality, I have expressed that opinion on more than one occasion, within a year or so, in "Household Words." I do not think it consistent with my respect for myself, or for the art I profess, to blow hot and cold in the same breath; and to laugh at the institution in print, and accept the hospitality of its representative while the ink is staring us all in the face. There is a great deal too much of this among us, and it does not elevate the earnestness or delicacy of literature.
Having a strong opinion about the City Corporation as it currently exists, and the ridiculousness of its claims in a time that's totally different from when it truly mattered, I’ve shared that opinion more than once in the past year in "Household Words." I don’t believe it’s consistent with my self-respect or my dedication to my craft to be contradictory; to mock the institution in writing while accepting the hospitality of its representative at the same time. There’s far too much of this happening, and it doesn’t enhance the seriousness or sensitivity of literature.
This is my sole consideration. Personally I have always met the present Lord Mayor on the most agreeable terms, and I think him an excellent one. As between you, and me, and him, I cannot have the slightest objection to your telling him the truth. On a more private occasion, when[390] he was not keeping his state, I should be delighted to interchange any courtesy with that honourable and amiable gentleman, Mr. Moon.
This is my only consideration. I’ve always found the current Lord Mayor to be quite agreeable, and I think he’s doing a great job. Between us, I have no problem with you telling him the truth. If we were in a more private setting when[390] he wasn’t in formal mode, I’d be happy to exchange pleasantries with that respectable and kind gentleman, Mr. Moon.
Tavistock House, Tuesday Evening, April 3rd, 1855.
Since I had the pleasure of seeing you again at Miss Coutts's (really a greater pleasure to me than I could easily tell you), I have thought a good deal of the duty we all owe you of helping you as much as we can. Being on very intimate terms with Lemon, the editor of "Punch" (a most affectionate and true-hearted fellow), I mentioned to him in confidence what I had at heart. You will find yourself the subject of their next large cut, and of some lines in an earnest spirit. He again suggested the point to Mr. Shirley Brookes, one of their regular corps, who will do what is right in The Illustrated London News and The Weekly Chronicle, papers that go into the hands of large numbers of people. I have also communicated with Jerrold, whom I trust, and have begged him not to be diverted from the straight path of help to the most useful man in England on all possible occasions. Forster I will speak to carefully, and I have no doubt it will quicken him a little; not that we have anything to complain of in his direction. If you ever see any new loophole, cranny, needle's-eye, through which I can present your case to "Household Words," I most earnestly entreat you, as your staunch friend and admirer—you can have no truer—to indicate it to me at any time or season, and to count upon my being Damascus steel to the core.
Since I had the pleasure of seeing you again at Miss Coutts's (a greater pleasure than I can easily express), I’ve thought a lot about the duty we all have to help you as much as we can. Being very close to Lemon, the editor of "Punch" (a really kind and genuine guy), I shared what’s been on my mind with him in confidence. You’ll be the focus of their next big illustration and some heartfelt lines. He also brought it up to Mr. Shirley Brookes, one of their regular writers, who will handle it appropriately in The Illustrated London News and The Weekly Chronicle, papers that reach a wide audience. I've also talked to Jerrold, whom I trust, and asked him not to stray from helping the most useful man in England whenever possible. I’ll have a careful chat with Forster, and I’m sure it will inspire him a bit; not that we have any complaints about him. If you ever notice any new opportunity or way to present your case to "Household Words," I sincerely urge you, as your loyal friend and supporter—you won’t find a truer one—to let me know any time, and count on my unwavering support.
All this is nothing; because all these men, and thousands of others, dote upon you. But I know it would be a comfort[391] to me, in your hard-fighting place, to be assured of such sympathy, and therefore only I write.
All of this means nothing because all these guys, along with thousands more, are crazy about you. But I know it would make me feel better, given how tough things are for you, to know that you have that kind of support, and that's why I'm writing.
You have other recreations for your Sundays in the session, I daresay, than to come here. But it is generally a day on which I do not go out, and when we dine at half-past five in the easiest way in the world, and smoke in the peacefulest manner. Perhaps one of these Sundays after Easter you might not be indisposed to begin to dig us out?
You probably have other things to do on Sundays during the session than coming here. But usually, I don’t go out on that day, and we have dinner at 5:30 in the easiest way possible, then relax with a smoke. Maybe one of these Sundays after Easter, you wouldn’t mind starting to help us out?
And I should like, on a Saturday of your appointing, to get a few of the serviceable men I know—such as I have mentioned—about you here. Will you think of this, too, and suggest a Saturday for our dining together?
And I'd like to get a few of the useful guys I know—like the ones I've mentioned—together at your place on a Saturday that works for you. Could you think about this and suggest a Saturday for us to have dinner together?
I am really ashamed and moved that you should do your part so manfully and be left alone in the conflict. I felt you to be all you are the first moment I saw you. I know you will accept my regard and fidelity for what they are worth.
I feel really ashamed and touched that you’re handling everything so bravely while facing this challenge alone. I realized how incredible you are the first time I saw you. I know you’ll appreciate my respect and loyalty for what they are.
Tavistock House, Tuesday, April 10th, 1855.
I shall of course observe the strictest silence, at present, in reference to your resolutions. It will be a most acceptable occupation to me to go over them with you, and I have not a doubt of their producing a strong effect out of doors.
I will definitely keep quiet about your decisions for now. It’ll be a great activity for me to discuss them with you, and I have no doubt they will make a big impact outside.
There is nothing in the present time at once so galling and so alarming to me as the alienation of the people from their own public affairs. I have no difficulty in understanding it. They have had so little to do with the game through all these years of Parliamentary Reform, that they have sullenly laid down their cards, and taken to looking on. The players who are left at the table do not see beyond it, conceive that gain and loss and all the interest[392] of the play are in their hands, and will never be wiser until they and the table and the lights and the money are all overturned together. And I believe the discontent to be so much the worse for smouldering, instead of blazing openly, that it is extremely like the general mind of France before the breaking out of the first Revolution, and is in danger of being turned by any one of a thousand accidents—a bad harvest—the last strain too much of aristocratic insolence or incapacity—a defeat abroad—a mere chance at home—with such a devil of a conflagration as never has been beheld since.
There’s nothing that feels as frustrating and concerning to me right now as the way people are disconnected from their own government. I totally get why it’s happening. They’ve been so out of the loop with Parliamentary Reform over the years that they’ve just given up and become spectators. The players still at the table think everything—gains, losses, and all the excitement of the game—is in their control and won’t realize anything different until everything—the table, the lights, the money—comes crashing down. I truly believe this simmering discontent is more dangerous than if it were openly expressed; it reminds me of the general mood in France right before the first Revolution. It could ignite from any number of small events—a bad harvest, a final blow of aristocratic arrogance or incompetence, a military defeat, or just a twist of fate—leading to a chaotic explosion unlike anything we’ve seen before.
Meanwhile, all our English tuft-hunting, toad-eating, and other manifestations of accursed gentility—to say nothing of the Lord knows who's defiances of the proven truth before six hundred and fifty men—are expressing themselves every day. So, every day, the disgusted millions with this unnatural gloom are confirmed and hardened in the very worst of moods. Finally, round all this is an atmosphere of poverty, hunger, and ignorant desperation, of the mere existence of which perhaps not one man in a thousand of those not actually enveloped in it, through the whole extent of this country, has the least idea.
Meanwhile, all our pretentious British snobbery, sycophancy, and other signs of disgusting elitism—not to mention the outrageous defiance of obvious truth in front of six hundred and fifty people—are becoming more visible every day. So, each day, the frustrated millions dealing with this unnatural gloom are cemented and solidified in their worst moods. Ultimately, surrounding all this is an atmosphere of poverty, hunger, and ignorant desperation, of which not one person in a thousand who isn’t directly affected has the slightest clue, throughout this entire country.
It seems to me an absolute impossibility to direct the spirit of the people at this pass until it shows itself. If they begin to bestir themselves in the vigorous national manner; if they would appear in political reunion, array themselves peacefully but in vast numbers against a system that they know to be rotten altogether, make themselves heard like the sea all round this island, I for one should be in such a movement heart and soul, and should think it a duty of the plainest kind to go along with it, and try to guide it by all possible means. But you can no more help[393] a people who do not help themselves than you can help a man who does not help himself. And until the people can be got up from the lethargy, which is an awful symptom of the advanced state of their disease, I know of nothing that can be done beyond keeping their wrongs continually before them.
It seems to me that it's completely impossible to guide the people's spirit right now until it makes itself known. If they start to rally in a strong national spirit; if they gather together peacefully but in large numbers against a system they know is completely broken, making their voices heard like the roar of the sea around this island, I, for one, would wholeheartedly support that movement. I would see it as a basic duty to join in and try to guide it by any means possible. But you can’t help a people who don’t help themselves any more than you can help a man who doesn’t help himself. And until the people can shake off the lethargy, which is a terrible sign of the advanced stage of their problems, I don’t know of anything that can be done except to keep their grievances in front of them.
I shall hope to see you soon after you come back. Your speeches at Aberdeen are most admirable, manful, and earnest. I would have such speeches at every market-cross, and in every town-hall, and among all sorts and conditions of men; up in the very balloons, and down in the very diving-bells.
I hope to see you soon after you get back. Your speeches in Aberdeen are truly impressive, strong, and sincere. I would love to hear those kinds of speeches at every public square, in every town hall, and among all kinds of people; up in the sky and down in the deepest parts of the ocean.
Tavistock House, Saturday, April 14th, 1855.
I cannot express to you how very much delighted I am with the "Steele." I think it incomparably the best of the series. The pleasanter humanity of the subject may commend it more to one's liking, but that again requires a delicate handling, which you have given to it in a most charming manner. It is surely not possible to approach a man with a finer sympathy, and the assertion of the claims of literature throughout is of the noblest and most gallant kind.
I can't tell you how thrilled I am with the "Steele." I think it's by far the best in the series. The more relatable themes might appeal to some, but that also takes a careful touch, which you've handled beautifully. It's truly remarkable how you connect with the character, and your advocacy for literature is both noble and brave.
I don't agree with you about the serious papers in The Spectator, which I think (whether they be Steele's or Addison's) are generally as indifferent as the humour of The Spectator is delightful. And I have always had a notion that Prue understood her husband very well, and held him in consequence, when a fonder woman with less show of caprice must have let him go. But these are points of opinion. The paper is masterly, and all I have[394] got to say is, that if —— had a grain of the honest sentiment with which it overflows, he never would or could have made so great a mistake.
I don't agree with you about the serious articles in The Spectator, which I think (whether they're by Steele or Addison) are generally as uninteresting as the humor in The Spectator is enjoyable. I’ve always felt that Prue understood her husband really well and kept him because of it, while a more affectionate woman with less of a temper would have let him go. But these are just opinions. The article is masterful, and all I have[394] to say is that if —— had even a hint of the genuine feeling it expresses, he never would or could have made such a huge mistake.
Tavistock House, Thursday, April 26th, 1855.
>ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.
I will call for you at two, and go with you to Highgate, by all means.
I’ll pick you up at two, and we can go to Highgate together, definitely.
Leech and I called on Tuesday evening and left our loves. I have not written to you since, because I thought it best to leave you quiet for a day. I have no need to tell you, my dear fellow, that my thoughts have been constantly with you, and that I have not forgotten (and never shall forget) who sat up with me one night when a little place in my house was left empty.
Leech and I visited on Tuesday evening and left our love. I haven't written to you since because I thought it would be best to give you some space for a day. I don't need to tell you, my dear friend, that you've been on my mind constantly, and that I haven't forgotten (and never will forget) who stayed up with me one night when a small part of my home felt vacant.
It is hard to lose any child, but there are many blessed sources of consolation in the loss of a baby. There is a beautiful thought in Fielding's "Journey from this World to the Next," where the baby he had lost many years before was found by him all radiant and happy, building him a bower in the Elysian Fields where they were to live together when he came.
It’s tough to lose any child, but there are many comforting things about the loss of a baby. There's a lovely idea in Fielding's "Journey from this World to the Next," where he finds the baby he lost many years ago, glowing and joyful, creating a shelter in the Elysian Fields for them to live together when he arrives.
P.S.—Our kindest loves to Mrs. Lemon.
P.S.—Sending our warmest regards to Mrs. Lemon.
Tavistock House, Sunday, May 20th, 1855.
I have a little lark in contemplation, if you will help it to fly.
I have a little idea in mind, if you’ll help it take off.
Collins has done a melodrama (a regular old-style melodrama), in which there is a very good notion. I am going[395] to act it, as an experiment, in the children's theatre here—I, Mark, Collins, Egg, and my daughter Mary, the whole dram. pers.; our families and yours the whole audience; for I want to make the stage large and shouldn't have room for above five-and-twenty spectators. Now there is only one scene in the piece, and that, my tarry lad, is the inside of a lighthouse. Will you come and paint it for us one night, and we'll all turn to and help? It is a mere wall, of course, but Mark and I have sworn that you must do it. If you will say yes, I should like to have the tiny flats made, after you have looked at the place, and not before. On Wednesday in this week I am good for a steak and the play, if you will make your own appointment here; or any day next week except Thursday. Write me a line in reply. We mean to burst on an astonished world with the melodrama, without any note of preparation. So don't say a syllable to Forster if you should happen to see him.
Collins has created a melodrama (a classic old-school melodrama), featuring a really great idea. I’m going to stage it as an experiment at the kids' theater here—I, Mark, Collins, Egg, and my daughter Mary, the whole cast; our families and yours are the entire audience, since I want to keep the stage large and won't have room for more than about twenty-five spectators. There’s only one scene in the play, and that, my friend, is the inside of a lighthouse. Will you come and paint it for us one night, and we’ll all pitch in to help? It’s just a wall, of course, but Mark and I have promised that you have to do it. If you agree, I’d like to have the small flats made after you’ve checked out the place, and not before. This Wednesday, I’m free for a steak and the play, if you want to set your own time to come here; or any day next week except Thursday. Drop me a line in reply. We plan to surprise everyone with the melodrama, without any prior notice. So don’t say a word to Forster if you happen to see him.
Tavistock House, Tuesday Afternoon, Six o'clock, May 22nd, 1855.
Your note came while I was out walking. Even if I had been at home I could not have managed to dine together to-day, being under a beastly engagement to dine out. Unless I hear from you to the contrary, I shall expect you here some time to-morrow, and will remain at home. I only wait your instructions to get the little canvases made. O, what a pity it is not the outside of the light'us, with the sea a-rowling agin it! Never mind, we'll get an effect out of the inside, and there's a storm and a shipwreck "off;" and the great ambition of my life will be achieved at last, in[396] the wearing of a pair of very coarse petticoat trousers. So hoorar for the salt sea, mate, and bouse up!
Your note came while I was out for a walk. Even if I had been home, I wouldn't have been able to have dinner together today, as I have a terrible commitment to eat out. Unless I hear otherwise from you, I’ll expect you here sometime tomorrow and will stay home. I’m just waiting for your instructions to get the little canvases ready. Oh, what a pity it isn’t the outside of the lighthouse, with the sea crashing against it! Never mind, we’ll create an effect from the inside, and there’s a storm and a shipwreck happening offshore; the greatest ambition of my life will finally be achieved in[396] wearing a pair of very rough petticoat trousers. So hooray for the salty sea, mate, and let’s get going!
Dicky.
Tavistock House, May 23rd, 1855.
Stanny says he is only sorry it is not the outside of the lighthouse with a raging sea and a transparent light. He enters into the project with the greatest delight, and I think we shall make a capital thing of it.
Stanny says he only wishes it were the outside of the lighthouse with a wild sea and a clear light. He jumps into the project with the greatest enthusiasm, and I think we’ll create something amazing.
It now occurs to me that we may as well do a farce too. I should like to get in a little part for Katey, and also for Charley, if it were practicable. What do you think of "Animal Mag."? You and I in our old parts; Collins, Jeffrey; Charley, the Markis; Katey and Mary (or Georgina), the two ladies? Can you think of anything merry that is better? It ought to be broad, as a relief to the melodrama, unless we could find something funny with a story in it too. I rather incline myself to "Animal Mag." Will you come round and deliver your sentiments?
It just hit me that we might as well do a comedy too. I’d like to give Katey a small role, and also Charley, if we can manage it. What do you think about "Animal Mag."? You and I can play our old roles; Collins, Jeffrey; Charley as the Marquess; Katey and Mary (or Georgina) as the two ladies? Can you think of anything more fun than that? It should be lighthearted to balance the melodrama, unless we can find something funny that has a good story as well. I’m leaning towards "Animal Mag." Will you come over and share your thoughts?
Tavistock House, Thursday, May 24th, 1855.
Great projects are afoot here for a grown-up play in about three weeks' time. Former schoolroom arrangements to be reversed—large stage and small audience. Stanfield bent on desperate effects, and all day long with his coat off, up to his eyes in distemper colours.
Great projects are in the works for a mature play in about three weeks. Former classroom setups will be turned upside down—big stage and a small audience. Stanfield is determined to create dramatic effects, and all day long, with his coat off, he's immersed in tempera paints.
Will you appear in your celebrated character of Mr. Nightingale? I want to wind up with that popular farce, we all playing our old parts.
Will you be playing your famous role of Mr. Nightingale? I want to finish with that popular comedy, with all of us reprising our old roles.
Tavistock House, May 24th, 1855.
That's right! You will find the words come back very quickly. Why, of course your people are to come, and if Stanfield don't astonish 'em, I'm a Dutchman. O Heaven, if you could hear the ideas he proposes to me, making even my hair stand on end!
That's right! You'll find that the words come back really quickly. Why, of course your people are coming, and if Stanfield doesn't amaze them, then I'm a Dutchman. Oh my goodness, if you could hear the ideas he shares with me, they'd even make my hair stand on end!
Will you get Marcus or some similar bright creature to copy out old Nightingale's part for you, and then return the book? This is the prompt-book, the only one I have; and Katey and Georgina (being also in wild excitement) want to write their parts out with all despatch.
Will you have Marcus or someone like him copy out the old Nightingale's part for you, and then return the book? This is the prompt book, the only one I have; and Katey and Georgina (who are also super excited) want to write their parts out as quickly as possible.
Tavistock House, Thursday, May 24th, 1855.
I shall expect you to-morrow evening at "Household Words." I have written a little ballad for Mary—"The Story of the Ship's Carpenter and the Little Boy, in the Shipwreck."
I’ll expect you tomorrow evening at "Household Words." I’ve written a little ballad for Mary—"The Story of the Ship's Carpenter and the Little Boy, in the Shipwreck."
Let us close up with "Mr. Nightingale's Diary." Will you look whether you have a book of it, or your part.
Let’s wrap things up with "Mr. Nightingale's Diary." Can you check if you have a copy of it, or your section?
All other matters and things hereunto belonging when we meet.
All other matters and things related to this will be discussed when we meet.
Tavistock House, Tuesday Morning, June 19th, 1855.
I was out of town on Sunday, or I should have answered your note immediately on its arrival. I cannot have the pleasure of seeing the famous "medium" to-night, for I have some theatricals at home. But I fear I shall not in any case be a good subject for the purpose, as I altogether want faith in the thing.[398]
I was away this past Sunday, or I would have replied to your note as soon as I got it. I can't enjoy the famous "medium" tonight because I have a home theater event. However, I doubt I'd be a good subject for it anyway, since I really don't believe in the whole thing.[398]
I have not the least belief in the awful unseen world being available for evening parties at so much per night; and, although I should be ready to receive enlightenment from any source, I must say I have very little hope of it from the spirits who express themselves through mediums, as I have never yet observed them to talk anything but nonsense, of which (as Carlyle would say) there is probably enough in these days of ours, and in all days, among mere mortality.
I don’t believe at all that the terrifying unseen world is available for evening parties at a rate per night; and while I’m open to gaining insight from any source, I must admit I have very low expectations from the spirits communicating through mediums, as I’ve never seen them say anything other than nonsense, of which (as Carlyle would put it) there’s probably more than enough in our times, and in all times, among ordinary people.
Tavistock House, Wednesday, June 20th, 1855.
I write a hasty note to let you know that last night was perfectly wonderful!!!
I’m writing a quick note to let you know that last night was absolutely amazing!!!
Such an audience! Such a brilliant success from first to last! The Queen had taken it into her head in the morning to go to Chatham, and had carried Phipps with her. He wrote to me asking if it were possible to give him a quarter of an hour. I got through that time before the overture, and he came without any dinner, so influenced by eager curiosity. Lemon and I did every conceivable absurdity, I think, in the farce; and they never left off laughing. At supper I proposed your health, which was drunk with nine times nine, and three cheers over. We then turned to at Scotch reels (having had no exercise), and danced in the maddest way until five this morning.
What an audience! What an amazing success from start to finish! The Queen decided in the morning to go to Chatham and took Phipps with her. He wrote to me asking if I could spare him a quarter of an hour. I managed that before the overture, and he showed up without any dinner, totally caught up in curiosity. Lemon and I pulled off every ridiculous stunt imaginable in the farce, and they never stopped laughing. At supper, I raised a toast to your health, which was celebrated with loud cheers and applause. We then jumped into some Scottish reels (having had no exercise) and danced like crazy until five this morning.
It is as much as I can do to guide the pen.
It’s all I can manage to hold the pen.
Ever most affectionately yours.
Tavistock House, Saturday, June 30th, 1855.
I write shortly, after a day's work at my desk, rather than lose a post in answering your enthusiastic, earnest, and young—how young, in all the best side of youth—letter.
I’m writing quickly after a long day at my desk, rather than miss the chance to respond to your enthusiastic, sincere, and youthful—so youthful, in all the best ways—letter.
To tell you the truth, I confidently expected to hear from you. I knew that if there were a man in the world who would be interested in, and who would approve of, my giving utterance to whatever was in me at this time, it would be you. I was as sure of you as of the sun this morning.
To be honest, I fully expected to hear from you. I knew that if there was anyone in the world who would be interested in and support me expressing what I was feeling right now, it would be you. I was as certain of you as I was of the sun this morning.
The subject is surrounded by difficulties; the Association is sorely in want of able men; and the resistance of all the phalanx, who have an interest in corruption and mismanagement, is the resistance of a struggle against death. But the great, first, strong necessity is to rouse the people up, to keep them stirring and vigilant, to carry the war dead into the tent of such creatures as ——, and ring into their souls (or what stands for them) that the time for dandy insolence is gone for ever. It may be necessary to come to that law of primogeniture (I have no love for it), or to come to even greater things; but this is the first service to be done, and unless it is done, there is not a chance. For this, and to encourage timid people to come in, I went to Drury Lane the other night; and I wish you had been there and had seen and heard the people.
The situation is tough; the Association really needs skilled people; and the pushback from all those invested in corruption and mismanagement feels like a fight for survival. But the main priority is to rally the people, to keep them active and alert, to bring the war casualties into the presence of those who exploit them, and to make it clear to them that the time for arrogant disrespect is over. It might be necessary to adopt that rule of inheritance (which I'm not a fan of), or even consider bigger changes; but this is the first job that needs to be done, and if it doesn't happen, there’s no hope. To help with this and to encourage hesitant individuals to join, I went to Drury Lane the other night; and I wish you had been there to see and hear the crowd.
The Association will be proud to have your name and gift. When we sat down on the stage the other night, and were waiting a minute or two to begin, I said to Morley, the chairman (a thoroughly fine earnest fellow), "this reminds me so of one of my dearest friends, with a melancholy so curious, that I don't know whether the place feels familiar to me or strange." He was full of interest directly,[400] and we went on talking of you until the moment of his getting up to open the business.
The Association will be proud to have your name and contribution. When we sat on stage the other night, waiting for a minute or two to start, I said to Morley, the chairman (an incredibly genuine guy), "This reminds me of one of my closest friends, with a kind of sadness that makes me unsure if this place feels familiar or strange." He was immediately interested,[400] and we kept talking about you until it was time for him to kick off the meeting.
They are going to print my speech in a tract-form, and send it all over the country. I corrected it for the purpose last night. We are all well. Charley in the City; all the boys at home for the holidays; three prizes brought home triumphantly (one from the Boulogne waters and one from Wimbledon); I taking dives into a new book, and runs at leap-frog over "Household Words;" and Anne going to be married—which is the only bad news.
They’re going to publish my speech as a pamphlet and send it all over the country. I edited it for that purpose last night. We’re all doing well. Charley is in the city; all the boys are home for the holidays; three prizes were brought home triumphantly (one from the Boulogne waters and one from Wimbledon); I’m diving into a new book and skimming through "Household Words;" and Anne is getting married—which is the only disappointing news.
Catherine, Georgie, Mary, Katey, Charley, and all the rest, send multitudes of loves. Ever, my dearest Macready, with unalterable affection and attachment,
Catherine, Georgie, Mary, Katey, Charley, and everyone else send lots of love. Always, my dearest Macready, with constant affection and loyalty,
3, Albion Villas, Folkestone, Tuesday, July 17th, 1855.
Walter goes back to school on the 1st of August. Will you come out of school to this breezy vacation on the same day, or rather this day fortnight, July 31st? for that is the day on which he leaves us, and we begin (here's a parent!) to be able to be comfortable. Why a boy of that age should seem to have on at all times a hundred and fifty pair of double-soled boots, and to be always jumping a bottom stair with the whole hundred and fifty, I don't know. But the woeful fact is within my daily experience.
Walter goes back to school on August 1st. Will you come out of school for this nice vacation on the same day, or rather this day fortnight, July 31st? Because that’s the day he leaves us, and we can finally start feeling comfortable. I don’t understand why a boy his age always seems to have a hundred and fifty pairs of double-soled boots and is constantly jumping down the last stair with all of them. But unfortunately, that's a reality I deal with every day.
We have a very pleasant little house, overlooking the sea, and I think you will like the place. It rained, in honour of our arrival, with the greatest vigour, yesterday. I went out after dinner to buy some nails (you know the arrangements that would be then in progress), and I stopped in the rain, about halfway down a steep, crooked street, like a crippled ladder, to look at a little coachmaker's,[401] where there had just been a sale. Speculating on the insolvent coachmaker's business, and what kind of coaches he could possibly have expected to get orders for in Folkestone, I thought, "What would bring together fifty people now, in this little street, at this little rainy minute?" On the instant, a brewer's van, with two mad horses in it, and the harness dangling about them—like the trappings of those horses you are acquainted with, who bolted through the starry courts of heaven—dashed by me, and in that instant, such a crowd as would have accumulated in Fleet Street sprang up magically. Men fell out of windows, dived out of doors, plunged down courts, precipitated themselves down steps, came down waterspouts, instead of rain, I think, and I never saw so wonderful an instance of the gregarious effect of an excitement.
We have a nice little house overlooking the sea, and I think you’ll like it here. It rained hard, celebrating our arrival, yesterday. After dinner, I went out to buy some nails (you know what I needed them for), and I paused in the rain, halfway down a steep, winding street, like a crooked ladder, to check out a small coachmaker's shop,[401] where there had just been a sale. While wondering about the bankrupt coachmaker's business and what kind of coaches he could have expected to sell in Folkestone, I thought, "What could draw fifty people to this little street at this rainy moment?" Just then, a brewer's van with two wild horses and harnesses swinging around them—like the gear of those horses you know, who dashed through the starry heavens—came charging by, and in that instant, a crowd that would usually form in Fleet Street gathered out of nowhere. Men tumbled out of windows, jumped out of doors, rushed down alleyways, threw themselves down steps, and even came down the drainpipes instead of rain, I imagine, and I’ve never seen such an incredible example of the contagious nature of excitement.
A man, a woman, and a child had been thrown out on the horses taking fright and the reins breaking. The child is dead, and the woman very ill but will probably recover, and the man has a hand broken and other mischief done to him.
A man, a woman, and a child were thrown off when the horses got scared and the reins broke. The child is dead, and the woman is very sick but should probably recover, while the man has a broken hand and other injuries.
Let me know what Wigan says. If he does not take the play, and readily too, I would recommend you not to offer it elsewhere. You have gained great reputation by it, have done your position a deal of good, and (as I think) stand so well with it, that it is a pity to engender the notion that you care to stand better.
Let me know what Wigan says. If he doesn’t take the play, and easily, too, I’d suggest you don’t offer it anywhere else. You’ve built a great reputation with it, have really improved your standing, and (in my opinion) you’re in such a good place with it that it would be a shame to create the idea that you want to improve it even more.
Folkestone, September 16th, 1855.
Scrooge is delighted to find that Bob Cratchit is enjoying his holiday in such a delightful situation; and he says (with that warmth of nature which has distinguished[402] him since his conversion), "Make the most of it, Bob; make the most of it."
Scrooge is thrilled to see that Bob Cratchit is having such a great time on his holiday, and he says (with that warmth of spirit that has marked[402] him since his transformation), "Enjoy it to the fullest, Bob; enjoy it to the fullest."
[I am just getting to work on No. 3 of the new book, and am in the hideous state of mind belonging to that condition.]
[I am just starting on No. 3 of the new book, and I'm in that awful state of mind that comes with it.]
I have not a word of news. I am steeped in my story, and rise and fall by turns into enthusiasm and depression.
I don’t have any news. I’m completely absorbed in my story, and I go through ups and downs between feeling excited and feeling down.
Folkestone, Sunday, Sept. 16th, 1855.
This will be a short letter, but I hope not unwelcome. If you knew how often I write to you—in intention—I don't know where you would find room for the correspondence.
This will be a brief letter, but I hope it's not unwelcome. If you knew how often I intend to write to you, I don't know where you'd find space for all the messages.
Catherine tells me that you want to know the name of my new book. I cannot bear that you should know it from anyone but me. It will not be made public until the end of October; the title is:
Catherine told me that you want to know the name of my new book. I can't stand the thought of you hearing it from anyone but me. It won’t be announced until the end of October; the title is:
Keep it as the apple of your eye—an expressive form of speech, though I have not the least idea of what it means.
Keep it close to your heart—it's an expressive way to say something, even though I have no idea what it really means.
Next, I wish to tell you that I have appointed to read at Peterboro', on Tuesday, the 18th of December. I have told the Dean that I cannot accept his hospitality, and that I am going with Mr. Wills to the inn, therefore I shall be absolutely at your disposal, and shall be more than disappointed if you don't stay with us. As the time approaches will you let me know your arrangements, and whether Mr. Wills can bespeak any rooms for you in arranging for me? Georgy will give you our address in Paris as soon as we shall have settled there. We shall leave here, I think, in rather less than a month from this time.[403]
Next, I want to let you know that I’m scheduled to speak at Peterborough on Tuesday, December 18th. I've informed the Dean that I can’t accept his offer of hospitality, and that I’ll be going to the inn with Mr. Wills. So, I’ll be completely available to you, and I’ll be really disappointed if you don’t stay with us. As the date gets closer, could you update me on your plans and whether Mr. Wills can reserve any rooms for you while he’s making arrangements for me? Georgy will give you our address in Paris as soon as we get settled there. We’re planning to leave here in a little less than a month from now.[403]
You know my state of mind as well as I do, indeed, if you don't know it much better, it is not the state of mind I take it to be. How I work, how I walk, how I shut myself up, how I roll down hills and climb up cliffs; how the new story is everywhere—heaving in the sea, flying with the clouds, blowing in the wind; how I settle to nothing, and wonder (in the old way) at my own incomprehensibility. I am getting on pretty well, have done the first two numbers, and am just now beginning the third; which egotistical announcements I make to you because I know you will be interested in them.
You know my state of mind as well as I do—if not better. It's not the state of mind I think it is. How I work, how I walk, how I isolate myself, how I roll down hills and climb cliffs; how the new story is everywhere—swelling in the sea, soaring with the clouds, blowing in the wind; how I settle into nothing and wonder (in the old way) at my own complexity. I'm doing pretty well, I've completed the first two parts, and I'm just starting the third. I'm sharing this with you because I know you’ll be interested.
All the house send their kindest loves. I think of inserting an advertisement in The Times, offering to submit the Plornishghenter to public competition, and to receive fifty thousand pounds if such another boy cannot be found, and to pay five pounds (my fortune) if he can.
All the families send their warmest regards. I'm considering placing an ad in The Times, proposing to put the Plornishghenter up for public competition, offering fifty thousand pounds if another boy like him can't be found, and paying five pounds (my whole fortune) if one can.
Folkestone, Sunday, Sept. 30th, 1855.
Welcome from the bosom of the deep! If a hornpipe will be acceptable to you at any time (as a reminder of what the three brothers were always doing), I shall be, as the chairman says at Mr. Evans's, "happy to oblige."
Welcome from the depths! If a hornpipe sounds good to you at any point (as a nod to what the three brothers were always up to), I’ll be, as the chairman says at Mr. Evans's, "happy to help."
I have almost finished No. 3, in which I have relieved my indignant soul with a scarifier. Sticking at it day after day, I am the incompletest letter-writer imaginable—seem to have no idea of holding a pen for any other purpose but that book. My fair Laura has not yet reported concerning Paris, but I should think will have done so before I see you. And now to that point. I purpose being in town on Monday, the 8th, when I have promised to dine with Forster. At the office, between half-past eleven and one that day, I will[404] expect you, unless I hear from you to the contrary. Of course the H. W. stories are at your disposition. If you should have completed your idea, we might breakfast together at the G. on the Tuesday morning and discuss it. Or I shall be in town after ten on the Monday night. At the office I will tell you the idea of the Christmas number, which will put you in train, I hope, for a story. I have postponed the shipwreck idea for a year, as it seemed to require more force from me than I could well give it with the weight of a new start upon me.
I’ve almost finished No. 3, where I’ve eased my frustrated soul with some writing. Sticking with it day after day, I’m the worst letter-writer ever—I feel like I can’t use a pen for anything other than that book. My dear Laura hasn’t updated me on Paris yet, but I expect she will have by the time I see you. Now, onto that point. I plan to be in town on Monday, the 8th, when I’ve promised to have dinner with Forster. At the office, between 11:30 AM and 1 PM that day, I’ll expect you unless I hear otherwise. Of course, the H. W. stories are available to you. If you've finished your idea, we could have breakfast together at the G. on Tuesday morning and talk about it. I’ll also be in town after 10 PM on Monday night. At the office, I’ll share the idea for the Christmas issue, which I hope will inspire you for a story. I’ve decided to put off the shipwreck idea for a year since it seems like it needs more effort from me than I can give right now with everything else going on.
All here send their kindest remembrances. We missed you very much, and the Plorn was quite inconsolable. We slide down Cæsar occasionally.
All of us here send our warmest regards. We missed you a lot, and the Plorn was pretty upset. We sometimes slide down Cæsar.
They launched the boat, the rapid building of which you remember, the other day. All the fishermen in the place, all the nondescripts, and all the boys pulled at it with ropes from six a.m. to four p.m. Every now and then the ropes broke, and they all fell down in the shingle. The obstinate way in which the beastly thing wouldn't move was so exasperating that I wondered they didn't shoot it, or burn it. Whenever it moved an inch they all cheered; whenever it wouldn't move they all swore. Finally, when it was quite given over, some one tumbled against it accidentally (as it appeared to me, looking out at my window here), and it instantly shot about a mile into the sea, and they all stood looking at it helplessly.
They launched the boat, which you remember being built the other day. All the fishermen in the area, along with a bunch of random people and all the boys, pulled on it with ropes from six AM to four PM Every now and then the ropes snapped, and they all fell onto the gravel. The frustrating way the stubborn thing wouldn’t budge was so annoying that I wondered why they didn’t just shoot it or set it on fire. Whenever it moved even a little, they all cheered; whenever it wouldn’t budge, they all cursed. Finally, when they had nearly given up, someone bumped into it accidentally (or so it seemed to me from my window here), and it suddenly shot about a mile out to sea, leaving them all standing there, staring at it helplessly.
Kind regards to Pigott, in which all unite.
Kind regards to Pigott, which everyone agrees on.
Folkestone, Thursday, Oct. 4th, 1855.
I have been hammering away in that strenuous manner at my book, that I have had leisure for scarcely any[405] letters but such, as I have been obliged to write; having a horrible temptation when I lay down my book-pen to run out on the breezy downs here, tear up the hills, slide down the same, and conduct myself in a frenzied manner, for the relief that only exercise gives me.
I’ve been working so hard on my book that I hardly have time to write any[405] letters except the ones I have to. It’s so tempting, whenever I put down my pen, to run out into the fresh air, hike up the hills, slide back down, and just act crazy, seeking the relief that only exercise can provide.
Your letter to Miss Coutts in behalf of little Miss Warner I despatched straightway. She is at present among the Pyrenees, and a letter from her crossed that one of mine in which I enclosed yours, last week.
Your letter to Miss Coutts on behalf of little Miss Warner was sent right away. She is currently in the Pyrenees, and a letter from her came just as mine, where I included yours, arrived last week.
Pray stick to that dim notion you have of coming to Paris! How delightful it would be to see your aged countenance and perfectly bald head in that capital! It will renew your youth, to visit a theatre (previously dining at the Trois Frères) in company with the jocund boy who now addresses you. Do, do stick to it.
Pray hold on to that vague idea you have about coming to Paris! How wonderful it would be to see your older face and completely bald head in that city! It will rejuvenate you to visit a theater (after having dinner at Trois Frères) alongside the cheerful young man who is speaking to you now. Please, really do consider it.
You will be pleased to hear, I know, that Charley has gone into Baring's house under very auspicious circumstances. Mr. Bates, of that firm, had done me the kindness to place him at the brokers' where he was. And when said Bates wrote to me a fortnight ago to say that an excellent opening had presented itself at Baring's, he added that the brokers gave Charley "so high a character for ability and zeal" that it would be unfair to receive him as a volunteer, and he must begin at a fifty-pound salary, to which I graciously consented.
You’ll be glad to know that Charley has started at Baring's under really good circumstances. Mr. Bates from that firm kindly got him placed at the brokers' where he was before. When Bates wrote to me two weeks ago to say that a great opportunity had come up at Baring's, he added that the brokers gave Charley “such a strong recommendation for his skills and enthusiasm” that it wouldn’t be right to take him on as a volunteer, and he had to start with a salary of fifty pounds, which I happily agreed to.
As to the suffrage, I have lost hope even in the ballot. We appear to me to have proved the failure of representative institutions without an educated and advanced people to support them. What with teaching people to "keep in their stations," what with bringing up the soul and body of the land to be a good child, or to go to the beershop, to go a-poaching and go to the devil; what with having no such thing as a middle class (for though we are perpetually[406] bragging of it as our safety, it is nothing but a poor fringe on the mantle of the upper); what with flunkyism, toadyism, letting the most contemptible lords come in for all manner of places, reading The Court Circular for the New Testament, I do reluctantly believe that the English people are habitually consenting parties to the miserable imbecility into which we have fallen, and never will help themselves out of it. Who is to do it, if anybody is, God knows. But at present we are on the down-hill road to being conquered, and the people will be content to bear it, sing "Rule Britannia," and will not be saved.
As for voting, I've lost faith even in the ballot. It seems we've shown that representative institutions fail without an educated and advanced population to back them. With the emphasis on teaching people to "stay in their place," raising the land’s spirit to be good citizens or to frequent the pub, go poaching, and spiral downward; with no real middle class—despite our constant bragging that it keeps us safe, it’s really just a weak fringe of the upper class—along with flunkyism and toadyism, letting the most ridiculous elites take all kinds of positions, and treating *The Court Circular* as if it were the New Testament, I reluctantly believe that the English people are complicit in the miserable failure we’ve descended into, *and will never help themselves out of it*. Who will do it, if anyone can, only God knows. But right now, we’re on a downward path to defeat, and the people *will* accept it, sing "Rule Britannia," and *will not* be saved.
In No. 3 of my new book I have been blowing off a little of indignant steam which would otherwise blow me up, and with God's leave I shall walk in the same all the days of my life; but I have no present political faith or hope—not a grain.
In section 3 of my new book, I’ve been releasing some of my frustrated energy that would otherwise explode inside me, and with God's permission, I plan to keep doing this for the rest of my life; however, I currently have no political beliefs or hopes—not even a little.
I am going to read the "Carol" here to-morrow in a long carpenter's shop, which looks far more alarming as a place to hear in than the Town Hall at Birmingham.
I am going to read the "Carol" here tomorrow in a long carpenter's shop, which seems much more intimidating as a place to listen in than the Town Hall in Birmingham.
Kindest loves from all to your dear sister, Kate and the darlings. It is blowing a gale here from the south-west and raining like mad.
Kindest regards from everyone to your dear sister, Kate, and the little ones. It’s really windy here from the south-west and raining heavily.
2, Rue Saint Florentin, Tuesday, Oct. 16th, 1855.
We have had the most awful job to find a place that would in the least suit us, for Paris is perfectly full, and there is nothing to be got at any sane price. However, we have found two apartments—an entresol and a first floor, with a kitchen and servants' room at the top of the house, at No. 49, Avenue des Champs Elysées.
We’ve had the hardest time finding a place that even slightly works for us, because Paris is completely packed, and there’s nothing available at any reasonable price. However, we’ve found two apartments—an entresol and a first floor, with a kitchen and a servants' room at the top of the building, at No. 49, Avenue des Champs Elysées.
You must be prepared for a regular Continental abode.[407] There is only one window in each room, but the front apartments all look upon the main street of the Champs Elysées, and the view is delightfully cheerful. There are also plenty of rooms. They are not over and above well furnished, but by changing furniture from rooms we don't care for to rooms we do care for, we shall be able to make them home-like and presentable. I think the situation itself almost the finest in Paris; and the children will have a window from which to look on the busy life outside.
You need to be ready for a typical Continental place.[407] Each room has just one window, but the front ones all face the main street of the Champs Elysées, and the view is really uplifting. There are also plenty of rooms. They aren't super well-furnished, but by swapping furniture from rooms we don’t like to ones we do, we can make them cozy and presentable. I think the location itself is nearly the best in Paris, and the kids will have a window to look out at the vibrant life outside.
We could have got a beautiful apartment in the Rue Faubourg St. Honoré for a very little more, most elegantly furnished; but the greater part of it was on a courtyard, and it would never have done for the children. This, that I have taken for six months, is seven hundred francs per month, and twenty more for the concierge. What you have to expect is a regular French residence, which a little habitation will make pretty and comfortable, with nothing showy in it, but with plenty of rooms, and with that wonderful street in which the Barrière de l'Étoile stands outside. The amount of rooms is the great thing, and I believe it to be the place best suited for us, at a not unreasonable price in Paris.
We could have gotten a beautiful apartment on Rue Faubourg St. Honoré for just a bit more, very elegantly furnished; but most of it faced a courtyard, which wouldn’t have worked for the kids. This one I've rented for six months is seven hundred francs a month, plus twenty more for the concierge. What you can expect is a typical French home, which a little decorating will make pretty and comfortable—nothing flashy, but plenty of rooms, and with that great street where the Barrière de l'Étoile is located. The number of rooms is what really matters, and I think this place is the best fit for us, at a reasonable price for Paris.
Georgina and Lady Olliffe[22] send their loves. Georgina and I add ours to Mamey, Katey, the Plorn, and Harry.
Georgina and Lady Olliffe[22] send their love. Georgina and I add ours to Mamey, Katey, the Plorn, and Harry.
49, Champs-Elysées, Paris,
Friday, Oct. 19th, 1855.
After going through unheard-of bedevilments (of which you shall have further particulars as soon as I come right side upwards, which may happen in a day or two),[408] we are at last established here in a series of closets, but a great many of them, with all Paris perpetually passing under the windows. Letters may have been wandering after me to that home in the Rue de Balzac, which is to be the subject of more lawsuits between the man who let it to me and the man who wouldn't let me have possession, than any other house that ever was built. But I have had no letters at all, and have been—ha, ha!—a maniac since last Monday.
After going through some incredible troubles (which I'll tell you more about as soon as I get back on my feet, hopefully in a day or two),[408] we’re finally set up here in a bunch of closets—there are a lot of them—while all of Paris constantly passes by the windows. Letters might have been sent to me at that place on Rue de Balzac, which is going to be the focus of more lawsuits between the guy who rented it to me and the guy who wouldn’t let me take possession than any other house ever. But I haven’t received any letters at all, and I've been—ha, ha!—completely out of my mind since last Monday.
I will try my hand at that paper for H. W. to-morrow, if I can get a yard of flooring to sit upon; but we have really been in that state of topsy-turvyhood that even that has been an unattainable luxury, and may yet be for eight-and-forty hours or so, for anything I see to the contrary.
I’m going to work on that paper for H. W. tomorrow, if I can find a place to sit. We’ve been in such chaos that even that has felt like an impossible luxury, and it might still be for another day and a half, based on what I can see.
49, Avenue des Champs Elysées, Paris,
Sunday Night, Oct. 21st, 1855.
Coming here from a walk this afternoon, I found your letter of yesterday awaiting me. I send this reply by my brother Alfred, who is here, and who returns home to-morrow. You should get it at the office early on Tuesday.
Coming home from a walk this afternoon, I found your letter from yesterday waiting for me. I'm sending this reply with my brother Alfred, who is here and will be going home tomorrow. You should receive it at the office early on Tuesday.
I will go to work to-morrow, and will send you, please God, an article by Tuesday's post, which you will get on Wednesday forenoon. Look carefully to the proof, as I shall not have time to receive it for correction. When you arrange about sending your parcels, will you ascertain, and communicate to me, the prices of telegraph messages? It will save me trouble, having no foreign servant (though French is in that respect a trump), and may be useful on an emergency.
I will go to work tomorrow and, God willing, will send you an article by Tuesday's mail, which you’ll receive on Wednesday morning. Please check the proof carefully, as I won’t have time to review it for corrections. When you plan to send your packages, could you find out and let me know the prices for sending telegrams? It would save me some hassle, since I don’t have a foreign servant (though having someone French would definitely help), and it might come in handy in an emergency.
I have two floors here—entresol and first—in a doll's[409] house, but really pretty within, and the view without astounding, as you will say when you come. The house is on the Exposition side, about half a quarter of a mile above Franconi's, of course on the other side of the way, and close to the Jardin d'Hîver. Each room has but one window in it, but we have no fewer than six rooms (besides the back ones) looking on the Champs Elysées, with the wonderful life perpetually flowing up and down. We have no spare-room, but excellent stowage for the whole family, including a capital dressing-room for me, and a really slap-up kitchen near the stairs. Damage for the whole, seven hundred francs a month.
I have two floors here—entresol and first—in a doll's[409] house, but it's really nice inside, and the view outside is amazing, as you'll see when you visit. The house is on the Exposition side, about half a quarter of a mile above Franconi's, of course on the other side of the street, and close to the Jardin d'Hiver. Each room has just one window, but we have six rooms (besides the back rooms) that overlook the Champs Elysées, with the fantastic life constantly moving up and down. We don’t have a spare room, but we have plenty of storage for the whole family, including a great dressing room for me, and a really nice kitchen near the stairs. The total cost for everything is seven hundred francs a month.
But, sir—but—when Georgina, the servants, and I were here for the first night (Catherine and the rest being at Boulogne), I heard Georgy restless—turned out—asked: "What's the matter?" "Oh, it's dreadfully dirty. I can't sleep for the smell of my room." Imagine all my stage-managerial energies multiplied at daybreak by a thousand. Imagine the porter, the porter's wife, the porter's wife's sister, a feeble upholsterer of enormous age from round the corner, and all his workmen (four boys), summoned. Imagine the partners in the proprietorship of the apartment, and martial little man with François-Prussian beard, also summoned. Imagine your inimitable chief briefly explaining that dirt is not in his way, and that he is driven to madness, and that he devotes himself to no coat and a dirty face, until the apartment is thoroughly purified. Imagine co-proprietors at first astounded, then urging that "it's not the custom," then wavering, then affected, then confiding their utmost private sorrows to the Inimitable, offering new carpets (accepted), embraces (not accepted), and really responding like French bricks. Sallow, unbrushed, unshorn, awful, stalks the Inimitable through the[410] apartment until last night. Then all the improvements were concluded, and I do really believe the place to be now worth eight or nine hundred francs per month. You must picture it as the smallest place you ever saw, but as exquisitely cheerful and vivacious, clean as anything human can be, and with a moving panorama always outside, which is Paris in itself.
But, sir—but—when Georgina, the servants, and I were here for our first night (Catherine and the rest being in Boulogne), I heard Georgy tossing and turning—turned out—asked: "What's wrong?" "Oh, it's terribly dirty. I can’t sleep because of the smell in my room." Imagine all my stage-manager instincts multiplied a thousand times at dawn. Picture the porter, the porter's wife, the porter's wife's sister, a frail old upholsterer from around the corner, and all his workers (four boys), called in. Picture the co-owners of the apartment, and a little military man with a François-Prussian beard, also called in. Imagine your unique boss briefly explaining that dirt can’t stand in his way, that he’s driven to madness, and that he’ll go without a coat and keep his dirty face until the apartment is completely cleaned. Imagine the co-owners first shocked, then insisting that “it’s not the custom," then hesitating, then getting emotional, then sharing their deepest personal troubles with the Inimitable, offering new carpets (accepted), hugs (not accepted), and genuinely responding like French bricks. Sallow, unkempt, unshaven, awful, the Inimitable stalks through the[410] apartment until last night. Then all the improvements were finished, and I honestly believe the place is now worth eight or nine hundred francs a month. You must picture it as the tiniest place you’ve ever seen but as wonderfully cheerful and lively, as clean as anything human can be, with a constantly moving panorama outside, which is Paris itself.
You mention a letter from Miss Coutts as to Mrs. Brown's illness, which you say is "enclosed to Mrs. Charles Dickens."
You refer to a letter from Miss Coutts regarding Mrs. Brown's illness, which you say is "included with Mrs. Charles Dickens."
It is not enclosed, and I am mad to know where she writes from that I may write to her. Pray set this right, for her uneasiness will be greatly intensified if she have no word from me.
It’s not enclosed, and I’m eager to know where she’s writing from so I can respond. Please fix this, as her anxiety will be much worse if she doesn’t hear from me.
I thought we were to give £1,700 for the house at Gad's Hill. Are we bound to £1,800? Considering the improvements to be made, it is a little too much, isn't it? I have a strong impression that at the utmost we were only to divide the difference, and not to pass £1,750. You will set me right if I am wrong. But I don't think I am.
I thought we were supposed to pay £1,700 for the house at Gad's Hill. Are we stuck paying £1,800? Given the improvements that need to be made, that seems a bit high, doesn't it? I really believe that at most we were just going to split the difference and not go over £1,750. Please correct me if I'm mistaken, but I don't think I am.
I write very hastily, with the piano playing and Alfred looking for this.
I’m writing really quickly, with the piano playing and Alfred searching for this.
49, Avenue des Champs-Élysées,
Wednesday, Oct. 24th, 1855.
In the Gad's Hill matter, I too would like to try the effect of "not budging." So do not go beyond the £1,700. Considering what I should have to expend on the one hand, and the low price of stock on the other, I do not feel disposed to go beyond that mark. They won't let a purchaser escape for the sake of the £100, I think. And Austin[411] was strongly of opinion, when I saw him last, that £1,700 was enough.
In the Gad's Hill situation, I’d also like to see what happens if I "don’t give in." So let’s not go over £1,700. Given what I’d have to pay out on one side and the low stock prices on the other, I’m not really willing to go past that point. I don’t think they’ll let a buyer slip away over just £100. And Austin[411] strongly believed, when I last talked to him, that £1,700 was a fair amount.
You cannot think how pleasant it is to me to find myself generally known and liked here. If I go into a shop to buy anything, and give my card, the officiating priest or priestess brightens up, and says: "Ah! c'est l'écrivain célèbre! Monsieur porte un nom très-distingué. Mais! je suis honoré et intéressé de voir Monsieur Dick-in. Je lis un des livres de monsieur tous les jours" (in the Moniteur). And a man who brought some little vases home last night, said: "On connaît bien en France que Monsieur Dick-in prend sa position sur la dignité de la littérature. Ah! c'est grande chose! Et ses caractères" (this was to Georgina, while he unpacked) "sont si spirituellement tournées! Cette Madame Tojare" (Todgers), "ah! qu'elle est drôle et précisément comme une dame que je connais à Calais."
You can't imagine how nice it is for me to find myself generally known and liked here. If I go into a shop to buy something and I hand over my card, the person behind the counter lights up and says: "Ah! It's the famous writer! You have a very distinguished name, sir. But! I’m honored and interested to see you, Mr. Dick-in. I read one of your books every day" (in the Moniteur). And a guy who brought back some small vases last night said: "People in France know that Mr. Dick-in takes a stand on the dignity of literature. Ah! It's a big deal! And his characters" (this was to Georgina, while he unpacked) "are so cleverly crafted! This Madame Tojare" (Todgers), "oh! she’s so funny and exactly like a lady I know in Calais."
You cannot have any doubt about this place, if you will only recollect it is the great main road from the Place de la Concorde to the Barrière de l'Étoile.
You can’t doubt this place if you just remember that it’s the main road from the Place de la Concorde to the Barrière de l'Étoile.
Wednesday, November 21st, 1855.
In thanking you for the box you kindly sent me the day before yesterday, let me thank you a thousand times for the delight we derived from the representation of your beautiful and admirable piece. I have hardly ever been so affected and interested in any theatre. Its construction is in the highest degree excellent, the interest absorbing, and the whole conducted by a masterly hand to a touching and natural conclusion.
In thanking you for the box you kindly sent me the day before yesterday, I want to express my gratitude a thousand times for the joy we experienced from the performance of your beautiful and impressive piece. I can hardly remember being so moved and engaged by any theater. Its structure is excellently done, the storyline is captivating, and the entire production is guided by a skilled hand to a touching and natural ending.
Through the whole story from beginning to end, I[412] recognise the true spirit and feeling of an artist, and I most heartily offer you and your fellow-labourer my felicitations on the success you have achieved. That it will prove a very great and a lasting one, I cannot for a moment doubt.
Throughout the entire story, I[412] recognize the true spirit and passion of an artist, and I sincerely congratulate you and your fellow worker on the success you have achieved. I have no doubt that it will be a significant and lasting triumph.
O my friend! If I could see an English actress with but one hundredth part of the nature and art of Madame Plessy, I should believe our English theatre to be in a fair way towards its regeneration. But I have no hope of ever beholding such a phenomenon. I may as well expect ever to see upon an English stage an accomplished artist, able to write and to embody what he writes, like you.
O my friend! If I could see an English actress with even a tiny fraction of the talent and skill of Madame Plessy, I would believe our English theater is on the right path to revival. But I have no hope of ever witnessing such a thing. I might as well expect to see an accomplished artist on an English stage who can write and perform what he writes, like you.
49, Champs-Élysées Avenue, Monday, Dec. 3rd, 1855.
Mrs. Dickens tells me that you have only borrowed the first number of "Little Dorrit," and are going to send it back. Pray do nothing of the sort, and allow me to have the great pleasure of sending you the succeeding numbers as they reach me. I have had such delight in your great genius, and have so high an interest in it and admiration of it, that I am proud of the honour of giving you a moment's intellectual pleasure.
Mrs. Dickens says you’ve only borrowed the first issue of "Little Dorrit" and plan to return it. Please don’t do that, and let me send you the next issues as they come in. I’ve enjoyed your incredible talent so much and have such a deep interest in it and admiration for it that I feel honored to give you a moment of intellectual pleasure.
Tavistock House, Sunday, Dec. 23rd, 1855.
I have a moment in which to redeem my promise, of putting you in possession of my Little Friend No. 2, before the general public. It is, of course, at the disposal of your circle, but until the month is out, is understood to be a prisoner in the castle.
I have a moment to fulfill my promise of letting you have my Little Friend No. 2 before the general public gets to see it. It’s available for your circle, but until the end of the month, it’s understood to be locked up in the castle.
If I had time to write anything, I should still quite vainly[413] try to tell you what interest and happiness I had in once more seeing you among your dear children. Let me congratulate you on your Eton boys. They are so handsome, frank, and genuinely modest, that they charmed me. A kiss to the little fair-haired darling and the rest; the love of my heart to every stone in the old house.
If I had time to write anything, I would still quite vainly[413] try to tell you how much interest and happiness I felt in seeing you again with your lovely children. Congratulations on your Eton boys. They are so handsome, open, and truly modest that they won me over. Give a kiss to the little fair-haired sweetheart and the others; sending all my love to every part of the old house.
Enormous effect at Sheffield. But really not a better audience perceptively than at Peterboro', for that could hardly be, but they were more enthusiastically demonstrative, and they took the line, "and to Tiny Tim who did not die," with a most prodigious shout and roll of thunder.
Enormous impact at Sheffield. But honestly, it wasn't a better audience in terms of understanding than at Peterborough, since that’s hardly possible. However, they were much more enthusiastic and expressive, and when they heard the line, "and to Tiny Tim who did not die," they erupted with an incredible shout and thunderous applause.
1856.
NARRATIVE.
During this winter Charles Dickens was, however, constantly backwards and forwards between Paris and London on "Household Words" business, and was also at work on his "Little Dorrit."
During this winter, Charles Dickens was frequently traveling back and forth between Paris and London for "Household Words" business, and he was also working on his "Little Dorrit."
While in Paris he sat for his portrait to the great Ary[414] Scheffer. It was exhibited at the Royal Academy Exhibition of this year, and is now in the National Portrait Gallery.
While in Paris, he posed for his portrait by the renowned Ary[414] Scheffer. It was displayed at the Royal Academy Exhibition this year and is currently in the National Portrait Gallery.
The summer was again spent at Boulogne, and once more at the Villa des Moulineaux, where he received constant visits from English friends, Mr. Wilkie Collins taking up his quarters for many weeks at a little cottage in the garden; and there the idea of another play, to be acted at Tavistock House, was first started. Many of our letters for this year have reference to this play, and will show the interest which Charles Dickens took in it, and the immense amount of care and pains given by him to the careful carrying out of this favourite amusement.
The summer was once again spent in Boulogne, this time at the Villa des Moulineaux, where he frequently hosted English friends. Mr. Wilkie Collins stayed for several weeks in a small cottage in the garden, and it was here that the idea of another play, meant to be performed at Tavistock House, was first introduced. Many of our letters from this year mention this play and indicate the enthusiasm Charles Dickens had for it, as well as the tremendous effort and attention he devoted to ensuring this beloved pastime was realized.
The Christmas number of "Household Words," written by Charles Dickens and Mr. Collins, called "The Wreck of the Golden Mary," was planned by the two friends during this summer holiday.
The Christmas edition of "Household Words," authored by Charles Dickens and Mr. Collins, titled "The Wreck of the Golden Mary," was conceived by the two friends over the summer break.
It was in this year that one of the great wishes of his life was to be realised, the much-coveted house—Gad's Hill Place—having been purchased by him, and the cheque written on the 14th of March—on a "Friday," as he writes to his sister-in-law, in the letter of this date. He frequently remarked that all the important, and so far fortunate, events of his life had happened to him on a Friday. So that, contrary to the usual superstition, that day had come to be looked upon by his family as his "lucky" day.
It was in this year that one of his biggest dreams came true: he bought the much-desired house—Gad's Hill Place—and wrote the check on March 14th—a "Friday," as he mentioned in a letter to his sister-in-law that day. He often noted that all the significant and, so far, fortunate events in his life occurred on a Friday. So, against the common superstition, his family started to see that day as his "lucky" day.
The allusion to the "plainness" of Miss Boyle's handwriting is good-humouredly ironical; that lady's writing being by no means famous for its legibility.
The mention of the "plainness" of Miss Boyle's handwriting is humorously ironic; her writing is definitely not known for being easy to read.
The "Anne" mentioned in the letter to his sister-in-law, which follows the one to Miss Boyle, was the faithful servant who had lived with the family so long; and who, having left to be married the previous year, had found it a very difficult matter to recover from her sorrow at this parting. And the "godfather's present" was for a son of Mr. Edmund Yates.
The "Anne" mentioned in the letter to his sister-in-law, which comes after the one to Miss Boyle, was the loyal servant who had been with the family for such a long time; and after leaving to get married the previous year, she had struggled a lot to overcome her sadness about this separation. And the "godfather's present" was for a son of Mr. Edmund Yates.
"The Humble Petition" was written to Mr. Wilkie Collins during that gentleman's visit to Paris.[415]
"The Humble Petition" was written to Mr. Wilkie Collins during his visit to Paris.[415]
The explanation of the remark to Mr. Wills (6th April), that he had paid the money to Mr. Poole, is that Charles Dickens was the trustee through whom the dramatist received his pension.
The explanation of the comment to Mr. Wills (April 6th), that he had given the money to Mr. Poole, is that Charles Dickens was the trustee through whom the playwright received his pension.
The letter to the Duke of Devonshire has reference to the peace illuminations after the Crimean war.
The letter to the Duke of Devonshire refers to the peace celebrations after the Crimean war.
The M. Forgues for whom, at Mr. Collins's request, he writes a short biography of himself, was the editor of the Revue des Deux Mondes.
The M. Forgues, for whom he writes a short biography of himself at Mr. Collins's request, was the editor of the Revue des Deux Mondes.
The speech at the London Tavern was on behalf of the Artists' Benevolent Fund.
The speech at the London Tavern was for the Artists' Benevolent Fund.
Miss Kate Macready had sent some clever poems to "Household Words," with which Charles Dickens had been much pleased. He makes allusion to these, in our two remaining letters to Mr. Macready.
Miss Kate Macready sent some clever poems to "Household Words," which Charles Dickens really liked. He refers to these in our last two letters to Mr. Macready.
"I did write it for you" (letter to Mrs. Watson, 17th October), refers to that part of "Little Dorrit" which treats of the visit of the Dorrit family to the Great St. Bernard. An expedition which it will be remembered he made himself, in company with Mr. and Mrs. Watson and other friends.
"I did write it for you" (letter to Mrs. Watson, October 17th) refers to the section of "Little Dorrit" that discusses the Dorrit family's trip to the Great St. Bernard. It's worth noting that he went on this trip himself, along with Mr. and Mrs. Watson and some other friends.
The letter to Mrs. Horne refers to a joke about the name of a friend of this lady's, who had once been brought by her to Tavistock House. The letter to Mr. Mitton concerns the lighting of the little theatre at Tavistock House.
The letter to Mrs. Horne talks about a joke regarding the name of a friend of hers, who she once brought to Tavistock House. The letter to Mr. Mitton is about the lighting of the small theatre at Tavistock House.
Our last letter is in answer to one from Mr. Kent, asking him to sit to Mr. John Watkins for his photograph. We should add, however, that he did subsequently give this gentleman some sittings.
Our last letter is a response to one from Mr. Kent, asking him to sit for a photograph with Mr. John Watkins. We should also mention that he eventually agreed to some sittings with this gentleman.
49, Champs-Élysées, Sunday, Jan. 6th, 1856.
I should like Morley to do a Strike article, and to work into it the greater part of what is here. But I cannot represent myself as holding the opinion that all strikes among this unhappy class of society, who find it so difficult to get a peaceful hearing, are always necessarily wrong,[416] because I don't think so. To open a discussion of the question by saying that the men are "of course entirely and painfully in the wrong," surely would be monstrous in any one. Show them to be in the wrong here, but in the name of the eternal heavens show why, upon the merits of this question. Nor can I possibly adopt the representation that these men are wrong because by throwing themselves out of work they throw other people, possibly without their consent. If such a principle had anything in it, there could have been no civil war, no raising by Hampden of a troop of horse, to the detriment of Buckinghamshire agriculture, no self-sacrifice in the political world. And O, good God, when —— treats of the suffering of wife and children, can he suppose that these mistaken men don't feel it in the depths of their hearts, and don't honestly and honourably, most devoutly and faithfully believe that for those very children, when they shall have children, they are bearing all these miseries now!
I’d like Morley to write a Strike article and include most of what’s discussed here. However, I can’t claim that I believe every strike from this unfortunate group of people, who struggle to be heard, is necessarily wrong, because I don’t think that at all. To start a conversation by saying these men are “of course entirely and painfully in the wrong” would be outrageous. Show them to be wrong here, but for heaven’s sake, explain why based on the merits of the issue. I also can’t agree that these men are wrong just because by striking they put themselves out of work and possibly affect others without their consent. If that viewpoint held any truth, there would have been no civil war, no Hampden raising a troop of horse at the expense of Buckinghamshire farming, no self-sacrifice in politics. And oh, good God, when —— talks about the suffering of wives and children, can he really think these misguided men don’t feel that pain deeply and don’t believe with all their hearts that they’re enduring these hardships for the sake of their children, and their children’s children?
I hear from Mrs. Fillonneau that her husband was obliged to leave town suddenly before he could get your parcel, consequently he has not brought it; and White's sovereigns—unless you have got them back again—are either lying out of circulation somewhere, or are being spent by somebody else. I will write again on Tuesday. My article is to begin the enclosed.
I heard from Mrs. Fillonneau that her husband had to leave town unexpectedly before he could pick up your package, so he didn’t bring it back. As for White's sovereigns—unless you have received them back—they are either still out of circulation somewhere, or someone else is using them. I’ll write again on Tuesday. My article is going to start with the enclosed.
49, Champs-Élysées, Paris, Monday, Jan. 7th, 1856.
I want to know how "Jack and the Beanstalk" goes. I have a notion from a notice—a favourable notice, however—which I saw in Galignani, that Webster has let down the comic business.[417]
I want to know how "Jack and the Beanstalk" goes. I have an idea from a review—a positive review, though—that I saw in Galignani, that Webster has messed up the comedy.[417]
In a piece at the Ambigu, called the "Rentrée à Paris," a mere scene in honour of the return of the troops from the Crimea the other day, there is a novelty which I think it worth letting you know of, as it is easily available, either for a serious or a comic interest—the introduction of a supposed electric telegraph. The scene is the railway terminus at Paris, with the electric telegraph office on the prompt side, and the clerks with their backs to the audience—much more real than if they were, as they infallibly would be, staring about the house—working the needles; and the little bell perpetually ringing. There are assembled to greet the soldiers, all the easily and naturally imagined elements of interest—old veteran fathers, young children, agonised mothers, sisters and brothers, girl lovers—each impatient to know of his or her own object of solicitude. Enter to these a certain marquis, full of sympathy for all, who says: "My friends, I am one of you. My brother has no commission yet. He is a common soldier. I wait for him as well as all brothers and sisters here wait for their brothers. Tell me whom you are expecting." Then they all tell him. Then he goes into the telegraph-office, and sends a message down the line to know how long the troops will be. Bell rings. Answer handed out on slip of paper. "Delay on the line. Troops will not arrive for a quarter of an hour." General disappointment. "But we have this brave electric telegraph, my friends," says the marquis. "Give me your little messages, and I'll send them off." General rush round the marquis. Exclamations: "How's Henri?" "My love to Georges;" "Has Guillaume forgotten Elise?" "Is my son wounded?" "Is my brother promoted?" etc. etc. Marquis composes tumult. Sends message—such a regiment, such a company—"Elise's love to Georges." Little bell rings, slip of[418] paper handed out—"Georges in ten minutes will embrace his Elise. Sends her a thousand kisses." Marquis sends message—such a regiment, such a company—"Is my son wounded?" Little bell rings. Slip of paper handed out—"No. He has not yet upon him those marks of bravery in the glorious service of his country which his dear old father bears" (father being lamed and invalided). Last of all, the widowed mother. Marquis sends message—such a regiment, such a company—"Is my only son safe?" Little bell rings. Slip of paper handed out—"He was first upon the heights of Alma." General cheer. Bell rings again, another slip of paper handed out. "He was made a sergeant at Inkermann." Another cheer. Bell rings again, another slip of paper handed out. "He was made colour-sergeant at Sebastopol." Another cheer. Bell rings again, another slip of paper handed out. "He was the first man who leaped with the French banner on the Malakhoff tower." Tremendous cheer. Bell rings again, another slip of paper handed out. "But he was struck down there by a musket-ball, and——Troops have proceeded. Will arrive in half a minute after this." Mother abandons all hope; general commiseration; troops rush in, down a platform; son only wounded, and embraces her.
In a piece at the Ambigu, titled "Rentrée à Paris," a simple scene celebrating the recent return of the troops from Crimea, there's something new that I think you should know about, as it can easily be appreciated for both serious and comedic reasons—the introduction of a fictional electric telegraph. The setting is the train station in Paris, with the electric telegraph office on the right side of the stage, and the clerks facing away from the audience—much more realistic than if they were, as would normally happen, looking around the theater—operating the machines while a little bell keeps ringing. A mix of characters has gathered to welcome the soldiers—old veteran fathers, young kids, worried mothers, siblings, and sweethearts—each eager to hear news about their loved ones. Among them is a sympathetic marquis who says: "My friends, I am one of you. My brother doesn’t have a commission yet. He’s an ordinary soldier. I’m waiting for him just like all the brothers and sisters here are waiting for their brothers. Tell me who you’re expecting." After they tell him, he enters the telegraph office and sends a message down the line to find out when the troops will arrive. The bell rings, and an answer is handed to him on a slip of paper: "Delay on the line. Troops will not arrive for another fifteen minutes." General disappointment follows. "But we have this brave electric telegraph, my friends," says the marquis. "Give me your little messages, and I’ll send them off." Everyone rushes to the marquis with exclamations: "How’s Henri?" "Send my love to Georges;" "Has Guillaume forgotten Elise?" "Is my son wounded?" "Is my brother promoted?" and so on. The marquis restores order. He sends a message—specific regiment, specific company—"Elise’s love to Georges." The little bell rings, and a slip of paper is handed out—"Georges will embrace his Elise in ten minutes. Sends her a thousand kisses." The marquis sends another message—specific regiment, specific company—"Is my son wounded?" The bell rings again. A slip of paper is handed out—"No. He doesn’t yet have the marks of bravery in the glorious service of his country like his dear old father does" (referring to the father, who is lame and invalided). Finally, it’s the widowed mother’s turn. The marquis sends a message—specific regiment, specific company—"Is my only son safe?" The bell rings. A slip of paper comes back—"He was the first on the heights of Alma." General cheers erupt. The bell rings again, another slip of paper is handed out. "He was promoted to sergeant at Inkermann." Another cheer follows. The bell rings again, and another slip of paper is handed out. "He became color-sergeant at Sebastopol." Another cheer ensues. The bell rings once more, and another slip of paper is given out. "He was the first man to leap with the French flag on the Malakhoff tower." Tremendous cheering. The bell rings again, and another slip of paper comes out. "But he was struck down there by a musket-ball, and——Troops have moved on. They will arrive in half a minute." The mother loses all hope; there’s a general feeling of sympathy; then the troops rush in, down the platform; her son is only wounded and embraces her.
As I have said, and as you will see, this is available for any purpose. But done with equal distinction and rapidity, it is a tremendous effect, and got by the simplest means in the world. There is nothing in the piece, but it was impossible not to be moved and excited by the telegraph part of it.
As I've mentioned, and as you'll see, this is available for any purpose. But when done with the same level of skill and speed, it creates an amazing impact, achieved through the simplest methods possible. There's nothing in the piece, but it was impossible not to feel moved and energized by the telegraph part of it.
I hope you have seen something of Stanny, and have been to pantomimes with him, and have drunk to the absent Dick. I miss you, my dear old boy, at the play, woefully, and miss the walk home, and the partings at the corner of Tavistock Square. And when I go by myself, I[419] come home stewing "Little Dorrit" in my head; and the best part of my play is (or ought to be) in Gordon Street.
I hope you've spent some time with Stanny, gone to shows with him, and raised a glass to the absent Dick. I really miss you, my dear old friend, at the theater, and I miss our walk home and saying goodbye at the corner of Tavistock Square. When I go alone, I come back with "Little Dorrit" running through my mind, and the best part of my play is (or should be) in Gordon Street.
I have written to Beaucourt about taking that breezy house—a little improved—for the summer, and I hope you and yours will come there often and stay there long. My present idea, if nothing should arise to unroot me sooner, is to stay here until the middle of May, then plant the family at Boulogne, and come with Catherine and Georgy home for two or three weeks. When I shall next run across I don't know, but I suppose next month.
I’ve reached out to Beaucourt about renting that nice house—a bit upgraded—for the summer, and I hope you and your family will visit often and stay for a while. Right now, if nothing else comes up to change my plans, I'm thinking of staying here until mid-May, then settling my family in Boulogne, and coming back home with Catherine and Georgy for two or three weeks. I’m not sure when I’ll run into you next, but I guess it’ll be next month.
We are up to our knees in mud here. Literally in vehement despair, I walked down the avenue outside the Barrière de l'Étoile here yesterday, and went straight on among the trees. I came back with top-boots of mud on. Nothing will cleanse the streets. Numbers of men and women are for ever scooping and sweeping in them, and they are always one lake of yellow mud. All my trousers go to the tailor's every day, and are ravelled out at the heels every night. Washing is awful.
We are knee-deep in mud here. I walked down the street outside the Barrière de l'Étoile yesterday, full of frustration, and continued on among the trees. I returned with muddy boots. Nothing seems to clear the streets. Many men and women are constantly trying to scoop and sweep, but they’re still just a sea of yellow mud. I send my pants to the tailor every day, and they come back frayed at the heels every night. Washing is a nightmare.
Tell Mrs. Lemon, with my love, that I have bought her some Eau d'Or, in grateful remembrance of her knowing what it is, and crushing the tyrant of her existence by resolutely refusing to be put down when that monster would have silenced her. You may imagine the loves and messages that are now being poured in upon me by all of them, so I will give none of them; though I am pretending to be very scrupulous about it, and am looking (I have no doubt) as if I were writing them down with the greatest care.
Tell Mrs. Lemon, with my love, that I’ve bought her some Eau d'Or, grateful for her understanding of what it is and for standing up to the tyrant in her life by refusing to be silenced by that monster. You can imagine the love and messages that are flooding in from everyone, so I won’t share any of them; although I'm pretending to be very careful about it and probably look like I’m writing them down with great attention.
49, Champs-Élysées, Saturday, Jan. 19th, 1856.
I had no idea you were so far on with your book, and heartily congratulate you on being within sight of land.[420]
I had no idea you were so far along with your book, and I genuinely congratulate you on being close to finishing.[420]
It is excessively pleasant to me to get your letter, as it opens a perspective of theatrical and other lounging evenings, and also of articles in "Household Words." It will not be the first time that we shall have got on well in Paris, and I hope it will not be by many a time the last.
It’s really great to receive your letter, as it promises fun nights out and articles in "Household Words." This won’t be the first time we’ve had a good time in Paris, and I hope it won’t be the last for a long while.
I purpose coming over, early in February (as soon, in fact, as I shall have knocked out No. 5 of "Little D."), and therefore we can return in a jovial manner together. As soon as I know my day of coming over, I will write to you again, and (as the merchants—say Charley—would add) "communicate same" to you.
I intend to come over early in February (as soon as I finish No. 5 of "Little D."), so we can return together in a cheerful way. As soon as I know the day I'm coming, I'll write to you again and (as the merchants—say Charley—would put it) "let you know."
The lodging, en garçon, shall be duly looked up, and I shall of course make a point of finding it close here. There will be no difficulty in that. I will have concluded the treaty before starting for London, and will take it by the month, both because that is the cheapest way, and because desirable places don't let for shorter terms.
The lodging, en garçon, will be properly arranged, and I’ll make sure to find it nearby. That won’t be a problem. I will finalize the agreement before heading to London and will rent it by the month, both because it's the most affordable option and because good places aren’t available for shorter leases.
I have been sitting to Scheffer to-day—conceive this, if you please, with No. 5 upon my soul—four hours!! I am so addleheaded and bored, that if you were here, I should propose an instantaneous rush to the Trois Frères. Under existing circumstances I have no consolation.
I’ve been sitting for Scheffer today—imagine this, if you can, with No. 5 on my soul—for four hours!! I’m so confused and bored that if you were here, I’d suggest we make a quick trip to the Trois Frères. Given the situation, I have no comfort.
I think the portrait[23] is the most astounding thing ever beheld upon this globe. It has been shrieked over by the united family as "Oh! the very image!" I went down to the entresol the moment I opened it, and submitted it to the Plorn—then engaged, with a half-franc musket, in capturing a Malakhoff of chairs. He looked at it very hard, and gave it as his opinion that it was Misser Hegg. We suppose him to have confounded the Colonel with Jollins. I met Madame Georges Sand the other day at a dinner got up by Madame Viardot for that great purpose. The human[421] mind cannot conceive any one more astonishingly opposed to all my preconceptions. If I had been shown her in a state of repose, and asked what I thought her to be, I should have said: "The Queen's monthly nurse." Au reste, she has nothing of the bas bleu about her, and is very quiet and agreeable.
I think the portrait[23] is the most incredible thing ever seen on this planet. The whole family has exclaimed, "Oh! the very image!" I went down to the entresol as soon as I opened it and showed it to the Plorn—then I got involved, with a half-franc musket, in capturing a Malakhoff made of chairs. He stared at it for a long time and suggested it was Misser Hegg. We assume he mixed up the Colonel with Jollins. I ran into Madame Georges Sand the other day at a dinner organized by Madame Viardot for that special occasion. The human[421] mind can’t imagine anyone more dramatically different from what I expected. If I had seen her relaxing and been asked what I thought she was, I would have said: "The Queen's monthly nurse." Au reste, she doesn't have any of the bas bleu vibe about her and is very calm and pleasant.
The way in which mysterious Frenchmen call and want to embrace me, suggests to any one who knows me intimately, such infamous lurking, slinking, getting behind doors, evading, lying—so much mean resort to craven flights, dastard subterfuges, and miserable poltroonery—on my part, that I merely suggest the arrival of cards like this:
The way mysterious Frenchmen call for me and want to embrace me suggests to anyone who knows me well that I’m up to all sorts of sneaky behavior—hiding, slipping behind doors, avoiding the truth, lying—resorting to cowardly escapes, cowardly tricks, and pathetic cowardice. This just makes me want to send cards like this:
At the Porte St. Martin they are doing the "Orestes," put into French verse by Alexandre Dumas. Really one of the absurdest things I ever saw. The scene of the tomb, with all manner of classical females, in black, grouping themselves on the lid, and on the steps, and on each other, and in every conceivable aspect of obtrusive impossibility, is just like the window of one of those artists in hair, who address the friends of deceased persons. To-morrow week a fête is coming off at the Jardin d'Hîver, next door but one here, which I must certainly go to. The fête of the company of the Folies Nouvelles! The ladies of the company are to keep stalls, and are to sell to Messieurs the Amateurs orange-water and lemonade. Paul le Grand is to promenade among the company, dressed as Pierrot. Kalm, the big-faced comic singer, is to do the like, dressed as a Russian Cossack. The entertainments are to conclude with "La Polka des Bêtes féroces, par la Troupe entière des Folies Nouvelles." I wish, without invasion of the rights of British subjects, or risk of war, —— could be seized by French troops, brought over, and made to assist.
At the Porte St. Martin, they're putting on "Orestes," adapted into French verse by Alexandre Dumas. It's honestly one of the most ridiculous things I've ever seen. The scene at the tomb, with all sorts of classical women dressed in black, clustering on the lid, on the steps, and on each other, is every bit as absurd as one of those displays by wig makers who cater to the friends of the deceased. Next week, there’s a festival happening at the Jardin d'Hiver, just next door, that I definitely need to attend. It’s the festival for the Folies Nouvelles! The ladies from the company will have stalls where they'll sell orange water and lemonade to the gentlemen in attendance. Paul le Grand will stroll around dressed as Pierrot. Kalm, the big-faced comedian, will be doing the same, but he'll be dressed as a Russian Cossack. The show will wrap up with "La Polka des Bêtes féroces, by the entire Troupe of the Folies Nouvelles." I wish, without violating the rights of British subjects or risking war, that—could be captured by French troops, brought over, and made to participate.
The appartement has not grown any bigger since you last had the joy of beholding me, and upon my honour and word I live in terror of asking —— to dinner, lest she should not be able to get in at the dining-room door. I think (am not sure) the dining-room would hold her, if she could be once passed in, but I don't see my way to that. Nevertheless, we manage our own family dinners very snugly there, and have good ones, as I think you will say, every day at half-past five.
The apartment hasn't gotten any bigger since you last had the pleasure of seeing me, and I swear I'm scared to invite —— over for dinner, in case she can't fit through the dining room door. I think (but I'm not sure) that the dining room would accommodate her if she could just get inside, but I can't figure out how to make that happen. Still, we have our family dinners quite comfortably there, and I believe you'll agree that we have good meals every day at 5:30.
I have a notion that we may knock out a series of descriptions for H. W. without much trouble. It is very[423] difficult to get into the Catacombs, but my name is so well known here that I think I may succeed. I find that the guillotine can be got set up in private, like Punch's show. What do you think of that for an article? I find myself underlining words constantly. It is not my nature. It is mere imbecility after the four hours' sitting.
I think we can put together a series of descriptions for H. W. without too much hassle. Getting into the Catacombs is pretty[423] tough, but my name is well-known around here, so I believe I can manage it. I’ve discovered that the guillotine can be set up privately, like a Punch and Judy show. What do you think of that for an article? I keep finding myself underlining words all the time. It's not like me. It feels like pure foolishness after sitting for four hours.
All unite in kindest remembrances to you, your mother and brother.
All send their warmest regards to you, your mom, and your brother.
49, Champs-Élysées, Paris, Jan. 28th, 1856.
I am afraid you will think me an abandoned ruffian for not having acknowledged your more than handsome warm-hearted letter before now. But, as usual, I have been so occupied, and so glad to get up from my desk and wallow in the mud (at present about six feet deep here), that pleasure correspondence is just the last thing in the world I have had leisure to take to. Business correspondence with all sorts and conditions of men and women, O my Mary! is one of the dragons I am perpetually fighting; and the more I throw it, the more it stands upon its hind legs, rampant, and throws me.
I’m worried you’ll think I’m a complete scoundrel for not responding to your incredibly kind letter sooner. But, as always, I’ve been so busy and so happy to escape from my desk and get lost in the mud (it’s about six feet deep here right now) that keeping up with personal correspondence has been the last thing on my mind. Dealing with business correspondence from all kinds of people, oh my Mary! is one of the challenges I’m constantly battling; and the more I try to handle it, the more it seems to rear up and take control over me.
Yes, on that bright cold morning when I left Peterboro', I felt that the best thing I could do was to say that word that I would do anything in an honest way to avoid saying, at one blow, and make off. I was so sorry to leave you all! You can scarcely imagine what a chill and blank I felt on that Monday evening at Rockingham. It was so sad to me, and engendered a constraint so melancholy and peculiar, that I doubt if I were ever much more out of sorts in my life. Next morning, when it was light and sparkling out of doors, I felt more at home again. But[424] when I came in from seeing poor dear Watson's grave, Mrs. Watson asked me to go up in the gallery, which I had last seen in the days of our merry play. We went up, and walked into the very part he had made and was so fond of, and she looked out of one window and I looked out of another, and for the life of me I could not decide in my own heart whether I should console or distress her by going and taking her hand, and saying something of what was naturally in my mind. So I said nothing, and we came out again, and on the whole perhaps it was best; for I have no doubt we understood each other very well without speaking a word.
Yes, on that bright, cold morning when I left Peterboro, I felt that the best thing I could do was to say that word I would do anything honestly to avoid saying, all at once, and just leave. I was really sorry to leave you all! You can hardly imagine how empty and cold I felt that Monday evening at Rockingham. It made me so sad and created a unique, melancholic tension that I doubt I've ever felt so out of sorts in my life. The next morning, when it was bright and sparkling outside, I felt more at home again. But[424] when I came back from visiting poor dear Watson's grave, Mrs. Watson asked me to go up to the gallery, which I had last seen during our happy times. We went up and walked into the very part he had created and loved so much. She looked out of one window, and I looked out of another, and I couldn't decide in my heart whether I should comfort or upset her by taking her hand and saying something that was naturally on my mind. So I said nothing, and we came out again. In the end, perhaps it was for the best because I’m sure we understood each other very well without saying a word.
Sheffield was a tremendous success and an admirable audience. They made me a present of table-cutlery after the reading was over; and I came away by the mail-train within three-quarters of an hour, changing my dress and getting on my wrappers partly in the fly, partly at the inn, partly on the platform. When we got among the Lincolnshire fens it began to snow. That changed to sleet, that changed to rain; the frost was all gone as we neared London, and the mud has all come. At two or three o'clock in the morning I stopped at Peterboro' again, and thought of you all disconsolately. The lady in the refreshment-room was very hard upon me, harder even than those fair enslavers usually are. She gave me a cup of tea, as if I were a hyena and she my cruel keeper with a strong dislike to me. I mingled my tears with it, and had a petrified bun of enormous antiquity in miserable meekness.
Sheffield was a huge success and had an amazing audience. They gave me a set of table-cutlery as a gift after the reading was done; and I left on the mail train within about forty-five minutes, changing my clothes and putting on my wrapper partly in the cab, partly at the inn, and partly on the platform. When we got into the Lincolnshire fens, it started to snow. That changed to sleet, which then turned into rain; the frost had completely disappeared by the time we got closer to London, and the mud was everywhere. At two or three o'clock in the morning, I stopped at Peterborough again and thought of all of you sadly. The lady in the refreshment room was particularly harsh with me, even more so than those charming captors usually are. She handed me a cup of tea as if I were a hyena and she was my cruel warden who really disliked me. I mixed my tears with it and ate a rock-hard bun of ancient history in miserable silence.
It is clear to me that climates are gradually assimilating over a great part of the world, and that in the most miserable part of our year there is very little to choose between London and Paris, except that London is not so muddy. I have never seen dirtier or worse weather than we have[425] had here since I returned. In desperation I went out to the Barrières last Sunday on a headlong walk, and came back with my very eyebrows smeared with mud. Georgina is usually invisible during the walking time of the day. A turned-up nose may be seen in the midst of splashes, but nothing more.
It’s obvious to me that climates are gradually becoming more similar across much of the world, and during the worst part of our year, there’s hardly any difference between London and Paris, except that London isn’t as muddy. I’ve never encountered dirtier or worse weather than what we’ve had[425] since I got back. Out of frustration, I went out to the Barrières last Sunday for a fast walk and came back with mud all over my eyebrows. Georgina is usually nowhere to be found during the daytime walking hours. You might catch a glimpse of her turned-up nose amidst the splashes, but that’s about it.
I am settling to work again, and my horrible restlessness immediately assails me. It belongs to such times. As I was writing the preceding page, it suddenly came into my head that I would get up and go to Calais. I don't know why; the moment I got there I should want to go somewhere else. But, as my friend the Boots says (see Christmas number "Household Words"): "When you come to think what a game you've been up to ever since you was in your own cradle, and what a poor sort of a chap you were, and how it's always yesterday with you, or else to-morrow, and never to-day, that's where it is."
I’m getting back to work again, but my terrible restlessness hits me right away. It happens during times like this. While I was writing the previous page, I suddenly thought about getting up and going to Calais. I have no idea why; as soon as I got there, I’d just want to go somewhere else. But, as my friend the Boots says (see Christmas number "Household Words"): "When you think about the game you’ve been playing since you were in your cradle, and how poor of a person you were, and how it’s always yesterday or tomorrow for you, and never today, that's the problem.”
My dear Mary, would you favour me with the name and address of the professor that taught you writing, for I want to improve myself? Many a hand have I seen with many characteristics of beauty in it—some loopy, some dashy, some large, some small, some sloping to the right, some sloping to the left, some not sloping at all; but what I like in your hand, Mary, is its plainness, it is like print. Them as runs may read just as well as if they stood still. I should have thought it was copper-plate if I hadn't known you. They send all sorts of messages from here, and so do I, with my best regards to Bedgy and pardner and the blessed babbies. When shall we meet again, I wonder, and go somewhere! Ah!
My dear Mary, could you please share the name and address of the professor who taught you writing? I want to improve my skills. I've seen many hands with various beautiful characteristics—some loopy, some flashy, some large, some small, some slanting to the right, some to the left, and some perfectly straight. But what I really like about your handwriting, Mary, is its simplicity; it's like print. Those who run can read it just as well as if they were standing still. I would have thought it was copperplate if I didn't know it was yours. They send all kinds of messages from here, and so do I, with my best regards to Bedgy, your partner, and the little ones. I wonder when we'll meet again and go somewhere! Ah!
Sincerely and with love,
Joe.
(That doesn't look basic.)
JOE.
"Familiar Terms," Friday, Feb. 8th, 1856.
I must write this at railroad speed, for I have been at it all day, and have numbers of letters to cram into the next half-hour. I began the morning in the City, for the Theatrical Fund; went on to Shepherd's Bush; came back to leave cards for Mr. Baring and Mr. Bates; ran across Piccadilly to Stratton Street, stayed there an hour, and shot off here. I have been in four cabs to-day, at a cost of thirteen shillings. Am going to dine with Mark and Webster at half-past four, and finish the evening at the Adelphi.
I need to write this really quickly because I've been at it all day and I have a bunch of letters to squeeze into the next half hour. I started the morning in the City for the Theatrical Fund, then went to Shepherd's Bush, came back to drop off cards for Mr. Baring and Mr. Bates, dashed across Piccadilly to Stratton Street, stayed there for an hour, and then shot over here. I've taken four cabs today, costing me thirteen shillings. I'm going to have dinner with Mark and Webster at 4:30 and finish the evening at the Adelphi.
The dinner was very successful. Charley was in great force, and floored Peter Cunningham and the Audit Office on a question about some bill transactions with Baring's. The other guests were B. and E., Shirley Brooks, Forster, and that's all. The dinner admirable. I never had a better. All the wine I sent down from Tavistock House. Anne waited, and looked well and happy, very much brighter altogether. It gave me great pleasure to see her so improved. Just before dinner I got all the letters from home. They could not have arrived more opportunely.
The dinner was a huge success. Charley was on fire and completely stunned Peter Cunningham and the Audit Office with a question about some bill transactions with Baring's. The other guests were B. and E., Shirley Brooks, Forster, and that’s about it. The dinner was excellent. I’ve never had a better one. All the wine was sent down from Tavistock House. Anne served and looked great and happy, much brighter overall. It made me really happy to see her so improved. Just before dinner, I received all the letters from home. They couldn't have arrived at a better time.
The godfather's present looks charming now it is engraved, and John is just now going off to take it to Mrs. Yates. To-morrow Wills and I are going to Gad's Hill. It will occupy the whole day, and will just leave me time to get home to dress for dinner.
The godfather's gift looks great now that it’s engraved, and John is just leaving to take it to Mrs. Yates. Tomorrow, Wills and I are heading to Gad's Hill. It will take up the entire day and will only give me enough time to get home and get ready for dinner.
And that's all that I have to say, except that the first number of "Little Dorrit" has gone to forty thousand, and the other one fast following.
And that's all I have to say, except that the first issue of "Little Dorrit" has reached forty thousand copies, and the next one is quickly catching up.
My best love to Catherine, and to Mamey and Katey, and Walter and Harry, and the noble Plorn. I am grieved[427] to hear about his black eye, and fear that I shall find it in the green and purple state on my return.
My best wishes to Catherine, Mamey, Katey, Walter, Harry, and the great Plorn. I'm sorry to hear about his black eye and worry that I'll see it in the green and purple condition when I get back.
The Simple Request of Charles Dickens, a Struggling Foreigner,
That your Petitioner has not been able to write one word to-day, or to fashion forth the dimmest shade of the faintest ghost of an idea.
That your Petitioner has not been able to write a single word today, or to come up with the slightest hint of an idea.
That your Petitioner is therefore desirous of being taken out, and is not at all particular where.
That your Petitioner is therefore anxious to be taken out and doesn't mind where at all.
That your Petitioner, being imbecile, says no more. But will ever, etc. (whatever that may be).
That your Petitioner, being foolish, says no more. But will always, etc. (whatever that means).
Paris, March 3rd, 1856.
Paris, March 3, 1856.
"Household Words Office, March 6th, 1856.
Buckstone has been with me to-day in a state of demi-semi-distraction, by reason of Macready's dreading his asthma so much as to excuse himself (of necessity, I know) from taking the chair for the fund on the occasion of their next dinner. I have promised to back Buckstone's entreaty to you to take it; and although I know that you have an objection which you once communicated to me, I still hold (as I did then) that it is a reason for and not against. Pray reconsider the point. Your position in connection with dramatic literature has always suggested to me that there would be a great fitness and grace in your appearing in this post. I am convinced that the public would regard it in that light, and I particularly ask you to reflect that we never can[428] do battle with the Lords, if we will not bestow ourselves to go into places which they have long monopolised. Now pray discuss this matter with yourself once more. If you can come to a favourable conclusion I shall be really delighted, and will of course come from Paris to be by you; if you cannot come to a favourable conclusion I shall be really sorry, though I of course most readily defer to your right to regard such a matter from your own point of view.
Buckstone has been with me today, feeling a bit anxious because Macready is so worried about his asthma that he had to excuse himself from taking the chair for the fundraiser at their next dinner. I've promised to support Buckstone's request for you to take it; and even though I know you have an objection that you once shared with me, I still believe (as I did back then) that it's a reason for it, not against it. Please reconsider. Your role in the world of dramatic literature has always made me think that it would be very fitting and honorable for you to take on this position. I'm sure the public would see it that way too, and I ask you to remember that we can't challenge the Lords if we're not willing to step into areas they have long controlled. So please think about this matter once more. If you can come to a positive decision, I would be really happy and would of course come from Paris to be there with you; if you can't reach a positive conclusion, I would be truly sorry, but I completely respect your right to see this from your own perspective.
I have been in bed half the day with my cold, which is excessively violent, consequently have to write in a great hurry to save the post.
I’ve been in bed for half the day with my cold, which is really bad, so I have to write this quickly to catch the post.
Tell Catherine that I have the most prodigious, overwhelming, crushing, astounding, blinding, deafening, pulverising, scarifying secret, of which Forster is the hero, imaginable by the whole efforts of the whole British population. It is a thing of that kind that, after I knew it, (from himself) this morning, I lay down flat as if an engine and tender had fallen upon me.
Tell Catherine that I have the most incredible, overwhelming, crushing, astounding, shocking, deafening, mind-blowing, terrifying secret, and Forster is the hero of it, imagined by the entire efforts of the whole British population. It's the kind of thing that, after I learned it (from him) this morning, I lay down flat as if a train and its cars had fallen on me.
Love to Catherine (not a word of Forster before anyone else), and to Mamey, Katey, Harry, and the noble Plorn. Tell Collins with my kind regards that Forster has just pronounced to me that "Collins is a decidedly clever fellow." I hope he is a better fellow in health, too.
Love to Catherine (not a word to Forster before anyone else), and to Mamey, Katey, Harry, and the noble Plorn. Please tell Collins, with my best regards, that Forster just told me, "Collins is definitely a clever guy." I hope he's doing better in terms of health, too.
"Familiar Sayings," Friday, March 14th, 1856.
I am amazed to hear of the snow (I don't know why, but it excited John this morning beyond measure); though we have had the same east wind here, and the cold and my cold have both been intense.
I’m surprised to hear about the snow (I’m not sure why, but it really excited John this morning); even though we’ve had the same east wind here, and the cold and my cold have both been intense.
Yesterday evening Webster, Mark, Stanny, and I went to the Olympic, where the Wigans ranged us in a row in a gorgeous and immense private box, and where we saw "Still Waters Run Deep." I laughed (in a conspicuous manner) to that extent at Emery, when he received the dinner-company, that the people were more amused by me than by the piece. I don't think I ever saw anything meant to be funny that struck me as so extraordinarily droll. I couldn't get over it at all. After the piece we went round, by Wigan's invitation, to drink with him. It being positively impossible to get Stanny off the stage, we stood in the wings during the burlesque. Mrs. Wigan seemed really glad to see her old manager, and the company overwhelmed him with embraces. They had nearly all been at the meeting in the morning.
Yesterday evening, Webster, Mark, Stanny, and I went to the Olympic, where the Wigans seated us in a stunning and huge private box, and we watched "Still Waters Run Deep." I laughed (quite obviously) at Emery, when he welcomed the dinner guests, to the point that the audience found me more entertaining than the show itself. I've never seen anything intended to be funny that struck me as so absolutely hilarious. I couldn't believe it at all. After the show, we went over, at Wigan's invitation, to have drinks with him. It was practically impossible to get Stanny off the stage, so we stood in the wings during the burlesque. Mrs. Wigan genuinely seemed happy to see her old manager, and the cast showered him with hugs. Most of them had been at the meeting earlier that morning.
I have seen Charley only twice since I came to London, having regularly been in bed until mid-day. To my amazement, my eye fell upon him at the Adelphi yesterday.
I have only seen Charley twice since I got to London, as I've been sleeping in until noon. To my surprise, I spotted him at the Adelphi yesterday.
This day I have paid the purchase-money for Gad's Hill Place. After drawing the cheque, I turned round to give it to Wills (£1,790), and said: "Now isn't it an extraordinary thing—look at the day—Friday! I have been nearly drawing it half-a-dozen times, when the lawyers have not been ready, and here it comes round upon a Friday, as a matter of course."
This day I paid for Gad's Hill Place. After writing the check for £1,790, I turned to Wills to hand it over and said, "Isn't it amazing—look at the day—Friday! I almost wrote it out half a dozen times when the lawyers weren’t ready, and here it is again on a Friday, like it’s meant to be."
Kiss the noble Plorn a dozen times for me, and tell him[430] I drank his health yesterday, and wished him many happy returns of the day; also that I hope he will not have broken all his toys before I come back.
Kiss the great Plorn a dozen times for me, and let him know[430] I toasted to his health yesterday and wished him many more happy birthdays; also, I hope he hasn’t broken all his toys before I get back.
49, Champs-Élysées, Paris, Saturday, March 22nd, 1856.
I want you—you being quite well again, as I trust you are, and resolute to come to Paris—so to arrange your order of march as to let me know beforehand when you will come, and how long you will stay. We owe Scribe and his wife a dinner, and I should like to pay the debt when you are with us. Ary Scheffer too would be delighted to see you again. If I could arrange for a certain day I would secure them. We cannot afford (you and I, I mean) to keep much company, because we shall have to look in at a theatre or so, I daresay!
I want you—you being well again, as I hope you are, and determined to come to Paris—to plan your visit so that you let me know in advance when you’ll arrive and how long you’ll be staying. We owe Scribe and his wife a dinner, and I’d like to settle that when you’re here. Ary Scheffer would also be thrilled to see you again. If I can pick a specific day, I’ll make sure they’re available. We can’t really afford (you and I, I mean) to socialize too much, since we’ll probably need to catch a show or two, right?
It would suit my work best, if I could keep myself clear until Monday, the 7th of April. But in case that day should be too late for the beginning of your brief visit with a deference to any other engagements you have in contemplation, then fix an earlier one, and I will make "Little Dorrit" curtsy to it. My recent visit to London and my having only just now come back have thrown me a little behindhand; but I hope to come up with a wet sail in a few days.
It would work best for me if I could stay clear until Monday, April 7th. But if that day is too late for the start of your short visit, considering any other plans you might have, then set an earlier date, and I'll make "Little Dorrit" fit into it. My recent trip to London and just getting back have put me a bit behind, but I hope to catch up quickly in a few days.
You should have seen the ruins of Covent Garden Theatre. I went in the moment I got to London—four days after the fire. Although the audience part and the stage were so tremendously burnt out that there was not a piece of wood half the size of a lucifer-match for the eye to rest on, though nothing whatever remained but bricks and smelted iron lying on a great black desert, the theatre still[431] looked so wonderfully like its old self grown gigantic that I never saw so strange a sight. The wall dividing the front from the stage still remained, and the iron pass-doors stood ajar in an impossible and inaccessible frame. The arches that supported the stage were there, and the arches that supported the pit; and in the centre of the latter lay something like a Titanic grape-vine that a hurricane had pulled up by the roots, twisted, and flung down there; this was the great chandelier. Gye had kept the men's wardrobe at the top of the house over the great entrance staircase; when the roof fell in it came down bodily, and all that part of the ruins was like an old Babylonic pavement, bright rays tesselating the black ground, sometimes in pieces so large that I could make out the clothes in the "Trovatore."
You should have seen the ruins of Covent Garden Theatre. I went in as soon as I got to London—four days after the fire. Even though the audience area and the stage were completely burned out, with not a piece of wood larger than a matchstick for the eye to rest on, and nothing left but bricks and melted iron on a vast black wasteland, the theatre still[431] looked remarkably like its old self, only much larger, and it was one of the strangest sights I’ve ever seen. The wall between the front and the stage was still standing, and the iron doors stood open in an unmanageable and unreachable frame. The arches that used to support the stage were still there, as were the arches for the pit; and in the middle of the latter lay something resembling a giant grapevine that a storm had uprooted, twisted, and thrown down there; this was the massive chandelier. Gye had kept the men’s wardrobe at the top of the house over the grand entrance staircase; when the roof collapsed, it descended completely, and that part of the ruins resembled an ancient Babylonian pavement, with bright beams creating patterns on the black ground, sometimes in pieces so large that I could make out the clothing from the "Trovatore."
I should run on for a couple of hours if I had to describe the spectacle as I saw it, wherefore I will immediately muzzle myself. All here unite in kindest loves to dear Miss Macready, to Katie, Lillie, Benvenuta, my godson, and the noble Johnny. We are charmed to hear such happy accounts of Willy and Ned, and send our loving remembrance to them in the next letters. All Parisian novelties you shall see and hear for yourself.
I could go on for a couple of hours describing the scene as I saw it, but I’ll spare you. Everyone here sends their warmest love to dear Miss Macready, Katie, Lillie, Benvenuta, my godson, and the wonderful Johnny. We’re thrilled to hear such happy news about Willy and Ned, and we’ll send our love to them in the next letters. You’ll see and hear about all the latest Parisian happenings for yourself.
Your affectionate Friend.
P.S.—Mr. F.'s aunt sends her defiant respects.
P.S.—Mr. F.'s aunt sends her rebellious regards.
49, Champs Elysées, Paris,
Thursday Night, March 27th, 1856 (after post time).
If I had had any idea of your coming (see how naturally I use the word when I am three hundred miles[432] off!) to London so soon, I would never have written one word about the jump over next week. I am vexed that I did so, but as I did I will not now propose a change in the arrangements, as I know how methodical you tremendously old fellows are. That's your secret I suspect. That's the way in which the blood of the Mirabels mounts in your aged veins, even at your time of life.
If I had known you were coming (look how naturally I say that from three hundred miles[432] away!) to London so soon, I wouldn't have mentioned the jump next week at all. I'm annoyed that I did, but since I already did, I won't suggest changing the plans because I know how methodical you old-timers are. That's your secret, I think. That's the way the blood of the Mirabels runs strong in your older veins, even at your age.
How charmed I shall be to see you, and we all shall be, I will not attempt to say. On that expected Sunday you will lunch at Amiens but not dine, because we shall wait dinner for you, and you will merely have to tell that driver in the glazed hat to come straight here. When the Whites left I added their little apartment to this little apartment, consequently you shall have a snug bedroom (is it not waiting expressly for you?) overlooking the Champs Elysées. As to the arm-chair in my heart, no man on earth——but, good God! you know all about it.
How excited I will be to see you, and we all will be, I can't even say. On that much-anticipated Sunday, you'll have lunch in Amiens but won't stay for dinner since we’ll hold off eating until you arrive. You just need to tell that driver in the shiny hat to bring you straight here. After the Whites left, I added their small apartment to mine, so you’ll have a cozy bedroom (is it not just waiting for you?) that overlooks the Champs Elysées. As for the special place in my heart, no man on earth—but, oh my God! You already know all about it.
You will find us in the queerest of little rooms all alone, except that the son of Collins the painter (who writes a good deal in "Household Words") dines with us every day. Scheffer and Scribe shall be admitted for one evening, because they know how to appreciate you. The Emperor we will not ask unless you expressly wish it; it makes a fuss.
You’ll find us in the strangest little room all by ourselves, except for the son of Collins the painter (who writes quite a bit for "Household Words") who joins us for dinner every day. Scheffer and Scribe will be allowed in for one evening since they know how to appreciate you. We won’t invite the Emperor unless you specifically want him to come; it just creates a commotion.
If you have no appointed hotel at Boulogne, go to the Hôtel des Bains, there demand "Marguerite," and tell her that I commended you to her special care. It is the best house within my experience in France; Marguerite the best housekeeper in the world.
If you don't have a hotel booked in Boulogne, go to the Hôtel des Bains, ask for "Marguerite," and let her know that I recommended you to her. It's the best place I've experienced in France, and Marguerite is the best housekeeper in the world.
I shall charge at "Little Dorrit" to-morrow with new spirits. The sight of you is good for my boyish eyes, and the thought of you for my dawning mind. Give the enclosed lines a welcome, then send them on to Sherborne.
I’m going to dive into "Little Dorrit" tomorrow with fresh energy. Seeing you is refreshing for my youthful eyes, and thinking of you inspires my growing mind. Please welcome the enclosed lines, then pass them on to Sherborne.
49, Champs-Élysées, Paris, Sunday, April 6th, 1856.
Collins and I have a mighty original notion (mine in the beginning) for another play at Tavistock House. I propose opening on Twelfth Night the theatrical season of that great establishment. But now a tremendous question. Is
Collins and I have a really unique idea (mine originally) for another play at Tavistock House. I suggest we kick off the theatrical season of that great place on Twelfth Night. But now, there's a huge question. Is
I have paid him his money. Here is the proof of life. If you will get me the receipt to sign, the money can go to my account at Coutts's.
I’ve paid him his money. Here’s the proof of life. If you can get me the receipt to sign, the money can be transferred to my account at Coutts's.
Tavistock House, Monday, May 5th, 1856.
I did nothing at Dover (except for "Household Words"), and have not begun "Little Dorrit," No. 8, yet. But I took twenty-mile walks in the fresh air, and perhaps in the long run did better than if I had been at work. The report concerning Scheffer's portrait I had from Ward. It[434] is in the best place in the largest room, but I find the general impression of the artists exactly mine. They almost all say that it wants something; that nobody could mistake whom it was meant for, but that it has something disappointing in it, etc. etc. Stanfield likes it better than any of the other painters, I think. His own picture is magnificent. And Frith, in a "Little Child's Birthday Party," is quite delightful. There are many interesting pictures. When you see Scheffer, tell him from me that Eastlake, in his speech at the dinner, referred to the portrait as "a contribution from a distinguished man of genius in France, worthy of himself and of his subject."
I didn’t do much in Dover (except for "Household Words"), and I haven't started "Little Dorrit," No. 8, yet. But I took long walks in the fresh air, and maybe in the long run, it was more beneficial than if I had been working. I got the report about Scheffer’s portrait from Ward. It’s in the best spot in the biggest room, but I share the same impression as the other artists. They all seem to think it’s missing something; that it’s clear who it’s meant to represent, but there’s something disappointing about it, etc. Stanfield seems to like it more than the other painters, I think. His own painting is stunning. And Frith’s "Little Child's Birthday Party" is really charming. There are a lot of interesting paintings. When you see Scheffer, tell him that Eastlake, in his speech at the dinner, mentioned the portrait as "a contribution from a distinguished man of genius in France, worthy of himself and of his subject."
I did the maddest thing last night, and am deeply penitent this morning. We stayed at Webster's till any hour, and they wanted me, at last, to make punch, which couldn't be done when the jug was brought, because (to Webster's burning indignation) there was only one lemon in the house. Hereupon I then and there besought the establishment in general to come and drink punch on Thursday night, after the play; on which occasion it will become necessary to furnish fully the table with some cold viands from Fortnum and Mason's. Mark has looked in since I began this note, to suggest that the great festival may come off at "Household Words" instead. I am inclined to think it a good idea, and that I shall transfer the locality to that business establishment. But I am at present distracted with doubts and torn by remorse.
I did something really crazy last night, and I feel really sorry about it this morning. We were at Webster's until really late, and in the end, they asked me to make punch. That didn't work out when they brought the jug because (to Webster's absolute outrage) there was only one lemon in the house. So, I asked everyone there to come and drink punch on Thursday night after the play; for which I’ll need to fully set the table with some cold food from Fortnum and Mason's. Mark has dropped by since I started writing this note to suggest that the big gathering could happen at "Household Words" instead. I think that's a good idea, and I might move it to that place. But right now, I'm feeling conflicted and filled with guilt.
The school-room and dining-room I have brought into habitable condition and comfortable appearance. Charley and I breakfast at half-past eight, and meet again at dinner when he does not dine in the City, or has no engagement. He looks very well.
The classroom and dining room are now clean and cozy. Charley and I have breakfast at 8:30, and we get together again for dinner when he doesn't eat in the city or has no plans. He looks great.
The audiences at Gye's are described to me as absolute[435] marvels of coldness. No signs of emotion can be hammered, out of them. Panizzi sat next me at the Academy dinner, and took it very ill that I disparaged ——. The amateurs here are getting up another pantomime, but quarrel so violently among themselves that I doubt its ever getting on the stage. Webster expounded his scheme for rebuilding the Adelphi to Stanfield and myself last night, and I felt bound to tell him that I thought it wrong from beginning to end. This is all the theatrical news I know.
The audiences at Gye's are described to me as total[435] wonders of indifference. No signs of emotion can be squeezed out of them. Panizzi sat next to me at the Academy dinner and took it very badly that I criticized ——. The amateur performers here are trying to put together another pantomime, but they argue so intensely with each other that I doubt it'll ever make it to the stage. Last night, Webster shared his plan for rebuilding the Adelphi with Stanfield and me, and I felt obligated to tell him I thought it was wrong from start to finish. That’s all the theater news I have.
I write by this post to Georgy. Love to Mamey, Katey, Harry, and the noble Plorn. I should be glad to see him here.
I’m writing this letter to Georgy. Send my love to Mamey, Katey, Harry, and the great Plorn. I’d be happy to see him here.
Tavistock House, Monday, May 5th, 1856.
You will not be much surprised to hear that I have done nothing yet (except for H. W.), and have only just settled down into a corner of the school-room. The extent to which John and I wallowed in dust for four hours yesterday morning, getting things neat and comfortable about us, you may faintly imagine. At four in the afternoon came Stanfield, to whom I no sooner described the notion of the new play, than he immediately upset all my new arrangements by making a proscenium of the chairs, and planning the scenery with walking-sticks. One of the least things he did was getting on the top of the long table, and hanging over the bar in the middle window where that top sash opens, as if he had got a hinge in the middle of his body. He is immensely excited on the subject. Mark had a farce ready for the managerial perusal, but it won't do.[436]
You probably won't be surprised to hear that I haven't done anything yet (except for H. W.), and I've just settled into a corner of the classroom. You can only imagine how much dust John and I kicked up for four hours yesterday morning, trying to get things neat and comfortable around us. At four in the afternoon, Stanfield showed up, and as soon as I shared my idea for the new play, he completely messed up all my new arrangements by making a stage out of the chairs and designing the scenery with walking sticks. One of the less surprising things he did was climb on top of the long table and hang over the bar in the middle window where the top sash opens, as if he had a hinge in the middle of his body. He’s really excited about it. Mark had a farce ready for the management's review, but it’s not going to work.[436]
I went to the Dover theatre on Friday night, which was a miserable spectacle. The pit is boarded over, and it is a drinking and smoking place. It was "for the benefit of Mrs. ——," and the town had been very extensively placarded with "Don't forget Friday." I made out four and ninepence (I am serious) in the house, when I went in. We may have warmed up in the course of the evening to twelve shillings. A Jew played the grand piano; Mrs. —— sang no end of songs (with not a bad voice, poor creature); Mr. —— sang comic songs fearfully, and danced clog hornpipes capitally; and a miserable woman, shivering in a shawl and bonnet, sat in the side-boxes all the evening, nursing Master ——, aged seven months. It was a most forlorn business, and I should have contributed a sovereign to the treasury, if I had known how.
I went to the Dover theater on Friday night, and it was a pretty dismal show. The pit area is covered over, turning it into a place for drinking and smoking. It was “for the benefit of Mrs. ——,” and the town had been plastered with posters saying “Don’t forget Friday.” I calculated I spent four shillings and ninepence (I’m serious) when I entered. We might have managed to warm up to twelve shillings over the evening. A Jewish guy played the grand piano; Mrs. —— sang a ton of songs (not a bad voice, poor thing); Mr. —— performed comic songs poorly and danced clog hornpipes excellently; and a sad woman bundled up in a shawl and bonnet sat in the side boxes all night, taking care of Master ——, who was seven months old. It was such a pitiful affair, and I would have gladly given a sovereign to the collection if I knew how.
I walked to Deal and back that day, and on the previous day walked over the downs towards Canterbury in a gale of wind. It was better than still weather after all, being wonderfully fresh and free.
I walked to Deal and back that day, and the day before, I hiked over the downs toward Canterbury in a strong wind. It turned out to be better than calm weather, feeling refreshingly invigorating and open.
If the Plorn were sitting at this school-room window in the corner, he would see more cats in an hour than he ever saw in his life. I never saw so many, I think, as I have seen since yesterday morning.
If the Plorn were sitting at this classroom window in the corner, he would see more cats in an hour than he ever has in his life. I never saw as many, I think, as I have seen since yesterday morning.
There is a painful picture of a great deal of merit (Egg has bought it) in the exhibition, painted by the man who did those little interiors of Forster's. It is called "The Death of Chatterton." The dead figure is a good deal like Arthur Stone; and I was touched on Saturday to see that tender old file standing before it, crying under his spectacles at the idea of seeing his son dead. It was a very tender manifestation of his gentle old heart.
There’s a moving painting with a lot of merit (Egg bought it) in the exhibition, created by the same artist who painted those small interiors for Forster. It’s titled "The Death of Chatterton." The dead figure resembles Arthur Stone quite a bit; I was touched on Saturday to see that gentle old man standing in front of it, crying behind his glasses at the thought of seeing his son dead. It was a very heartfelt display of his kind old heart.
This sums up my news, which is no news at all. Kiss the Plorn for me, and expound to him that I am always looking[437] forward to meeting him again, among the birds and flowers in the garden on the side of the hill at Boulogne.
This sums up my news, which is really no news at all. Give the Plorn a kiss for me, and let him know that I’m always looking forward to seeing him again, among the birds and flowers in the garden on the hillside at Boulogne.[437]
Tavistock House, Sunday, June 1st, 1856.
Allow me to thank you with all my heart for your kind remembrance of me on Thursday night. My house was already engaged to Miss Coutts's, and I to—the top of St. Paul's, where the sight was most wonderful! But seeing that your cards gave me leave to present some person not named, I conferred them on my excellent friend Dr. Elliotson, whom I found with some fireworkless little boys in a desolate condition, and raised to the seventh heaven of happiness. You are so fond of making people happy, that I am sure you approve.
Allow me to sincerely thank you for thinking of me on Thursday night. My home was already committed to Miss Coutts's, and I was at the top of St. Paul's, where the view was incredible! But since your cards allowed me to bring someone not named, I gave them to my great friend Dr. Elliotson, who was with some bored little boys in a pretty sad state, and I lifted him to the seventh heaven of happiness. You love making people happy, so I know you’d be on board with that.
Tavistock House, June 6th, 1856.
I have never seen anything about myself in print which has much correctness in it—any biographical account of myself I mean. I do not supply such particulars when I am asked for them by editors and compilers, simply because I am asked for them every day. If you want to prime Forgues, you may tell him without fear of anything wrong, that I was born at Portsmouth on the 7th of February, 1812; that my father was in the Navy Pay Office; that I was taken by him to Chatham when I was very young, and lived and was educated there till I was twelve or thirteen, I suppose; that I was then put to a school near London, where (as at other places) I distinguished myself[438] like a brick; that I was put in the office of a solicitor, a friend of my father's, and didn't much like it; and after a couple of years (as well as I can remember) applied myself with a celestial or diabolical energy to the study of such things as would qualify me to be a first-rate parliamentary reporter—at that time a calling pursued by many clever men who were young at the Bar; that I made my début in the gallery (at about eighteen, I suppose), engaged on a voluminous publication no longer in existence, called The Mirror of Parliament; that when The Morning Chronicle was purchased by Sir John Easthope and acquired a large circulation, I was engaged there, and that I remained there until I had begun to publish "Pickwick," when I found myself in a condition to relinquish that part of my labours; that I left the reputation behind me of being the best and most rapid reporter ever known, and that I could do anything in that way under any sort of circumstances, and often did. (I daresay I am at this present writing the best shorthand writer in the world.)
I have never seen anything written about myself that’s actually accurate—any biographical account, I mean. I don’t provide those details when editors and compilers ask for them, simply because I get asked every day. If you want to brief Forgues, you can confidently tell him that I was born in Portsmouth on February 7, 1812; that my father worked in the Navy Pay Office; that he took me to Chatham when I was very young, and I lived and was educated there until I was around twelve or thirteen; that I was then sent to a school near London, where (like at other places) I stood out like a star; that I was placed in the office of a solicitor, a friend of my father's, and I didn't really enjoy it; and after a couple of years (as best as I can remember), I dedicated myself with intense determination to studying things that would qualify me to be a top-notch parliamentary reporter—at that time, a job many talented young people at the Bar pursued; that I made my debut in the gallery (around eighteen, I think), working for a lengthy publication no longer around, called The Mirror of Parliament; that when The Morning Chronicle was bought by Sir John Easthope and gained a significant readership, I was hired there, and I stayed until I started publishing "Pickwick," which allowed me to give up that part of my work; that I left behind a reputation for being the best and fastest reporter ever known, and I could handle anything in that role under any circumstances, and often did. (I dare say I’m currently the best shorthand writer in the world.)
That I began, without any interest or introduction of any kind, to write fugitive pieces for the old "Monthly Magazine," when I was in the gallery for The Mirror of Parliament; that my faculty for descriptive writing was seized upon the moment I joined The Morning Chronicle, and that I was liberally paid there and handsomely acknowledged, and wrote the greater part of the short descriptive "Sketches by Boz" in that paper; that I had been a writer when I was a mere baby, and always an actor from the same age; that I married the daughter of a writer to the signet in Edinburgh, who was the great friend and assistant of Scott, and who first made Lockhart known to him.
I started writing short pieces for the old "Monthly Magazine" without any particular interest or introduction when I was in the gallery for The Mirror of Parliament; my talent for descriptive writing caught attention the moment I joined The Morning Chronicle, where I was well-paid and appreciated, and I wrote most of the short descriptive "Sketches by Boz" published in that paper; I had been a writer since I was a little kid, and I was always performing from the same young age; I married the daughter of a writer to the signet in Edinburgh, who was a close friend and collaborator of Scott, and who first introduced Lockhart to him.
Finally, if you want any dates of publication of books, tell Wills and he'll get them for you.
Finally, if you need the publication dates of any books, just ask Wills and he'll get them for you.
This is the first time I ever set down even these particulars, and, glancing them over, I feel like a wild beast in a caravan describing himself in the keeper's absence.
This is the first time I've ever written down these details, and as I look over them, I feel like a wild animal in a zoo trying to describe itself when the keeper isn't around.
P.S.—I made a speech last night at the London Tavern, at the end of which all the company sat holding their napkins to their eyes with one hand, and putting the other into their pockets. A hundred people or so contributed nine hundred pounds then and there.
P.S.—I gave a speech last night at the London Tavern, and by the end, everyone in the room was sitting there with one hand holding their napkins to their eyes and the other in their pockets. About a hundred people chipped in nine hundred pounds right then and there.
Villa des Moulineaux, Boulogne
Sunday, June 15th 1856.
This place is beautiful—a burst of roses. Your friend Beaucourt (who will not put on his hat), has thinned the trees and greatly improved the garden. Upon my life, I believe there are at least twenty distinct smoking-spots expressly made in it.
This place is stunning—a riot of roses. Your friend Beaucourt (who will not wear his hat) has trimmed the trees and really enhanced the garden. Honestly, I think there are at least twenty different smoking spots purposely created in it.
And as soon as you can see your day in next month for coming over with Stanny and Webster, will you let them both know? I should not be very much surprised if I were to come over and fetch you, when I know what your day is. Indeed, I don't see how you could get across properly without me.
And as soon as you can see which day next month you’re coming over with Stanny and Webster, could you let them both know? I wouldn’t be very surprised if I came over to pick you up once I know your day. Honestly, I don’t see how you could get across properly without me.
There is a fête here to-night in honour of the Imperial baptism, and there will be another to-morrow. The Plorn has put on two bits of ribbon (one pink and one blue), which he calls "companys," to celebrate the occasion. The fact that the receipts of the fêtes are to be given to the sufferers by the late floods reminds me that you will find at the[440] passport office a tin-box, condescendingly and considerately labelled in English:
There’s a celebration happening here tonight in honor of the Imperial baptism, and there will be another one tomorrow. The Plorn has put on two ribbons (one pink and one blue), which he calls "companys," to mark the occasion. The fact that the proceeds from the celebrations will be given to the victims of the recent floods reminds me that you will find at the[440] passport office a tin box, labeled in English for convenience:
I observe more Mingles in the laundresses' shops, and one inscription, which looks like the name of a duet or chorus in a playbill, "Here they mingle."
I see more mingling in the laundresses' shops, and one sign, which looks like the title of a duet or chorus in a playbill, says, "Here they mingle."
Will you congratulate Mrs. Lemon, with our loves, on her gallant victory over the recreant cabman?
Will you congratulate Mrs. Lemon, with our love, on her brave victory over the cowardly cab driver?
Walter has turned up, rather brilliant on the whole; and that (with shoals of remembrances and messages which I don't deliver) is all my present intelligence.
Walter has shown up, and he's actually pretty impressive overall; and that (along with a bunch of memories and messages that I haven't shared) is all I know for now.
H. W. Office, July 2nd, 1856.
I am concerned to hear that you are ill, that you sit down before fires and shiver, and that you have stated times for doing so, like the demons in the melodramas, and that you mean to take a week to get well in.
I’m worried to hear that you’re sick, that you sit in front of the fire and shiver, and that you’ve mentioned times for doing so, like the villains in the dramas, and that you plan to take a week to recover.
Make haste about it, like a dear fellow, and keep up your spirits, because I have made a bargain with Stanny and Webster that they shall come to Boulogne to-morrow week, Thursday the 10th, and stay a week. And you know how much pleasure we shall all miss if you are not among us—at least for some part of the time.
Make sure to hurry, my friend, and keep your spirits up, because I've arranged with Stanny and Webster to come to Boulogne next Thursday, the 10th, and stay for a week. And you know how much fun we’ll all miss if you’re not with us—at least for some of the time.
If you find any unusually light appearance in the air at Brighton, it is a distant refraction (I have no doubt) of the gorgeous and shining surface of Tavistock House, now transcendently painted. The theatre partition is put up, and is a work of such terrific solidity, that I suppose it will[441] be dug up, ages hence, from the ruins of London, by that Australian of Macaulay's who is to be impressed by its ashes. I have wandered through the spectral halls of the Tavistock mansion two nights, with feelings of the profoundest depression. I have breakfasted there, like a criminal in Pentonville (only not so well). It is more like Westminster Abbey by midnight than the lowest-spirited man—say you at present for example—can well imagine.
If you notice any unusual light in the air at Brighton, it's probably a distant refraction of the beautiful and shiny surface of Tavistock House, now magnificently painted. The theater partition is in place, and it’s built so solidly that I imagine it will[441] be discovered long after London has fallen, by that Australian mentioned by Macaulay who will be amazed by its remains. I’ve wandered through the eerie halls of the Tavistock mansion for two nights, feeling deeply depressed. I’ve had breakfast there, like a prisoner in Pentonville (though not quite as nice). It feels more like Westminster Abbey at midnight than anyone—even the most downcast person you can think of right now—could imagine.
There has been a wonderful robbery at Folkestone, by the new manager of the Pavilion, who succeeded Giovannini. He had in keeping £16,000 of a foreigner's, and bolted with it, as he supposed, but in reality with only £1,400 of it. The Frenchman had previously bolted with the whole, which was the property of his mother. With him to England the Frenchman brought a "lady," who was, all the time and at the same time, endeavouring to steal all the money from him and bolt with it herself. The details are amazing, and all the money (a few pounds excepted) has been got back.
There’s been an incredible robbery in Folkestone involving the new manager of the Pavilion, who took over from Giovannini. He was in charge of £16,000 belonging to a foreigner and ran off with it, or so he thought, but actually only took £1,400. The Frenchman had already made off with the entire amount, which belonged to his mother. He brought a “lady” with him to England, who was simultaneously trying to steal all his money and run off with it herself. The details are astonishing, but almost all the money (aside from a few pounds) has been recovered.
They will be full of sympathy and talk about you when I get home, and I shall tell them that I send their loves beforehand. They are all enclosed. The moment you feel hearty, just write me that word by post. I shall be so delighted to receive it.
They will be very sympathetic and talk about you when I get home, and I'll let them know that I'm sending their love in advance. They’re all included. As soon as you're feeling better, just send me a note in the mail. I'll be really happy to get it.
Villa des Moulineaux, Boulogne
Saturday Evening, July 5th, 1856.
I write to you so often in my books, and my writing of letters is usually so confined to the numbers that I must write, and in which I have no kind of satisfaction, that I[442] am afraid to think how long it is since we exchanged a direct letter. But talking to your namesake this very day at dinner, it suddenly entered my head that I would come into my room here as soon as dinner should be over, and write, "My dear Landor, how are you?" for the pleasure of having the answer under your own hand. That you do write, and that pretty often, I know beforehand. Else why do I read The Examiner?
I write to you often in my books, and my letter writing is usually limited to the number of letters I have to write, which gives me no real satisfaction. I[442] am worried it's been so long since we exchanged a direct letter. However, while talking to your namesake at dinner today, it suddenly occurred to me to come to my room after dinner and write, "My dear Landor, how are you?" just for the joy of getting your reply in your own handwriting. I know you do write, and fairly often too. Otherwise, why would I read The Examiner?
We were in Paris from October to May (I perpetually flying between that city and London), and there we found out, by a blessed accident, that your godson was horribly deaf. I immediately consulted the principal physician of the Deaf and Dumb Institution there (one of the best aurists in Europe), and he kept the boy for three months, and took unheard-of pains with him. He is now quite recovered, has done extremely well at school, has brought home a prize in triumph, and will be eligible to "go up" for his India examination soon after next Easter. Having a direct appointment, he will probably be sent out soon after he has passed, and so will fall into that strange life "up the country," before he well knows he is alive, which indeed seems to be rather an advanced stage of knowledge.
We were in Paris from October to May (I was constantly flying between that city and London), and there we discovered, by a fortunate accident, that your godson was seriously deaf. I immediately consulted the head doctor at the Deaf and Dumb Institute there (one of the best ear specialists in Europe), and he took the boy in for three months, putting in an incredible amount of effort with him. He is now completely recovered, has done really well in school, brought home a prize proudly, and will be eligible to take his India exam soon after next Easter. With a direct appointment, he will likely be sent out shortly after he passes, and will find himself in that unusual life "up the country," before he even fully realizes he's alive, which indeed seems to be quite an advanced stage of understanding.
And there in Paris, at the same time, I found Marguerite Power and Little Nelly, living with their mother and a pretty sister, in a very small, neat apartment, and working (as Marguerite told me) hard for a living. All that I saw of them filled me with respect, and revived the tenderest remembrances of Gore House. They are coming to pass two or three weeks here for a country rest, next month. We had many long talks concerning Gore House, and all its bright associations; and I can honestly report that they hold no one in more gentle and affectionate remembrance than you. Marguerite is still handsome, though she had[443] the smallpox two or three years ago, and bears the traces of it here and there, by daylight. Poor little Nelly (the quicker and more observant of the two) shows some little tokens of a broken-off marriage in a face too careworn for her years, but is a very winning and sensible creature.
And there in Paris, at the same time, I found Marguerite Power and Little Nelly, living with their mom and a pretty sister, in a very small, tidy apartment, and working (as Marguerite told me) hard for a living. Everything I saw of them filled me with respect and brought back the fondest memories of Gore House. They are coming to spend two or three weeks here for a country getaway next month. We had many long talks about Gore House and all its happy memories, and I can honestly say that they remember you with great kindness and affection. Marguerite is still beautiful, even though she had[443] smallpox a couple of years ago, and you can see the marks of it here and there in the daylight. Poor little Nelly (the quicker and more observant of the two) shows some signs of a broken engagement in a face that looks too worn for her age, but she is a very charming and sensible girl.
We are expecting Mary Boyle too, shortly.
We’re expecting Mary Boyle soon, too.
I have just been propounding to Forster if it is not a wonderful testimony to the homely force of truth, that one of the most popular books on earth has nothing in it to make anyone laugh or cry? Yet I think, with some confidence, that you never did either over any passage in "Robinson Crusoe." In particular, I took Friday's death as one of the least tender and (in the true sense) least sentimental things ever written. It is a book I read very much; and the wonder of its prodigious effect on me and everyone, and the admiration thereof, grows on me the more I observe this curious fact.
I was just talking to Forster about how incredible it is that one of the most popular books in the world doesn’t have anything in it that makes anyone laugh or cry. Yet, I'm pretty confident that you’ve never reacted emotionally to any part of "Robinson Crusoe." In particular, I found Friday's death to be one of the least touching and, in the true sense, least sentimental things ever written. It’s a book I read a lot, and the more I think about its amazing impact on me and on everyone else, the more I appreciate that unusual fact.
Kate and Georgina send you their kindest loves, and smile approvingly on me from the next room, as I bend over my desk. My dear Landor, you see many I daresay, and hear from many I have no doubt, who love you heartily; but we silent people in the distance never forget you. Do not forget us, and let us exchange affection at least.
Kate and Georgina send you their warmest regards, and they smile at me from the next room as I work at my desk. My dear Landor, you probably see and hear from many people who love you dearly; but us quiet folks from afar never forget you. Please don’t forget us, and let’s at least share some affection.
Villa des Moulineaux, near Boulogne
Saturday Night, July 5th, 1856.
From this place where I am writing my way through the summer, in the midst of rosy gardens and sea airs, I cannot forbear writing to tell you with what uncommon[444] pleasure I received your interesting letter, and how sensible I always am of your kindness and generosity. You were always in the mind of my household during your illness; and to have so beautiful, and fresh, and manly an assurance of your recovery from it, under your own hand, is a privilege and delight that I will say no more of.
From this spot where I'm enjoying the summer, surrounded by beautiful gardens and ocean breezes, I can't help but write to tell you how much joy I felt receiving your engaging letter, and how grateful I am for your kindness and generosity. You've always been on our minds during your illness, and receiving such a lovely, fresh, and strong message about your recovery, in your own words, is a privilege and a delight that I won't say more about.
I am so glad you like Flora. It came into my head one day that we have all had our Floras, and that it was a half-serious, half-ridiculous truth which had never been told. It is a wonderful gratification to me to find that everybody knows her. Indeed, some people seem to think I have done them a personal injury, and that their individual Floras (God knows where they are, or who!) are each and all Little Dorrit's.
I’m really happy you like Flora. One day it occurred to me that we’ve all had our own Floras, and that’s a half-serious, half-ridiculous truth that’s never been shared. It’s truly satisfying to see that everyone knows her. In fact, some people act like I’ve wronged them personally, as if their own Floras (who knows where they are or who they are!) are all Little Dorrit's.
We were all grievously disappointed that you were ill when we played Mr. Collins's "Lighthouse" at my house. If you had been well, I should have waited upon you with my humble petition that you would come and see it; and if you had come I think you would have cried, which would have charmed me. I hope to produce another play at home next Christmas, and if I can only persuade you to see it from a special arm-chair, and can only make you wretched, my satisfaction will be intense. May I tell you, to beguile a moment, of a little "Tag," or end of a piece, I saw in Paris this last winter, which struck me as the prettiest I had ever met with? The piece was not a new one, but a revival at the Vaudeville—"Les Mémoires du Diable." Admirably constructed, very interesting, and extremely well played. The plot is, that a certain M. Robin has come into possession of the papers of a deceased lawyer, and finds some relating to the wrongful withholding of an estate from a certain baroness, and to certain other frauds (involving even the denial of the marriage to[445] the deceased baron, and the tarnishing of his good name) which are so very wicked that he binds them up in a book and labels them "Mémoires du Diable." Armed with this knowledge he goes down to the desolate old château in the country—part of the wrested-away estate—from which the baroness and her daughter are going to be ejected. He informs the mother that he can right her and restore the property, but must have, as his reward, her daughter's hand in marriage. She replies: "I cannot promise my daughter to a man of whom I know nothing. The gain would be an unspeakable happiness, but I resolutely decline the bargain." The daughter, however, has observed all, and she comes forward and says: "Do what you have promised my mother you can do, and I am yours." Then the piece goes on to its development, in an admirable way, through the unmasking of all the hypocrites. Now, M. Robin, partly through his knowledge of the secret ways of the old château (derived from the lawyer's papers), and partly through his going to a masquerade as the devil—the better to explode what he knows on the hypocrites—is supposed by the servants at the château really to be the devil. At the opening of the last act he suddenly appears there before the young lady, and she screams, but, recovering and laughing, says: "You are not really the ——?" "Oh dear no!" he replies, "have no connection with him. But these people down here are so frightened and absurd! See this little toy on the table; I open it; here's a little bell. They have a notion that whenever this bell rings I shall appear. Very ignorant, is it not?" "Very, indeed," says she. "Well," says M. Robin, "if you should want me very much to appear, try the bell, if only for a jest. Will you promise?" Yes, she promises, and the play goes on. At last he has righted the baroness completely, and[446] has only to hand her the last document, which proves her marriage and restores her good name. Then he says: "Madame, in the progress of these endeavours I have learnt the happiness of doing good for its own sake. I made a necessary bargain with you; I release you from it. I have done what I undertook to do. I wish you and your amiable daughter all happiness. Adieu! I take my leave." Bows himself out. People on the stage astonished. Audience astonished—incensed. The daughter is going to cry, when she looks at the box on the table, remembers the bell, runs to it and rings it, and he rushes back and takes her to his heart; upon which we all cry with pleasure, and then laugh heartily.
We were all really disappointed that you were sick when we performed Mr. Collins's "Lighthouse" at my house. If you had been well, I would have eagerly asked you to come watch it; and if you had come, I think you would have cried, which would have delighted me. I'm planning to produce another play at home next Christmas, and if I can just convince you to watch it from a special armchair, and can make you feel miserable, my satisfaction will be immense. May I share with you, to pass the time, a little "Tag," or ending scene, I saw in Paris last winter that I found to be the most charming I’ve encountered? The piece wasn't new; it was a revival at the Vaudeville—"Les Mémoires du Diable." It was wonderfully crafted, very engaging, and exceptionally well acted. The plot is about a certain M. Robin who inherits papers from a deceased lawyer and discovers some related to the wrongful withholding of an estate from a certain baroness and some other frauds (even involving the denial of the marriage to the deceased baron and the damaging of his reputation) that are so wicked he binds them into a book and labels it "Mémoires du Diable." Armed with this knowledge, he travels to the old, desolate château in the countryside—part of the seized estate—where the baroness and her daughter are about to be evicted. He informs the mother that he can help her and restore the property but must have her daughter's hand in marriage as his reward. She replies, "I can't promise my daughter to a man I know nothing about. The advantage would be an incredible happiness, but I firmly refuse the deal." However, the daughter has been watching everything, and she steps forward and says, "Do what you promised my mother you could do, and I am yours." The play then unfolds brilliantly, revealing all the hypocrites. Now, M. Robin, partly because of his knowledge of the hidden paths of the old château (from the lawyer's papers) and partly by going to a masquerade as the devil—to better expose what he knows about the hypocrites—is believed by the servants at the château to actually be the devil. At the start of the last act, he suddenly appears before the young lady, and she screams, but then recovers and laughs, saying, "You aren't really the ——?" "Oh no!" he replies, "I have no connection with him. But these people here are so scared and ridiculous! Look at this little toy on the table; I open it; here’s a little bell. They think that whenever this bell rings, I will appear. Isn't that silly?" "Very much so," she agrees. "Well," says M. Robin, "if you ever really want me to show up, ring the bell, just for fun. Will you promise?" Yes, she promises, and the play continues. In the end, he completely rights the baroness's situation and just has to hand her the final document proving her marriage and restoring her reputation. Then he says: "Madame, through this process I have found the joy of doing good for its own sake. I made a necessary deal with you; I release you from it. I have accomplished what I set out to do. I wish you and your lovely daughter all the happiness. Goodbye! I take my leave." He bows and exits. The people on stage are shocked. The audience is stunned—angry. The daughter is about to cry when she sees the box on the table, remembers the bell, rushes to it, and rings it. He rushes back and embraces her, at which point we all cheer with joy and then laugh heartily.
This looks dreadfully long, and perhaps you know it already. If so, I will endeavour to make amends with Flora in future numbers.
This seems incredibly long, and you might already be aware of it. If that’s the case, I’ll try to make things right with Flora in upcoming issues.
Mrs. Dickens and her sister beg to present their remembrances to your Grace, and their congratulations on your recovery. I saw Paxton now and then when you were ill, and always received from him most encouraging accounts. I don't know how heavy he is going to be (I mean in the scale), but I begin to think Daniel Lambert must have been in his family.
Mrs. Dickens and her sister want to send their regards to your Grace and congratulate you on your recovery. I saw Paxton occasionally while you were unwell, and he always gave me very encouraging updates. I’m not sure how much he’s going to weigh (I mean on the scale), but I’m starting to think Daniel Lambert must be one of his relatives.
Villa des Moulineaux, Boulogne,
Tuesday, July 8th, 1856.
I perfectly agree with you in your appreciation of Katie's poem, and shall be truly delighted to publish it in "Household Words." It shall go into the very next number we make up. We are a little in advance (to enable Wills to[447] get a holiday), but as I remember, the next number made up will be published in three weeks.
I completely agree with you about Katie's poem, and I'll be really happy to publish it in "Household Words." It will go into the very next issue we put together. We're a bit ahead of schedule (to give Wills a break), but if I recall correctly, the next issue we compile will be published in three weeks.
We are pained indeed to read your reference to my poor boy. God keep him and his father. I trust he is not conscious of much suffering himself. If that be so, it is, in the midst of the distress, a great comfort.
We are truly saddened to read your mention of my poor boy. May God watch over him and his father. I hope he isn't aware of too much suffering himself. If that's the case, it is, amidst all the distress, a great comfort.
"Little Dorrit" keeps me pretty busy, as you may suppose. The beginning of No. 10—the first line—now lies upon my desk. It would not be easy to increase upon the pains I take with her anyhow.
"Little Dorrit" keeps me quite busy, as you can imagine. The start of Chapter 10—the first line—now sits on my desk. It wouldn't be easy to put in any more effort than I already do with her.
We are expecting Stanfield on Thursday, and Peter Cunningham and his wife on Monday. I would we were expecting you! This is as pretty and odd a little French country house as could be found anywhere; and the gardens are most beautiful.
We’re expecting Stanfield on Thursday, and Peter Cunningham and his wife on Monday. I wish we were expecting you! This is one of the prettiest and quirkiest little French country houses you could find anywhere, and the gardens are absolutely beautiful.
In "Household Words," next week, pray read "The Diary of Anne Rodway" (in two not long parts). It is by Collins, and I think possesses great merit and real pathos.
In "Household Words," next week, please read "The Diary of Anne Rodway" (in two short parts). It's by Collins, and I believe it has great merit and genuine emotion.
Being in town the other day, I saw Gye by accident, and told him, when he praised —— to me, that she was a very bad actress. "Well!" said he, "you may say anything, but if anybody else had told me that I should have stared." Nevertheless, I derived an impression from his manner that she had not been a profitable speculation in respect of money. That very same day Stanfield and I dined alone together at the Garrick, and drank your health. We had had a ride by the river before dinner (of course he would go and look at boats), and had been talking of you. It was this day week, by-the-bye.
Being in town the other day, I ran into Gye by chance, and when he complimented —— to me, I told him she was a terrible actress. "Well!" he said, "you can say whatever you want, but if anyone else had told me that, I would have been shocked." Still, I got the feeling from his tone that she hadn't been a wise investment financially. That same day, Stanfield and I had dinner alone at the Garrick and toasted to your health. We took a ride by the river before dinner (of course, he would want to check out the boats), and we were talking about you. By the way, that was exactly a week ago.
I know of nothing of public interest that is new in France, except that I am changing my moustache into a beard. We all send our most tender loves to dearest Miss Macready and[448] all the house. The Hammy boy is particularly anxious to have his love sent to "Misr Creedy."
I don't know of anything new in France that's of public interest, except that I'm growing a beard instead of keeping my mustache. We all send our warmest love to the lovely Miss Macready and[448] everyone at home. The Hammy boy especially wants his love sent to "Miss Creedy."
Most affectionately yours.
Villa des Moulineaux, Boulogne, Sunday, July 13th, 1856.
We are all sorry that you are not coming until the middle of next month, but we hope that you will then be able to remain, so that we may all come back together about the 10th of October. I think (recreation allowed, etc.), that the play will take that time to write. The ladies of the dram. pers. are frightfully anxious to get it under way, and to see you locked up in the pavilion; apropos of which noble edifice I have omitted to mention that it is made a more secluded retreat than it used to be, and is greatly improved by the position of the door being changed. It is as snug and as pleasant as possible; and the Genius of Order has made a few little improvements about the house (at the rate of about tenpence apiece), which the Genius of Disorder will, it is hoped, appreciate.
We’re all sorry you can’t come until the middle of next month, but we hope you can stay a while so we can all be back together around October 10th. I think (with some time for fun, etc.) that the play will take that long to write. The ladies in the dram. pers. are really eager to get started and to see you settled in the pavilion; by the way, I forgot to mention that it’s now a more private retreat than it used to be, and it’s much better with the door’s new position. It’s as cozy and nice as can be; and the Genius of Order has made a few little upgrades around the house (costing about ten pence each), which we hope the Genius of Disorder will appreciate.
I think I must come over for a small spree, and to fetch you. Suppose I were to come on the 9th or 10th of August to stay three or four days in town, would that do for you? Let me know at the end of this month.
I think I should come over for a little visit and pick you up. How about I come on the 9th or 10th of August and stay for three or four days in town? Does that work for you? Let me know by the end of this month.
I cannot tell you what a high opinion I have of Anne Rodway. I took "Extracts" out of the title because it conveyed to the many-headed an idea of incompleteness—of something unfinished—and is likely to stall some readers off. I read the first part at the office with strong admiration, and read the second on the railway coming back here,[449] being in town just after you had started on your cruise. My behaviour before my fellow-passengers was weak in the extreme, for I cried as much as you could possibly desire. Apart from the genuine force and beauty of the little narrative, and the admirable personation of the girl's identity and point of view, it is done with an amount of honest pains and devotion to the work which few men have better reason to appreciate than I, and which no man can have a more profound respect for. I think it excellent, feel a personal pride and pleasure in it which is a delightful sensation, and know no one else who could have done it.
I can’t express enough how high my opinion is of Anne Rodway. I removed "Extracts" from the title because it gave readers the impression of something incomplete, which might put some people off. I read the first part at the office and admired it greatly, then read the second part on the train coming back, right after you left for your cruise.[449] I behaved a bit embarrassingly in front of my fellow passengers because I cried as much as you could imagine. Aside from the genuine power and beauty of the story, and the amazing portrayal of the girl's identity and perspective, it’s clear that a lot of honest effort and dedication went into it, which few understand better than I do, and for which no one deserves more respect. I think it’s outstanding, and I take personal pride and joy in it, which is a wonderful feeling, and I can’t think of anyone else who could have accomplished this.
Of myself I have only to report that I have been hard at it with "Little Dorrit," and am now doing No. 10. This last week I sketched out the notion, characters, and progress of the farce, and sent it off to Mark, who has been ill of an ague. It ought to be very funny. The cat business is too ludicrous to be treated of in so small a sheet of paper, so I must describe it vivâ voce when I come to town. French has been so insufferably conceited since he shot tigerish cat No. 1 (intent on the noble Dick, with green eyes three inches in advance of her head), that I am afraid I shall have to part with him. All the boys likewise (in new clothes and ready for church) are at this instant prone on their stomachs behind bushes, whooshing and crying (after tigerish cat No. 2): "French!" "Here she comes!" "There she goes!" etc. I dare not put my head out of window for fear of being shot (it is as like a coup d'état as possible), and tradesmen coming up the avenue cry plaintively: "Ne tirez pas, Monsieur Fleench; c'est moi—boulanger. Ne tirez pas, mon ami."
I can only say that I’ve been working hard on "Little Dorrit" and am now on No. 10. Last week, I outlined the idea, characters, and progress of the farce and sent it off to Mark, who’s been sick with a fever. It should be really funny. The cat incident is too ridiculous to discuss in such a short note, so I’ll have to explain it in person when I get to town. French has been incredibly arrogant since he caught the first aggressive cat (after the noble Dick, with her three-inch green eyes), and I’m worried I’ll have to let him go. All the boys, dressed in new clothes and ready for church, are currently lying on their stomachs behind bushes, yelling and screaming (after the second aggressive cat): "French!" "Here she comes!" "There she goes!" I don’t dare stick my head out the window for fear of being shot (it feels like a coup), and the tradesmen coming up the avenue cry out sadly: "Ne tirez pas, Monsieur Fleench; c'est moi—boulanger. Ne tirez pas, mon ami."
Likewise I shall have to recount to you the secret history of a robbery at the Pavilion at Folkestone, which you will have to write.[450]
Likewise, I need to tell you the hidden story of a robbery at the Pavilion in Folkestone, which you will need to write.[450]
Tell Piggot, when you see him, that we shall all be much pleased if he will come at his own convenience while you are here, and stay a few days with us.
Tell Piggot that we would all be really happy if he could come by whenever he's free while you're here and stay with us for a few days.
I shall have more than one notion of future work to suggest to you while we are beguiling the dreariness of an arctic winter in these parts. May they prosper!
I’ll have more than one idea for future work to share with you as we pass the bleakness of this arctic winter around here. I hope they thrive!
Kind regards from all to the Dramatic Poet of the establishment, and to the D. P.'s mother and brother.
Kind regards from everyone to the Dramatic Poet of the establishment, and to the D.P.'s mother and brother.
P.S.—If the "Flying Dutchman" should be done again, pray do go and see it. Webster expressed his opinion to me that it was "a neat piece." I implore you to go and see a neat piece.
P.S.—If "The Flying Dutchman" gets performed again, please go and see it. Webster told me he thought it was "a great show." I urge you to check out a great show.
Boulogne-sur-Mer, Thursday, August 7th, 1856.
I do not feel disposed to record those two Chancery cases; firstly, because I would rather have no part in engendering in the mind of any human creature, a hopeful confidence in that den of iniquity.
I’m not inclined to write about those two Chancery cases; first, because I’d rather not contribute to creating a false sense of hope in that place of corruption.
And secondly, because it seems to me that the real philosophy of the facts is altogether missed in the narrative. The wrong which chanced to be set right in these two cases was done, as all such wrong is, mainly because these wicked courts of equity, with all their means of evasion and postponement, give scoundrels confidence in cheating. If justice were cheap, sure, and speedy, few such things could be. It is because it has become (through the vile dealing of those courts and the vermin they have called into existence) a positive precept of experience that a man had better endure a great wrong than go, or suffer himself to be taken, into[451] Chancery, with the dream of setting it right. It is because of this that such nefarious speculations are made.
And secondly, it seems to me that the true meaning of the facts is completely overlooked in the story. The injustice that happened to get fixed in these two cases occurred, as all such wrongs do, mainly because these corrupt courts of equity, with all their tricks to delay and dodge, give scoundrels the confidence to cheat. If justice were affordable, guaranteed, and quick, there would be far fewer incidents like these. It’s become a sad reality that it's often better for a person to put up with a serious injustice than to go to or be taken into[451] Chancery with the hope of making it right. This is why such dishonest schemes exist.
Therefore I see nothing at all to the credit of Chancery in these cases, but everything to its discredit. And as to owing it to Chancery to bear testimony to its having rendered justice in two such plain matters, I have no debt of the kind upon my conscience.
Therefore, I see nothing to praise in Chancery in these cases, only plenty to criticize. And as for giving credit to Chancery for supposedly delivering justice in two such straightforward situations, I don't feel any obligation to do so.
Boulogne-sur-Mer, Friday, August 8th, 1856.
I like the second little poem very much indeed, and think (as you do) that it is a great advance upon the first. Please to note that I make it a rule to pay for everything that is inserted in "Household Words," holding it to be a part of my trust to make my fellow-proprietors understand that they have no right to unrequited labour. Therefore, when Wills (who has been ill and is gone for a holiday) does his invariable spiriting gently, don't make Katey's case different from Adelaide Procter's.
I really like the second little poem a lot and believe (like you) that it’s a big improvement over the first. Please note that I have a policy of paying for everything that gets published in "Household Words," as I believe it's my responsibility to make sure my fellow owners understand that they shouldn't expect unpaid work. So, when Wills (who has been sick and is off on a vacation) does his usual gentle editing, don’t treat Katey's situation any differently from Adelaide Procter's.
I am afraid there is no possibility of my reading Dorsetshirewards. I have made many conditional promises thus: "I am very much occupied; but if I read at all, I will read for your institution in such an order on my list." Edinburgh, which is No. 1, I have been obliged to put as far off as next Christmas twelvemonth. Bristol stands next. The working men at Preston come next. And so, if I were to go out of the record and read for your people, I should bring such a house about my ears as would shake "Little Dorrit" out of my head.
I’m afraid I can’t read anything related to Dorsetshire right now. I’ve made a lot of conditional promises like this: “I’m really busy, but if I read at all, I’ll read for your institution in the order I have on my list.” I’ve had to push Edinburgh, which is number one, to next Christmas year. Bristol is next on the list. The working men in Preston come after that. So, if I were to step outside my planned reading and do something for your people, I’d end up with such a crowd that I wouldn’t be able to get "Little Dorrit" out of my mind.
Being in town last Saturday, I went to see Robson in a burlesque of "Medea." It is an odd but perfectly true[452] testimony to the extraordinary power of his performance (which is of a very remarkable kind indeed), that it points the badness of ——'s acting in a most singular manner, by bringing out what she might do and does not. The scene with Jason is perfectly terrific; and the manner in which the comic rage and jealousy does not pitch itself over the floor at the stalls is in striking contrast to the manner in which the tragic rage and jealousy does. He has a frantic song and dagger dance, about ten minutes long altogether, which has more passion in it than —— could express in fifty years.
Last Saturday, I was in town and went to see Robson in a burlesque of "Medea." It's a strange but absolutely true testament to the incredible power of his performance (which is truly remarkable) that it highlights the flaws in ——'s acting in a surprising way, showing what she could do but doesn’t. The scene with Jason is completely intense; the way the comedic rage and jealousy stays contained in the audience is a sharp contrast to how the tragic rage and jealousy is expressed. He has a frantic song and dagger dance, lasting about ten minutes, that carries more passion than —— could manage in fifty years.
We all unite in kindest love to Miss Macready and all your dear ones; not forgetting my godson, to whom I send his godfather's particular love twice over. The Hammy boy is so brown that you would scarcely know him.
We all come together with our warmest love for Miss Macready and all your loved ones; and I can’t forget my godson, to whom I send his godfather's special love twice. The Hammy boy is so tan that you would hardly recognize him.
Tavistock House, Sunday Morning, Sept. 28th, 1856.
I suddenly remember this morning that in Mr. Curtis's article, "Health and Education," I left a line which must come out. It is in effect that the want of healthy training leaves girls in a fit state to be the subjects of mesmerism. I would not on any condition hurt Elliotson's feelings (as I should deeply) by leaving that depreciatory kind of reference in any page of H. W. He has suffered quite enough without a stab from a friend. So pray, whatever the inconvenience may be in what Bradbury calls "the Friars," take that passage out. By some extraordinary accident, after observing it, I forgot to do it.
I just remembered this morning that in Mr. Curtis's article, "Health and Education," I left a line that needs to be removed. It basically says that the lack of healthy training makes girls susceptible to mesmerism. I really don’t want to hurt Elliotson's feelings (which I would definitely do) by leaving that negative comment in any page of H. W. He’s been through enough without a jab from a friend. So please, no matter how inconvenient it is for what Bradbury calls "the Friars," remove that passage. By some strange accident, after noticing it, I completely forgot to take it out.
Tavistock House, Saturday, Oct. 4th, 1856.
The preparations for the play are already beginning, and it is christened (this is a great dramatic secret, which I suppose you know already) "The Frozen Deep."
The preparations for the play are already starting, and it's titled (this is a big dramatic secret, which I assume you already know) "The Frozen Deep."
Tell Katey, with my best love, that if she fail to come back six times as red, hungry, and strong as she was when she went away, I shall give her part to somebody else.
Tell Katey, with all my love, that if she doesn't come back six times as red, hungry, and strong as she was when she left, I’ll give her part to someone else.
We shall all be very glad to see you both back again; when I say "we" I include the birds (who send their respectful duty) and the Plorn.
We’ll all be really happy to see you both back again; when I say "we," I’m including the birds (who send their regards) and the Plorn.
Kind regards to all at Brighton.
Kind regards to everyone at Brighton.
Tavistock House, Tuesday, Oct. 7th, 1856.
I did write it for you; and I hoped in writing it, that you would think so. All those remembrances are fresh in my mind, as they often are, and gave me an extraordinary interest in recalling the past. I should have been grievously disappointed if you had not been pleased, for I took aim at you with a most determined intention.
I did write it for you, and I hoped that by writing it, you would see that. All those memories are still fresh in my mind, as they often are, and they sparked a deep interest in remembering the past. I would have been really disappointed if you hadn’t liked it, because I aimed it at you with a strong intention.
Let me congratulate you most heartily on your handsome Eddy having passed his examination with such credit. I am sure there is a spirit shining out of his eyes, which will do well in that manly and generous pursuit. You will naturally feel his departure very much, and so will he; but I have always observed within my experience, that the men who have left home young have, many long years afterwards, had the tenderest love for it, and for all associated with it. That's a pleasant thing to think of, as one of the wise and benevolent adjustments in these lives of ours.[454]
Let me warmly congratulate you on your handsome Eddy, who passed his exam with such great success. I can see a bright spirit shining in his eyes, which will serve him well in that bold and generous pursuit. You will naturally feel his absence deeply, and so will he; however, I've noticed throughout my experience that the young men who leave home tend to have the strongest affection for it and everything connected to it many years later. That's a comforting thought, reflecting one of the wise and kind adjustments in our lives.[454]
I have been so hard at work (and shall be for the next eight or nine months), that sometimes I fancy I have a digestion, or a head, or nerves, or some odd encumbrance of that kind, to which I am altogether unaccustomed, and am obliged to rush at some other object for relief; at present the house is in a state of tremendous excitement, on account of Mr. Collins having nearly finished the new play we are to act at Christmas, which is very interesting and extremely clever. I hope this time you will come and see it. We purpose producing it on Charley's birthday, Twelfth Night; but we shall probably play four nights altogether—"The Lighthouse" on the last occasion—so that if you could come for the two last nights, you would see both the pieces. I am going to try and do better than ever, and already the school-room is in the hands of carpenters; men from underground habitations in theatres, who look as if they lived entirely upon smoke and gas, meet me at unheard-of hours. Mr. Stanfield is perpetually measuring the boards with a chalked piece of string and an umbrella, and all the elder children are wildly punctual and business-like to attract managerial commendation. If you don't come, I shall do something antagonistic—try to unwrite No. 11, I think. I should particularly like you to see a new and serious piece so done. Because I don't think you know, without seeing, how good it is!!!
I've been working really hard (and will continue to for the next eight or nine months), that sometimes I feel like I have a digestion issue, or a headache, or some kind of strange burden that I'm not used to, and I have to rush off to some other activity for relief; right now the house is in a state of huge excitement, because Mr. Collins has nearly finished the new play we’re going to perform at Christmas, which is very interesting and really clever. I hope this time you'll come and see it. We plan to present it on Charley's birthday, Twelfth Night; but we’ll probably perform for four nights in total—"The Lighthouse" on the final night—so if you could make it for the last two nights, you’d see both pieces. I'm aiming to do better than ever, and the school-room is already in the hands of carpenters; men from the backstage of theatres, who look like they survive solely on smoke and gas, meet me at crazy hours. Mr. Stanfield is constantly measuring the boards with a chalked piece of string and an umbrella, and all the older kids are being super punctual and serious to earn some praise from the management. If you don’t come, I’ll do something rebellious—probably try to unwrite No. 11, I think. I really want you to see a new and serious piece done this way. Because I don't think you realize, without seeing it, how good it is!!!
None of the children suffered, thank God, from the Boulogne risk. The three little boys have gone back to school there, and are all well. Katey came away ill, but it turned out that she had the whooping-cough for the second time. She has been to Brighton, and comes home to-day. I hear great accounts of her, and hope to find her quite well when she arrives presently. I am afraid Mary Boyle has been praising the Boulogne life too highly. Not that[455] I deny, however, our having passed some very pleasant days together, and our having had great pleasure in her visit.
None of the kids suffered, thank God, from the Boulogne risk. The three little boys have gone back to school there, and they’re all doing well. Katey came back sick, but it turned out she had whooping cough for the second time. She’s been to Brighton, and she’s coming home today. I’ve heard great things about her, and I hope to find her doing well when she arrives shortly. I’m afraid Mary Boyle has been praising the Boulogne life a bit too much. Not that [455] I deny that we had some really nice days together and enjoyed her visit a lot.
You will object to me dreadfully, I know, with a beard (though not a great one); but if you come and see the play, you will find it necessary there, and will perhaps be more tolerant of the fearful object afterwards. I need not tell you how delighted we should be to see George, if you would come together. Pray tell him so, with my kind regards. I like the notion of Wentworth and his philosophy of all things. I remember a philosophical gravity upon him, a state of suspended opinion as to myself, it struck me, when we last met, in which I thought there was a great deal of oddity and character.
You’re going to disagree with me a lot, I know, because of the beard (even though it’s not that big); but if you come to see the play, you’ll realize it’s important, and you might even be more accepting of the scary sight afterward. I don’t need to say how happy we would be to see George if you both came. Please let him know that, with my best wishes. I like the idea of Wentworth and his views on everything. I remember he had this serious philosophical vibe the last time we met, a kind of uncertain opinion about me that really stood out—I thought it showed a lot of uniqueness and character.
Charley is doing very well at Baring's, and attracting praise and reward to himself. Within this fortnight there turned up from the West Indies, where he is now a chief justice, an old friend of mine, of my own age, who lived with me in lodgings in the Adelphi, when I was just Charley's age. He had a great affection for me at that time, and always supposed I was to do some sort of wonders. It was a very pleasant meeting indeed, and he seemed to think it so odd that I shouldn't be Charley!
Charley is doing really well at Baring's and getting a lot of praise and rewards. In the last two weeks, an old friend of mine from the West Indies, where he’s now a chief justice, showed up. He’s the same age as me and lived with me in an apartment in the Adelphi when I was just Charley's age. He had a lot of affection for me back then and always believed I would accomplish something amazing. It was a really nice reunion, and he found it quite strange that I wasn’t Charley!
This is every atom of no-news that will come out of my head, and I firmly believe it is all I have in it—except that a cobbler at Boulogne, who had the nicest of little dogs, that always sat in his sunny window watching him at work, asked me if I would bring the dog home, as he couldn't afford to pay the tax for him. The cobbler and the dog being both my particular friends, I complied. The cobbler parted with the dog heart-broken. When the dog got home here, my man, like an idiot as he is, tied him up and then untied him. The moment the gate was open, the dog (on the very day after his arrival) ran out. Next day,[456] Georgy and I saw him lying, all covered with mud, dead, outside the neighbouring church. How am I ever to tell the cobbler? He is too poor to come to England, so I feel that I must lie to him for life, and say that the dog is fat and happy. Mr. Plornish, much affected by this tragedy, said: "I s'pose, pa, I shall meet the cobbler's dog" (in heaven).
This is every bit of nothing that will come out of my head, and I truly believe it’s all I have in there—except for a cobbler in Boulogne, who had the sweetest little dog that always sat in his sunny window watching him work, asked me if I could bring the dog home since he couldn’t afford the tax for him. Since both the cobbler and the dog were my good friends, I agreed. The cobbler let go of the dog with a broken heart. When the dog got home, my guy, being the idiot he is, tied him up and then untied him. The moment the gate was open, the dog (on the very day after he arrived) bolted. The next day,[456] Georgy and I found him lying outside the nearby church, covered in mud and dead. How am I ever going to tell the cobbler? He’s too poor to come to England, so I feel like I’ll have to lie to him for life and say that the dog is fat and happy. Mr. Plornish, deeply affected by this tragedy, said: "I guess, dad, I’ll meet the cobbler's dog" (in heaven).
Georgy and Catherine send their best love, and I send mine. Pray write to me again some day, and I can't be too busy to be happy in the sight of your familiar hand, associated in my mind with so much that I love and honour.
Georgy and Catherine send their best love, and I send mine too. Please write to me again someday; I can never be too busy to feel happy seeing your familiar handwriting, which brings to mind so many things that I love and respect.
Tavistock House, Tavistock Square, Oct. 20th, 1856.
I answer your note by return of post, in order that you may know that the Stereoscopic Nottage has not written to me yet. Of course I will not lose a moment in replying to him when he does address me.
I’m replying to your note right away so you know that the Stereoscopic Nottage hasn’t reached out to me yet. Of course, as soon as he does contact me, I’ll respond without delay.
We shall be greatly pleased to see you again. You have been very, very often in our thoughts and on our lips, during this long interval.
We will be very happy to see you again. You've been on our minds and in our conversations quite a lot during this long time apart.
And "she" is near you, is she? O I remember her well! And I am still of my old opinion! Passionately devoted to her sex as I am (they are the weakness of my existence), I still consider her a failure. She had some extraordinary christian-name, which I forget. Lashed into verse by my feelings, I am inclined to write:
And "she" is close by, right? Oh, I remember her well! And I still hold my old opinion! Passionately devoted to her kind, as they are my greatest weakness, I still see her as a failure. She had some unusual first name that I've forgotten. Driven by my emotions and inspired to write:
Ophelia Jones;
Volumnia Jones?
Petronia Jones!
Olympia Jones?
Tavistock House, December 1st, 1856.
The moment the first bill is printed for the first night of the new play I told you of, I send it to you, in the hope that you will grace it with your presence. There is not one of the old actors whom you will fail to inspire as no one else can; and I hope you will see a little result of a friendly union of the arts, that you may think worth seeing, and that you can see nowhere else.
The moment the first poster is printed for the opening night of the new play I mentioned, I’ll send it to you, hoping you’ll attend. Every one of the old actors will be inspired by you like no one else can; and I hope you’ll appreciate a bit of what comes from a friendly collaboration of the arts, something you won’t find anywhere else.
We propose repeating it on Thursday, the 8th; Monday, the 12th; and Wednesday, the 14th of January. I do not encumber this note with so many bills, and merely mention those nights in case any one of them should be more convenient to you than the first.
We suggest doing it again on Thursday, the 8th; Monday, the 12th; and Wednesday, the 14th of January. I'm not including a bunch of details in this note, just mentioning those nights in case one of them works better for you than the first.
But I shall hope for the first, unless you dash me (N. B.—I put Flora into the current number on purpose that this might catch you softened towards me, and at a disadvantage). If there is hope of your coming, I will have the play clearly copied, and will send it to you to read beforehand. With the most grateful remembrances, and the sincerest good wishes for your health and happiness,
But I’m hoping for the best, unless you disappoint me. (P.S.—I included Flora in the current issue on purpose so that it might make you feel more sympathetic towards me and at a disadvantage.) If there’s a chance you’ll come, I’ll get the play copied clearly and send it to you to read in advance. With the most grateful memories and my sincere wishes for your health and happiness,
Your faithful and obliged.
Tavistock House, Wednesday, Dec. 3rd, 1856.
The inspector from the fire office—surveyor, by-the-bye, they called him—duly came. Wills described him as not very pleasant in his manners. I derived the impression that he was so exceedingly dry, that if he ever takes fire, he must burn out, and can never otherwise be extinguished.
The inspector from the fire office—surveyor, by the way, they called him—showed up as expected. Wills said he wasn't very nice in his manner. I got the feeling that he was so extremely dry that if he ever catches fire, he would burn out and could never be put out any other way.
Next day, I received a letter from the secretary, to say that the said surveyor had reported great additional risk from fire, and that the directors, at their meeting next Tuesday, would settle the extra amount of premium to be paid.
Next day, I got a letter from the secretary saying that the surveyor had reported a significant increase in fire risk, and that the directors would decide on the additional premium to be paid at their meeting next Tuesday.
Thereupon I thought the matter was becoming complicated, and wrote a common-sense note to the secretary (which I begged might be read to the directors), saying that I was quite prepared to pay any extra premium, but setting forth the plain state of the case. (I did not say that the Lord Chief Justice, the Chief Baron, and half the Bench were coming; though I felt a temptation to make a joke about burning them all.)
Thereafter, I felt things were getting complicated, so I wrote a straightforward note to the secretary (which I asked to be read to the directors), stating that I was completely willing to pay any additional premium, but clearly outlining the situation. (I didn't mention that the Lord Chief Justice, the Chief Baron, and half the judges were on their way; although I was tempted to make a joke about them all catching fire.)
Finally, this morning comes up the secretary to me (yesterday having been the great Tuesday), and says that he is requested by the directors to present their compliments, and to say that they could not think of charging for any additional risk at all; feeling convinced that I would place the gas (which they considered to be the only danger) under the charge of one competent man. I then explained to him how carefully and systematically that was all arranged, and we parted with drums beating and colours flying on both sides.
Finally, this morning the secretary came up to me (yesterday being the big Tuesday) and said that the directors wanted to extend their compliments and mention that they couldn’t consider charging for any extra risk at all; they were sure I would assign one competent person to manage the gas (which they thought was the only danger). I then explained to him how carefully and systematically that was all arranged, and we parted with celebrations on both sides.
Tavistock House, Saturday Evening, Dec. 13th, 1856.
We shall be charmed to squeeze Willie's friend in, and it shall be done by some undiscovered power of compression on the second night, Thursday, the 14th. Will you make our compliments to his honour, the Deputy Fiscal, present him with the enclosed bill, and tell him we shall be cordially glad to see him? I hope to entrust him with a special shake of the hand, to be forwarded to our dear boy (if a hoary sage like myself may venture on that expression) by the next mail.
We’ll be happy to fit Willie’s friend in, and it will be done through some unknown power of compression on the second night, Thursday, the 14th. Will you please extend our regards to his honor, the Deputy Fiscal, hand him the enclosed bill, and let him know we’d be really glad to see him? I hope to give him a special handshake to be sent to our dear boy (if an old guy like me can use that term) by the next mail.
I would have proposed the first night, but that is too full. You may faintly imagine, my venerable friend, the occupation of these also gray hairs, between "Golden Marys," "Little Dorrits," "Household Wordses," four stage-carpenters entirely boarding on the premises, a carpenter's shop erected in the back garden, size always boiling over on all the lower fires, Stanfield perpetually elevated on planks and splashing himself from head to foot, Telbin requiring impossibilities of smart gasmen, and a legion of prowling nondescripts for ever shrinking in and out. Calm amidst the wreck, your aged friend glides away on the "Dorrit" stream, forgetting the uproar for a stretch of hours, refreshes himself with a ten or twelve miles walk, pitches headforemost into foaming rehearsals, placidly emerges for editorial purposes, smokes over buckets of distemper with Mr. Stanfield aforesaid, again calmly floats upon the "Dorrit" waters.
I would have proposed the first night, but it’s too hectic. You can barely imagine, my wise friend, what it’s like for these gray hairs to be involved with "Golden Marys," "Little Dorrits," "Household Words," four stage carpenters living on-site, a carpenter’s shop built in the back garden, the size of the chaos overflowing on all the lower tasks, Stanfield constantly up on planks splashing paint all over himself, Telbin asking for impossible things from the quick gas workers, and a crowd of random people always fading in and out. In the midst of the chaos, your elderly friend drifts away on the "Dorrit" stream, forgetting the noise for a few hours, recharges with a ten or twelve-mile walk, dives headfirst into intense rehearsals, calmly steps out for editorial matters, chats over buckets of paint with Mr. Stanfield mentioned earlier, and then peacefully floats along the "Dorrit" waters again.
Ever, my dear Macready, most affectionately yours.
Tavistock House, December 15th, 1856.
I am not quite clear about the story; not because it is otherwise than exceedingly pretty, but because I am rather in a difficult position as to stories just now. Besides beginning a long one by Collins with the new year (which will last five or six months), I have, as I always have at this time, a considerable residue of stories written for the Christmas number, not suitable to it, and yet available for the general purposes of "Household Words." This limits my choice for the moment to stories that have some decided specialties (or a great deal of story) in them.
I’m not exactly sure about the story; not because it isn’t really beautiful, but because I’m in a bit of a tough spot with stories right now. Besides starting a long one by Collins for the new year (which will take five or six months), I have, as I usually do at this time, quite a few stories that I wrote for the Christmas issue, but they aren’t suitable for that and are still available for the general purposes of "Household Words." This limits my choices for the moment to stories that have some distinct features (or a lot of story) in them.
But I will look over the accumulation before you come, and I hope you will never see your little friend again but in print.
But I'll check over the pile before you arrive, and I hope you never have to see your little friend again except in print.
You will find us expecting you on the night of the twenty-fourth, and heartily glad to welcome you. The most terrific preparations are in hand for the play on Twelfth Night. There has been a carpenter's shop in the garden for six weeks; a painter's shop in the school-room; a gasfitter's shop all over the basement; a dressmaker's shop at the top of the house; a tailor's shop in my dressing-room. Stanfield has been incessantly on scaffoldings for two months; and your friend has been writing "Little Dorrit," etc. etc., in corners, like the sultan's groom, who was turned upside-down by the genie.
You will find us waiting for you on the night of the twenty-fourth, and we’re really excited to welcome you. We’ve got some amazing preparations going on for the play on Twelfth Night. There’s been a carpenter’s workshop in the garden for six weeks, a painter’s setup in the classroom, a gasfitter working throughout the basement, a dressmaker’s area at the top of the house, and a tailor’s spot in my dressing room. Stanfield has been constantly on scaffolding for two months, and your friend has been busy writing "Little Dorrit," etc., in the corners, like the sultan’s groom who was turned upside-down by the genie.
Ever affectionately.
Tavistock House, Christmas Eve, 1856.
I cannot leave your letter unanswered, because I am really anxious that you should understand why I cannot comply with your request.[461]
I can’t leave your letter unanswered because I really want you to understand why I can’t fulfill your request.[461]
Scarcely a week passes without my receiving requests from various quarters to sit for likenesses, to be taken by all the processes ever invented. Apart from my having an invincible objection to the multiplication of my countenance in the shop-windows, I have not, between my avocations and my needful recreation, the time to comply with these proposals. At this moment there are three cases out of a vast number, in which I have said: "If I sit at all, it shall be to you first, to you second, and to you third." But I assure you, I consider myself almost as unlikely to go through these three conditional achievements as I am to go to China. Judge when I am likely to get to Mr. Watkins!
Hardly a week goes by without me getting requests from all over to have my picture taken, using every method imaginable. Besides my strong dislike for having my face plastered in shop windows, I really don’t have the time to go along with these offers, given my busy schedule and the need for some downtime. Right now, there are three specific requests out of many where I’ve said, “If I do sit for anyone, it’ll be you first, you second, and you third.” But honestly, I think I’m just as likely to complete these three tasks as I am to travel to China. Just think about when I might actually get to Mr. Watkins!
I highly esteem and thank you for your sympathy with my writings. I doubt if I have a more genial reader in the world.
I really appreciate and thank you for your support of my writing. I don't think I have a more kindhearted reader anywhere.
PROLOGUE TO "THE LIGHTHOUSE."
(Spoken by Charles Dickens.)
Slow music all the time, unseen speaker, curtain down.
To cast them wreck'd upon the steps of home,
Where solitary men, the long year through—
The wind their music and the brine their view—
Warn mariners to shun the beacon-light;
A story of those rocks is here to-night.
Eddystone lighthouse
Ere he who built it wish'd for the great storm
That shiver'd it to nothing; once again
Behold outgleaming on the angry main!
Within it are three men; to these repair
[462]In our frail bark of Fancy, swift as air!
They are but shadows, as the rower grim
Took none but shadows in his boat with him.
So be ye shades, and, for a little space,
The real world a dream without a trace.
Return is easy. It will have ye back
Too soon to the old beaten dusty track;
For but one hour forget it. Billows rise,
Blow winds, fall rain, be black ye midnight skies;
And you who watch the light, arise! arise!
THE SONG OF THE WRECK.
I.
A ship sailed onto the land,
A hundred human creatures saved,
Kneeled on the sand.
Threescore were drowned, threescore were thrown
On the wild black rocks,
And thus among them, left alone,
They found a helpless child.
II.
Stood out from everyone else,
And gently laid the lonely head
On his honest heart.
And travelling o'er the desert wide,
It was a bittersweet joy,
To see them, ever side by side,
The sailor and the kid.
III.
The two were still one.
Until the strong man drooped the first,
And felt his work was done.
Then to a trusty friend he spake,
"Across the vast desert,"
O take this poor boy for my sake!"
And kissed the child before dying.
IV.
Through dense jungle, swamp,
These two came later every night
To warm them by the fire.
Until the captain said one day,
"O sailor, good and kind,
To save thyself now come away,
"Leave the boy behind!"
V.
"O captain, let him rest."
Until it sinks, when God's own ways
"Will teach us what’s best!"
They watched the whitened ashy heap,
They reached out to the child in vain;
They did not leave him there asleep,
He never woke up again.
This song was sung to the music of "Little Nell," a ballad composed by the late Mr. George Linley, to the words of Miss Charlotte Young, and dedicated to Charles Dickens. He was very fond of it, and his eldest daughter had been in the habit of singing it to him constantly since she was quite a child.
This song was sung to the tune of "Little Nell," a ballad written by the late Mr. George Linley, with lyrics by Miss Charlotte Young, and dedicated to Charles Dickens. He loved it, and his oldest daughter had been singing it to him regularly since she was little.
——————————
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.
INDEX.
Affidavit, a facetious, i. 101
Ainsworth, W. H., letters to, i. 43, 75, 92
Alison, Sir Archibald, i. 170
America, feeling for Dickens in the backwoods of, i. 40, 41;
Dickens's first visit to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
his welcome in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
his opinion of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
freedom of opinion in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Dickens's receptions in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
temperature shift in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
hotel charges in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Midnight strolls in New York, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
descriptions of Niagara, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
a maid's thoughts on Niagara, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
copyright in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
Dickens's tribute to Mrs. Trollope's book on, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
press-ridden, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
lack of quiet in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
criticisms of Dickens in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
and check out __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
"American Notes," publication of, i. 54
"Animal Magnetism," tag to, written by Dickens, i. 238
Anne, Mrs. Dickens's maid, i. 72, 414
"Arabian Nights," a mistake in the, i. 88, 89
[452]Astley's Theatre, description of a clown at, i. 116
Austin, Henry, i. 240; and see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Author, the highest reward of an, i. 41
Autobiography, a concise, of Dickens, i. 437
Autograph of Dickens in 1833, i. 2;
Dickens leaves his in Shakespeare's room, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
of Boz, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
of Dickens as Bobadil, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
A facsimile of Dickens's handwriting from 1856, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Babbage, Charles, letters to, i. 86, 87, 186
Banks, G., i. 273; letter to, i. 296
"Barnaby Rudge" written and published, i. 36;
Dickens's descriptions of the illustrations of: __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
the raven, vol. I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
the locksmith's house, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
rioters at The Maypole, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
scene in the ruins of the Warren, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
abduction of Dolly Varden, vol. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Lord George Gordon in the Tower, the duel, frontispiece, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Hugh taken to jail, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
"Battle of Life, The," dedication of, i. 147, 157;
Dickens oversees rehearsals for the play of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
sale of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
Reception of the play of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Beaucourt, M., i. 297, 357, 439
Bedstead, a German, i. 128
Begging letters, Dickens's answers to, i. 148-150
Bicknell, Henry, i. 215;
letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Biographers, Dickens on, i. 190;
his view of John Forster as a biographer, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Birthday wishes, i. 51
"Black-eyed Susan," Dickens as T. P. Cooke in, i. 113;
a new version of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Blanchard, Laman, letter to, i. 99
"Bleak House," commenced, i. 241;
publication of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Dickens's take on, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
circulation of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
Blessington, Lady, i. 171
Bobadil, Captain, Dickens plays, i. 134;
Dickens's comments on, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
a letter later, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Book-backs, Dickens's imitation, i. 265, 266
Book Clubs, established, i. 94;
Dickens on, vol. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Boulogne, Dickens at, i. 271, 297, 304-312, 341, 414, 439-448;
a Shakespeare play at, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
celebration, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Illuminations during the Prince Consort's visit, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
fire at, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
condition of, during the Crimean war, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
letters describing, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__
Boxall, Sir William, i. 233, 237
Boyle, Miss Mary, i. 211, 214, 227, 414;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Breach of Promise, a new sort of, i. 179
Breakfast, a Yorkshire, i. 9
Broadstairs, Dickens at, i. 4, 6, 17, 28, 36, 53, 134, 170, 185, 213, 240;
lodging description at __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
entertainments of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
the size of Fort House at __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
[453]Browne, H. K., i. 6, 13
Buckstone, J. B., i. 360
Burnett, Mrs., i. 185
Cabin, a, on board ship, i. 56
Capital punishment, Dickens's views on, i. 209
Carlisle, the Earl of, letters to, i. 253, 281;
Castlereagh, Lord, i. 245
Cat-hunting, i. 449
Cattermole, George, i. 42, 143;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Chancery, Dickens on the Court of, i. 450
Chapman and Hall, Messrs., i. 3;
letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
"Chimes, The," written, i. 95;
an attack on hypocrisy, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
Dickens's view of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
Dickens holds a private reading of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
"Christmas Carol, The," publication of, i. 85;
criticisms of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Christmas greetings, i. 167
Cockspur Street Society, the, i. 85-87
Cold, effects of a, i. 92, 93;
remedy for a.i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Colden, David, i. 64
Collins, Wilkie, i. 241, 272, 297, 332, 359, 376, 385, 388, 413, 414, 447;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Comedy, Mr. Webster's offer for a prize, Dickens an imaginary competitor, i. 86, 90
Conjuring feats, i. 96;
Cooke, T. P., i. 113;
Copyright, i. 13;
Dickens's efforts to establish English in America, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
Costello, Dudley, i. 241;
letters to, me. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Cottage, a cheap, i. 18
Coutts, Miss, i. 410
Covent Garden Theatre, Macready retires from management of, i. 18;
ruins of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
"Cricket on the Hearth, The," i. 135, 145
Croker, J. Crofton, i. 272;
letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Cruikshank, George, i. 170
Cunningham, Peter, i. 186, 407;
letters to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__
Daily News, The, started, i. 135
"David Copperfield," dedication of, i. 147;
The purpose of Little Emily in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
success of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
reading of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
Dickens's favorite work, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
and see i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__
Deane, F. H., letter to, i. 68
Delane, John, i. 298;
letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Devonshire, the Duke of, letters to, i. 437, 443, 457
Devrient, Emil, i. 277
Dickens, Charles, at Furnival's Inn, i. 1;
his marriage, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
employed as a parliamentary reporter, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
spends his honeymoon in Chalk, Kent, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
employed at The Morning Chronicle, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
moves to Doughty Street, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
writes for the stage, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__;
his visit to the schools in Yorkshire, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
at Twickenham Park, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
[454]his trips to Broadstairs, see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
his trip to Stratford-on-Avon and Kenilworth, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
in Shakespeare's room, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
elected at the Athenæum Club, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
moves to Devonshire Terrace, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
portraits of, see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
trips to Scotland, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
personal feelings for his characters, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
declines to join Parliament, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
public dinners to, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
an enemy of pretense, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
trips to America, see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
trip to Cornwall, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
his travels in Italy, see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
political views of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__;
fancy signatures for letters of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__;
takes the chair at the opening of the Liverpool Mechanics' Institute, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, and see i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
his performances, see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
effects of work on, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
The Daily News was started by __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
his trips to Lausanne and Switzerland, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, and check out __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
his trips to Paris, see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
as a stage manager, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__;
At Chester Place, Regent's Park, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
presides over the opening of the Leeds Mechanics' Institute and the Glasgow Athenæum, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
at Brighton, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
at Bonchurch, I, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
buys Tavistock House, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
as an editor, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__;
his readings, see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
illnesses of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
his trips to Boulogne, see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Presentation of the plate to, in Birmingham, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
buy Gad's Hill, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, and check out __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
delivers a speech on Administrative Reform, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
at Folkestone, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
restlessness while working, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
and check out __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ of
Dickens, Mrs. Charles, marriage of, i. 1;
visit to America, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
at Rome, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
accident to, me. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
at Malvern, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
present to, at Birmingham, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Dickens, Charles, jun., birth of, i. 4;
nickname of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
at Eton, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__;
at Leipzig, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
at Barings, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Dickens, Kate, nickname of, i. 76;
letters to, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Dickens, Mamie, nickname of, i. 76;
illnesses of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
[455]
Dickens, Walter, nickname of, i. 76;
and see i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__
Dickens, Frank, nickname of, i. 126;
Dickens, Sydney, birth of, i. 169;
nickname of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
death of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
story of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
and see i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Dickens, Edward, nicknames of, i. 322, 338;
and see i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__;
Dickens, Dora, birth of, i. 213;
death of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Dickens, Alfred, sen., i. 184, 410;
Dickens, Fanny, see Mrs. Burnett
Dickens, Frederick, i. 9
Dickens, John, i. 240, 437;
Dickson, David, letter to, i. 89
Diezman, S. A., letter to, i. 32
Dinner, a search for a, i. 326;
ladies at public dinners, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Dogs, Dickens's, i. 67, 109, 110;
a plague of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
stories of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__
"Dombey and Son," i. 147;
success of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
sale of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
D'Orsay, Comte, i. 171, 244
Driver, Dickens's estimate of himself as a, i. 2
Drury Lane Theatre, the saloon at, i. 37;
suggestions for the bar at, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Education, Dickens an advocate of, for the people, i. 104
Eeles, Mr., letters to, i. 265, 269
Egg, Augustus, i. 170, 172, 226, 297, 320, 332
Elliotson, Dr., i. 37, 149,
Elton, Mr., i. 85, 92
Ely, Miss, letter to, i. 153
Emery, Mr., i. 429
England, state of, in 1855, i. 391;
politically, me. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Epitaph, Dickens's, on a little child, i. 68
Executions, Dickens on public, i. 209, 212
Exhibition, an infant school at the, i. 257
Fairy Tales, Dickens on, i. 307
Fielding, Henry, i. 394
[456] Forgues, M., i. 415, 421
Forster, John, i. 7, 10, 134, 143, 225, 240, 268, 428;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Franklin, Sir John, i. 373
French portraits of the English, i. 175
Friday, Dickens's lucky day, i. 414, 429
Frith, W. P., letters to, i. 79
Funerals, Dickens on state, i. 290
Gad's Hill, purchase of, i. 377, 378, 414;
letters about, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
Gaskell, Mrs., i. 214;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Germany, esteem felt for Dickens in, i. 32
Gibson, M., i. 315
Goldsmith, Oliver, Dickens on Forster's Life of, i. 188;
on the works of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Grief, the perversity of, exemplified, i. 18
Grimaldi, Life of, edited by Dickens, i. 4
Guild of Literature and Art, i. 239;
theatrical performances to support the, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__;
Haldimand, Mr., i. 147, 169, 212, 380;
letters to, me. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Halleck, Fitz-Greene, i. 59
"Hard Times," i. 341;
satire of, explained, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
letters about, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Harley, J. P., letters to, i. 5, 23
Harness, Rev. W., letters to, i. 37, 76, 361
"Haunted Man, The," i. 170, 185, 241;
subjects for illustrations in, described, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
dramatization of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Hewett, Captain, i. 57
"History of England, The Child's," i. 297
Hogarth, Mary, i. 4, 9
Hogarth, Georgina, i. 425;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Holland, Lady, i. 11
Home, longings for, i. 64, 70
Hood, Tom, i. 287;
letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Horne, Mrs., letter to, i. 456
Horne, R. H., letter to, i. 93
Hospital, a dinner at a, i. 88
Houghton, Lord, letter to, i. 41
"Household Words," i. 148;
scheme of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
suggested titles for __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
success of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Christmas issues of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
"The Golden Mary," vol. i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
letters about, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_9__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_10__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_11__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_12__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_13__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_14__
Hughes, Master Hastings, letter to, i. 14
Hullah, John, i. 5
[457]
Illustrated London News, offers to Dickens from, i. 150
Illustrations of Dickens's works, his descriptions for, i. 38-40, 45, 46, 50, 51, 200-203
Italy, Dickens's first visit to, i. 94;
the sky of, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
the coloring of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
a sunset in, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
twilight in, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
frescoes in, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
churches in, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
fruit in, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
climate of, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
a coastguard in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Dickens in Albaro, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
at Genoa, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__;
at Venice and Verona, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
at Naples, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
climbing Vesuvius, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
at Rome, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__;
and see I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Jeffrey, Lord, i. 184, 218
Jerrold, Douglas, i. 134, 225, 268, 390;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Joll, Miss, letter to, i. 209
Keeley, Robert, i. 165;
letter to, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Kelly, Miss, i. 302, 303
Kent, W. Charles, i. 186;
and see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Kinkel, Dr., i. 230
Knight, Charles, i. 94;
and check out __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Knowles, Sheridan, i. 214;
letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Lamartine, i. 187
Landor, Walter Savage, i. 268, 337;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Landseer, Edwin, letter to, i. 103
Landseer, Tom, i. 27
Lansdowne, Lord, i. 275
Layard, A. H., i. 377;
letters to, me. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Lectures, Dickens on public, i. 97
Leech, John, i. 134, 186, 225, 226, 239
Le Gros, Mr., i. 140, 332
Lemaître, M., i. 386
Lemon, Mark, i. 134, 186, 225, 226, 376, 390;
and check out __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Lemon, Mrs., i. 419
Letters of Charles Dickens to:
Ainsworth, W. H., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
Anonymous, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Austin, Henry, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__;
Babbage, Charles, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
Banks, G., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Bicknell, H., I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Blanchard, Laman, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Boyle, Miss, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__;
Carlisle, the Earl of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
[458]Cattermole, George, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_9__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_10__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_11__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_12__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_13__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_14__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_15__
Cerjat, M. de, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__;
Chapman and Hall, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Collins, Wilkie, vol. i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__;
Costello, Dudley, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Croker, J. Crofton, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Cunningham, Peter, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__
Deane, F. H., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Delane, John, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Duke of Devonshire, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
Dickens, Mrs. Charles, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_9__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_10__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_11__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_12__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_13__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_14__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_15__
Dickens, Miss Kate, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Dickens, Miss, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__;
Dickson, David, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Diezman, S. A., and __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Eeles, Mr., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Ely, Miss, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Forster, John, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
Frith, W. P., vol. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Gaskell, Mrs., vol. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__
Haldimand, Mr., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Halleck, Fitz-Greene, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Harley, J. P., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Harness, Rev. W., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
Hogarth, Catherine, vol. i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Hogarth, Miss, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_9__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_10__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_11__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_12__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_13__;
Hood, Tom, vol. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Horne, Mrs., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Horne, R. H., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Hughes, Master, vol. i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Jerrold, Douglas, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__
Joll, Miss, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Keeley, Robert, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Kent, W. Charles, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
Knight, Charles, vol. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__;
Knowles, Sheridan, vol. i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Landor, Walter Savage, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__
Landseer, Edwin, vol. i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Layard, A. H., vol. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Lemon, Mark, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_9__
Longman, Thomas, vol. i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Longman, William, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Lovejoy, G., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Maclise, Daniel, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
[459]Macready, W. C., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_9__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_10__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_11__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_12__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_13__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_14__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_15__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_16__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_17__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_18__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_19__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_20__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_21__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_22__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_23__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_24__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_25__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_26__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_27__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_28__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_29__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_30__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_31__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_32__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_33__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_34__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_35__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_36__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_37__;
Milnes, R. Monckton, vol. i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Mitton, Thomas, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__;
Morpeth, Viscount, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__,
Pardoe, Miss, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Poole, John, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Power, Miss, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
Procter, Adelaide, 1. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Procter, B. W., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Regnier, Mr., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__;
Roberts, David, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__
Russell, Lord John, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
Ryland, Arthur, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
Sandys, William, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Saunders, John, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Smith, H. P., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
Stanfield, Clarkson, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_9__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_10__;
Stone, Marcus, vol. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Stone, Frank, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_9__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_10__;
"Sun, The," edited by __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Tagart, Edward, vol. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Talfourd, Miss Mary, vol. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Talfourd, Sergeant, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Tennent, Sir James Emerson, vol. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Tomlin, John, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Trollope, Mrs., vol. i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Viardot, Madame, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Watkins, John, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Watson, Hon. Mrs., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_9__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_10__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_11__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_12__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_13__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_14__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_15__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_16__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_17__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_18__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_19__;
Watson, Hon. R., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_20__
White, Rev. James, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_21__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_22__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_23__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_24__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_25__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_26__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_27__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_28__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_29__;
Wills, W. H., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_30__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_31__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_32__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_33__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_34__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_35__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_36__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_37__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_38__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_39__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_40__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_41__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_42__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_43__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_44__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_45__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_46__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_47__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_48__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_49__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_50__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_51__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_52__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_53__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_54__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_55__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_56__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_57__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_58__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_59__;
Wilson, Effingham, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_60__
Lewes, G. H., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_61__
"The Lighthouse," the play, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_62__;
Dickens's prologue to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_63__;
Dickens's "Song of the Wreck" in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_64__;
Lion, a chained, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_65__
"Little Dorrit," i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_66__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_67__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_68__;
proposed name of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_69__;
sale of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_70__;
[460]letters concerning, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_71__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_72__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_73__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_74__
London, the Mayor of, from a French perspective, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_75__;
in September, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_76__;
Dickens's opinion of the Corporation of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_77__;
humorous advice to country visitors to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_78__
Longman, Thomas, letters to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_79__;
Longman, William, letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_80__
Lovejoy, G., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_81__
Lyndhurst, Lord, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_82__;
Lynn, Miss, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_83__
Lyttelton, Hon. Spencer, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_84__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_85__
Lytton, the first Lord, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_86__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_87__;
Maclise, Daniel, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_88__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_89__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_90__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_91__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_92__;
letters to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_93__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_94__
Macready, W. C., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_95__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_96__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_97__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_98__;
and see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_99__
Macready, Benvenuta, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_100__;
Macready, Kate, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_101__;
Macready, Nina, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_102__
Martineau, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_103__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_104__
"Martin Chuzzlewit," i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_105__;
dramatized, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_106__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_107__;
"Master Humphrey's Clock," i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_108__;
the plan of, described, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_109__;
letters regarding illustrations for, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_110__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_111__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_112__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_113__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_114__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_115__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_116__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_117__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_118__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_119__
"Mémoires du Diable, Les," i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_120__
Missionaries, Dickens's view on, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_121__
Mitton, Thomas, see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_122__
Monuments, Dickens on, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_123__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_124__
Moore, Tom, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_125__
Morley, Mr., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_126__
Morpeth, Viscount, letters to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_127__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_128__;
and see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_129__, The Earl of
Mulgrave, Earl of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_130__
Narrative, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_131__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_132__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_133__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_134__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_135__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_136__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_137__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_138__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_139__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_140__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_141__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_142__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_143__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_144__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_145__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_146__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_147__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_148__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_149__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_150__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_151__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_152__
Nathan, Messrs. H. and L., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_153__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_154__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_155__
"Nicholas Nickleby," publication of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_156__;
rewards and punishments of characters in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_157__;
Dickens at work on, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_158__;
dedication of, i, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_159__;
the Kenwigs in, i, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_160__;
Nicknames, Dickens's, of George Cattermole, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_161__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_162__;
of his children, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_163__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_164__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_165__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_166__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_167__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_168__;
nautical, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_169__;
of himself, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_170__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_171__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_172__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_173__;
of Frank Stone, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_174__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_175__
Noviomagians, the, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_176__
"The Old Curiosity Shop," Dickens worked on, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_177__;
scenes in, described by Dickens for illustration, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_178__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_179__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_180__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_181__;
Dickens heartbroken over the story, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_182__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_183__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_184__
"Oliver Twist," publication of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_185__;
Street organs, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_186__
[461]
Overs, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_187__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_188__
Pardoe, Miss, letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_189__
Paris, Dickens in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_190__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_191__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_192__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_193__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_194__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_195__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_196__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_197__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_198__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_199__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_200__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_201__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_202__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_203__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_204__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_205__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_206__;
house-hunting in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_207__;
description of Dickens's house in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_208__;
state of, in 1846, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_209__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_210__;
feeling of people of, for Dickens, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_211__;
Parrots, human, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_212__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_213__
"The Patrician's Daughter," prologue to, written by Dickens, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_214__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_215__
Paxton, Sir Joseph, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_216__
Phelps, J., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_217__
"Pickwick," origin and publication of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_218__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_219__;
first mention of Jingle, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_220__;
conclusion of, celebrated, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_221__;
the design of the Shepherd in, explained, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_222__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_223__
A picnic of the elements, i, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_224__;
with Eton boys, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_225__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_226__
Plessy, Madame, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_227__
Poole, John, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_228__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_229__;
letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_230__
"The Poor Travellers," i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_231__;
sale of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_232__
Portraits of Dickens, by Maclise, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_233__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_234__;
by Ary Scheffer, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_235__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_236__
An Albaro postman, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_237__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_238__
Power, Miss, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_239__;
and see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_240__
Power, Nelly, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_241__
The press, freedom of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_242__;
in America, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_243__;
taxation of the press, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_244__
Procter, Adelaide, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_245__;
letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_246__
Procter, B. W., i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_247__;
and see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_248__
Improving the publishing system, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_249__
The power of the purse, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_250__
The Queen, Dickens's theatrical performance before, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_251__;
Dr. Rae, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_252__
Readings by Dickens, public performances for charity, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_253__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_254__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_255__
Dickens on Administrative Reform, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_256__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_257__;
association for, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_258__;
[462]
Refreshment rooms, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_259__
M. Regnier, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_260__;
and see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_261__
Dickens's opinion of Samuel Richardson, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_262__
A scene from "The Rivals," rewritten, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_263__
David Roberts, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_264__;
letters to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_265__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_266__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_267__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_268__
Dickens on "Robinson Crusoe," i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_269__
F. Robson, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_270__
Roche, Dickens's courier, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_271__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_272__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_273__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_274__
Lord John Russell, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_275__;
and see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_276__
Sanatorium for art students, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_277__
Georges Sand, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_278__
William Sandys, letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_279__
John Saunders, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_280__;
letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_281__
Savage, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_282__
Ary Scheffer, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_283__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_284__
A Yorkshire schoolmistress, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_285__
Sir Walter Scott, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_286__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_287__
Eugène Scribe, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_288__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_289__
The seaside in wet weather, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_290__
A sea voyage, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_291__
Dickens in Shakespeare's room, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_292__;
Dickens's critiques of Charles Knight's biography of Shakespeare, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_293__;
and see i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_294__
A perpetual shower-bath, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_295__
Publication of the "Sketches," i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_296__
Letters to H. P. Smith, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_297__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_298__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_299__
Sydney Smith, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_300__
Dickens's views on Smollett's works, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_301__
Miss Snevellicci in real life, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_302__
A mighty snore, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_303__
Songs by Dickens: on Mark Lemon, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_304__;
of "The Wreck" in "The Lighthouse," i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_305__
Lord Spencer, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_306__
A fearful spider, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_307__
Dickens on spiritualism, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_308__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_309__
Stage suggestions, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_310__;
a stage mob, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_311__;
a piece of stage business, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_312__
Clarkson Stanfield, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_313__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_314__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_315__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_316__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_317__;
and see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_318__
Dickens on Steele's essay by Forster, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_319__
Arthur Stone, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_320__
Frank Stone, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_321__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_322__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_323__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_324__;
and see __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_325__
Marcus Stone, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_326__;
letters to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_327__
"The Strange Gentleman," a farce written and produced by Dickens, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_328__;
price of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_329__;
sent to Macready, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_330__
Dickens on strikes, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_331__
Sun, The, letter to the editor of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_332__
[463]
Switzerland, the Simplon Pass in, i. 127;
pleasant memories of, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
Dickens in Lausanne, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
a revolution in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
friends in, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Dickens's love for __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
letters about Lausanne in, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__
Sympathy, letters of, i. 193, 265, 282, 283, 394
Tagart, Edward, letters to, i. 111, 173
Talfourd, Miss Mary, letter to, i. 51
Talfourd, Mr. Justice, i. 7;
letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Taüchnitz, Baron, i. 188, 195
Tavistock House, purchase of, i. 240;
letters about, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
Taxation, Dickens on, i. 218;
of newspapers, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Telegraph, the dramatic side of the, i. 417
Tennent, Sir James Emerson, i. 298;
letters to, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Tenniel, John, i. 241
Theatre, Dickens at the, i. 13;
Phiz's laughter at the, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
the bar at Drury Lane, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
scents of A, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
story of a, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
proposal for a national, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
Theatrical performances of Charles Dickens:
at Montreal, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
at Miss Kelly's Theatre, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
"Fortunio" at Tavistock House, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__;
"The Lighthouse," i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__;
"The Frozen Deep," vol. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
before the Queen, I. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__;
and see i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__;
letters regarding the, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__-__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_9__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_10__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_11__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_12__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_13__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_14__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_15__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_16__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_17__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_18__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_19__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_20__
Tomlin, John, letter to, i. 40
Topham, F. W., i. 241, 269
Trollope, Mrs., letters to, i. 80, 397
"Uncle Tom's Cabin," Dickens on, i. 289
Viardot, Madame, letter to, i. 412
"Village Coquettes, The," operetta written by Dickens, i. 5;
and check it out. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Waistcoat, a wonderful, i. 102;
the loan by Dickens of Macready's, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
War, Dickens on the Russian, i. 379
Ward, E. M., i. 341
Watkins, John, i. 415;
letters to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Watson, Hon. R., i. 147, 280;
letter to, i. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Watson, Hon. Mrs., i. 147;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Welcome home, a, i. 117
[464]
Whewell, Dr., i. 372
White, Rev. James, i. 149, 413;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Wigan, Alfred, i. 429
Wills, W. H., i. 148, 241, 375;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Wilson, Effingham, letter to, i. 199
Yates, Edmund, i. 414, 426;
and check __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The little dog—a white Havana spaniel—was brought home and renamed, after an incidental character in "Nicholas Nickleby," "Mr. Snittle Timbery." This was shortened to "Timber," and under that name the little dog lived to be very old, and accompanied the family in all its migrations, including the visits to Italy and Switzerland.
[1] The little dog—a white Havana spaniel—was brought home and given a new name from a minor character in "Nicholas Nickleby," "Mr. Snittle Timbery." This was shortened to "Timber," and under that name, the little dog lived to be very old, accompanying the family on all their moves, including trips to Italy and Switzerland.
[2] Life Insurance Office.
[5] This alludes to a theatrical story of a second-rate actor, who described himself as a "chained lion," in a theatre where he had to play inferior parts to Mr. Macready.
[5] This refers to a theatrical tale about a mediocre actor, who called himself a "chained lion," in a theater where he had to take on lesser roles compared to Mr. Macready.
[6] "The Battle of Life."
"The Battle of Life."
Having had the privilege to see a letter which the late Mr. Charles Dickens wrote to the author of this work upon its first appearance, and which there was no intention to publish in England, it became my lively wish to make it known to the readers of my edition.
Having had the chance to see a letter that the late Mr. Charles Dickens wrote to the author of this work when it first came out, and which was never meant to be published in England, I really wanted to share it with the readers of my edition.
I therefore addressed an earnest request to Mr. Forster, that he would permit the letter to be prefixed to a reprint not designed for circulation in England, where I could understand his reluctance to sanction its publication. Its varied illustration of the subject of the book, and its striking passages of personal feeling and character, led me also to request that I might be allowed to present it in facsimile.
I then made a sincere request to Mr. Forster, asking him to allow the letter to be included in a reprint not meant for circulation in England, where I understood his hesitation to approve its publication. The various ways it illustrated the book's subject, along with its impactful expressions of personal feelings and character, prompted me to also ask for permission to present it as a facsimile.
Mr. Forster complied; and I am most happy to be thus enabled to give to my public, on the following pages, so attractive and so interesting a letter, reproduced in the exact form in which it was written, by the most popular and admired-of writers—too early gone.
Mr. Forster agreed; and I’m very pleased to be able to share with my readers, on the following pages, such an engaging and interesting letter, presented in the exact form in which it was originally written, by one of the most popular and admired writers—who left us too soon.
Leipsic,
May 23, 1873.
Leipzig,
May 23, 1873.
[9] Dr. Gottfried Kinkel, a distinguished scholar and Professor in the University of Bonn, who was at that time undergoing very rigorous State imprisonment in Prussia, for political reasons. Dr. Kinkel was afterwards well known as a teacher and lecturer on Art in London, where he resided for many years.
[9] Dr. Gottfried Kinkel, a respected scholar and professor at the University of Bonn, was at that time enduring harsh imprisonment in Prussia for political reasons. Dr. Kinkel later became well-known as a teacher and lecturer on art in London, where he lived for many years.
[10] The part of the lawyer in "Used Up." It was not played after all by Mr. Watson, but by Mr. (now Sir William) Boxall, R.A., a very old and intimate friend of Mr. and Mrs. Watson, and of Charles Dickens.
[10] The role of the lawyer in "Used Up." It was not actually played by Mr. Watson, but by Mr. (now Sir William) Boxall, R.A., a longtime close friend of Mr. and Mrs. Watson, as well as Charles Dickens.
[16] The poet "Barry Cornwall."
The poet "Barry Cornwall."
[17] "Hide and Seek."
"Hide and Seek."
[19] Mr. Egg.
Mr. Egg.
[20] The inscription on the house in Rochester known as "Watts's Charity" is to the effect that it furnishes a night's lodging for six poor travellers—"not being Rogues or Proctors."
[20] The inscription on the house in Rochester called "Watts's Charity" states that it provides a night's stay for six needy travelers—"as long as they are not Rogues or Proctors."
[23] Of Mr. Wilkie Collins.
__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ About Mr. Wilkie Collins.
Transcriber's Notes:
The index for this volume was originally located at the end of Volume II. To aid the reader, the parts referring to Volume I were extracted from that index and appended to the end of this html text. The original index can be found in its entirety at the end of the plain text version of these volumes.
The index for this volume was originally at the end of Volume II. To help the reader, the sections related to Volume I were taken from that index and added to the end of this HTML text. The complete original index is available at the end of the plain text version of these volumes.
Pages 454-455, entries for "Dickens, Mamie" and "Dickens, Kate" were originally not in alphabetically order. This was corrected.
Pages 454-455, entries for "Dickens, Mamie" and "Dickens, Kate" were originally not in alphabetical order. This was corrected.
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Punctuation errors fixed.
The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text will appear.
The remaining corrections are shown with dotted lines underneath them. Hover your mouse over the word and the original text will appear.
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