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 AMERICAN NOTES 
 
CHARLES DICKENS: Born iSiz-Died 1870 
 
 Editor's Note 
 
 Americans quickly became enthusiastic admirers of 
 Dickens's works. It was one of the reasons which urged 
 htm to make his first visit to the United States— the other 
 {and usual) reason being the search for copy. He went 
 he saw, he criticised. It is an old story now how the 
 Americans were chagrined by his criticisms, and how 
 resentment softened and died away in the general apprccia- 
 tion of the man and his genius. That the temporary ilU 
 feeling was so soon forgotten is a tribute alike to the hosts 
 and to the guest— who had "no desire to court, by any 
 adventitious means, the popular applause." The visit 
 that resulted in American Notes was made in - ^42 ; 
 and the book was published the same year. Frankly 
 written as are these Notes, it will be seen from the 
 following Life that Dickens was much more critical 
 and outspoken of Americans, their habits and institutions 
 tn his letters to Forster. But when he visited America 
 for the second and last time, he noted "amazing changes"— 
 as he acknowledged in the 1868 postscript to the Notes 
 By then, resentment had given way to "unsurpassable 
 politeness, delicacy, sweet temper, hospitality," etc., on 
 the part of the criticised Americans. Since 1868 there 'have 
 been many more amazing changes in the United States : 
 but there has been no change in the affection for Charles 
 Dickens and his works. This edition is printed from the 
 one carefully corrected by the author in 1867-68. 
 
AMERICAN NOTES 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 LONDON: 
 HAZELL, WATSON 8c VINEY, LTD. 
 
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PREFACE 
 
 My readers have opportunities of judging for themselves whether 
 the influences and tendencies which I distrusted in America 
 had. at that time, any existence but in my imagination. They 
 can examine for themselves whether there has been anything 
 in the public career of that country since, at home or abroad, 
 which suggests that those influences and tendencies reaUy did 
 exist. As they find the fact, they will judge me. If they discern 
 any evidences of wrong-going, in any direction that I have 
 indicated, they will acknowledge that I had reason in what I 
 wrote. If they discern no such indications, they will consider 
 me altogether mistaken— but not wilfully. 
 
 Prejudiced. I am not. and never have been, otherwise than 
 in favour of the United States. ^ - - .xany friends in America, 
 I feel a grateful interest in th.^ _ , t hope and believe it 
 will successfully work out a pre ' highest importance 
 
 to the whole human race. To re], s viewing America 
 
 with ill-nature, coldness, or animosuv, erely to do a very 
 
 foolish thing : which is always a very easy one. 
 
AMERICAN NOTES 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 GOING AWAY 
 
 I SHALL r ver forget the one-fourth serious and three-fourths condcal 
 astomshnient with which, on the morning of the third of Januarv 
 eighteen-hundreQ-and-forty-two. I opened the door of. and put mv 
 w? '"^' ^ '«tfte-room" on board the Britannia steam-packet^ 
 ^elve hundred tons burthen per register, bound for HalifL and 
 Boston, and carr ng Her Majesty's mails. 
 
 That this state-room had been specially engaged for "Charl*»s 
 Dickens. Esquire, and Lady," was rendered suflP vn .ly clear even to 
 my scared intellect by a very small manuscript, .r.nouncinK the fact 
 which was pinned on a very flat quilt, covering a very thin mattress' 
 spread like a surgical plaster on a most inaccessible shelf But that 
 this was the state-room concerning which Charies Dickens. Esquire 
 and Lady, had held daily and nightly conferences for at least four 
 months preceding: that this .)uld by any possibility be that small 
 snug chamber of the imagination, which Charies Dickens. Esquire 
 with the spirit of prophecy strong upon him. had always foretold 
 would contain at least one little sofa, and which his ladv with a 
 frn^lh ^f f °'* magnificent sense of its limited dimensions, had 
 from the first opined would not hold more than two enormous oort- 
 manteaus m some odd corner out of sight (portmanteaus which could 
 now no more be got m at the door, not to say stowed away than a 
 giraffe could be persuaded or forced into a flower-pot): that this 
 ?.if 7k "'^l^^'i'S^^^' tho^o^ghly hopeless, and profoundly prepo^! 
 terous box. had the remotest reference to. or connection with those 
 chaste and pretty, not to say gorgeous little bowers, sketched by a 
 masterly hand, m the highly varnished lithographic plan hangC 
 up m the agent's counting-house in the city of London that thif 
 
 Sfu tsf ort?°^' r ^? ^^ ""^^^"^ ^"* ^ Pleasan^ficrion and 
 cheerful est of the captain's, invented and put in practice for the 
 
 better rehsh and enjoyment of the real state-room presently to S 
 disdosed:-these were truths which I really could no- for tS 
 moment, brmg my mind at all to bear upon or comprehend Lid I 
 sat down upon a kind of horsehair slab, or perch, of which there 
 were two withm; and looked, without any expression of c^ntenanS 
 whatever, at some friends who had come on board with us aLd who 
 319* o 
 
10 
 
 American Notes 
 
 were crushing their faces into all manner of shapes by endeavourinff 
 to squeeze them through the small doorway. 
 
 We had experienced a pretty smart shock before coming below 
 which, but that we were the most sanguine people living might have' 
 7repared us for the worst. The imaginative artist to whom I have 
 already made allusion, has depicted in the same great work a 
 chamber of almost interminable perspective, furnished, as Mr Rob- 
 ms would say, in a style of more than Eastern splendour and filled 
 (but not mconveniently so) with groups of ladies and gentleman in 
 the very highest state of enjoyment and vivacity. Before descending 
 into the bowels of the ship, we had passed from the deck into a long 
 narrow apartment, not unlike a gigantic hearse with windows in the 
 sides; having at the upper end a melancholy stove, at which three or 
 four chilly stewards were warming their hands; while on either side 
 extending down its whole dreary length, was a long, long table 
 over each of which a rack, fixed to the low roof, and stuck full of 
 dnnkmg-glasses and cruet-stands, hinted dismallv at rolling seas and 
 heavy weather. I had not at that time seen the ideal presentment of 
 this chamber which has since gratified me so much, but I observed 
 that one of our friends who had made the arrangements for our 
 voyage, turned pale on entering, retreated on the friend behind him 
 smote his forehead involuntarily, and said below his breath "Im- 
 possible ! it cannot be !" or words to that effect. He recovered himself 
 however by a great effort, and after a preparatory cough or two cried 
 with a ghastly smile which is still before me, looking at the same time 
 round the walls, "Ha! the breakfast-room, steward— eh?" We aJ' 
 foresaw what the answer must be: we knew the agony he suffered He 
 had often spoken of the saloon; had taken in and lived upon the 
 pictorial idea; had usually given us to understand, at home that to 
 form a just conception of it, it would be necessary to multiply the 
 size and furniture of an ordinary drawing-room by seven, and then 
 fall short of the reality. When the man in reply avowed the truth- the 
 blunt, remorseless, naked truth; "This is the saloon, sir"— he actuallv 
 reeled beneath the blow. ■' 
 
 In persons who were so soon to part, and interpose between their 
 else daily communication the formidable barrier of many thousand 
 miles of stormy space, and who were for that reason anxious to cast 
 no other cloud, not even the passing shadow of a moment's dis- 
 appointment or discomfiture, upon the short interval of happy 
 companionship that yet remained to them— in persons so situated 
 the natural transirion from these first surprises was obviously into 
 peals of hearty laughter, and I can report that I, for one. being still 
 seated upon the slab or perch before menrioned, roared outright 
 until the vessel rang again. Thus, in less than two minutes after com- 
 ing upon it for the first time, we all by common consent agreed that 
 this state-room was the pleasantest and most facetious and capital 
 contrivance possible; and that to have had it one inch larger would 
 have been quite a disagreeable ana deplorable state of thi"a« At,h 
 
American Notes u 
 
 with this: and with showing how.-by very nearly closing the door 
 and twining in and out like serpents, and by counting the little w^h' 
 mg slab as standing-room,-we could manage to insinuate four p^^l^ 
 S^ H wi^'^'if *'^'' ^°A""t^«ating each other to observe how vTr^ 
 airy. It was (in dock) and how there was a beautiful port-hole wS 
 could be kept open all day (weather permitting), and^how therrwas 
 quite a large bull's-eye just over the loakinglglass which wouW 
 render shavmg a perfectly easy and delightful process when the 
 ship didn't roll too much); we arrived, at last, at the unanimous 
 conclusion that it was rather spacious than otherwise: thoughTdo 
 verily believe that, deducting the two berths, one above the other 
 than which nothing smaller for sleeping in was eve- made excent 
 
 have the door behind, and shoot their fares out. like sacks of coaS 
 upon the pavement. ^ 
 
 Having settled this point to the perfect satisfaction .f all parties 
 concerned and unconcerned, we sat down round the fire in the ladies' 
 cabin-just to try the effect. It was rather dark, certainly; but some- 
 body said, of course it would be light, at sea. " a proposition to whTch 
 we all assented; echoing "of course, of course;" though it would be 
 exceedingly difficult to say why we thought so. I rfmember too 
 when we had discovered and exhausted another topic of consolation 
 m the circumstance of this ladies' cabin adjoining our state-room? anS 
 the consequently immense feasibiHty of sitting there at all times and 
 seasons and had fallen into a momLtary silLce. lefning our faces 
 on our hands and looking at the fire, one of our party said with the 
 solemn air of a man who had made a discovery. ''What a relish 
 mu led claret will have down here!" which appeaJ^d to strike us ^1 
 most forciDly; as though there were something spicy and high- 
 flavoured m cabins, which essentially improved that composition 
 and rendered it quite incapable of perfection anywhere else ' 
 
 Ihere was a stewardess, too. actively engaged in producing clean 
 
 fnlln 'f n'f 'r'°'^? '^°"^ *^^ ^^'y '^''^''^' theSas. an^d fiom 
 hSrh^ . °' '"'.'^ °* '"'^ ^'^^"^ mechanism, that it made one^ 
 head ache to see them opened one after another, and rendered it 
 
 finH .ht^^''*'^'*'"^"^''.""''*^"'^^" *° ^«"°^ ^^' proceedings and to 
 find that every nook and corner and individual piece of furniture was 
 something else besides what it pretended to be. and was a mere tra^ 
 wa^ itT&uStf jTn^e^ °^ '''''' ''^-^'- ^'^^ ostensiblT^ur^SS 
 God bless that stewardess for her piously fraudulent account of 
 January voyages! God bless her for her clear recoflectton of the 
 compamon passage of last year, when nobody was ill. and everybody 
 dancing from morning to night, and it was "a run" of tweTv7davs 
 and a piece of the purest frolic, and delight, and jolhty i^Arhappiness 
 be with her for her bright face and her pleasant Scotch tongu^whrch 
 had sounds of old Homp m i+ fr.f »«,, ^^n^... 2. „ ^s^jc, wui^^^ 
 
 predictions of fair wmds and fine weather (all wrong, or I shouldn^t 
 
12 
 
 American Notes 
 
 be half so fond of her); and for the ten thousand small fragments of 
 genuine womanly tact, by which, without piecing them ellboratelv 
 together, and patchmg them up into shape and form and case and 
 pointed apphcation. she nevertheless did plainly show that all youne 
 mothers on one side of the Atlantic were near and close at hand to 
 their little children left upon the other; and that what seemed to the 
 umnitiated a serious journey, was. to those who were in the secret a 
 mere frolic, to be sung about and whistled at! Light be her heart 
 and gay her merry eyes, for years 1 
 
 The state-room had grown pretty fast; but by this time it had 
 expanded into something quite bulky.. and almost boasted a bav- 
 wmdow to view the sea from. So we went upon deck again in high 
 spirits; and there, everything was in such a state of bustle and active 
 preparation, that the blood quickened its pace, and whirled throueh 
 one s veins on that clear frosty morning with involuntary mirthful- 
 ness. For every gallant ship was riding slowly up and down and 
 every little boat was splashing noisily in the water; and knots of 
 people stood upon the wharf, gazing with a kind of "dread delight" • 
 on the far-famed fast American steamer; and one party of men 
 were 'taking m the milk." or. in other words, getting the cow on 
 board; and another were filling the icehouses to the very throat 
 with fresl. provisions; With butchers'-meat and garden-stuff Dale 
 sucking-pigs, calves' heads in scores, beef, veal, and pork, and poultrv 
 out of all proportion; and others were coiling ropes and busy with 
 oakum yarns; and others were lowering heavy packages into the hold- 
 and the purser s head was barely visible as it loomed in a state of 
 exquisite perplexity from the midst of a vast pile of passengers' 
 luggage; and there seemed to be nothing going on anywhere or 
 uppermost in the mind of anybody, but preparations for this mig'htv 
 voyage. This, with the bright cold sun. the bracing air, the crisrlv- 
 curlmg water, the thin white crust of morning ice upon the decks 
 which crackled with a sharp and cheerful sound beneath the lightest 
 tread, was irresistible. And when, again upon the shore, we turned 
 and saw from the vessel's mast her name signalled in flags of iovous 
 colours, and fluttering by their side the beautiful American banner 
 with its stars and stripes.— the long three thousand miles and more 
 
 fj'i°2?^rfu 'u-^^.^'"^ "^^"^^ "^^"*^^ °* absence, so dwindled and 
 laded, that the ship had gone out and come home again, and it was 
 broad spnng already in the Coburg Dock at Liverpool 
 
 T i}^""^ ?°* /i'?,'''''^^ ^""""^ "^y niedical acquaintance, whether 
 Turte. and cold Punch, with Hock, Champagne, and Claret, and all 
 the slight et cetera usually included in an unlimited order for a good 
 dinner— especially when it is left to the liberal construction of my 
 faultless friend. Mr. Radley. of the Adelphi Hotel-are peculiarly 
 calculated to suffer a sea-change; or whether a plain mutton-choo 
 and a glass or two of sherry, would be less likely of conversion into 
 foreign and disconcerting material. My own opinion is. that whether 
 J .„,.„.., .,ei oj. xiiviio-^iccL III Liicau particulars, ou the eve oi a sea- 
 
American Notes 13 
 
 voyage, is a matter of little consequence; and that, to use a common 
 phrase, it comes to very much the same thing in the end. " Be this 
 BS It may, I know that the dinner of that day was undeniably perfect: 
 that It comprehended all these items, and a great many more; and 
 that we all did ample justice to it. And I know too. that, bating a 
 certain tacit avoidance of any allusion to to-morrow; such as niay 
 be supposed to prevail between delicate-minded turnkeys, and a 
 sensitive prisoner who is to be hanged next morning; we got on very 
 well. and. all things considered, were merry enough. 
 
 When the morning— <Ae morning— came, and we met at breakfast 
 It was cunous to see how eager we all were to prev at a moment's 
 pause in the conversation, and how astoundingly gay everybody was- 
 the forced spirits of each member of the little party having as much 
 likeness to his natural mirth, as hot-house peas at five guineas the 
 quart, resemble in flavour the growth of the dews, and air, and rain 
 of Heaven But as one o'clock, the hour for going aboard, drew near 
 this volubility dwindled away by little and little, despite the most 
 pereevenng efforts to the contrary, until at last, the matter being now 
 quite desperate, we threw off all disguise; openly speculated upon 
 where we should be this time to-morrow, this time next day. and so 
 forth; and entrusted a vast number of messages to those who intended 
 returning to town that night, which were to be delivered at home and 
 elsewhere without fail, within the very shortest possible space of time 
 after th^ amval of the railway train at Euston Square. And commis- 
 sions and remembrances do so crowd upon one at such a time that 
 we were still busied with this employment when we found ourselves 
 lusea. as It were, into a dense conglomeration of passengers and pas- 
 senger fnends and passengers' luggage, all jumbled together on the 
 deck of a small steamboat, and panting and snorting off to the packet 
 which had worked out of dock yesterday afternoon and was now 
 lying at her moorings in the river. 
 
 And there she is! all eyes are turned to where she lies, dimly dis- 
 cernible through the gathering fog of the early winter afternoon- 
 every finger is pointed in the same direction; and murmurs of interest 
 and admiration— as "How beautiful she looks!" "How trim she is!" 
 —are heard on every side. Even the lazy gentleman with his hat on 
 one side and his hands in his pockets, who has dispensed so much 
 consolation by inquiring with a yawn of another gentleman whether 
 1 r.u^?"^ across"— as if it were a ferry— even he condescends to 
 
 Ik *.f .T.^^'/""^ ''"^ ^'^ ^^^^' "^ wh° should say. "No mistake 
 about that: and not even the sage Lord Burleigh in his nod. included 
 half so much as this lazy gentleman of might who has made the pas- 
 sage (as everybody on board has found out already; it's impossible to 
 say now) thirteen times without a single accident! There is another 
 passenger very much wrapped-up, who has been frowned down by 
 tne rest, and morally trampled upon and crushed, for presuming to 
 mquire with a timid interest how long it is since the noor Pr*.«id^«f 
 went down. He is standing close to the lazy gentleman, and says 
 
14 
 
 American Notes 
 
 with a fctint smile that he beHeves She is a very strong Ship; to which 
 the lazy gentleman, looking first in his questioner's eye and then very 
 hard in the wind's, answers unexpectedly and ominously, that She 
 need be. Upon this the lazy gentleman instantly falls very low in the 
 popular estimation, aqd the passengers, with looks of defiance, whis- 
 per to each other that he is an ass, and an impostor, and clearly don't 
 know anything at all about it. 
 
 But we are made fast alongside the packet, whose huge red funnel 
 is smoking bravely, giving rich promise of serious intentions. Packing- 
 cases, portmanteaus, carpet-bags, and boxes, are already passed from 
 hand to hand, and hauled on board with breathless rapidity. The 
 officers, smartly dressed, are at the gangway handing the passengers 
 up the side, and hurrying the men. In five minutes' time, the little 
 steamer is utterly deserted, and the packet is beset and over-run by 
 its late freight, who instantly pervade the whole ship, and are to be 
 met with by the dozen in every nook and corner: swarming down 
 below with their own baggage, and stumbling over other people's; 
 disposing themselves comfortably in wrong cabins, and creating a 
 most horrible confusion by having to turn out again; madly bent 
 upon opening locked doors, and on forcing a passage into all kinds of 
 out-of-the-way places where there is no thoroughfare; sending wild 
 stewards, with elfin hair, to and fro upon the breezy decks on un- 
 intelligible errands, impossible of execution: and in short, creating the 
 most extraordinary and bewildering tumult. In the midst of all this, 
 the lazy gentleman, who seems to have no luggage of any kind — not 
 so niuch as a friend, even — lounges up and down the hurricane deck, 
 coolly pufiing a cigar; and, as this unconcerned demeanour again 
 exalts him in the opinion of those wli j have leisure to observe his 
 proceedings, every time he looks up at the masts, or down at the 
 decks, or over the side, they look there too, as wondering whether he 
 sees anything wrong anywhere, and hoping that, in case he should, 
 he will have the goodness to mention it. 
 
 What have we here? The captain's boat! and yonder the captain 
 himself. Now, by all our hopes and wishes, the very man he ought to 
 be! A well-made, tight-built, dapper little fellow; with a ruddy face, 
 which is a letter of invitation to shake him by both hands at once; 
 and with a clear, blue honest eye, that it does one good to see one's 
 sparkling image in. "Ring the bell!" "Ding, ding, ding!"the very bell 
 is in a hurry. "Now for the shore — who's for the sliore?" — "These 
 gentlemen, I am sorry to say." They are away, and never said. 
 Good b'ye. Ah! now they wave it from the little boat. "Good b'ye! 
 Good b'ye!" Three cheers from them; three more from us; three more 
 i/om them: and they are gone. 
 
 To and fro, to and fro, to and fro again a hundred times ! This 
 waiting for the latest maii-bags is worse than all. If we could have 
 gone oflE in the midst of that last burst, we should have started trium- 
 phantly: but to lie here, two hours and more in the damp fog, neither 
 staying at home nor going abroad, is letting ont gradually down into 
 
American Notes 
 
 15 
 
 the very depths of dulness and low spirits. A speck in the mist, at 
 last! That's something. It is the boat we wait for! That's more to the 
 purpose. The captain appears on the paddle-box with his speaking 
 trumpet; the officers take their stations; all hands are on the alert; 
 the flagging hopes of the passeng:ers revive; the cooks pause in their 
 savoury work, and look out with faces full of interest. The boat comes 
 alongside; the bags are dragged in anyhow, and flung down for the 
 moment anjnivhere. Three cheers more: and as the first one rings upon 
 our ears, the vessel throbs like a strong giant that has just received 
 the breath of life; the two great wheels turn fiercely round for the 
 first time; and the noble ship, with wind and tide astern, breaks 
 proudly through the lashed and foaming water. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE PASSAGE OUT 
 
 We all dined together that day; and a rather formidable party we 
 were: no fewer than eighty-six strong. The vessel being pretty deep 
 in the water, with all her coals on board and so many passengers, 
 and the weather being calm and quiet, there was but little motion- 
 so that before the dinner was half over, even those passengers who 
 were most distrustful of themselves plucked up amazingly; and those 
 who in the morning had returned to the universal question, "Are you 
 a good sailor?" a very decided negative, now either parried the 
 inquiry with the evasive reply, "Oh! I suppose I'm no worse than 
 anybody else;" or, reckless of all moral obligations, answered boldly 
 "Yes:" and with some irritation too, as though they would add, "I 
 should like to know what you see in me, sir, particularly, to justify 
 suspicion!" 
 
 Notwithstanding this high tone of courage and confidence, I could 
 not but observe that very few remained long over their wine; and , 
 that everybody had an unusual love of the open air; and that the 
 favourite and most coveted seats were invariably those nearest to the 
 door. The tea-table, too, was by no means as well attended as the 
 dinner-table; and there was less whist-playing than might have been 
 expected. Still, with the exception of one lady, who had retired with 
 some precipitation at dinner-time, immediately after being assisted 
 to the finest cut of a very yellow boiled leg of mutton with very frreen 
 capers, there were no invalids as yet; and walking, and smoking, and 
 drinking of brandy-and-water (but always in the open air), went on 
 with unabated spirit, until eleven o'clock or thereabouts, when 
 I'tuming in" — no sailor of seven hours' experience talks of going to 
 bed — became the order of the night. Ine perpetual tramp of boot- 
 heels on the decks gave place to a heavy silence, and the whole 
 
i6 
 
 American Notes 
 
 human freight was stowed away below, excepting a very few 
 stragglers, like myself, who were probably, like me. afraid to go there 
 To one unaccustomed to such scenes, this is a very striking time on 
 shipboard. Afterwards, and when its novelty had long worn off it 
 never ceased to have a peculiar interest and charni for me. The gloom 
 through which the great black mass holds its direct and certain 
 course; the rushing water, plainly heard, but dimly seen; the broad 
 white, gUstenmg track, that follows in the vessel's wake; the men on 
 the lookout forward, who would be scarcely visible against the dark 
 sky. but for their blotting out some score of glistening stars; the 
 helmsman at the wheel, with the illuminated card before him, shining 
 a speck of light amidst the darkness, like something sentient and of 
 Divme intelligence; the melancholy sighing of the wind through block 
 and rope, and chain; the gleaming forth of light from every crevice' 
 nook, and tiny piece of glass about the decks, as though the ship were 
 tilled with fire in hiding, ready to burst through any outlet, wild with 
 Its resistless power of death and ruin. At first, too. and even when the 
 hour, and all the objects it exalts, have come to be familiar it is 
 difficult, alone and thoughtful, to hold them to their proper shapes 
 and forms. They change with the wandering fancy; assume the 
 semblance of things left far away; put on the well-remembered aspect 
 of favourite places dearly loved; and even people them with shadows 
 Streets, houses, rooms; figures so like their usual occupants, that they 
 have startled me by their reality, which far exceeded, as it seemed to 
 me, all power of mine to conjure up the absent; have, many ^nd 
 many a time, at such an hour, grown suddenly out of objects with 
 whose real look, and use. and purpose, I was as well acquainted as 
 with my own two hands. 
 
 My own two hands, and feet likewise, being very cold, however 
 on this particular occasion, I crept below at midnight. It was not 
 exactly comfortable below, it was decidedly close; and it was 
 impossible to be unconscious of the presence of that extraordinary 
 compound of strange smells, which is to be found nowhere but on 
 board ship, and which is such a subtle perfume that it seems to enter 
 at every pore of the skin, and whisper of the hold. Two passengers' 
 wives (one of them my own) lay already in silent agonies on the sofa- 
 and one lady's riaid {my lady's) was a mere bundle on the floor, 
 execrating her destiny, and pounding her curl-papers among the 
 stray boxes. Everything sloped the wrong way: which in itself was 
 an aggravation scarcely to be borne. I had left the door open a 
 moment before, in the bosom of a gentle declivity, and. when I 
 turned to shut it, it was on the summit of a lofty eminence. Now 
 every plank and timber creaked, as if the ship were made of wicker- 
 work; and now crackled, like an enormous fire of the driest possible 
 twigs. There was nothing for it but bed; so I went to bed. 
 
 It was pretty much the same for the next two days, with a tolerably 
 fair wind and dry weather. I read in bed (but to this hour I don't 
 know what) a good deal; and reeled on deck a little; drank cold 
 
American Notes j^ 
 
 any danger. I rouse mvself' Jn^ i^T 1 ^^^^^^ whether there's 
 
 p/ngi„glndlea7ngS'livetd°^^^^^^ ^^-^"8 - 
 
 afloat, except my shoes which Li^2',^ ^® smaller articles are 
 
 and dry. like a couple of Ji^S^^^^ tf/^^ 7 ^ carpet-bag. high 
 the air! and behol? theTool^\%?asf^^^^ 
 
 sticking fast upon the ceiUnT At Se s^me f/^"?^^'^^*^ *^^ ^^"' 
 disappears, and a new one if opened inThe Cor Th ^^k'^^^'^^^ 
 comprehend.thatthestate-roomTsstLdingo^^^^^^^ ' ^^^^^ *° 
 
 witll^s nVv^n^^roflh^ts^ tl7sr "n~ ^^^^ --P^tible 
 "Thank Heaven!'' Lewro/^'s alfn ^eg"''- ^'^°'' °^^ ^^^ ^^^ 
 wrong, she seems to Lve startTfo;^^rH ^ T! "^t" ""^ «^« « 
 actually running of its o^ accord w^h K ' S'"'^ ,*° ^^ ^ *^^^^t^^e 
 legs, through every variet^ of hn^« ^ ul°»^'' ^^^« ^^^ failing 
 stantly. Before on^cln so m„rh «« ""^ P'^?"' ^"^ stumbling con- 
 the air Before she has weirdone^h^^^^^^^^ '^^T ^ ^^^^ ^^^P "^^o 
 
 water. Before she hLTaintd f ht c ' f *^u ^^ ^ "^^^P ^^^^ ^^^ the 
 The instant she s ofhef wf she/uT^^^^^^^^ 'I' *^?^.^ ^ summerset, 
 on staggering hea.vinsZrS{i^t^^^ backward. And so she goes 
 
 throbbfng. rSlLrr/d ^SLdT^thS^ P^^^^^^' 
 
 ments. sometimes by turns and qoTm.f 1«!^f u 1 ^^^^® "^^^e- 
 disposed to roar for mercy. ''^"'^^^"^es altogether: until one feels 
 
 A steward passes. "Stewardl" "<?ir?" "wiu x • ^, 
 rfo you call this?" "RatWa hp.^. c ^^^* " *^^ "^^^ter? what 
 
 A head-wind! ImaSne a humt7/^ ''''' '''' ^^^ ^ head-.vind." 
 
 fifteen thousand SaSs^nTnTb^nt Ton d'l' "'^^l!'^ r^' ^^^ 
 
 titting her exactly between the eve. ^h? '°l ^^^ ^^*^^' ^^ 
 
 advance an inch ImaJinrfho t-^f whenever she attempts to 
 
 artery of her huge S swofl J ^^^ "^'^^ ^^^^ P^l^e and 
 
 .mentf sworn to To on L d^ L^. ^Tk*^"^ .""^er this maltreat- 
 
 roaring.therainKg alUnfuriZr ^^"^ ™^ ^°^""S. the sea 
 
 sky both dark and w S.^and L cCdsTn^fLTI'''' ^^'' ?^"*"^^ *^« 
 
 waves, making another ocean in thp^ir' f,^,^ff^J sympathy with the 
 
 on deck and down below the ?readnfh *S ?" ^^'' *^^ <^lattering 
 
 shouts of seamen; the^urRHn^ ?n t^'^'^'fi^^^' *^^ ^°"^ ^^^^^e 
 
 scuppers; with. ev;ry Lw and tLn th.V^i^- °* "J^*^^ *^"°^g^ the 
 the planks aboU with th^ H^. *^ '}*"! strikmg of a heavy sea upon 
 
 within a vault;Ard there fs the ht^^' ^"^^y/°.""^ °^ thunder heasd 
 
 I say nothing o^what rial te ^^^^^^^ J^°"^^ "^°^"i°g- 
 
 ship: such as the breakLg^?^lass and crn^v '^''Tk '^' ^°^^^« «* t^« 
 
 of stewards, the gambols overhead on" ^'^' *^^ t^^^bling down 
 
 _ ^„,„ .. =g|auuiiU3 raisea iix their varioiio'o^.,^ , — ' *"" -ivjui csjiiiaratmg 
 
 ink cold Bwho were too iU to gelTrto breaSSri'^l*" seventy passenger! 
 
 up to breakfast. iTaynotWng^fTS 
 
 for 
 
xB 
 
 American Notes 
 
 although I lay listening to this concert for three or four days, I don't 
 think I heard it for more than a quarter of a minute, at the expiration 
 of which term, I lay down again, excessively sea-sick. 
 
 Not sea-sick, be it understood, in the ordinary acceptation of the 
 term: I wish I had been: but in a form which I have never seen or 
 heard described, though I have no doubt it is very common. I lay 
 there, all the day long, quite coolly and contentedly; with no sense of 
 weariness, with no desire to get up, or get better, or take the air; with 
 no curiosity, or care, or regret, of any sort or degree, saving that I 
 think I can remember, in this universal indifference, having a kind 
 of lazy joy — of fiendish delight, if anything so lethargic can be digni- 
 fied with the title-— in the fact of my wife being too ill to talk to me. 
 If I may be allowed to illustrate my state of mind by such an example, 
 I should say thai I ivas exactly in the condition of the elder Mr. 
 Willet, after the incursion of the rioters into his bar at Chigwell. 
 Nothing would ha /e surprised me. If, in the momentary illumination 
 of any ray of intelligence that may have come upon me in the way of 
 thoughts of Home, a goblin postman, with a scarlet coat and bell, had 
 come into that little kennel before me, broad awake in broad day, and, 
 apologising for being djamp through walking in the sea, had handed 
 me a letter directed to myself, in familiar characters, I am certain I 
 should not have felt one atom of astonishment: I should have been 
 perfectly satisfied. If Neptune himself had walked in, with a toasted 
 shark on his trident, I should have looked upon the event as one of 
 the very commonest everyday occurrences. 
 
 Once — once — I found myself on deck. I don't know how I got 
 there, or what possessed me to go there, but there I was; and com- 
 pletely dressed too, with a huge pea-coat on, and a pair of boots such 
 as no weak man in his senses could ever have got into. I found myself 
 standing, when a gleam of consciousness came upon me, holding on 
 to something. I don't know what. I think it wa's the boatswain: or it 
 may have been the pump: or possibly the cow. I can't say how long 
 I had been there; whether a day or a minute. I recollect trying to 
 think about something (about anything in the whole wide world, I 
 was not particular) without the smallest effect. I could not even make 
 out which was the sea, and which the sky, for the horizon seemed 
 drunk, and was flying wildly about in all directions. Even in that 
 incapable state, however, I recognised the lazy gentleman standing 
 before me: nautically clad in a suit of shaggy blue, with an oilskin 
 hat. But I was too imbecile, although I knew it to be he, tb separate 
 him from his dress; and tried to call him, I remember. Pilot. After 
 another interval of total unconsciousness, I found he had gone, and 
 recognised anocher figure in its place. It seemed to wave and fluctuate 
 before me as though I saw it reflected in an unsteady looking-glass; 
 but I knew it for the captain; and such was the cheerful influence of 
 his face, that I tried to smile: yes, even then I tried to smile. I saw by 
 his gestures that he addressed me; but it was a long time be' "j I 
 could make out that he remonstrated against my standing up to my 
 
jwain: or it 
 
 g up to my 
 
 American Notes jg 
 
 knees in water— as I was; of course I don't know whv I fri^ f 
 
 soles: at the same time endeavouring I am told fn !if h^ • .1 
 pool. Finding that I was quite insensible tnd for Vh« ? ^"^^ '" .*^* 
 he humanely conducted me beSw ' ^ ^'""^ ^ "'^°^^*^' 
 
 There I remained until I eot bptf*»r- anff^r^ i. 
 
 introduction to me from a rri.^li^^'^l^n'^l^t^t'^ t Wow 
 with his card, on the morning of the head-winrt ■ »nH t ■ 
 
 troubled with the idea that he might be np an* we'll anrt»T i°°§ 
 times a day expecting me to call upon LrJ'in ti^saioon t ii^^**"^ 
 him one of those cast-ir„„ imagesLi will not c'all ttem meT^who 
 ask, with red faces, and lustv voices what «,.» .ir.i,„„ men— who 
 whether it really is as bad as^t is\%;:ltntrd'rb^'S:S was'™,^ 
 tortunng indeed; and I don't think I ever felt surh w.^* was very 
 
 SrL^S^rb-n-^i-d^o-T^^^^^ 
 
 It was materiaUy assisted though. I have no dnnhf k„ o v 
 gale If wind, which came slowly up kt sunset wh^n^; ^ ^ ^l^""^ 
 
 rvi^7rtVJiiird«'ii«SSii^^^ 
 
 Its bursting into full violence was almost areUef f^^^ndous, that 
 
 sToos^Sh T ° ^ ^""?^^ S"^^^ g"^^' ^"^ l^^^is her back-that she 
 
 mmmm 
 
 f^«"l*;f f ifP.^'-i' «\^-^ »''" it^ Bhriek. and every d^o oflw Z 
 
 and^ip^iriLrrdX^ir.-^--^^^^^^^ 
 
 5l 
 
 
20 
 
 American Notes 
 
 cannot express it Thoughts cannot convey it. Only a dream can call 
 It up again, in all its fury. rage, and passion. ' 
 
 And yet. m the very midst of these terrors. I was placed in a situa- 
 tioii so exquisitely ridiculous, that even then I had as stroig a sense 
 of Its absurdity as I have now, and could no more help laughing than 
 I can at any other comical incident, happening unde? cir" umstance* 
 the most favourable to its enjoyment. About midnight wrshfoned * 
 sea, which forced its way through the skylights, burft open tSors 
 abo^e, and came raging and roaring down into the ladies' cabin to 
 whn^h'^H ^^^' consternation of my wife and a little Scotch laS;- 
 who, by the way, had previously sent a message to the captaki by the 
 stewardess, requestmg him, with her compliments, to have a steel 
 conductor immediately attached to the top of every mast and to the 
 Thf ""'^^ Ik ^l^^'J^^} the ship might not be stXck T; hghtnine 
 They and the handmaid before mentioned, being in such ecSs of 
 fear that I scarcely knew what to do with them. iLturalVSu^^^^ 
 myself of some restorative or comfortable cordial; and nothing better 
 occurring to me. at the moment, than hot brandy-and-water I «m 
 
 w'ltho^t'h T.''- '' '"" rv!*^""' ^^^y- '' ^^^"g impos^sibL to stand o?S 
 without holding on. they were all heaped together in one corne- of ^ 
 
 long sofa-a fixture extending entirely acrosi the clbin-wheTe thev 
 
 dung to each other in momentary expectation of being dSmied 
 
 When I approached this place with my specific, and w£ aW t' 
 
 admmister it with many consolatory expressions to Se newest 
 
 sufferer, what was my dismay to see them all roll slowly do^ tTthe 
 
 other end ! And when I staggered to that end. and heldVut^e gl2s 
 
 once more, how immensely baffled were my good intentions bvt^! 
 
 ? ^IT?^^''^'^^' ^"'."^' ^"^ ^^^^ ^» rolling back aga^nTrsupUse 
 
 L ,r ^'i^^r "Pu^^^^ ^°^ *h^^ «°^^ ^°^ at least f quarter of an 
 hour without reaching them once; and by the time I did cSch them 
 the brandy-and-water was diminished; by constant sniilin a ^^o 
 
 eas^onful. To complete the group, it'is Lc^a^ toT^^^^^^^^^ 
 this disconcerted dodger, an individual very pale W sea sfclSess 
 who had shaved his beard and brushed his hair last. SLveri^or and 
 whose only article of dress (linen not included) weie a pafr S^ dread 
 nought trousers; a blue jacket, formerly admired upon tKames at 
 Richmond; no stockings; and one slipper ^ ihames at 
 
 «.T?i*^^ outrageous antics performed by that ship next mominc 
 which made bed a practical pke. and getting up, by any proc?ss?ho& 
 of falling out. an impossibility; I say nothing. But ^ylSSrSketh^ 
 utter drearmess and desolation that met my eyes whefl^iteraUv 
 
 tumbled up" on deck at noon, I never saw. Ocean a^dTky were aU 
 of one dull, heavy, uniform, lead colour. There was no extend of nroi^ 
 pect even over the dreary waste that lay around us° for the sea ran 
 high, and the horizon encompassed us like a large black hoop X^ewed 
 from the air, or some tall bluff on shore, it would hate bSmSt 
 and stupendous, no doubt; but seen from the wet and rSw S^t 
 
 only imoressed nn#» mHrHKr o«^ ^„^^a.ii- t ., , i^fung aeCKS, It 
 
 . o-.^„..jr «ii^x irciiiiuiiy . in xne gaie ol last night the 
 
earn can call 
 
 American Notes 21 
 
 ai'd" *:L^'A^™,=™';f^^^ °- "°w of the ,ea Uk. a walnut-sheU; 
 The planking of the mrffli il *'u tT" '*8«°' "' "^^Y boards, 
 wheels were^exposed and Ltr^ ^nH*"?^ been torn sheer away. The 
 spray about the de^ks at ranH^'J' r.-^*' "'""""' ='"'' ''"'bed their 
 topmasts struckfSo^iTlsttriggllJnir^o?^^^^^^ 
 ''^'^rn^o^^oo^^l^l^atr^e'^S^^^^^^^^^^^^ bj ht^^^-^^l;. "'=*• 
 
 husbind at New York t^h^ i° H "^!"*'2"^^' °° ^^' ^^V *« J^in he; 
 Secondly and thirdly a^hnn..^ settled there three years before, 
 with some Amerkan Luse- Hnr^f./n^'^^u^^'^'^^'"^"^^"' connected 
 thither his beautiLl y^ng w^t^w^^^^^ T^H'^' ^"^ ^^^^"8 
 a fortnight, and who wal thrJ^irir ^^^ ^^^. ^^^°^ ™^"ied but 
 country girl I have evTseen FoilfhF^'^'II'Kr °^ ^ *^°""^^y English 
 couplef newly married ton ff A Fourthly fifthly, and lastly, another 
 
 thef frequ^rXiri^^ercha^^^^^^ wlfo * ^?1^" ''°"^ *^*^ endearments 
 they were rath4 a mysterious r.?n T J ^T ""^ "'^^^ *^an that 
 
 more guns witHm than r1^^ n^ ^^* *^^ gentleman carried 
 andhadtwogreaXsonboar^^^^^^^ ^°^I ^ shooting-coat, 
 
 oer that he tried hot foS p^fand Lff^H^^ ^ '^'^^^' 
 
 ness; and that he took tresertm^H ■ / ^"^ f!^ ^^ ^ ^"^^ ^^^ sea-sick- 
 with astonishLg perseyerance^ ^""/^f^ *? ^^^^ ^^y ^^^^^ day. 
 
 curious, that th'erdecTdedT;^^^^ "^'' '°^ *^^ -formation of t^e 
 
 bal. weTsuilh^swS "^^ "^°^^«* unprecedentedly 
 
 able, about an hoSw non^ cabm. more or less faint and miser- 
 duriig which intei^^?J! ^°°?' ^""^ ^^y ^j^wn on the sofas to recover; 
 state ^f the wJndX'm^L^^^^^^^ to communicate the 
 
 weather is always ffoW S iS!l ^^°* **^ changmg to-morrow (the 
 rate of sailing and so forth ^^ to-morrow, at sea), the vessel's 
 of, for there^snosun t?tak?f?^^K'°"^ *^^'^ ^^^^ °°^^ to tell us 
 will serve for ^l^tL rest He^tu^''' ^"* ^ ^'^<^^P^on of one day 
 
 be hgLTnough^^^^^^ 'TP°'^ °"^^^^^^^ *° ^«^d. if the place 
 
 bell rings and l-h../ > "^^ ^^"^^ ^"^ talk alternately. At oL a 
 
 baked loktoes and .3.'"' ?^"' ^^^'^ ^^^^ ^ steaming d°sh of 
 
 face. COM ham ' saU beef ^r ?lrh "'^'^ "^^1'^' ^"^ P^^*^^ ^^ P^^^ 
 collops. We Ml to VirTrf +1, perhaps a smoking mess of rare hot 
 
 haye^g;erapStL^^^^ ^^^^'T' "^' ^^ °^"^^ ^' ^« ^^^ (we 
 
 fire will huS^twm^eSlt T ^' ^"""^ ^' P°''^^^^ ^^^"t it. If the 
 we all remark to Sfh otwTh?] -^ ^'^ ^"1*^ ^^"^^f"^" " ^t won't, 
 ourselves with coTts and Hnf^? it's very cold, rub our hands, cove^ 
 
 and read (^ovi^as aforlTiS ^"?/'? ^°^" ^^^^ *° ^oze. talk. 
 K^n -._-_ ^^ ^vi,"ea as aioresaid), until dmner-^imA Af «„^ xu..' 
 
22 
 
 American Notes 
 
 !!^n ? ^l ''''^*'* P*^'.**" ^ ^^''^^ medicinaUy. We sit down at table 
 Sr^mn^H T' ^JrT^"»y *han before^; p'rolong the meal wi?h a 
 rather mouldy dessert of apples, grapes, and oranges; and drink our 
 7^\^^ brandy-and-water. The bottles and glaLs ere Su^n 
 the table, and the oranges and so forth are rolling about accordinjto 
 
 «^Hp ^"'L?"'* *^." '-^^P'^ ^*y' ^^«" ^^^ ^^^or comes aowrby 
 special night y mvitation. to join our evening rubber: immediately on 
 
 the irH'"'^^ ''\T^^ ^ P^'*y ^* ^^i«*' ^"d ^ it is a rough n^ht^S 
 we take them At whist we remam with exemplary gravity (deductine 
 
 h^ chfn 'n'J^^'^fr''.^^^ ' ^^^^' '"^ ^ sou'-west;r hat tied uS 
 ^r thl^', .1 P'lot;coat: makinrr the ground wet where he stands 
 By this time the card-pJaying is over, and the bottles and glassTs^e 
 
 never JLto'b.T''T^^ ^°^ '""'T ^" ^^"^^^»' *^« captain (who 
 ?nr fhe^n! i • ^"u"* ;^ "l'^^'" "*"* °^ humour) turns up his coat collar 
 for the deck agam; shakes hands all round; and goes laughing outinto 
 the weather as merrily as to a birthday party. ^ 
 
 As to daily news, there is no dearth of that commodity This 
 passenger is reportea to have lost fourteen pounds at vTnTet-un in 
 the saloon yesterday; and that passenger drinks his bottle of cham 
 
 £?ws Th" \fZ' '"^ ^° V .^°^^ '' (^^^ ^-'y - clerk)° noMy 
 whTw^ pngineer has distinctly said that there never wZ 
 
 XenT^Z^u^Ti ^^^t?f-?^d four good hands are ill, and ha^ 
 
 SrieaL The !h^^^^^ ^^^ir ^"" °^ ^**^^' ^"^ ^» *h« cabins 
 
 b^en founH ,lr?nt P^T^'k'^*''"^*/^ Swigging damaged whisky, has 
 been found drunk; and has been played upon bv the fire-enmn/ inSi 
 
 rnVr^"'- ^"/^^ t''^''^' ^^^' ^^"^" doC-^tSrs afvariou 
 dmnar-tames, and go about with plasters in various places. The bake? 
 ^ill. and so IS the pastry-cook. A new man. horribly indisposed has 
 been required to fill the place of the latter officer; aSS been 
 propped and jammed up with empty casks in a little houS u^n 
 deck and conimanded to roll out pie-crust, which he protest (S 
 
 S'^^'^-^^'V* ' w>f' ^ 1° ^^" '} ^°^^ ^'- ^^-«' A Teen miS 
 
 D^^;^ .1 ?V ""^ *^^ '"*^'L^'* °^ *^^^^ ^"g^t incidents at sea. 
 rumir r" ^;; ."^^ber and such topics as these, we were 
 
 wi?h HffiW ^V^''^*^''*^ '"1° "^^^^^^ Harbour, on the fifteenth nX 
 with little wind and a bright moon-indeed, we had made the Lirfit 
 
 shin r*'[ ^^*^^"^^' ^"? P"t the pilot in c ,rge-when suddenly the 
 ship struck upon a bank of mud. An imm Jiate rush on deck took 
 
 m W^f '°"''"' '^" ''f' 7''' ^^^^^^d i" ^" i^^^t^nt; and for a few 
 minutes we were m as lively a state of confusion as the greatest lov^ 
 
 clstran" Tther tT '° ^^^; ^'^ r"^"^^^^' ^^ ^^^and wate^ 
 casits. and other heavy matters, being all huddled together aft 
 
 however^ to lighten her in the head, she was soon got ofr and af^; 
 
 some driving on towards an uncomfortable line o^f ohtl^iXZ 
 
 vx^mity naa Deen amiounced very early in the disaster by a loud cry 
 
American Notes ^q 
 
 anchor in a Strang.. onSish S^f n "^ S- J"*''J' ** "^"PP^ 
 co.!d recogni*. although there wafan?'»ntl^\"°'"''^'.°" **"<* 
 
 stiLrtfar^e^rd ^b^^'atelrthl "'l"*"' ?" ">« "«'«• 
 stoppage 01 the enehie whirh h^ < k^*^ , sudden and unexpected 
 
 ear^injessantl/r rtny'1a^"tf :^S§ Thl l^f «,» °" 
 
 ?s^nf rtUo'uxrth: r ^ '--^«""tg*titi°?L it?,*: 
 
 stoke,f aL*3e" hremeS torn bXl"''"'' ^ "^^ ^"^ 
 clustered together in a smoky^^^p Sut thrw^h'''' °"^ !'.;'' 
 engme-room, comparing notes in whlperaAft^fi,^'^**'' °' .*''^ 
 rockets and firin? siirnal »..n= in tv,. ^ ■7^*^'^ throwing up a few 
 land, or at leaS ofSnlTHli,* l^P*?.' ^""^ ^^"^ f™-" the 
 sound presenttng itseT ^ wi?H 7 " ",'*'""'* ^"^ °*^" »«" or 
 
 over in case the tide were running n,,f if ^f^., ^^"^ heehng 
 to remark how desneratelv^n^^ , lu^""^ "^"^^ '* ^^«« amusing 
 one short mSe H^had Ld h^.T.^ *^^ ?T' P"«* ^^^«^« i^ 
 during the whole voyage had been S^.' °".* ^'^"^ Liverpool, and 
 
 boS;r;td*rres?rnf„h^u'i^rettS.^^/^^^^^^ 
 
 bnnging with him a fnl*»raKKr +0I1 **''-"™^°' i^e otticer m command 
 
 :sivfthe°^£S5S^?S^^^^^^^ 
 
 had done anything but fraudrntt ^^^a W«e wav to'^Th'"""-"/ 
 speciallv to decpiv*» fh^n- or,^ ^ "y luw d, nitie way mto the mist, 
 
 Sfwe'fad anTh"^"- " "^' ^'»"* theUfplTe'tn'th'/^ori? ™ 
 sot'i^oron the^itor;5t°;irthe.*° '^•,;^"* ^ ''""''•' *"«• ^" 
 
 ^^.irntrttltiSS^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 Eased by this rerort and hvff?» ™'I° '^ ^""'"^ *•>«'■ -boots, 
 ebj.. weUedTfttTrtt ^t^S'^^t^^^ '''^ ^^ ^' ^^ 
 
 I was dressing about half-past nine next dav wW t h. • u 
 humed me on deck. When I hadWt i?ov"'i^kr'^!"..*'l^°°!f f*"™ 
 ""u aamp, and there were bleak hills "ali" round "^sTNo^'we^S 
 
 if t\ 
 
 l5 
 
24 
 
 American Notes 
 
 gliding down a smooth, broad stream, at the rate of eleven miles an 
 hour: our colmirs flying gaily; our crew rigged out in their smartest 
 clothes; our officers in uniform again; the sun shining as on a brilliant 
 ^P"\*?^y *" England; the land stretched out on either side, streaked 
 witn light patches of snow; white wooden houses; people at their 
 doors; telegraphs working; flags hoisted; wharfs appearinif ships- 
 quays crowded with people; distant noises; shouts; men and boys 
 running down steep places towards the pier: a)l more bright and sky 
 and freshto our unused ej^es than words can paint them. We came 
 to a wharf, paved with uplifted faces; got alongside, and were made 
 fast, after some shouting and straining of cables; darted, a score of us 
 along the gangway, almost as soon as it was thrust out to meet us 
 and before it had reached the ship— and leaped upon the firm glad 
 eartn again ! 
 
 I suppose this Halifax would have appeared an Elysium, though it 
 had been a curiosity of ugly dulness. But I carried away with me a 
 most pleasant impression of the town and its inhabitants, and have 
 preserved it to this hour. Nor was it without regret that I came home, 
 without having found an opportunity of returning thither, and once 
 more shaking hands with the friends I made that day 
 
 It happened to be the opening of the Legislative Council and 
 General Assembly, at which ceremonial the forms observed on the 
 commencement of a new Session of Parliament in England were so 
 closely copied, and so gravely presented on a small scale, that it was 
 like looking at Westminster through the wrong end of a telescope 
 The governor as her Majesty's representative, delivered what may 
 be called the Speech from the Throne. He said what he had to sav 
 manfully and well. The military band outside the building struck up 
 God save the Queen " with great vigour before his Excellency had 
 quite finished; the people shouted; the in's rubbed their hands- the 
 out s shook their heads; the Government party said there never was 
 such a good speech; the Opposition declared there never was such a 
 bad one; the Speaker and members of the House of Assembly with- 
 drew from the bar to say a great deal among themselves and do a 
 little: and, in short, everything went on, and pron:ised to go on iust 
 as It does at home upon th like occasions.^ 
 
 The town is built on the side of a hill, the highest point being com- 
 manded by a strong fortress, not yet quite finished. Several streets 
 of good breadth and appearance extend from its summit to the 
 water-side, and are intersected by cross streets running parallel with 
 the nyer. The houses are chiefly of wood. The market is abundantly 
 supplied; and provisions are exceedingly cheap. The weather being 
 unusually mild at that time for the season of the year, there was no 
 sleighmg: but there were plenty of those vehicles in yards and by- 
 places, and some of them, from the gorgeous quality of their decora- 
 tions, might have " gone on" without alteration as triumphal cars 
 in a melodrama at Astley's. The day was uncommonly fine- the air 
 Q idim iieditiixUi, me vvnuit; uspcct oi tne town cheerful 
 
American Notes 2^? 
 
 thriving, and industrious. *^ 
 
 len^tl^hlv'nrcol^^^^^^^^ -^ -^^-^« the mails. At 
 
 two or three choice spirits who hf ^L^ T"" P^^^^ngers (including 
 and champagne^rr^jfu^nd ?y^gTn?^^^^^^^^ - » 
 
 oT£?^Sr ' ^^^ -^^-^ were^gr;^.^^n\^^t„^^^^^^^^ ^ "s??^' 
 
 tumS^Slel"^^^^^^^^^^ ^X^^yoi Fundy. we 
 
 On the next afternoon that fs?oii. ?^* ^"^ ^" "^^^^ ^^y. 
 
 secondof January an American^^Lu^^ T ^^t^^^^y. the twentir- 
 afterwards the BriSnnS sSlm^n^^^^^^^ ^"d soon 
 
 days out. was telegraph^ at Cton ' ' '"^ ^'"'^°°^' ^^^^^^^^ 
 
 The indescribable interest with which I sfrpin^,i r^ 
 first patches of American soil Deeo^d h J m^f k n T^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ 
 sea. and followed them L thev sweltn k "^^^^^^^^^om the green 
 ceptible degrees, into a'L'n^TnuTuf iLVcLT'c^T' T^^^^ 
 exaggerated. A sharp keen wind blew dT^H L. !' ^ ^^''^^^^ ^ 
 prevailed on shore; and the S was most tvf^rv^^^^^ ^^'^ ^^°^* 
 mtensely clear, and drv and bri^hf ^hll fu I ^* ^he an- was so 
 only endurable, but delkious ^ ' ^* *^' temperature was not 
 
 sideTheVoXi^nd\r Th'^^^^^^^^^ "^^' ^^'^ - — along- 
 
 should have had them^Sopen ^nd ^ll?-^^^ ^ ^'^"'^ ^ 
 
 -are topics which I will ™Drolon;Th1<f "^ "^^ °^j^cts 
 
 will I more than hintlt m3^S^^^^ ^^^""^^ Neither 
 
 party of most active perTonrwho ^r^ilK??*^^!''' ^^PP^^ing that a 
 their lives as we appr?rchpH VL scrambled on board at the peril of 
 that industrio^: daSTttoml;X^^^^^ ~T to 
 
 of news slung about the neck<5 nf «nlf ' ^^1? ?^ leathern wallets 
 hands of all thev were Fnfw uT' ^^"^ the broad sheets in the 
 gentleman in a ^ScoS^^ '^Tj"" P^^«°^ (^« one 
 
 ^ As quick as possible." said I. 
 Right away.?" said the waiter. 
 
 Alter a moment's hesitation. I answered " I " ^f h. a 
 Not right awav?" ct\^a +>,! **".^w*^rea i , at hazard, 
 that made me sTS" *^' ^^'*""' ^^th an amount of surprise 
 
 it Lthi'nrt.^?.l°.^^^^^^^^^^^^ "No; I would rather hav. 
 K.,.. ^, ,v -•- •"^- J^ i"tc it very much " 
 
 At th.s. I reaily thought the waiteYmust have gone out of his mind: 
 
SS6 
 
 American Notes 
 
 as I believe he would have done, but for the interposition of another 
 man, who whispered in his ear, "Directly." 
 
 "Well! and that's a fact!" said the waiter, looking helplesslv at 
 me: "Right away." & f y »■ 
 
 I saw now that "Right away" and "Directly" were one and the 
 same thing. So I reversed my previous answer, and sat down to 
 dinner in ten minutes aftenvards; and a capital dinner it was. 
 
 The hotel (a very excellent one) is called the Tremont House. It 
 has more galleries, colonnades, piazzas, and passages than I can 
 remember, or the reader would believe. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 In all the public establishments of America, the utmost courtesy 
 prevails. Most of our Departments are susceptible of considerable 
 improvement in this respect, but the Custom-house above all others 
 would do well to take example from the United States and render it- 
 self somewhat less odious and offensive to foreigners. The servile 
 rapacity of the French off ;ials is sufficiently contemptible; but there 
 is a surly boorish incivility about our men, alike disgusting to all per- 
 sons who fall into their hands, and discreditable to the nation that 
 keeps such ill-conditioned curs snarling about its gates. 
 
 When I landed in America, I could not help bemg strongly im- 
 pressed with the contrast their Custom-house presented, and the 
 attention, politeness and good humour with which its officers dis- 
 charged their duty. 
 
 As we did not land at Boston, in consequence of some detention at 
 the wharf, until after dark, I received my first imprejsions of the city 
 m walking down to the Custom-house on the morning after our arrival 
 which was Sunday. I am afraid to say, by the way. how many offers 
 of pews and seats in church for that morning were made ,o us, by 
 formal note of invitation, before we had half finished our first dinner 
 in America, but if I may be allowed to make a moderate guess 
 without going into nicer calculation, I should say that at least as 
 many sittings were proffered us, as would have accommodated a 
 score or two of grown-up families. The number of creeds and forms of 
 religion to which the pleasure of our company was requested, was in 
 very fair proportion. 
 
 Not being able, in the absence of any change of clothes, to go to 
 church that day, we were compelled to decline these kindnesses, one 
 and all; and I was reluctantly obliged to forego the delight of hearing 
 Dr. Channing, who happened to preach that morning for the first 
 time in. a very long interval. I mention the name of this distinguished 
 
American Notes 27 
 
 «?.^nTS"'P^''^^'^ '^^'^ ^r^^ ^^°"^ I ^o" afterwards had the pleas- 
 ure of becoming personally acquainted), that I may have the cStm 
 
 St Zh "u^:-^""^ tny humble tribute of admiration and respfct o^ 
 tt^i l^'^'*'^' ^""^ character; and for the bold philanthronv w th 
 it^l^lLTJy^'''''''' '^"^^^" '^ ^^^* --* hid'eous b&ru'l 
 To return to Boston. When I got into the streets upon this Sundav 
 mornmg the an- was so clear, the houses wc-2 so br?ht and gav the 
 signboards were painted in such gaudy colours; the ^Ided letter! 
 were so very golden; the bricks were so very red Xltone wnl ^^ 
 very white, the blinds and area railings w?re so ver^ Zen t£ 
 knobs and plates upon the street doSrs so marvelSuSv briS? 
 and twinkling; and all so slight and unsubstantial L appeLancf^ 
 that every thoroughfare in the city looked exactly like a scene inl^ 
 pantomime. It rarely happens in the business stre^ets that a ?rades 
 
 T^;^ei^^l "'°'r '^'^" t^y^^^y ^ tradesman, where eve^body 
 IS a merchant, resides above his store; so that many occupations are 
 often carried on m one house, and the whole front is covered with 
 boards and mscnptions. As I walked along. I kept glancLf up It 
 these boards, confidently expecting to see a few of them chang^hito 
 something; and I never turned a corner suddenly without SfnVou? 
 for the clown and pantaloon, who. I had no doubt, were hTding^n a 
 doorway or behind some pillar close at hand. As io HarleS Sid 
 Columbme I discovered immediately that they lodged (thev ar^ 
 always lookmg after lodgings in a pantomime) at^a very small c^ock 
 maker s one story high, near the hotel; which in adSn^o vaSs 
 synibols and devices, almost covering the whole front had ISea? 
 dial hanging out-to be jumped through, of course. ^^^ ^ g^^^t 
 
 th JcftfTh^. f f ' '* P""?^^ u' ^"^^^ "^^"^ unsubstantial-looking than 
 the city. The white wooden houses (so white that it makes one win V 
 to look at them), with their green jalousie blinds are sTsorinlded .^^ 
 dropped about in all directions, without seeming to have an^^^^^^^ 
 all in the ground; and the small churches and chlpels are so Drim .nH 
 bright and highly varnished; that I almost beire^ed ?S who"ealSr 
 Stt'bt'^''" "P P^^^^"^^^^ ^^^^ ^ ^^^^^'« *-y' and^'rtimetinfo a 
 _ The city is a beautiful one. and cannot fail. I should ima^*n*> +^ 
 ITforthe'r^'^r^T^ favourably. The private dweirgTouses 
 and the n,X K ^fT*' ^^T ^"^ "^"^^^^^ the shops extremely good 
 
 the s^f^mit of . hJ f '" V ^''^'°"'"- "^^' ^^^' H°"«« i« bu/t upon 
 "le summit ot a hill, which rises graduallv at fir«+ nnH o*+«, j 
 
 by a steep ascent, almost from thfwater's edee In frontt Z"^^"*^' 
 enclosure, called the Common. The slle Is beautTful an^^^^^^^^ 
 inoH 1 ^ 'hJT'^^^ panoramic view of the whole towran?nS4bour 
 L'nL'rlfharbe^ com„,odio,s offices. ftlntLCwo 
 
 State Zh 'w^/i;J!?„°/i^?^ .?°"«^. of_ Representatives of the 
 
 PQ T eo,7"K * '-'""""S^- "i Liiu otner. tne benate. Such proceedinPQ 
 
 as I .aw here, were conducted with perfect gravity and decorum! 
 
28 
 
 American Notes 
 
 Thlf • ^^?*^u?ll"^^*''^ *° ^'P^« attention and respect. 
 
 There IS no doubt that much of the intellectual refinement and 
 superiority of Boston, is referable to the quiet influence of the Unf 
 versity of Cambridge, which is within three or four Ss of the c^^' 
 The resident professors at that university are gentlemen of learni^; 
 and varied attainments; and are. without one ex?ept rtLf I can cal! 
 to mmd. men who would shed a grace upon, and do honour to anv 
 society in the civilised world. Many of the resident gen?^in Boston 
 and Its neighbourhood, and I think I am not mistaken ^ addhS a 
 large majority of those who are attached to the liberal professSns 
 there, have been educated at this same school. Whatever the defects 
 of American universities may be. they disseminate no prejudfces rear 
 no bigots; dig up the buried ashes of no old superstitions neverlnter 
 nose between the people and their improvement; exclude To man 
 because of his religious opinions; above%:ii. in their whole cours^o^ 
 
 Z"Jnrti:tn:T^^^^^^^^^^^^ ^ --''' -^ ^ ^-^^ one%:^o? lyinl 
 It was a source of inexpressible pleasure to me to observe th^ 
 almost imperceptible, but not less certain effect, wrough^^^^^^^^ tWs 
 institution among the small community of Boston- and to note a? 
 every turn the humanising tastes and desires it has engendered the 
 affectionate friendships to which it has given rise- the amount of 
 vanity and prejudice it has dispelled. The folden calf they irsWp at 
 Boston IS a pigmy compared with the gilnt efii^ies set uD^n nfh^r 
 parts of that vast counting-house which lies beyofd the AtlLtic and 
 the almighty dollar sinks into something compStelv instnm^ant 
 amidst a whole Pantheon of better gods. P^'^'^^^^y insignificant. 
 Above all. I sincerely believe that the public instifii+inn« o«^ 
 chanties of this capital of Massachusetts are L neLrp^rfe^rL 
 most considerate wisdom, benevolence, and humanity can r^ake 
 them. I never m my life was more affected by the contemplation of 
 happmess under circumstances of privation and berefvement than 
 in my visits to these establishments cavemeni, tnan 
 
 f hif fh^ ^^^^ ^-^^ P^^^'^""* ^^^^"'^^ °^ ^" «"^h institutions in America 
 that they are either supported by the Stato or assisted by the S-ate' 
 
 concert w1t\"ft'' '""f ""' "^'?"? ''' ""''P'^^ ^^^d) thatVhey act S 
 concert with it and are emphatically the people's I cannot h„t 
 
 think, with a view to the principle and its tendency to devate or 
 depress the character of the industrious classes, that ^Public Charitv 
 is immeasurably better than a Private Foundation n^^o+rT^ 
 munificently the latter nxay be end^tl'd'^our own co^^L^r^ 
 It has not. until within these later days, been a very populaVfaThfon 
 with governments to display any extraordinary reg^a?dTr the Sea? 
 mass of the people or to recognise their exi4en?ns improSwe 
 creatures, private charities, unexampled in the history o??he eirth 
 have ansjn. to do an incalculable amount of good amon^the desti 
 t.t. and afflicted But the government of the c^n^r^ h^l^'n^ LI^^^ 
 act nor part m them, is not in the receipt of any portion ofthe"' 
 
 lot* 
 
 grati- 
 
American Notes 20 
 
 tude they inspire; and, offering very little shelter or r«i,-«f k^ ^ ^^ 
 which is to be found in the workhouse AnHfw m I ^^ ^Yond that 
 naturally, to be looked upr by t^e poor rat w' ^ 'r^' "°* "^* 
 quick to correct and punish than a^^fn/ ! f ^ ^^^"^ ^^^t^^"' 
 vigilant in their hour oWd ""^ protector. merciful and 
 
 tJ^lZ^^^^'nt^ittZe- STh?reS's^oYtr^^^ ^""^^^*^^ ^3^ 
 in Doctors' Commons canbundantK nrote 9 ^- '°^^*^^^ 
 old gentleman or lady, surrounded byL^^^^^^^^^^ "^^ 
 
 low average, a will a-week. The old gTnttman or iJ^"" "^°'' ^ 
 
 remarkable in the best of times for go^od tem^^^^ fufenT ''''? 
 pams from head to foot- full of fanr,-^= orT^^ ' ^ i °^ ^^^^^ ^^^ 
 distrust, suspicion, and dishL T^cTncei^^^^^^^^ f,"» °f «Pleen, 
 
 ones, is at last the sole business of such I 1171'.^'''^.'"'^^"^ "^^^ 
 relations and friends (somrorwLm hp^L t*^';' ^^^^t^nce; and 
 inherit a large share Tthf ^rorrtvL^T.v^^^^ 
 cradles speallly disqualified fZ^dev^otfn"^^^^^^^^ ^^^ 
 
 pursuit, on that account) arp sn off«« ^^a ''"'^"^seives to any useful 
 
 farily cut off, ^^relru^^^:Si:^ ^'^^^^^'^^^^'^ ^^'^- 
 family, down to the remote t cousin is keot in ? r,^;^!l w° '^''°'^ 
 length it becomes plain that th^ o Hii/ '^ "Perpetual fever. At 
 
 to live; and the plaLrtWsl^c'T ^. *e"n,°;fckX"he:Mrd °"« 
 gentleman perceives that evervhnri,r Li^ cieariy the old lady or 
 poor old dying reUtivf whSe the oM T'^^^''^ .^^^^'"^ ^^^^ 
 another last will-podiivdrt^^^^^^^^^^ tl^^ °^ gentleman makes 
 
 in a china teapot, and expirWnLr?J Th t^ ^^^ «^°^e 
 
 whole of the rL and peTsS eTal'fs^div^^^^^^^^ 
 
 chanties; and that the deadanH anr,^ +^ot V u "\^^®®^ half-a-dozen 
 
 to do a great deal of good at th^^^^^^ '"^ ^"'' '^'^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 passion Ind misery ^ ' ^°'* ""^ ^"^ immense amount of evil 
 
 at'btt'^n.'S^'^p^^^^^^^^^^ for the Blind, 
 
 annual report to^tL corpo^^^^^^^ Thf ^ ^^- *'".'l','' ^^° "^^^e an 
 are admitted gratuitousl? Thot^V^^^^ mdigent blind of that state 
 necticut. or fr^ the states I? M.W adjoining state of Con- 
 
 are admitted by a warrant from^l!; T^f °"^ ?^ ^^^ Hampshire, 
 belong; or. failW Tha" multTnH ? . "^^'"^ ^^^^ respectively 
 the payment of about Wnf '^5""^*^ ^"'^"^S ^^^^ fiends, for 
 
 boar^Ind l^stlttanT^e'n^rtSf^^^^^^^^ f^ ^^^^^ 
 
 hTw^r s^:- ;t,-^^^^^^^^ eaTh^pi^i;: 
 
 exceed tw^offars per wLk^ T^ ^^ ^^^ ^°^^' ^^^^^ will Jot 
 English; "and he wm be crldSd^^fWK^ ""^"^ *^^" ^^^^t shUlings 
 state, or by his friend. p^S^k u-^^ t^^e amount paid for him by the 
 
 of th; stocl wh/cHf uses s^^^^^^ ""^^ ""^ ^^^ ^^^ <^o«t " 
 
 week will be his own Bribe thtdvl^^^^^^^ °"\^°"^^ P«- 
 
 earnings will mnr. fKo^ ^1.^^^ ^^^ ^^ '^^^f ^. known whether his 
 
 si>ou,d:hewillhave7tTtSoptrt^^feri^:L^t''rii'e^^ 
 
 if! 
 
30 
 
 American Notes 
 
 mgs, or not. Those who prove unable to earn their own livelihood will 
 not be letained; as it is not desirable to convert the establishment 
 mto an almshouse, or to retain any but working bees in the hive 
 Those who by physical or mental imbecility are disqualified from 
 work, are thereby disqualified from being members of an industrious 
 community; and they can be better provided for in establishments 
 ntted for the mfirm. • 
 
 I went to see this place one very fine winter morning: an Italian 
 sky above, and the air so clear and bright on every side, that even mv 
 eyes, which are none of the best, could follow the minute lines and 
 scraps of tracery in distant buildings. Like most other publi- institu- 
 tions m America, of the same class, it stands a mile or two without 
 the town, in a cheerful healthy spoi and is an airy, spacious hand- 
 some edifice. It IS built upon a height, commanding the harbour 
 When I paused for a moment at the door, and marked how fresh and 
 free the whole scene was— what sparkling bubbles glanced upon the 
 waves, and welled up every moment to the surface, as though the 
 world below, like that above. wer« radiant with the bright day and 
 gushing over m its fulness of light: when I gazed from sail to sail 
 away upon a ship at sea, a tiny speck of shining white, the only cloud 
 upon the still deep, distant blue— and. turning, saw a blind boy with 
 his sightless face addressed that way. as though he too had some 
 sense withm him of the glorious distance: I felt a kind of sorrow that 
 the place should be so very light, and a strange wish thflt for his sake 
 It were darker. It was but momentary, of course, and a mere fancy, 
 but I felt it keenly for all that. ^ 
 
 The children were at their daily tasks in different rooms, except a 
 few who were already dismissed, and were at play. Here, as in many 
 institutions, no uniform is worn; and I was very glad of it for two 
 reasons. Firstly, because I am sure that nothing but senseless custom 
 and want of thought would reconcile us to the liveries and badges we 
 are so fond of at home. Secondly, because the absence of these things 
 presents each child to the visitor in his or her own proper character 
 with Its mdividuality unimpaired; not lost in a dull. ugly, monoton- 
 ous repetition of the same unmeaning garl}: which is really an im- 
 portant consideration. The wisdom of encouraging a little harmless 
 pnde m personal appearance eve i among the blind, or the whimsical 
 absurdity of considering charity and leather breeches inseparable 
 companions, as we do. requires no comment. 
 
 Good order, cleanliness, and comfort, pervaded every corner of the 
 building. The various classes, who were gathered round their teachers 
 answered the questions put to them with readiness and intelligence' 
 and m a spirit of cheerful contest for precedence which pleased me 
 very much. Those who were at play, were gleesome and noisy as other 
 children. More spiritual and affectionate friendships appeared to exist 
 among them, than would be found among other young persons suffer- 
 ing under no deprivation: but this I exnentpH anH wac r^r-^^^^^A 4.^ 
 hnd. It is a part of the great scheme of Heaven's merciful considera- 
 
American Notes 
 
 5X 
 
 tion for the afflicted. 
 
 In a portion of the building, set apart for that purpose, are work- 
 shops for bhnd persons whose education is finished, and who have 
 acquured a trade, but who cannot pursue it in an ordinary manu- 
 factory because of their deprivation. Several people were at work 
 here; making brushes, mattresses, and so forth; and the cheerf-ilness 
 mdustry. and good order discernible in every other part of the build- 
 mg. extended to this department also. 
 
 On the ringing of a bell, the pupils all repaired, without any guide 
 or leader, to a spacious music-hall, where they took their seats in an 
 orchestra erected for that purpose, and listened with manifest delight 
 to a voluntary on the organ, played by one of themselves. At its con- 
 clusion the performer, a boy of nineteen or twenty, gave place to a 
 gu-1; and to her accompaniment they all sang a hymn, and afterwards 
 
 ?u u°!,? "'''• i* ^^^ ""^"^ ^^^ *° ^°«k "Pon and hear them, happy 
 though their condition unquestionably was; and I saw that one blind 
 girl, who (being for the time deprived of the use of her limbs, by 
 Illness) sat close beside me with her face towards them, wept silently 
 the while she listened. ^ 
 
 It is strange to watch the faces of the blind, and see how free they 
 are from all concealment of what is passing in their thoughts; observ- 
 mg which a man with eyes may blush to contemplate the mask he 
 wears Allowing for one shade of anxious expression which is never 
 absent from their countenances, and the like of which we may readilv 
 detect in our own faces if we try to feel our way in the dark, every 
 Idea, as ic rises within therji, is expressed with the lightning's speed 
 and nature s truth If the company at a rout, or drawing-room at 
 court, could only for one time be as unconscious of the eyes upon 
 them as blind men and women are, what secrets would come out and 
 what a worker of hypocrisy this sight, the loss of which we so liiuch 
 pity, would appear to be ! 
 
 a Sf W?nl^H°'r""!? ^° "^t ^i ^ '^* ^°^" ^" ^^°*^^^ ^«o°^. before 
 t?^'ul ' ?^' ^""^ '^""'^' destitute of smell; and nearly so of 
 taste: before a fair young creature with every liuman. faculty, and 
 hope and power of goodness and affection, inclosed within her deli- 
 cate irame and but one outward sense— the sense of touch. There 
 
 ? anf ;.^ '?rT; ^""^^ "P- ^' '^ ^"""' ^" ^ "^^^b^^ ce». impervious 
 t any ray of light, or particle of sound; with her poor white hand 
 
 peeping through a chink in the wall, beckoning to some good man for 
 
 help, that an Immortal soul might be awakened 
 
 radinnf ^H?""-^ I n''^^^ ""P"" ^^^' *^^ ^^^P ^^^ ^''^^^- Her face was 
 radiant with intelligence and pleasure. Her hair, braided by her own 
 
 d^v.l' ^^%b°""d about a head, whose intellectual capacity and 
 
 Its bio^r"'' T' ^^f ^^i?"y expressed in its graceful outlinJ. aSd 
 
 ts broad open brow; her dress, arranged by herfelf. was a pattern of 
 
 neatness and simplicity; the work she had knitted, lav h««,d« w 1,°. 
 
 rSn'^J"'^''"!^ "^^ """ ^^^ ^^"^ '^^ ^^^"^d upon.-Fr(;m~the mournful 
 rum of such bereavement, there had slowly risen up this gentle 
 
32 
 
 f 1 
 
 American Notes 
 
 tender, guileless, grateful-hearted beinR 
 
 roi-.;S\:r'e;eUdrrdoiVst\'Xres^^^ ^ '^'^''^ """- "-d 
 I took it up. and saw ttot she had ^,H '*^"°" "I^" the ground. 
 
 wore hersel?. and fastened ittoufitTmtt^eT """' '"^•' ^' ^'"' 
 for^t ^XZ^'l^t:Z;j:f^^^-^^^ and 
 engaged in an animated commun^lZn fu'"^ *^^ '"'"•^""^ ^i-e 
 beside her. This was a JavourTte SeSwi^i' th^ .'""'""^ ^">° »* 
 couM s. the face of her fair instructor shfw^JlKt^^rieJ'iet 
 
 -^'o'Z:ZTtt:n^;^Z'^^^^^^!l^^ °'^l^ history, from an 
 .3 a^ver, heautifu. Ind tou?hln7n"artarera„7^^^^^^^ 
 
 Ha|rpsh^roL%'hrt'^e^i^irof";fetj£.'TSo%h^^^ 
 
 half old that her parenis K? S^d to re^ hlr Ih"^ "^ ^T '""' ^ 
 severe fits, which seemed to rack Tct Lm^^ 1 S^" ™^ ^"''J«<=t *» 
 of endurance: and life was held bvtl^fc k "* I* "^y""* "^■' ?»«■«■• 
 year and a half old, shriemed^o t»n iJ''^ *^""«- >"■* "hen a 
 
 "^^h:^hTr'm1„\T'^'""*~ 
 
 deve'io^dlLmsdtrr^Tdu^nr.rr ^"^ '° *^^^^^ 
 
 she enlcTyed, she appir?(makr/d^f.\n " ™''?' °' health which 
 
 stpl^-tetrnd— o^^S^SF^'^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 and hearing wer^^ne for ^ve? The no^rth'Sf ^ S"**"""^" ^«" 
 
 ended. The fever rtged durinT..™!,'^ . } s suffenngs were not 
 
 kept in bed in a S^keJSr^lZZ^l^^l^'Jr "r*"^ ^"^ -"« 
 unsupported, and two years tefor-^hl ^i^ 1°" *^ <=°"'1<* "alk 
 now observed that her sense n?«m^n ?",''' "" "P ^" "^ay- " was 
 
 and consequently, h"tTert::rrsmtl'ZnO^^^^^^^ 
 
 heaihItm?d^:stred"/dX wal^^f*"? *■>" ^^ child's bodily 
 ticeship of 'ife and the worid ^"^ *° '"*"■ "P°° "er appren- 
 
 theTomb"w:re"a;^„T]trTo ^StJ^^ darkness and the sUence of 
 ing smUe, no father°sTOTce taS^SrtT'^fl'^'i-°'^h her answer- 
 brothers and siste-s weie hnf ^„! ^ ^ '™*^** his sounds:_they, 
 
 touch but whicfdird" oUromThe L'^"?„"romfhr ^*^'' "^^ 
 warmth, and in the now«»r r^f i/^ i^ ^iture ot the house, save in 
 
 resi«cts'fromthedo7an7the°'cir'"°*'°"' ''"^ °°* «™" '^ *hese 
 at the imu^ortal spirit which had been implanted within her 
 
American Notes 
 
 wi?h the form, density weieht ^nHhi * f *' ""= ^"""^^ 'f'^'""'" 
 lay her hands uponlLToufJed^t t he°/ SeulJ^^Vanr ""} 
 arms, as she was occupied about the hou^ anH hH a "S^ ^"'^ 
 
 sralittTe"! a'^d t*o° ^^ ^'y*'''". SAt^'ve^ttS t'o" 
 
 tuJt: M''Tomlr:ttg":^rhe'r ^etr^^' *''^,* *« "P"- 
 that the moral efiects of L7^et^LJ^S!<- ^' T^ '""'*^<^: ^"d 
 Those who cannot be enliehLrrt J™ 1 '°°" ""^^an to appear. 
 
 by force; and this, coupfedt H^her Llf °riva«L°°'^ "! ^°"*^°"=<J 
 reduced her to a worse condition tL^tl ^ Au°T' ™"=* '°°" have 
 but for timely and unhoped for aW ^' °' *"' '^^''^ *'^* P^"^"", 
 
 imm^diltd/JSieLrt: Hanove^fsefheV" ??" °H^*' <;''"'^- -<> 
 formed figure- a stronrfj^marl!!^ ^°"°"^ ''«'■ "'th a well- 
 
 a large an^ biutif'uuTl^ap^edtadSh^^^^^^^^ temperament; 
 
 action. The parents were eLi^taduced to c"nsentTo h^^^ ^" "'"'l^ 
 Boston, and on the ith of o/i-nho, .0 consent to her commg to 
 Institution. * October, 1837, they brought her to the 
 
 tw7,^Lu uSltheraretco'::S?e7'''-r'. '''" -'''*»S -"out 
 
 somewhat familiar wittthTinmrte" the a«emn[ Z"^ '"'f'^' ^"'^ 
 her knowledge of arbitrary «^= k„ v, v ^P* ^^^ "^^^^ to ^ive 
 thoughts with others ^ * ' '^ '^'"'"' *« """^^ interch^ge 
 
 bund'uTaTngu\V'of™grnn*t°he'"h''°P*fl^'*^^ *° 80 on to 
 
 -ts?^td^:=^a¥ 9?-p^^ 
 
 and the mode and cnnriiti/,1^ „* express her idea of the existence, 
 
 would have beereasy bu? ve/yTnfs"?' ?*5'3',«>ing. The formed 
 
 difficult, but, if Lc'oSplSLer7e^ efiectTal 1 1"''" ''r^" '"'^ 
 to try the latter. ^ enectual. I determmej therefore 
 
 use!?u'ch'^t\nTes1:rt IZnTv' \'^''"'« ^^«^'- '" ^■"'"on 
 labels with thei names nrin'l^H.'; ^"r"'/,"- ^"'' "' ^ting upon them 
 carefully, and soon of cm ?,f h" k""''" • u"*.*""' ^"'^ ^^e felt very 
 spoo « differed Ts much fmm /h!'"®'"?''f , *'"" *'^^ "°"''^d line^ 
 dm-ered from the keyTform °°''"' ""'^ * ^^-^ ^^ '^^ ^P°°» 
 
 the'^':"errpu"i'„tohe?hifdfa„"d'*h *'^ ^^T '^'^^ P""*^'' "P- 
 — •.- •, ,,'^ " "^^ nanas. and she .•so'^n r>Ksof,r«^ 4-v,--^ -^i- 
 
 aixiiijar to the onp«? npQf<:^H /^r, +1,^ x.- i ~ "i^C, "'"^"^ ^'-^^ i^"<ii. uiey were 
 
 Of this simikri?rbvTvL/th.lK'^^ ^^^ '^°^"^ ^^^ perception 
 
 ^^^ miiarity by laying the label h ey upon the key, and the label 
 
34 
 
 American Notes 
 
 \ 
 
 spoon upon the spoon. She was encouraged here by the natural si^n 
 of approbation, patting on the head. ^ natural sign 
 
 .^.P^^^f^^ process was then repeated with all the articles which 
 she could handle; and she very easily learned to^l^ZthlZ 
 labels upon them. It ^as evident, however that ^^e onfv inftiH^^^ 
 exercise was that of imitation and memory She recol^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 ^?^^^:^^^^^^ -^ ^^^^^^^^Z^^n o1 
 
 +^ i,^^*^"" ^ "I^'v ' instead of labels, the individual letters were ^iv^n 
 to her on detached bits of paper: they were arranapH ^^XT •? 
 as to spell 6 oo k key, ScJtLn theyVe^e mS up^fa heaJ^^^^^^^ 
 
 S^rf "^ft ^""^ ^'' *° ^""^"^^ *^^"^ herself so iL?o express the 
 words book.key, &c.: and she did so express the 
 
 this truth dawned upon ier S "pread ?ts i4m to hTr"/ "T 
 
 or . ; r \"^ ^"^'"^^ ^^^"^ h^^ded to her. for instance a Dencli 
 
 Se|rt ?oLr-d ^r^ rh~e'ni^si! — - 
 Sh^ThTrro'^r^p-irtL*-^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 begun to work i^^^i.rZ^!:^i;^:^^:-l^^ had 
 
American Notes 
 
 3S 
 
 A Tl !^ rT^' ^^"* *^^^^ "months after she had com- 
 menced that the first report of her case was made, in which it w^ 
 stated that 'she has just learned the manual alphabet, ns used bvTS 
 deaf mutes, and it is a subject of delight and wonoer to see how 
 rapidly, correctly, and eagerly, she goes on with her labours uZ 
 teacher gives ht: a new object, for instance, a pencil, first lets her 
 examine It. and get an idea of its use. then teaches her how to spell 
 It by making the signs for the letters with her own fingers the chUd 
 grasps her hand, and feels her fingers, as the different letters are 
 formed; she urns her head a little on one side like a person stenrnR 
 closely: her lips are apart; she seems scarcely to breathe- and he? 
 countenance at first anxious, gradually changes to a smile as she 
 comprehends the lesson. She then holds ip her tiny finger^and sp^Us 
 the word m the manual alphabet; next, she takes her t™s?nd 
 arranges her letters; and last, to make sure that she is rS^t she 
 takes the whole of the types composing the word, and pin els them 
 h^'X'whr^Tlr'^ the pencil, or 'whatever the obj£ may ^ 
 The whole of the succeeding year was passed in gratifying her 
 eager mquu-ies for the names of every object which she Sould possibly 
 handle; m exercising her in the use of the manual alphabet; in^extend^ 
 mg m every possible way her knowledge of the physical relat^ns of 
 things; and m proper care of her health. relations oi 
 
 " 'It has been ascertained beyond the possibility of doubt that 
 she cannot see a ray of light, cannot hear the least sound and never 
 exercises her sense of smell, if she have any. Thus her mind SwelL S 
 
 nfJ^ 'of ^^"^ '^^^T^' ^' P'°*°"^^ ^' t^^t °f a closed tomb at miS 
 night. Of beautiful sights, and sweet sounds, and pleasant odours 
 
 bl^wr ^T'P^^°" '. ^^^ertheless. she seems as hCy and pl^^^^^^^ 
 as a bird or a lamb; and the employment of her intellectual facS 
 or the acquirement of a new idea, gives her a vivid pleasure which 
 
 Ke'l^utT^^l/'J.^^j; ^"P^^"^^ ''^'^'''' ^^eleyT:ee::^t 
 Irepine but has all the buoyancy and gaiety of childhood She is 
 
 fond of fun and frolic, and when playing with the rest of the children 
 Iher shrill laugh sounds loudest of the group. cniidren. 
 
 I " 'When left alone, she seems very happy if she have her knitting 
 or sewing, and will busy herself for hours; if she have To occumtiSf 
 she evidently amuses herself by imaginary dialogues, or by re^ca^^^^^^^^ 
 past impressions; she counts with her fingers, or spells out namef 
 of things which she has recently learned, in the manual a^phat^Hf 
 
 tfld' T*"'- '^.^l' ^°""^y self-communion she seems to reason 
 Ireflect and argue; if she spell a word wrong with the fingers of her 
 
 b^sLn'of dt' '"' w'!^ ''?^.^ ? "^*^ ^^^^^^*' ^« her Sher does! 
 EieaH^nl ""^^^Sr^tlT 4 "^_^*' *,^- «h- pats herself upon the 
 -, _-_ -....,^^ p-xvaacQ. jfiv aoiiieumes purooseiv sneik a ^x7r,r,i 
 
 md then with the right hand strikes the left, as if to correct S 
 
 'i it 
 
. -^i Ma ... i fc - a»fea»gfcii. .i^;^ -/ 
 
 36 
 
 Amencan Notes 
 
 " 'During the >car she has attained great dexterity in the use of 
 the manual alphaljet of the deaf mutes; and she spells out the words 
 and sentences which she knows, so fast and so deftly, that only those 
 accustomed to this language can follow with the eye the rapid motions 
 of her fingers. 
 
 " 'But wonderful as is the rapidity with which she writes her 
 thoughts upon the air, still more so is the ease and accuracy with 
 which she reads the words thus written by another; grasping their 
 hands in hers, and following every movement of their fingers, as 
 letter after letter conveys their meaning to her mind. It is in this 
 way that she converses with h'^r blind playmates, and nothing can 
 more forcibly show the power of mind in forcing matter to its pur- 
 pose than a meeting between them. For if great talent and skill are 
 necessary for two pantomimes to paint their thoughts and feelings 
 by the movements of the body, and the expression of the counte- 
 nance, how much greater the difficulty when darkness shrouds them 
 both, and the one can hear no sound. 
 
 " 'When Lciura is walking through a passage-way, with her hands 
 spread before her, she knows instantly every one she meets, and 
 passes them with a sign of recognition: but if it be a girl of her own 
 age, and especially if it be one of her favourites, there is instantly a 
 bright smile of recognition, a twining of arms, a grasping cf hands, 
 and a swift telegraphing upon the tiny fingers; whose rapid evolu- 
 tions convey the thoughts and feelings from the outposts of one 
 mind to those of the other. There are questions and answers, ex- 
 changeo of joy or sorrow, there are kissings and partings, just as 
 between little children with all their senses.' 
 
 "During this year, and six months after she had left home, her 
 mother came to visit her, and the scene of their meeting was an 
 interesting one. 
 
 "The mother stood some time, gazing ^ith overflowing eyes upon 
 her unfortunate child, who, all unconscious of her presence, was 
 playing about the room. Presently Laura ran against her, and at 
 once began feeling her hands, ex?<,mining. her dress, and trying to 
 find out if she knew her; but not succeeding in this, she turned away 
 as from a stranger, and the poor woman could not conceal the pang 
 she felt, at finding that her beloved child did not know her. 
 
 "She then gave Laura a string of beads which she i^sed to wear 
 at home, which were recognised by the child at once, who, with 
 much joy, put them around her neck, and sought me eagerly to say 
 she understood the string was from her home. 
 
 "The mother now sought to caress her, but poor Laura repelled 
 her, preferring to be with her acquaintances. 
 
 "Another article from home was now given her, and she began 
 to look much interested; she examined the stranger much closer, 
 and gave me to understand that she knew she came from Hanover; 
 she even endured her caresses, but would leave her with indifference 
 at the slightest signal. The distress of the mother was now painful 
 
American Notes 
 
 37 
 
 to behold; for, although she had feared that she should not be 
 recognised, the painful reality of being treated with cold indifierence 
 by a darling child, was too much for woman's nature to bear. 
 
 "After a while, on the mother taking hold of her again, a vague 
 idea seemed to flit across Laura's mind, that this could not be a 
 stranger; she therefore felt her hands very eagerly, while her coun- 
 tenance assumed an expression of intense interest; she became very 
 pale; and then suddenly red; hope seemed struggling with doubt and 
 anxiety, and never were contending emotions more strongly painted 
 upon the human face: at this moment of painful uncertainty, the 
 mother drew her close to her side, and kissed her fondly, when at 
 once the truth flashed upon the child, and all mistrust and anxiety 
 disappeared from her face, as with an expression of exceeding joy 
 she eagerly nestled to the bosom of her parent, and yielded herself 
 to her fond embraces. 
 
 "After this, the beads were all unheeded; the playthings which 
 were offered to her were utterly disregarded; her playmates, for 
 whom but a moment before she gladly left the stranger, 'now vainly 
 strove to pull her from her mother; and though she yielded her usual 
 instantaneous obedience to my signal to follow me, it was evidently 
 with painful reluctance. She clung close to me, as if bewildered and 
 fearful; and when, after a moment, I took her to her mother, she 
 sprang to her arms, and clung to her with eager joy. 
 
 "The subsequent parting between them, showed alike the affection. 
 the intelligence, and the resolution of the child. 
 
 "Laura accompanied her mother to the door, clinging close to her 
 all the way, until they arrived at the threshold, where she paused, 
 and felt around, to ascert in who was near her. Perceiving the 
 matron, of whom she is very fond, she grasped her with one hand, 
 holding on convulsively to her mother with the other; and thus she 
 stood for a moment; then she dropped her mother's hand; put her 
 handkerchief to her eyes; and turning round, clung sobbing to the 
 matron; while her mother departed, with emotions as deep as those 
 of her child. 
 
 "It has been remarked in former reports, that she can distinguish 
 different degrees of intellect in others, and that she soon regarded, 
 almost with contempt, a new-comer, when, after a few days, she 
 discovered her weakness of mind. This unamiable part of her 
 character has been more strongly developed during the past year. 
 
 "She chooses for her friends and companions, those children who 
 are intelligent, and can talk best with her; and she evidently dislikes 
 to be with those who are deficient in intellect, unless, indeed, she 
 can make them serve her purposes, which she is evidently inclined 
 to do. She takes advantage of them, and makes them wait upon her, 
 
 various ways shows her Saxon blood. 
 "She is fond of having other children noticed and caressed by the 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 i '. t; 
 
 
38 
 
 American Notes 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 teachers, and those whom she respects; but this must not be carried 
 too far. or she becomes jealous. She wants to have her share, which 
 If not the hon's, is the greater part; and if she does not get it. she savs' 
 'My mother will love me: b . ^ o^yi>, 
 
 ';Her tendency tc imitation is so strong, that it leads her to actions 
 which must be entirely incomprehensible to her. and which can give 
 her no other pleasure than the gratification of an internal faculty 
 She has been known to sit for half an hour, holding a book before 
 her sightless eyes, and moving her lips, as she has observed seeing 
 people do when reading. 
 
 "She one day pretended that her doll was sick; and went through 
 all the motions of tending it. and giving it medicine; she then put 
 It carefully to bed. and placed a bottle of hot water to its feet, laugh- 
 ing all the time most heartily. When I came home, she insisted upon 
 my going to see it, and feel its pulse; and when I told her to put a 
 blister on its back, she seemed to enjoy it amazingly, and almost 
 screamed with delight. 
 
 "Her social feelings, and her affections, are very strong; and when 
 she is sitting at work, or at her studies, by the side of one of her little 
 friends, she will break off from her task every few moments, to hug 
 and kiss them with an earnestness and warmth that is touching to 
 behold. ; ° 
 
 "When left alone, she occupies and apparently amuses herself 
 and seems quite contented; and so strong seems to be the natural 
 tendency of thought to put on the garb of language, that she often 
 solUoquizes m the finger language, slow and tedious as it is. But it is 
 only when alone, that she is quiet: for if she becomes sensible of the 
 presence of any one near her. she is restless until she can sit close 
 beside them, hold their hand, and converse with them by signs 
 
 'In her intellectual character it is pleasing to observe an insatiable 
 thirst for knowledge, and a quick perception of the relations of things 
 In her moral character, it is beautiful to behold her continual glad- 
 ness, her keen enjoyment of existence, her expansive love, her un- 
 hesitating confidence, her sympathy with sufiEering. her conscientious- 
 ness, truthfulness, and hopefulness." 
 
 Such are a few fragments from the simple but most interesting 
 and instructive history of Laura Bridgman. The name of her great 
 benefactor and friend, who writes it. is Dr. Howe. There are not 
 many persons. I hope and believe, who. after reading these passages 
 can ever hear that name with indifference. 
 
 A further account has been published by Dr. Howe, since the 
 report from which I have just quoted. It describes her rapid mental 
 growth and improvement during t ,velve months more, and brings 
 her little history down to the end of last year. It is very remarkable 
 that as we dream m words, and carry on imaginary conversations' 
 in which we speak both for ourselves and for the shadows who appear 
 to us m those visions of thp niahf cr» aha Vio^Mr^nr ^^ 1™ i 
 
 finger alphabet m her sleep. And it has b^e^ ascertained that w^^n 
 
American Notes 
 
 39 
 
 her slumber is broken, and is much disturbed by dreams, she ex- 
 presses her thoughts in an irregular and confused manner on her 
 fingers: just as we should murmur and mutter them indistinctly, in 
 the like circumstances. 
 
 I turned over the leaves of her Diary, and found it written in a 
 fair legible square hand, and expressed in terms which were quite 
 intelligible without any explanation. On my saying that I should 
 like to see her write again, the teacher who sat beside her, bade her, 
 in their language, sign her name upon a slip of paper, twice or thrice. 
 In doing so, I observed that she kept her left hand always touching, 
 and following up, her right, in which, of course, she held the pen. 
 No line was indicated by any contrivance, but she wrote straight 
 and freely. 
 
 She had, until now, been quite unconscious of the presence of 
 visitors; but, having her hand placed in that of the gentleman who 
 accompanied me, she immediately expressed his name upon her 
 teacher's palm. Indeed her sense of touch is now so exquisite, that 
 having been acquainted with a person once, she can recognise him 
 or her after almost any interval. This gentleman had been in her 
 company, I believe, but very seldom, and certainly had not seen 
 her for many months. My hand she rejected at once, as she does 
 that of any man who is a stranger to her. But she retained my wife's 
 with evident pleasure, kissed her, and examined her dress with a 
 girl's curiosity and interest. 
 
 She was merry and cheerful, and showed much innocent playful- 
 ness in her intercourse with her teacher. Her delight on recognising 
 a favourite playfellow and companion — herself a blind girl — who 
 silently, and with an equal enjoyment of the coming surprise, took 
 a seat beside her, was beautiful to witness. It elicited from her at 
 first, as other slight circumstances did twice or thrice during my 
 visit, an uncouth noise which was rather painful to hear. But on her 
 teacher touching her lips, she immediately desisted, and embraced 
 her laughingly and affectionately. 
 
 I had previously been into another chamber, where a number of 
 blind boys were swinging, and climbing, and engaged in various 
 sports. They all clamoured, as we entered, to the assistant-master, 
 who accompanied us, "Look at me, Mr. Hart! Please, Mr, Hart, look 
 at me!" evincing, I thought, even in this, an anxiety peculiar to their 
 condition, that their little feats of agility should be seen. Among 
 them was a small laughing fellow, who stood aloof, entertaining him- 
 self with a gymnastic exercise for bringing the arms and chest into 
 play; which he enjoyed mightily; especially when, in thrusting out 
 his right arm, he brought it into contact with another boy. Like 
 Laura Bridgman, this young child was deaf, and dumb, and blind. 
 
 Dr. Howe's account of this pupil's first instruction is so very 
 striking, and so intimately connected with Laura herself, that I 
 cannot refrain from a short extract. I may premise that the poor 
 boy's name is Oliver Caswell; that he is thirteen years of age; and 
 
 
40 
 
 American Notes 
 
 that he was in full possession of all his facultip., „n+n +1, 
 four months old. He was then att;^rtiVK ^' x ^*^^ *^^^® ^^^^s and 
 became deaf; in a few weeks mSe h^in J ''^'^'* ^''■"'' ^" ^°"^ ^^^^s 
 showed his anxious Tei^e of ^T.{ 1^^' '" '''' "'°"*^^' dumb. He 
 the lips of other^e'rsoTwhent^^^^ ,f - ^-"ng 
 
 his hand upon his own ac ,f +^ "^ l- ^^^^^^S> and then putting 
 the right posSioi ' ^' '^ *° ^'^"^" ^^"^^^^f that he had them if 
 
 soon^'i: hette'rTd'r^^^^^^ ^^- «°-' "P-claimed itself as 
 
 he could feel or smell in his new^loP..?^''T.'^^"'^^ °^ everything 
 
 the register of furnace h.^ if. ^''-Z^'" '"'*^"^^' treading upon 
 feel it.\nd soLdiso^er^d the w^^^^^^ and be|an^o 
 
 upon the lower one- but this wJt^^ ^^ ?® ""PP^^ P^^te moved 
 upon his face, he apZd hfs ToL^^^^^ ^°'' ^^?' «° ^^^^^ down 
 
 and seemed ti discover that the/ wpI. !?-«"^' *^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^t^er. 
 ^ "His signs were exprls:^ Yn^^^^^^^ f -etal. 
 
 imitation) he had contrived wlr^ - i?" ^^ '"' ^^^"^t^ ^^ 
 
 in. .0.4 Of his ^^^^s:^^^-^:^^ 
 
 omiSd"' sev'er'a steprKrJo^' f ^' ^^ ^^^ ^ther cases, I 
 menced at once with the /nVla^^^^^^^^^ before employed, and corn- 
 articles having short names^such ?. l^^' ^^^'"§^' therefore, several 
 Laura for an auxihar." Tsat IL .nTvl"^' T^' *^- ^^^ with 
 upon one of them, and then wZ\T ^^^'""^ }'' ^^^^> Placed it 
 
 He felt my hands 4erly w'hToth okT^nTot '^' ''''''' ' ^^• 
 pr cess, he evidently tried to imTfi^^ .? ' ^"1? ^"^ "^^ repeating the 
 a few minutes he coVtr ved toTef the^S°*'°"%°^ "^^ ^^S^^'- ^^ 
 one hand, and holding out the oth.r h^%^ iT"" • ""^ ""^ ^"§^^^« ^ith 
 ing most heartily wKe succeeded ? . r "^ '"^'^^^^ ^^^'^' ^^"S^" 
 to agitation; and the two presented". ^ 7^' ^5^' interested even 
 flushed and anxious! a7d W finlr^ T?"- ^' '• ^^*= ^"' ^^^^ ^^^ 
 closely as to follow e^er^otion bft ^o iX?^ '"^ ^"1°"^ °"^^ «° 
 them; while OHver stood attent^^^ h; J^^*^^ ,^^ ""^t to embarrass 
 turued up. his le?t randgrasn^nri t-^'"^" ^^i^^' ^^^ f^^e 
 
 every motion of my finSe?s h?.^^ i ' ^""^.^'^ "^^t held out: at 
 tion; there was an LpSn of an^W ^^^^ ^tten- 
 
 motions; then a smfle^came steal in /o.^ as he tried to imitate the 
 so. and spread int^ a lo^s Wh^th ^' ^' ^!T^^^ ^^ ^^^^^ do 
 felt me p^t his head ind La^ratlap hirr^'t^' succeeded, and 
 and jump up and down^n her Joy ^ ^""^ ^^^'^'^y "P°° the back, 
 
 seem"eVre[^;ir^t^\Ts ^u'c:!::^ .\^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^n hour, and 
 ills attention then began to flna ' I^a r^ "' s»"""g approbation. 
 *cn uegan to nag. and I commenced playing wit' 
 
pee years and 
 in four weeks 
 s, dumb. He 
 often feeling 
 then putting 
 had them in 
 
 ned itself as 
 f everything 
 eading upon 
 id began to 
 plate moved 
 
 lying down 
 o the other, 
 s of metal. 
 .1 language, 
 perfect. 
 
 faculty of 
 as the wav- 
 iilar one for 
 
 gns and to 
 
 ler cases, I 
 and com- 
 )re, several 
 , and with 
 I, placed it 
 tters key. 
 )eating the 
 fingers. In 
 ngers with 
 em, laugh- 
 ested even 
 ' face was 
 g ours so 
 embarrass 
 3. his face 
 Id out: at 
 Jen atten- 
 aitate the 
 could do 
 3ded, and 
 the back, 
 
 lour, and 
 robation. 
 ing wit' 
 
 American Notes 
 
 41 
 
 him. It was evident that in all this he had n erely been imitating 
 the motions of my fingers, and placing his hand upon the key, cup, 
 &c., as part of the process, without any perception of the relation 
 between the sign and the object. 
 
 "When he was tired with play I took him back to the table and 
 he was quite ready to begin again his process of imitation. He'soon 
 learned to make the letters for key, pen, pin ; and by having the 
 object repeatedly placed in his hand, he at last perceived the relation 
 I wished to establish between them. This was evident, because, when 
 I made the letters p in, or p en, or c up, he would select the article. 
 
 "The perception of this relation was not accompanied by that 
 radiant flash of intelligence, and that glow of joy, which marked the 
 delightfrl moment when Laura first perceived it. I then placed all 
 the articles on the table, and going away a little distance with the 
 children, placed Oliver's fingers in the positions to spell key, on which 
 Laura went and brought the article: the little fellow seemed much 
 amused by this, and looked very attentive and smiling. I then caused 
 him to make the letters bread, and in an instant Laura went and 
 brought him a piece: he smelled at it; put it to his lips; cocked up his 
 head with a most knowing look; seemed to reflect a moment- and 
 then laughed outright, as much as to say, 'Aha ! I understand now 
 how something may be made out of this.' 
 
 "It was now clear that he had the capacity and inclination to 
 learn, that he was a proper subject for instruction, and needed only 
 persevering attention. I therefore put him in the hands of an intelli- 
 gent teacher, nothing doubting of his rapid progress." 
 
 Well may this gentleman call that a delightful moment, in which 
 some distant promise of her present state first gleamed upon the 
 darkened mmd of Laura Bridgman. Throughout his life, the recollec- 
 tion of that moment will be to him a source of pure, unfading 
 happiness; nor will it shine less brightly on the evening of his davs 
 of Noble Usefulness. 
 
 The affection which exists between these two— the master and the 
 pupil— is as far removed from all ordinary care and regard as +he 
 curcumstances in which it has had its growth, are apart from the 
 common occurrences of life. He is occupied now, in devising means 
 of imparting to her. higher knowledge; and of conveying to her some 
 adequate idea of the Great Creatoi of that universe in which, dark 
 and silent and scentless though it be to her. she has such deep 
 delight and glad enjoyment. 
 
 Ye who have eyes and see not, and have ears and hear not; ye who 
 are as the hypocrites of sad countenances, and disf.gure your faces 
 tnat ye may seem unto men to fast; learn healthy cheerfulness, and 
 mild contentment, from the deaf, and dumb, and blind! Self-elected 
 saints with gloomy brows, this sightless, earless, voiceless child may 
 teach you lessons you will do well to follow. Let that poor h?.rxd ^f 
 hers he gently on your hearts; for there may be something in its heal- 
 ing touch akm to that of the Great Master whose precepts you mis- 
 320* 
 
42 
 
 American Notes 
 
 construe, whose lessons you pervert, of whose charity and sympathy 
 with all the world, not one among you in his daily practice knows 
 as much as many of the worst among those fallen sinners, to whom 
 you are liberal in nothing but the preachment of perdition ! 
 
 As I rose to quit the room, a pretty little child of one of the 
 attendants came running in to greet its father. For the moment, a 
 child with eyes, among the sightless crowd, impressed me almost as 
 painfully as the blind boy in the porch had done, two hours ago. 
 Ah! how much brighter and more deeply blue, glowing and rich 
 though it had been before, was the scene without, contrasting with 
 the darkness of so many youthful lives within ! 
 
 At South Boston, as it is called, in a situation excellently adapted 
 for the purpose, several charitable institutions are clustered together. 
 One of these, is the State Hospital for the insane; admirably con- 
 ducted on those enlightened principles of conciliation and kindness, 
 which twenty years ago would have been worse than heretical, and 
 which have been acted upon with so much success in our own pauper 
 Asylum at Hanwell. "Evince a desire to show some confidence, and 
 repose some trust, even in mad people," said the resident physician, 
 as we walked along the galleries, his patients flocking round us un- 
 restrained. Of those who deny or doubt the wisdom of this maxim 
 after witnessing its effects, if there be such people still alive, I can 
 only say that I hope I may never be summoned as a Juryman on a 
 Commission of Lunacy whereof they are the subjects; for I should 
 certainly find them out of their senses, on such evidence alone. 
 
 Each ward in this institution is shaped like a long gallery or hall, 
 with the dormitories of the patients opening from it on either hand! 
 Here they work, read, play at skittles, and other games; and wheii 
 the weather does not admit of their taking exercise out of doors, pass 
 the day together. In one of these rooms, seated, calmly, and quite 
 as a matter of course, among a throng of mad-women, black and 
 white, were the physician's wife and another lady, with a couple of 
 children. These ladies were graceful and handsome; and it was not 
 difficult to perceive at a glance that even their presence there, had 
 a highly beneficial influence on the patients who were grouped about 
 them. 
 
 Leaning her head against the chimney-piece, with a great assump- 
 tion of dignity and refinement of manner, sat an elderly female, in 
 as many scraps of finery as Madge Wildfire herself. Her head in 
 particular was so strewn with scraps of gauze and cotton and bits 
 of paper, and had so many queer odds and ends stuck all about it, 
 that it looked like a bird's-nest. She was radiant with imaginary 
 jewels; wore a rich pair of undoubted gold spectacles; and gracefully 
 dropped upon her lap, as we approached, a very old greasy news- 
 paper, in which I dare say she had been reading an account of her 
 own presentation at some Foreign Court. 
 
 I have been thus particular in describing her, because she will 
 
 serve to 
 the conl 
 "This 
 the fant 
 by the s 
 lady is 1 
 else has 
 
 i mcongn 
 
 I Ever) 
 
 la knife i 
 
 I manner 
 
 J meal, m 
 
 [from cu 
 
 is reduc 
 
 of restra 
 
 more ef 
 
 cuffs, tl 
 
 I since thi 
 
 In th( 
 
 [the tool 
 
 I on the fc 
 
 [they wa 
 
 I carriage 
 
 sewing s 
 
 passes I 
 
 isane ass 
 
 its proc( 
 
 would o" 
 
American Notes 
 
 43 
 
 serve to exemplify the physician's manner of acquiring and retaining 
 the confidence of his patients. 
 
 "This," he said aloud, taking me by the hand, and advancing to 
 the fantastic figure with great politeness — not raising her suspicions 
 by the slightest look or whisper, or any kind of aside, to me: "This 
 lady is the hostess of this mansion, sir. It belongs to her. Nobody 
 else has anything whatever to do with it. It is a large establishment, 
 as you see, and requires a great number of attendants. She lives, you 
 observe, in the very first style. She is kind enough to receive my 
 visits, and to permit my wife and family to reside here; for which it 
 is hardly necessary to say, we are much indebted to her. She is 
 exceedingly courteous, you perceive," on this hint she bowed con- 
 descendingly, "and will permit me to have the pleasure of intro- 
 ducing you: a gentleman from England, Ma'am: newly arrived from 
 England, after a very tempestuous passage: Mr. Dickens, — the lady 
 of the house!" 
 
 We exchanged the most dignified salutations with profound 
 gravity and respect, and so went on. The rest of the mad-women 
 seemed to understand the joke perfectly (not only in this case, but 
 
 I in all the others, except their own), and be highly amused by it. 
 The nature of their several kinds of insanity was made known to 
 me in the same way, and we left each of them in high good humour. 
 Not only is a thorough confidence established, by those means, 
 between the physician and patient, in respect of the nature and 
 extent of their hallucinations, but it is easy to understand that 
 opportunities are afforded for seizing any moment of reason, to 
 
 [startle them by placing their own delusion before them in its most 
 
 [incongruous and ridiculous light. 
 
 Every patient in this asylum sits down to dinner every day with 
 knife and fork; and in the midst of them sits the gentleman, whose 
 lanner of deaUng with his charges, I have just described. At every 
 
 Imeal, moral influence alone restrains the more violent among them 
 
 [from cutting the throats of the rest; but the effect of that influence 
 
 [is reduced to an absolute certainty, and is found, even as a means 
 
 [of restraint, to say nothing of it as a means of cure, a hundred times 
 more eflicacious than all the strait-waistcoats, fetters, and hand- 
 cuffs, that ignorance, prejudice, and cruelty have manufactured 
 
 [since the creation of the world. 
 
 In the labour department, every patient is as freely trusted with 
 
 I the tools of his trade as if he were a sane man. In the garden, and 
 on the farm, they work with spades, rakes, and hoes. For amusement, 
 they walk, run, fish, paint, read, and ride out to take the air in 
 carriages provided for the purpose. They have among themselves a 
 sewing society to make clothes for the poor, which holds meetings, 
 passes resolutions, never comes to fisty-cuffs or bowie-knives as 
 
 I sane assemblies have been known to do elsewhere; and conducts ail 
 its proceedings with the greatest decorum. The irritability, which 
 
 [would otherwise be expended on their own flesh, clothes, and furni- 
 
 y. 
 
44 
 
 American Notes 
 
 ture, is dissipated in these pursuits. They are cheerful, tranquil, 
 and healthy. 
 
 Once a week they have a ball, in which the Doctor and his family, 
 with all the nurses and attendants, take an active part. Dances and 
 marches are performed alternately, to the enlivening strains of a 
 piano; and now and then some gentleman or lady (whose proficiency 
 has been previously ascertained) obliges the company with a song: 
 nor does it ever degenerate, at a tender crisis, into a screech or howl; 
 wherein, I must confess, I should have thought the danger lay. At 
 an early hour they all meet together for these festive purposes; at 
 eight o'clock refreshments are served; and at nine they separate. 
 
 Immense politeness and good breeding are observed throughout. 
 They all take their tone from the Doctor; and he moves a very 
 Chesterfield among the company. Like other assemblies, these enter- 
 tainments afEord a fruitful topic of conversation among the ladies 
 for some days; and the gentlemen are so anxious to shine on these 
 occasions, that they have been sometimes found "practising their 
 steps" in private, to cut a more distinguished figure in the dance. 
 
 It is obvious that one great feature of this system, is the inculca- 
 tion and encouragement, even among such unhappy persons, of a 
 decent self-respect. Something of the same spirit pervades all the 
 Institutions at South Boston. 
 
 There is the House of Industry. In that branch of it, which is 
 devoted to the reception of old or otherwise helpless paupers, these 
 words are painted on the walls: "Worthy of Notice. Self-Govern- 
 MENT, Quietude, and Peace, are Blessings." It is not assumed 
 and taken for granted that being there they must be evil-disposed 
 and wicked people, before whose vicious eyes it is necessary to 
 flourish threats and harsh restraints. They are met at the very 
 threshold with this mild appeal. All within-doors is very plain and 
 simple, as it ought to be, but arranged with a view to peace and 
 comfort. It costs no more than any other plan of arrangement, but 
 it speaks an amount of consideration for those who are reduced to 
 seek a shelter there, which puts them at once upon their gratitude 
 and good behaviour. Instead of being parcelled out in great, long, 
 rambling wards, where a certain amount of weazen life may mope, 
 and pine, and shiver, all day long, the building is divided into separate 
 rooms, each with its share of light and air. In these, the better kind 
 of paupers live. They have a motive for exertion and becoming pride, 
 in the desire to make these little chambers comfortable and decent. 
 
 I do not remember one but it was clean and neat, and had its 
 plant or two upon the window-sill, or row of crockery upon the shelf, 
 or small display of coloured prints upon the whitewashed wall, or, 
 perhaps, its wooden clock behind the door. 
 
 The orphans and young children are in an adjoining building; 
 separate from this, but a part of the same Institution. Some are such 
 little creatures, that the stairs are of Lilliputian measurement, fitted 
 to their tiny strides. The same consideration for their years and 
 
ranquil, 
 
 family, 
 ices and 
 ins of a 
 (ficiency 
 
 a song: 
 or howl; 
 
 lay. At 
 )Oses; at 
 arate. 
 •ughout. 
 
 a very 
 56 enter- 
 ic ladies 
 5n these 
 ng their 
 lance, 
 inculca- 
 ns, of a 
 i all the 
 
 ;vhich is 
 rs, these 
 
 tOVERN- 
 
 issumed 
 iisposed 
 3sary to 
 he very 
 lain and 
 ace and 
 ent, but 
 luced to 
 ratitude 
 at, long, 
 y mope, 
 separate 
 ;ter kind 
 ig pride, 
 [ decent, 
 had its 
 he shelf, 
 wall, or, 
 
 Duilding; 
 are such 
 at, fitted 
 sars and 
 
 American Notes 
 
 45 
 
 weakness is expressed in their very seats, which are perfect curiosi- 
 ties, and look like articles of furniture for a pauper doll's-house. I 
 can imagine the glee of our Poor Law Commissioners at the notion 
 of these seats having arms and backs; but small spines being of older 
 date than their occupation of the Board-room at Somerset House, 
 I thought even this provision very merciful and kind. 
 
 Here again, I was greatly pleased with the inscriptions on the wall, 
 which were scraps of plain morality, easily remembered and under- 
 stood : such as "Love one another" — "God remembers the smallest 
 creature in his creation:" and straightforward advice of that nature. 
 
 ^ books and tasks of these smallest of scholars, were adapted, in 
 .ii, ;^ame judicious manner, to their childish powers. When we had 
 examined these lessons, four morsels of girls (of whom one was blind) 
 sang a little song, about the merry month of May, which I thought 
 (being extremely dismal) would have suited an English November 
 better. That done, we went to see their sleeping-rooms on the floor 
 above, in which the arrangements were no less excellent and gentle 
 than those we had seen below. And after observing that the 
 teachers were of a class and character well suited to the spirit of the 
 place, I took leave of the inxants with a lighter heart than ever I have 
 taken leave of pauper infants yet. 
 
 Connected with the House of Industry, there is also an Hospital, 
 which was in the best order, and had, I am glad to say, many beds 
 unoccupied. It had one fault, however, which is common to all 
 American interiors : the presence of the eternal, accursed, suffoca- 
 ting, red-hot demon of a stove, whose breath would blight the purest 
 air under Heaven. 
 
 There are two establishments for boys in this same neighbourhood. 
 One is called the Boylston school, and is an asylum for neglected and 
 indigent boys who have committed no crime, but who in the ordinary 
 course of things would very soon be purged of that distinction if they 
 were not taken from the hungry streets and sent here. The other is 
 a House of Reformation for Juvenile Offenders. They are both under 
 the same roof, but the two classes of boys never come in contact. 
 
 The Boylston boys, as may be readily supposed, have very much 
 the advantage of the others in point of personal appearance. They 
 were in their school-room when I came upon them, and answered 
 correctly, without book, such questions as where was England; how 
 far was it; what was its population; its capital city; its form of 
 gov^- xment; and so forth. They sang a song too, about a farmer 
 sowmg his seed: with corresponding action at such parts as "'tis thus 
 he sows," "he turns him round," "he claps his hands;" which gave it 
 greater interest for them, and accustomed them to act together, in an 
 orderly manner. They appeared exceedingly well-taught, and not 
 better taught than fed; for a more chubby-looking full-waistcoated 
 set of boys, I never saw. 
 
 The juvenile offenders had not such pleasant faces by a great deal, 
 and in this establishment there were many boys of colour, I saw 
 
 ■f, f 
 
 
46 
 
 American Notes 
 
 
 them first at their work (basket-mak. ig, and the manufacture of 
 palm-leaf hats), afterwards in their school, where they sang a chorus 
 in praise of Liberty: an odd. and, one would think rather aggravating 
 theme for prisoners. These boys are divided into four classes, each 
 denoted by a numeral, worn on a badge upon the arm. On the 
 arrival of a new-comer, he is put into the fourth or lowest class, and 
 left, oy good behaviour, to work his way up into the first. The design 
 and object of this Institution is to reclaim the youchful criminal bv 
 firm but kind and judicious treatment; to make his prison a place of 
 purification and improvement, not of demoralisation and corruption- 
 to impress upon him that there is but one path, and that one sober 
 industry, which can ever lead him to happiness; to teach him how it 
 may be trodden, if his footsteps have never yet been led that wav 
 and to lure him back to it if they have strayed: in a word, to snatch 
 him from destruction, and restore him to society a penitent and useful 
 member. The importance of such an establishment, in every poin+ of 
 view and with reference to every consideration of humanity and 
 social policy, requires no comment. 
 
 One other establishment closes the catalogue. It is the .xouse of 
 Correction for the State, in which silence is strictly maintained but 
 where the prisoners have the comfort and mental relief of seeing each 
 other, and of working together. This is the improved system of Prison a 
 Discipline which we have imported into England, and which has been I 
 m successful o^/eration among us for some years past. * 
 
 America, as a new and not over-populated country, has in all h( 
 prisons the one great advantage, of being enabled to find useful ai. 
 profitable work for the inmates; whereas, with us, the prejudice 
 against prison labour is naturally very strong, and almost insur- 
 mountable, when honest men who have not offended against the laws 
 are frequently doomed to seek employment in vain. Even in the 
 United States, the principle of bringing convict labour and free 
 la,bour into a competition which must obviously be to the dis- 
 advantage of the latter, has already found many opponents whose 
 number is not likely to diminish with access of years. 
 
 For this very reason though, our best prisons would seem at the 
 lirst glance to be better conducted than'those of America. The tread- 
 mill IS conducted with little or no noise; five hundred men may pick 
 oakum in the same room, without a sound; and both kinds of labour 
 admit of such keen and vigilant superintendence, as will render even a 
 word of personal communication amongst the prisoners almost 
 impossible. On the other hand, the noise of the loom, the forge the 
 carpenter s hammer, or the stonemason's saw. greatly favour those 
 opportunities of intercourse— hurried and brief no doubt but 
 opportunities still— which these several kinds of work, by rendering 
 It necessary for men to be employed very near to each other, and » 
 olten side by side, without any barrier or partition between them in M 
 tneir very nature present. A visitor, too, requires to reason and reflect "" 
 a little, before the sight of a number of men engaged in ordinary 
 
 lor 
 
 The 
 
American Notes 
 
 47 
 
 labour, such as he is accustomed to out of doors, will impress him 
 half as strongly as the contemplation of the same persons in the same 
 place and garb would, if they were occupied in some task, marked and 
 degraded everywhere as belonging only to felons in jails. In an 
 American state prison or house of correction, I found it difficult at 
 first to persuade myself that I was really in a jail: a place of 
 ignommious punishment and endurance. And to this hour I very 
 much question whether the humane boast that it is not like one, has 
 its root in the true wisdom or philosophy of the matter. 
 
 I hope I may not be misunderstood on this subject, for it is one 
 in which I take a strong and deep interest. I incline as little to the 
 sickly feeling which makes every canting lie or maudlin speech of a 
 notorious criminal a subject of newspaper report and general 
 sympathy, as I do to those good old customs of the good old times 
 which made England, even so recently as in the reign of the Third 
 King George, in respect of her criminal code and her prison regula- 
 tions, one of the most bloody-minded and barbarous countries on the 
 earth. If I thought it would do any good to the rising generation I 
 would cheerfully give my consent to the disinterment of the bones'of 
 any genteel highwayman (the more genteel, the more cheerfully), 
 and to their exposure, piecemeal, on any sign-post, gate, or gibbet' 
 that might be deemed a good elevation for the purpose. My reason is 
 as well convinced that these gentry were as utterly worthless and 
 debauched villains, as it is that the laws and jails hardened them in 
 their evil courses, or that their wonderful escapes were effected by the 
 prison-turnkeys who, in those admirable days, had always been felons 
 themselves, and were, to the last, their bosom-friends and pot- 
 companions. At the same time I know, as all men do or should, that 
 the subject of Prison Discipline is one of the highest importance to 
 any community; and that in her sweeping reform and bright example 
 to other countries on this head, America has shown great wisdom, 
 great benevolence, and exalted policy. In contrasting her system with 
 that which we have modelled upon it. I merely seek to show that with 
 all its drawbacks, ours has some advantages of its own. 
 
 The House of Correction which has led to these remarks, is not 
 walled, like other prisons, but is palisaded round about with tall 
 rough stakes, something after the manner of an enclosure for keeping 
 elephants in, as we see it represented in Eastern prints and pictures 
 The prisoners wear a parti-coloured dress; and those who are sentenced 
 to hard labour, work at nail-making, or stone-cutting. When I was 
 there, the latter class of labourers were employed upon the stone for 
 a new custom-house in course of erection at Boston. They appeared 
 to shape it skilfully and with expedition, though there were very few 
 among them (if any) who had not acquired the art within the prison 
 gates. ^ 
 
 _ne v/omen, axl m one large room, were employed in making light 
 clothing, for New Orleans and the Southern States. They did their 
 work m silence like the men; and like them were overlooked by the 
 
 i 
 
 i I 
 
48 
 
 American Notes 
 
 person contracting for their labour, or by some agent of his apnoint- 
 mcnt In addition to this, they are every moment liable to be^vSd 
 by the prison officers appointed for that purpose 
 
 «r/m^..T^"^^"?K"*'', ^°'' ^°?^^"^' "^^^^^S of clothes, and so forth 
 are much upon the plan of those I have seen at home Their mode of 
 bestowing the prisoners .t night (which is of ^eneLl ad^p^fon^ 
 differs from ours, and is both simple and effective In the centre of a 
 lofty area, lighted by windows in the four walls, are Le tiers 5 cells 
 one above the other; each tier having before ii a ligh ^ iro? gaS' 
 attainable by stairs of the same construction and mairia^exSS 
 the lowc one which is on the ground. Behind these, back to back 
 with them and facing the opposite wall, are five corresponding rows 
 ot cells, accessib e by similar means: so that supposing the prisoners 
 locked up in their cells, an officer stationed on the ground.^w'th hS 
 back to the wall, has half their number under his lye at once the 
 remaining half being equally under the observation of^Lother officer 
 on the opposite side; and all in one great apartment. Unless this 
 watch be corrupted or sleeping on his post, it is impossible fofa man 
 to escape; for even m the event of his forcing the iron door of hls^eU 
 without noise (which is exceedingly improbable), the moment he 
 appears outside, and steps into that one of the five galleries on which 
 
 Each'orth '' ^' Tl' t' P^^^^^y ^"^ ^""y visible to?hercerb"?ow 
 Each of these cells holds a small truckle bed. in which one prisoner 
 sleeps; never more. It is small, of course; and the door being not soSd 
 but grated, and without blind or curtain, the prisoner within^s at all 
 ^mes exposed to the observation and inspection of any guard 4ho 
 may pass along that tier at any hour or minute of the nifht Ev^r? 
 
 kShenTr.'^n? ''T" '^''' ^^"\^^ ^^"S^y- th^°"gh ^ trap in tS 
 kitchen wal . and each man carries his to his sleeping cell to eat it 
 where h. is locked up. alone, for that purpose, one hour. The whole 
 of this a.rangement struck me as being admirable; and I hope that 
 the next new prison we erect in England may be built on tKlan 
 
 I was given to understand that in this prison no swords or fire- 
 arms, or even cudgels, are kept; nor is it probable chat, so long as its 
 present excellent management continues, any weapon, off enfive or 
 defensive, will ever be required within it* bounds 
 
 Such are the Institutions at South Boston! In all of them the 
 unfortunate or degenerate citizens of the State are carefX in! 
 structed in their duties both to God and man; are surrounded by aU 
 Zt'^^l^ "'^^°' of comfort and happiness that their condition will 
 admit of; ^e appealed to. as members of the great human familv 
 however afflicted, indigent, or fallen; are ruled by tL strong H?art' 
 hL ""k i'^.?® ^^^''S ^t^°"^^ immeasurably weaker) Hand I have 
 ^.n^'.H >*^'? ^* some length; firstly, because their worth de! 
 ^H 1^ '/".^ secondly, because I mean to take them for a model, 
 and to content myself with saying of others we may come to. whose 
 
 design and nurnose are-, fh^ QQmo 4-KO+ ,•„ 4.u: A .^ ' ,'*""^*' 
 
 aesign and purpose axe the same 
 practically fail.^or differ. 
 
 t**«.t iii uiiio ui iii'cii respect they 
 
5 appoint- 
 be visited 
 
 so forth, 
 r mode of 
 idoption) 
 2ntre of a 
 •s of cells, 
 1 gallei-y, 
 excepting 
 : to back 
 ling rows 
 prisoners 
 
 with his 
 mce; the 
 er ofl&cer 
 iless this 
 or a man 
 if his cell 
 ment he 
 )n which 
 ;r below, 
 prisoner 
 lot solid, 
 I is at all 
 ard who 
 :. Every 
 p in the 
 
 eat it, 
 e whole 
 >pe that 
 3 plan. 
 
 or fire- 
 ig as its 
 isive or 
 
 ;m, the 
 illy in- 
 J by all 
 ion will 
 family. 
 Heart, 
 
 1 have 
 •th de- 
 model, 
 
 whose 
 't they 
 
 American Notes 
 
 49 
 
 I wish by this accounf of them, imperfect in its execution, but in its 
 just mtention. honest. I could hope to convey to mv readers nn! 
 affortd me"'^ °' ''^ gratificatiL, the siglTtsI haVe'dtcrin; 
 
 To an Englishman, accustomed to the paraphernalia of West- 
 minster Hall an Amencan Court of Law is as odd a sight ^ I sun 
 pose an English Court of Law would be to an American Sceptfn 
 the Supreme Court at Washington (where the judges wefr a pla n 
 black robe), there is no such thing as a wig or gown coiTnected wSh 
 the admmistration of justice. The gentlemen o? the ba" bdn^ 
 barristers and attorneys too (for there is no division of those function! 
 as in England) are no more removed from their clients than attornevs 
 in our Court for the Relief of Insolvent Debtors are, f rom theS 
 The jury are quite at home, and make themselves as comfortable ag 
 circumstances will permit. The witness is so little elevated above o? 
 put aloof from, the crowd in the court, that a stranger entering 
 during a pause m the proceedings would find it difficult to pick W 
 out from the rest. And if it chanced to be a criminal trial hfs eve 
 m nine cases out of ten, would wander to the dock in search of the 
 prisoner in vain; for that gentleman would most likely be lounging 
 among the most distinguished ornaments of the legal profession 
 whispering suggestions in his counsel's ear, or making Itoothpick out 
 of an old quill with his penknife. ^ tootnpick out 
 
 I could not but notice these differences, when I visited the courts at 
 Boston I was much surprised at first, too, to observe that the 
 counsel who interrogated the witness under examination at the time 
 did so szmng. But seeing that he was also occupied in writing dowrl 
 the answers, and remembering that he was alone and had no 
 junior I quickly consoled myself with the reflection that law was 
 not quite so expensive an article here, as at home; and tha^ The 
 absence of sundry formalities which we regard as indispensable had 
 doubtless a very favourable influence upon the bill of ?osts ' 
 
 m every Court, ample and commodious provision is made for the 
 accommodation of the citizens. This is the case all thrL^h America 
 In every Public Institution, the right of the people to attend ^nd to 
 have an interest in the proceedings, is most Lly and dttlnctfy 
 recogmsed. There are no grim door-keepers to dole out their tardv 
 civility by the sixpenny-worth; nor is there. I sincerely belfeveanv 
 insolence of office of any kind. Nothing national isLh Sled for 
 money; and no public officer is a showman. We have begun of late 
 LTth^r^'f^" *?^f ^°°^ f ^°^P^^- ^ ^°P^ ^^ «^^" continf e ?o do s^ 
 converted!'' ''"""' '"^'^ '^'^''' ^^^ "^^P*^^^ "^^y be 
 
 «.i'i*^^?'''l ''°"'^ ^"^ m''*'°'' "^^^ *^"g' fo^ damages sustained in 
 some accident upon a railwav. Th^ wifneA^o i-o^ u^^^ _. " " ^^ 
 
 counsel was addressing the juryT The" Iea^n;rgenflemln '(U^a few 
 of his Enghsh brethxen) was desperately loni-winded, ind had I 
 
 f (I 
 
 Iff i. 
 
 IP 
 
5^ American Notes 
 
 into the service of every sentence he"ut ered I'ii.Tetd to hT',^" 
 about a quarter of an hour; and, cominR out of court ItTh. 1 J 
 of tliat time, witliout tlie faintest ra„„7likI^°'^''P"'**'°" 
 merits of the case, felt f, ^'l^re aTLme^S """* " *° '"^ 
 a charg:Pf'reft 'w"''7bov""TW3''ir/^"'f'.''V/'^ magistrate on 
 
 apprentice to some respectable master Thur h?« h^? ? ^ •^''""'^ 
 offence, instead of being the prelTcL to "^Tif^^ detection in this 
 
 I am by no means a wholesale admirer of our le7al <;n?i^ ^;- 
 many of which impress me as being exceedlngriidlcLui^S^^^^^^^ 
 as It may seem too. there is undoubtedly a degreLf nJotec^^^ 
 w,g and gown-a dismissal of individual refponSy in drei n^ 
 for the part—which encourages that insolent bear na In J i ^^^^^^"8 
 
 rrrerr4eT,-a"n1a'ndr^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 prisoners and many witnesses TheiTtt^iVT ^ includes some 
 
 owf r^l^y'^- ^^ poweriess!td crot. t tSI S^^^^ 
 
 Blue ladies there are/ irBS^onburnLnv"^' "^^1"°* disappointed, 
 and sex in most other^a^fudes ?hiy^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 superior than to be so. E^ mgelical lad J^f w« , m ^? t^^ought 
 
 attachment to the forms f,frSi^^l'rv*J^5_^_^.^^,,^^ whose 
 
 tainments,aremostexempla^I^-es;^oW— -^^ 
 
American Notes 
 
 ing lectures are to be found among all classes and all conditions In 
 the kind of provincial life which prevails in cities such as this the 
 Pu.p.t has great influence. The peculiar province of the Pulp t in 
 New England (always excepting the Unitarian Ministry) would 
 appear to be the denouncement of all innocent and rational amuse- 
 ments. The church the chapel, and the lecture-room, ^re the only 
 means of excitement excepted; and to the church, the ch^.pel. and the 
 1. cture-room. the ladies resort in crowds 
 
 Wherever religion is resorted to. as a strong drink, and as an escape 
 from the dull njonotonous round of home, those of ts ministers who 
 pepper the highest will be the surest to please. They whor'ew the 
 Eternal Path with the greatest amount of brimstone, and v. ■ o most 
 ruthlessly tread down the flowers and leaves that griw by t ° w^v- 
 side. ' I be voted the most righteous; and they whS enlarge wi~th the 
 grea^ ' Pertinacity on the difficulty of getting into heav^en wUl be 
 consiu .d by all true believers certain of going there: though it 
 would De hard to say by what process of reasoning this conclusfon s 
 arrived at. It is so at home, and it is so abroad. With regard to ?he 
 other means of excitement, the Lecture, it has at least the merit of 
 being always new. One lecture treads so quickly on the heels of 
 another, that none are remembered; and the course of this month mav 
 
 i'^tet:{^uXtd' "^^^' ^''' ''' ''-- ^' --^^^ -^-^-. -^ s 
 
 philosophers known as TranscendentaLts.^On^nqSr Srwhat th" 
 appellation might be supposed to signify. I was given to understand 
 Nnf H r- "^'^ ^^t^^i^t/^igjble. would be certahily transcendental 
 Not deriving much comfort from this elucidation. I pursued the H 
 quiry still f urther^and found that the Transcendentalists are followers 
 of my friend Mr. Carlyle. or I should rather say. of a follower oH^o 
 Mr. Ralph \Valdo Emerson. This gentleman has written a volume of 
 Essays, in which, among much that is dreamy and fanciful (if he wS 
 pardon me for saying so), there is much more that is true and mai^y 
 honest and bold. Transcendentalism has its occasional vagaries 
 
 W nn^lT' ^^' "°'- ^^."' '' ^^^ ^°°^ h^^^*hf"l qualities in spite o 
 them, not least among the numbe- a hearty disgust of Cant and an 
 
 aptitude to detect her in all the million vSiet fs of hc^ eve^^^^^^^^ 
 
 The only preacher I heard in Boston was Mr. Taylor, who addresses 
 himself peculiarly to seamen, and who was once a^ma^i^er hhns3f I 
 found his chapel down among the shipping, in one of the narrow old 
 water-side streets, with a gay blue flag waving freely froi^ftrroof 
 In the gallery opposite to the pulpit were a little choir of male and 
 female sineers. a violnnr.f>lln anH o ,m«i;., ti. u-„ , ^-^^ '^n^ 
 
 in the pulpit, which was raised on pillars, and ornamented behind him 
 with painted drapery of a lively and somewhat theatrical appeiani^ 
 
 ilJ 
 
 
 
 1 i... 
 
 1 
 
 
 1 
 
5^ 
 
 American Notes 
 
 He looked a weather-beaten hard-featured man of ab out six or f^iaU^ 
 and fifty; with deep lines graven as it were into Ws face darlLTr ^ J^ 
 
 preheusive in its doctrines, and tSd a tone oTfen'^r^atmnX 
 
 Wilderness leaning on the arm of her beloved !" ^ ^ 
 
 He handled his text in all kinds of ways and twisted ,> ,«+« oii 
 
 weTarn4d?1i.^"* "'"^^^ ingeniously. Ind wTth I^ude ^^^^^^^^^^ 
 well adapted to the comprehension of his hearers Indeed if t k! « * 
 
 tTanth?dtt'"A'^^^^ 
 
 ren^arkably good. He spokft^them o "hat' g^rCs'mln LorS 
 Nelson/' and of Collingwood; and drew not^ngfr^s the savin. [, 
 by the head and shoulders, but brought it to bear «nnn hl^^ ^ ' 
 
 Zf H-,'"S "" ^^ P*'^"? "P ^^<J down thi pulpit wV?TfooWne 
 steadily down, meantime, into the midst of the - ni-r, ■•„■ t? '^ 
 when he applied his text to the first assembag. '"^^> ^l^^rs and 
 
 Who are these— who are they— who are these fellows? where Hr. 
 inX^r°"^ 'r™ ^''T f " *'^«y soing to?-Come fromTwhaSthe 
 ri^M hL7 -r^^K f °',?^ P"'P"' ^°'' P"'-*'"? downward wth his 
 
 Stors before iSS'Trom^^^^ '^^l'' "l'^'"' '"<' '"oking a?the 
 
 hatTes of S. S WH^ °T' "y brethren. From under the 
 uaicnes oi sm, battened down above you by the evil ono Thai-', 
 where you came froml"_a walk up and dJwn the nuS't "»nH 
 where are you going"_stopping ab^ptly: '■wherrLryJu goiS^ 
 ^ofti-^aerlSil' ..^v,^.P°'f "8 "P^^^-i-- ' 'Aloft l'^°J^,IS: 
 
 wri^autt^t' an*?trim^: e'e„tg"^ir^t^oTH!:t^^^^ 
 where there are no storms or f^l weather and X?e^h. ?'f^.' 
 
 "Tw'""^ *""""> ^"'^ *•><> weai^'^re ai ^est'^^Anofter'Sl^ 
 
 Twt l^^^'ty°X'^ ?°'"8 *°- ""y «^°ds. Thafs it. That°s toe oT^e 
 That s the port. Thafs the haven. If., a bl»c=<.^ k,:^.".!;: .3H K^^- 
 
 there, in all changes of the winds and" tidesFno ^Zg^^^^T^ 
 
 \ 
 
 l':>. 
 
American Notes 
 
 53 
 
 the rocks, or slipping your cables and running out to sea there- 
 
 S-Kf^^^^l^w^'^^"^^ peace !"-Another walk, and patt'ing the 
 Bible under his left arm: "What! These fellows are coming from the 
 wilderness, are they? Yes. From the dreary, blighted wilderness of 
 Imquity. whose only crop is Death. But do they lean upon anything 
 :^lu^^'}^Au "P""" nothing, these poor seamen? "-Three raps upon 
 the Bible: "Oh yes.-Yes.-They lean upon the arm of their Bdoved" 
 -three more raps: upon the arm of their Beloved "-three more, and 
 a walk: Pilot, guiding-star. and compass, all in one. lo all hands- 
 here It is -three more: "Here it is. They can do their seaman's duty 
 
 ^th fhil''^^ ^^'^ '^.ii^''' "^^^^ ^" *^^ "*"^°^t Pe"l and danger, 
 with this -two more: "They can come, even these poor fellows Ian 
 come, from the wilderness leaning on the arm of their Beloved and 
 go up— up— up! —raising his hand higher, and higher, and higher 
 
 ^i7t'^'"lP^*'*i°^ °^ *^^ wo^^' so that he stood with it at last 
 stretched above his head, regarding them in a strange, rapt manner 
 and pressing the book triumphantly to his breast, until he gradually 
 subsided into some other portion of his discourse 
 . .^.?^''?^'^^*t^. this, rather as an instance of the preacher's eccen- 
 tricities than his ments. though taken in connection with his look and 
 manner, and the character of his audience, even this was striking 
 It is possible, however, that my favourable impression of him may 
 have been greatly influenced and strengthened, firstly, by his im- 
 pressing upon his hearers that the true observance of religion was not 
 inconsistent mth a cheerful deportment and an exact discharge of 
 the duties of their station, which, indeed, it scrupulously required of 
 them; and secondly, by his cautioning them not to set up any 
 monopoly m Paradise and its mercies. I never heard these t-wo points 
 so wisely touched (if indeed I have ever heard them touched at all) 
 by any preacher of that kind before. '' 
 
 Having passed the time I spent in Boston, in making myself 
 acquainted with these things, in settling the course I should take in 
 my future travels, and in mixing constantly with its society. I am 
 not aware that I have any occasion to prolong this chapter. Such of 
 Its social customs as I have not mentioned, however, may be told in 
 a very few words. ^ 
 
 The usual dinner-hour is two o'clock. A dinner party takes place at 
 
 .r,l T-^ ^* ^u ^Tt"'"^ P^''^^' *^^y s^l^o"^ sup later than eleven; 
 so that It goes hard but one gets home, even from a rout, by midnight 
 I never could find out any difference between a party at Boston and 
 a party m London, saving that at the former place all assemblies are 
 held at more rational hours; that the conversation mav possibly be a 
 il f^ II ^""^ ""^""^ cheerful; and a guest is usually expected to 
 ascend to the very top of the house to take his cloak off; that he is 
 
 f.f5ro*?ill\flr!!?:f!""^f%^^ unusual amount of pou.Hry on the 
 n^Iwe^"-"' "^ """"•^' ''r"^^^\' ""^ '^^^^ ^° mignty bowis of hot stewed 
 smothered eaSly!" ^ half-grown Duke of Clarence might be 
 
 fi 'i 
 
 li '' 
 
 13 
 
 
 sjt^f 
 
i 
 
 54 American Notes 
 
 laid m a very handsome hall for breakfast anH w hF« table is 
 
 .ilT^^K V°. **° """idred: sometimes more The advent nf 
 
 shaki the ver'^'T *•? "^y *^ proclaimed by an awfiuontwhich 
 
 ^th the ve^ blackest of^r'"'"-^? *" """^ """«'• ^"^ «P"-M«d 
 nrZ fK ?^i""^ii"re, having no curtains to the French bedstead 
 
 it was a shower-bath ° ^' ^"'* "'«'"' '" *" fi'" "^"^l «>»* 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AN AMERICAN RAILROAD. LOWELL AND ITS FACTORY SYSTEM 
 
 Lown^r'"^""^ ^°'*°"' ^ '^'™t«"l o"« day to an excursion to 
 
 ^..,^.., ^i.cii gciicrai cnaracteristics are easily described ° 
 
 There are no first and second class carriageLs IJith „s,: but there is 
 
American Notes 55 
 
 whfcf fsTat in%h?1. %*^^'''' l^''- *^^ "^^^^ distinction between 
 nobodv does AsVhlnl^^ everybody smokes; and in the second! 
 
 Gulliver put to sea in from flit' *'^""^^""|' clumsy chest, such as 
 prppf Hp^i ,;/ ^i7- ' *^^ kingdom of Brobdingnag. There is a 
 
 mMmmMm 
 
 who hits his fancy If vou are a?, L^ Uh^ '' "i,' ^ *° ^"ybody «lse 
 
 says Yes? (interrogatively , and asks in what resoect thfiv Hiffit 
 ^Yes?'"r!r *: *''' ^^■''•^' °* difference, one by oTe and L sivs 
 
 else ^ ' ""^ *^^* ^^^ *^^ g^^a* sights are somewhere 
 
 . I 
 
 miih i - rm 
 
56 
 
 American Notes 
 
 vacates it with great politeness. Politics are much discussed, so are 
 Danks, so IS cotton. [^ aiet people avoid the question of the Presidencv 
 for there will be a new election in three years and a half, and party 
 feeling runs very high: the great constitutional feature of this institu- 
 tion being, that directly the acrimony of the last election is over the 
 acnmony of the next one begins; which is an unspeakable comfort to 
 all strong politicians and true lovers of their country: that is to say to 
 ninety-nme men and boys out of every ninety-nine and a quarter. 
 
 Itxcept when a branch road joins the main one, there is seldom 
 more than one track of rails; so that the road is very narrow, and the 
 view, where there is a deep cutting, by no means extensive. When 
 there is not the character of the scenery is always the same. Mile 
 alter mile of stunted trees: some hewn down by the axe. some blown 
 down by the wind, some half fallen and resting on their neighbours 
 many mere logs half hidden in the swamp, others mouldered away to 
 spongy chips. The very soil of the earth is made up of minute frag- 
 ments such as these; each pool of stagnant water has its crust of 
 vegetable rottenness; on every side there are the boughs, and trunks 
 and stumps ottrees. in every possible stage of decay, decomposition,' 
 and neglect Now you emerge for a few brief minutes on an open 
 country, glittenn ; with some bright laKe or pool, broad as many an 
 English river, but so small here that it scarcely has a name; now catch 
 hasty glimpses of a distant town, with its clean white houses and 
 their cool piazzas Its prim New England church and school-house; 
 when whir-r-r-r! almost before you have seen them, comes the same 
 dark screen: the stunted trees, the stumps, the logs, the stagnant 
 water—all so like the last that you seem to have been transported 
 back again by magic. ^ 
 
 The train calls at stations in the woods, where the wild impossi- 
 bility of anybody having the smallest reason to get out. is only to 
 be equalled by the apparently desperate hopelessness of there being 
 anybody to get m. It rushes across the turnpike road, where there it 
 no gate, no policeman, no signal: nothing but a rough wooden arch 
 on which IS pamted "When the bell rings, look out for the 
 LOCOMOTIVE On it whirls headlong, div^s through the woods again 
 emerges m the light, clatters over frail arches, rumbles upon the 
 heavy ground, shoots beneath a wooden bridge which intercepts the 
 light for a second like a wink, suddenly uwakens all the slumbering 
 echoes in the mam street of a large town, and dashes on haphazard 
 pell-mell, neck-or-nothing, down the middle of the road There- 
 with mechanics working at their trades, and people leaning from their 
 doors and windows, and boys flying kites and playing marbles, and 
 men smoking, and women talking, and children crawling, and pigs 
 burrowmg. and unaccustomed horses plunging and rearing, close to 
 the very rails— there— on, on. on— tears the mad dragon of an engine 
 with Its train of cars; scattering in all directions a shower of burnincr 
 
 S1«f fi'"i-^\'^°°'^ ^?' S'^'^^ect^ing' hissing, yelling, panting; until 
 at last the thirsty monster stops beneath a covered way to drink the 
 
American Notes cj 
 
 people cluster round, and you have time to breathe again 
 
 I was met at the station at Lowell by a gentleman int'^'o* i 
 nected with the management of the factWfthi^^^^^^ 
 
 t7wf in" wtch'ihr^^^^^^^^ ^HiTifcf orr° ^'^^"^^"^ 
 
 Although only just of agei:fo'^ my^SLSecTiLVerv'e mHt harbet 
 a manufacturmg town barely ope-and-twenty Tel^s-iiweiMs a 
 large, populous, thrivmg place. Those indications of its v^th which 
 
 might have been deposited theron&rdiLTof the wlS 
 the Deluge In one place, there was a new wooden chuTchwhkh 
 having no steeple^ and being yet unpalnted, looked Ske an eAomona 
 packing-case without any direction UDon it In aww «, ' 
 
 large hotel, whose walls Ind colc^Ldes were so cn^o Ld'^f^^ "^ 2 
 slight, that it had exactly the appearaLrofbeinrb'^iU ^th ckrd"^^ 
 T IZ f^'"' ""t t° d™* "y breath as we passed, fndtreiSiedwh,!; 
 I saw a workman come out upon the roof 1p«t Jrfti, ^rTv JI^T 
 stamp ol his foot he should ^^s^tte stricfurTbeneatte^?^ 
 bring it rattlmg down. The verv river tw^o„ °?'^^*'» j!"^. and 
 the Inn (for thiy are alf^orreTbTwIt^^S seeL"tot^^^^ " 
 new character from the fresh building of briZ „d S *°h ^„i,"'? " 
 wood among which it takes its course; a^d t "be as bVhfS*!? 
 ttoughtless, and brisk a young river, in to mumuringf ^id ^m' 
 "ter^''°Tro7"'''"'''''r^..*° r- 0°« would "wei^ttTtev"^ 
 
 to^kltYshut'^t °r 7own"J^r t^ ^SftS" ^"d ^T J"^ t '^'^ 
 yesterday The golden pesLs and molars feed aTsli"„^Z"the 
 sun-blmd frames outside the Druesists" ann»»V^t„ vl^ u^^ .*''® 
 turned out of the United States" St! and w"en I stw a birJ 
 
 ;^s?scirhar- *^^* " coSii^t-tn^r^Tsun 
 
 There are several factories in Lowell earh nf wVuVt, v.^^ 
 :'?m:?itra"'cVrra?i^T^^°'^°^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 Sno T"^ Pf *■ ^"i* ^"^ *«"' '° their ordinary working a?p«t 
 »X^=MZyl^d^hIttarw"S£^^^^^^^ 
 
 c^mItT^aH" • f "'"''' """^ ""^^ °^'^"'' ^a-ctory just as the dinner hour was 
 
 ^hTmm ^\?'"^' ^^^^ returning to their work, indeed the stakHf 
 
 , the mill were thronged with them as I ascended. They were aS well 
 
58 
 
 American Notes 
 
 dressed but not to my thinking above their condition; for I like to 
 see the humbler classes of society careful of their dress and appear 
 ance. and even, if they please, decorated with such little trinkets as 
 come withm the compass of their means. Supposing it confined with- 
 in reasonable limits., I would always encourage this kind of pride as k 
 worthy element of self-respect, m any person I employed7and should 
 no more be deterred from doing so. because some ^^etched femak 
 referred her fall to a love of dress, than I would allow my (Sructo 
 
 wiJ^InT '^*r*^^1?'^"^"§^^/^" Sabbath to be influenced by any 
 warning to the well-disposed, founded on his backslidings on that 
 particular day, which might emanate from the rather^ doubtfu 
 authority of a murderer in Newgate. uouotiui 
 
 These girls, as I have said, were all well dressed: and that rhrase 
 necessarily includes extreme cleanliness. They had serviceable 
 bonnets good warm cloaks, and shawls; and were not above clogs 
 and pattens. Moreover, there were places in the mill in whi^h thev 
 cou d deposit these things without injury; and there were co/ 
 veniences for washing. Thsy were healthy in appearance manvo 
 them remarkably so. and had the manners and deportmeni 5 vounl 
 women: not of degraded brutes of burden. If I had s^en in o^ne of 
 those mills (but I di4 not. though I looked for something of tWs 
 kind with a sharp eye), the most lisping, mincing, affected and rid? 
 culous young creature that my imagination could suggest I should 
 have thought of the careless, moping. slatternV dISaded dull 
 
 SoTrp<^n he?. "'" ''''^' ^"' ^'°"'' ^^' ^^^^ ^ tXpt'sed"to 
 
 ..u^! w"?^ '''• '^^'''^ ^^^^ worked, were as well ordered as them- 
 selves In the windows of some, there were green plants which weTe 
 tramed to shade the glass; in all. there was as mudi fresh air cW 
 
 aS oT oT^*',^' '^" ^^'"^" °^ '^^ occupation would possX 
 admit of. 9ut of so large a number of females, many of whom were 
 only then just vergmg upon womanhood, it may be reasonabTylup! 
 posed that some were delicate and fragile in appearance: no doubt 
 there were. But I solemnly declare, that from all the crowd I saw in 
 
 f ace ih.T?* '"''^"'^ '"^-^'/f^' ' ^^"^°* '^'^'' ^' separate one yo'ng 
 face that gave me a pamful impression; not one young girl whom 
 
 assuming It to be matter o^ necessity that she should glin her daUv 
 
 the possession of these houses, whose character^ have not undergone 
 the most searchmg and thorough inquiry. And complaii.t that is 
 made against them by the boarders, or by any one else, is fully inves! 
 tigated; and if good ground of complaint be shown to exist agaTnst 
 ^r^Tj^^!L^'^ removed.^nd their occupation is handed over to some 
 rn,..,. V.V.V. vuxj^ peison. xnere are a few children employed in these 
 factories, but not m^ny. The laws of the State forbid their workSg 
 
 i 
 
American Notes 
 
 59 
 
 J V4 
 
 more than nine months in the year, and require that thev be ediiMt»H 
 during the other three. For this puri>ose there are spools in w!? 
 and there are churches and chapels of various persuasions in whfch 
 
 At some distance from the factories, and on the highest anH 
 pleasantest ground in the neighbourhood. stanS^hel h& 
 
 w°.f hnlf; h°'''' ^""^ *^' r ^' '' '' '^^ ^^«* ^^""'^ in those pa?ts? and 
 was built by an emment merchant for his own residence Like thaf 
 mstitute at Boston, which I have before described. UsTotparc^^^^^^^ 
 out into wards, but is divided into convenient chambers^tlch of 
 which has all the comforts of a very comfortable home. S prTncipa 
 medical attendant resides under the same roof; and were the^pSts 
 members of his own family, they could not be better cared for or 
 attended with greater gentleness and consideration. The weekly 
 charge m this establishment for each female patient is three dSl^s^ 
 or twelve shillings English; but no girl employed by any of the c^r-' 
 porations is ever excluded for want of the means of payment That 
 
 facT "nTuTv^xsTx'^'V^^ T.""^' "^"^ ^^ gathered from the 
 lact that in July. 1841, no fewer than nine hundred and seventy- 
 eight of these girls were depositors in the Lowell Savings Sank' the 
 amount of whose joint savings was estimated at one hundred thou- 
 sand dollars, or twenty thousand English pounds ""'''''^^'^ ^^°^' 
 I am now going to state three facts, which will startle a large class 
 of readers on this side of the Atlantic, very much 
 
 in Jwic^^f ^ '^f^ joint-stock piano in a great many of the board- 
 ing-houses. Secondly, nearly all these young ladies subscrihp fn 
 circulating libraries. Thirdlyf they have got up among themselves a 
 periodical called The Lowell Offering. ''A repository ofoS 
 ^ticles. writt^en exclusively by females actively employed If the 
 mills, -which is duly printed, published, and sold; and whereof I 
 brought away from Lowell four hundred good solid pages which I 
 have read from beginning to end. ^^ ' ^ ^ 
 
 wiS'L^f ^^•''^^'^x?* ''^^^^'■^' ^*^^*^^^ ^y *^«se facts, will exclaim 
 with one voice. "How very preposterous!" On my deferentially S 
 quirmg why. they will answer, "These things are above tSir statL^' 
 In reply to that objection. I would beg to Isk what their stato^^^^^ 
 
 It IS their station to work. And they do work. They labour in these 
 mills, upon an average, twelve hours a day. which is unquestionablv 
 work and pretty tight work too. Perhapsit is above ?LTr statTon S 
 indulge m such amusements, on any terms. Are we quite sure that we 
 m England have not formed our ideas of the "station" of working 
 people, from accustoming ourselves to the contemplation of that 
 class as they are. and not as they might be.? I think that if we examine 
 our ow. 'eelmgs. we shall find that the pianos, and theclrcuS 
 libraries, and evpn th*» Ty^w«n nff^r.; „^„-xi_ .._ ,. ,, ^"^uidtmg 
 
 J . ' i / . — — """ -'-^^^^"^5. staitic uo uy tneir noveltv 
 
 ^TOHg ^^^"°^ "^°'' ^""^ ^^ -^^^^^ ciuestioij of right or 
 
 , i 
 
 I I'l 
 
6o 
 
 American Notes 
 
 .hl/f I^^^S ' ^?^J^° station in which, the occupation of to-day 
 cheerfully done and the occupr.tion of to-morrow cheerfully looked 
 
 fkn^nw n^'ntf^l k?k""^*' !f "°] ""^'^ humanising and laudable. 
 
 I know no station which is rendered more endurable to the person in 
 It. or more safe to the person out of it. by having ignorance for its 
 
 ZlTni^ ^"T"°. ''^.'^°^ ^^^^^ ^^' ^ "g^t to monopolise the 
 means of mutual instruction, improvement, and rational entertain- 
 ment, or which has ever continued to be a station very lone after 
 Seeking to do so. ^ °' 
 
 Of the merits of the Lowell Offering as a literary production I will 
 only observe, putting entirely out of sight the fact of the articles 
 having been written by these girls after the arduous labours of the 
 day. that It will compare advantageously with a great many English 
 Annuals It is pleasant to find that many of its Tales are of the Mills 
 and of those who work in them; that they inculcate habits of self- 
 denial and contentment, and teach good doctrines of enlarged 
 benevolence A strong feeling for the beauties of nature, as displayed 
 m the solitudes the writers have left at home, breathes through its 
 pages like wholesome village air; and though a circulating library is a 
 ?.T/o i^ school for the study of such topics, it has ver^ scant allu^ 
 sion to iJne clothes, fine marriages, fine houses, or fine life. Some 
 
 ?.?w fi""'^^* °^Jl^V*° *^« papers being signed occasionally with 
 rather fine names, but this is an American fr- ,hion. One of the oro- 
 yinces of the state legislature of Massachusetts is to alter ugly names 
 mto pretty ones, as the childr-. improve upon the tastel of their 
 parents. These changes costing little or nothing, scores of Marv 
 Annes are solemnly converted into Bevelinas every session 
 ri!;r!f M^ ^^^^ °? the occasion of a visit from General Jackson or 
 General Harrison to this town (I forget which, but it is not to the 
 purpose) he walked through three miles and a half of these young 
 ladies all dressed out with parasols and silk stockings But as I am 
 not aware that any worse consequence ensued, than a sudden lookine- 
 up of al the parasols and silk stockings in the market; and perhaps 
 the bankruptcy of some speculative New Englander who bought 
 
 W?no Itll t?^ P K^'^vi?' expectation of a.demand that never came; 
 1 set no great store by the circumstance. 
 
 ^?i^^f>"ff account of Lowell, and inadequate expression of the 
 gratification it yielded me. and cannot fail to afford to any foreigner 
 to whom the condition of such people at home is a subject of interest 
 and anxious speculation. I have carefully abstained from drawing a 
 comparison between these factories and those of our own land 
 Many of the circumstances whose strong influence has been at work 
 for years in our manufacturing towns have not arisen here; and there 
 is no manufacturing population in Lowell, so to speak: for these girls 
 (often the daughters of small farmers) come from other States 
 remain a few years in the mills, and then go home for good 
 n ''T ''^"^''.f .Y'^V.^'^. be a strong one. for it would be between the 
 Good and Evil, the living light and deepest shadow. I abstain from it 
 
American Notes 6i 
 
 because I deem it just to do so. But I only the more earnestly adjure 
 
 ^In fll"^ S'^'^^^'w^ '^'* ""^ *^^"^ P^g^«' to pause and reflect 
 upon the difference between this town and those great haunts of 
 desperate misery: to call to mind, if they can in the midst of party 
 strife and squabble the efforts that must be made to purge them of 
 their suffermg and danger: and last, and foremost, to remember how 
 the precious Time is rushing by. 
 
 r.l ^;^t"^^^l^*= ^ig^t by the same railroad and in the same kind of 
 a^l'Sr .w^ passengers being exceedingly anxious to expound at 
 great length to my companion (not to me. of course) the true prin- 
 ciples on which books of travel in America should be writteS by 
 Englishmen. I feigned to fall asleep. But glancing all the way out at 
 window from the corners of my eyes. I found abundance of entertain- 
 
 "'i!"t^'"i K^ ''^'* °^ ^uf ""^^ ^^ watching the effects of the wood fire 
 which had been invisible in the morning but were now brought out in 
 hrUf i .^ the darkness: for we were travelling in a whirlwind of 
 bright sparks, which showered about us like a storm of fiery snow 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WORCESTER. THE CONNECTICUT RIVER. HARTFORD. NEW HAVEN. 
 
 TO NEW YORK 
 
 Leaving Boston on the afternoon of Saturday the fifth of Februarv 
 we proceeded by another railroad to Worcester: a pretty New 
 England town, where we had arranged to remain under the hospitable 
 ro^of the Governor of the State, until Monday morning °'P''''^'® 
 
 Sv ?!, • ^"S^^?^)' are as favourable specimens of rural 
 America as their people are of rural Americans. The well-trimmed 
 lawns and green meadows of home are not there; and the grass, com- 
 w .T:J*1? o^^ .ornamental plots and pastures, is rank. Ind ^ough 
 and wild: but delicate slopes of land, gently-swelling hills, wooded 
 valleys and slender streams, abound. Every little colony of houses 
 rooVl'nS r."? T^ school-house peeping from among"^ the white 
 Vpn!f . w '^J'iJ^^'' ^""^'^ ^°"'^ '^ t^^ ^^itest of the white; every 
 Wn.!? f.i. Ki"^ *^^ P^^^'* °^ t^^ g'"^^"' every fi^e day's sky tS 
 bluest of the blue. A sharp dry wind and a slight frost had so hardened 
 
 wer. ifi?' '^H^''' ^' alighted at Worcester, that their furrowed tracks 
 were like ridges of gramte. There was the usual aspect of newness on 
 
 buil7and^'''' f h'?w'- ^'' '^^ ^^^^^^"g^ l°^k-d a^ if they hTd been 
 ^^^^i^^fitl":.^.!^?^^^^^ -"1^. ^^ t-^- ^-wn In Monday 
 Innto^"/ r""j '""'7:''"- -"^"^^ ^ccii evening air, every sliarp outline 
 
 cdonn.l« r^''^ ^'"""^ '^^'P"' *^^" ^^^^- The clean cTrdboard 
 colonnades had no more perspective than a Chinese bridge on a tea- 
 
 I 
 
6^ 
 
 American Notes 
 
 ^^Lo ?.tPP?^^^l^^''*"y ^^" calculated for use. The ra2or-like 
 edges of the detached cottages seemed to cut the very wind as it 
 whistled against them, and t.. send it smarting on it7way with a 
 
 SdwhTch\t".^''°''- T?°^^ slightly-builf wooden Jw^^ngs 
 Wir^M ^ u*"® ''^'' "^^^ ^^**^"g ^it^ a brilliant lustre, could be so 
 iwefoh?H°K^^ and through, that the idea of any inhabitant beinR 
 ?he n,?Wi> t '^" ^'T ^^^ P"^^^' «^^^' °^ to have any secrets frorS 
 W..F" i T' "^^1^°* entertainable for a moment. Even where^ 
 house ^it hid t°h"' *^^7«^.*^« uncurtained windows of sor^e distant 
 and fniin .f \' ""^-^^'"^ "^^^y ^^8^*^^' ^"d of lacking warmth' 
 ?.ol .1 fl^l^'^^^^^'^g thoughts of a snug chamber bright with 
 
 wUh wafmTanr..'^f. 1^^"' ^°""^ *^^^ ''^' hearth, anfru^dy 
 new mTt^r anSSp waC' "P°" '"^ ^"^^^^*^^^ ^' ^^^ ^"^^^' ^^ 
 
 wa!°shinW ^Hahf/^^'*'^*^;* ^T^"^"S- ^^^* "^^"'^i^g when the sun 
 was Shining brightly, and the clear church bells were rin^ina an^J 
 
 sedate people in their best clothes enlivened the pathwafnfkr at 
 
 SaSba?S^.et"f 1 *^' ^"*""* *^^^^^ °^ ^°^^' the™ a^^pS^^^ 
 saDbath peacefulness on everything which it w^q ar>r^H f/^*Iti tZ 
 
 rve?^;;? Li? 4'^'^*^^h^ f ^^ ^^''^^"-^' ^««- s^tnirsom o d 
 
 the scene which Tff.V^.ir^ 'ff ""^ ''^'^ ^"^ tranquillity pervaded 
 do:brg;aTet^^^^^^^^^^^ -^ *^« ^--d ci?y. had a 
 
 thlXTtoHarTflT'^v^^^^ ''^" ^y '^^^^°^^' t« Springfield. From 
 five and Lin? °^'»7?'*^^'' "^^ ^^^^ ^°""d' ^^ a distance of only 
 SJttw r''*^ °'''^^' ^"t ^t that time of the year the roads were so 
 
 hoL Fortunirr^^^ "°"'^ P.^°^"^^y ^^"^ °^^"Pi«d ten orTw Ive 
 
 the CorneSt fe^^^^^ '^'^'"" ^^^'""^ ^""" unusually mild! 
 
 tJIV^!^? • . ^^^ "^^^ "open," or, in other words, not frozen 
 
 the seasortht^^'^'^.V'*'^^^^^^^ S°^"g to make his first tr?p for 
 tne season that day the second February trio I beli^vp wi+>,i« fvll 
 memory of man), and only waited for usX go on boarLrrdS^^^^^ 
 we went on board, with as little delay as milht be He w^ argood Is 
 his word, and started directly ^ ^°°^ ^^ 
 
 om^i^tteftollTSf n''^^'^"'^ ^ f"'^" steamboat without reason. I 
 aS,ut Llf fJ^ question but I should think it must have been of 
 
 have lived IZI JT""' ^'■- ^^^^' *^^ celebrated Dwarf, might 
 nave lived and died happily in the cabin, which was fitted wlfh 
 common sash-windows like"^ an ordinary' Snrhouse T^se 
 winaows had bright-red curtains, too. hung on slack strings across 
 
 hoi rwS hid V'.^'i* ^?-'^' '^' ^ P^^^°- °" aSSpubTi" 
 ?^i ' "^J^eji.ha^ got afloat m a flood or some other water accident 
 
 was Z^f^^^'J^'^r^l/ '^''Z r ^^" ^"^ ^^^^ - thisThamrer the" e 
 WicTw^u^^^^^^ '^ g^^ - -y-here, in 
 
 n, J.f,"i/i't^L*l*.^i^°^ P^^ f-^t short this vessel was. or how 
 meas'uremenrwnnM''K "^^'' ^^^e words length and width to such 
 measurement would be a contradiction in terms. But I may state 
 
American Notes g^ 
 
 forming a warm sandwich, about three feet thick ''°'* 
 
 inrSfhu'idtjflc^oS*^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 ice. which were constantly crunching an 7rr. A ?*'"^ ^^°^^^ °^ 
 
 depth of water, in the cLrse we tLk ^^^^^^^ "'' ^"^ '^"^ 
 
 , carried down the middle of the riv^r hxffvl the larger masses. 
 
 !few inches. NeverthS we moveJ o^^^^^^ did not exceed a 
 I well wrapped up. bade drfiance to ^Srweather Tnd'^Jnf"^^^^^ 
 
 pumey. The Connecticut River il\^^LZt ' f enjoyed the 
 
 summeUmeare.Ihavenodoubt beaJ^^^^^^ the banks in 
 
 -Jif^d.. wej-e very conducfveTe^rTy rising" """°'* "^^ P""=« 
 
 bal' S"^tn'Sls°"theTi.^sUr '^!'-"t»-"y -tuated in a 
 improved It is the seat nfthiw,!*'- ,™f"-™°<led, and carefully 
 sage body enacted in bveone ^^i!^?^^'"'' °' Connecticut, which 
 
 bnioird3S5?3-r 
 
 not tended, that I Jow. to maLTe pLp°:"^ess haSte thrh**^ 
 
 P am accustoS with Vfe"ence*to '^^^^^ ^^''- I-d^^d. 
 
 Jfaces, to judge of the ^rifrtf ^? tl *f *^* professions and severe 
 
 judge the goSs of this ?nH 1 °*^^^ '^"''^ P"«"y ""^ as I 
 
 lust the same as at Bos w fl l\ • ''"'''^ *^^ ^°"^*s «* ^^w here, 
 
 lns\ns7u*,ir*rer^S!?.'::j;riL-i.r^'''i^. '-j-^i the 
 
 P'thfs^o^ct^r/rrS:/^™™ 
 
 r octor. m reference to the persons under their charge. Of 
 
 i» t 
 
 
 E< < 
 
If'f 
 
 m 
 
 lit' 
 
 64 
 
 American Notes 
 
 course I limit this remark merely to their looks; for the conversation 
 of the mad people was mad enough. 
 
 There was one little, prim old lady, of very smiling and good- 
 humoured appearance, who came sidling up to me from the end of a 
 long passage, and with a curtsey of inexpressible condescension, 
 propounded this anaccountable inquiry: 
 
 "Does Pontefract still flourish sir, upon the soil of England?" 
 
 "He does, ma'am," I rejoined. 
 
 "When you last saw him, sir, he was " 
 
 "Well, ma'am," said I, "extremely well. He begged me to present 
 his compliments. I never saw him looking better." 
 
 At this, the old lady was very much delighted. After glancing at 
 me for a moment, as if to be quite sure that I was serious in my 
 respectful air, she sidled back some paces; sidled forward again; 
 made a sudden skip (at which I precipitately retreated a step or two); 
 and said: 
 
 "/ am an antediluvian, sir." 
 
 I thought the best thing to say was, that I had suspected as much 
 from the first. Therefore I said so. 
 
 "It is an extremely proud and pleasant thing, sir, to be an ante- 
 diluvian," said the old lady. 
 
 "I should think it was, ma'am," I rejoined. 
 
 The old lady kissed her hand, gave another skip, smirked and 
 sidled down the gallery in a most extraordinary manner, and ambled 
 gracefully into her own bed-chamber. 
 
 In another part of the building, there was a male patient in bed; 
 very much flushed and heated. 
 
 "Well," said he, starting up, and pulling off his night-cap: "It's all 
 settled at last. I have arranged it with Queen Victoria." 
 
 j 'Arranged what?" asked the Doctor. 
 
 "Why, that business," passing his hand wearily across hjs fore- 
 head, "about the siege of New York." 
 
 "Oh I" said I, like a man suddenly enlightened. For he looked at mc 
 for an answer. 
 
 "Yes. Every house without a signal will be fired upon by the 
 British troops. No harm will be done to the others. No harm at all. 
 Those that want to be safe, must hoist flags. That's all they'll have 
 to do. They must hoist flags." 
 
 Even while he was speaking he seemed, I thought, to have some 
 faint idea that his talk was incoherent. Directly he had said these 
 words, he lay down again; gave a kind of -> groan; and covered his 
 hot head with the blankets. 
 
 There was another: a young man, whose madness was love and 
 music. After playing on the accordion a march he had composed, he 
 was very anxious that I should walk into his chamoer, which I 
 immediately did. 
 
 — ,- J 1^ .»..j. - 
 
 his bent. 
 
 )f ht 
 I went 
 
 I* t*\.^ Tr ill 
 
 
 iiliii 
 
 to the window, which commanded a 
 
 LiiU 
 
 t(Jp Oi 
 
 beautiful 
 
nversation 
 
 and good- 
 ie end of a 
 lescensipn, 
 
 and?" 
 
 to present 
 
 [lancing at 
 ous in my 
 ird again; 
 2p or two); 
 
 d as much 
 e an ante- 
 irked and 
 id ambled 
 
 nt in bed; 
 ?: "It's all 
 
 3 his fore- 
 
 ked at mo 
 
 )n by the 
 Lrm at all. 
 ey'll have 
 
 lave some 
 said these 
 )vered his 
 
 love and 
 iposed, he 
 , which I 
 
 LiiC LOp Ui 
 
 beautiful 
 
 Aiiiericaii Notes 65 
 
 prospect, and remarked, with an address upon which I greatly 
 i>liinied myself: *^ gicdny 
 
 ^-What a delicious country you have about these lodgings of 
 
 "Pohl" said he, moving his fingers carelessly over the notes of hU 
 .nstrument: ;P^.// enough for such an InstitutLZ7thi!r 
 I don t thmk I was ever so taken aback in all my life 
 
 4hl That "a\ir ti^l^"^'" '^ '""^ ^°°"^- '^^'"^'^ ^'•' 
 ., ''y,^^- That's all The Doctor's a smart man. He quite enters into 
 It. It 8 a ]oke of mine. I like it for a time. You needn't men "on "t 
 but I thmk I shall go out next Tuesday 1" luenuon it, 
 
 I assured him that I would consider our interview perfectly 
 confidential; and rejomed the Doctor. As we were passing throueh a 
 gallery on our way out. a welWressed lady, of quiet and coSed 
 manners, came up. and proffering a slip of pape? and a pen K^ 
 paid.'"'' ^ ^' ^"" "^''^ ^^ autograph. I complied/ and^^^ 
 
 1 i\**''^^^ J ^^"'^"'i'f ^^^i"g had a few interviews like that t ith 
 ladies out of doors. I hope she is not mad?" 
 
 '|0n what Subject? Autographs?" 
 
 "No. She hears voices in the air." 
 
 "Well!" thought!, "it would be well if we could shut up afew false 
 prophets of these later times, who have professed to d? the same 
 begin ^th"'' " '" '"^ '^' experiment o^n a Mormonist or two to 
 
 In this place, there is the best Jail for untried offenders in the 
 world. There is also a very well-ordered State prison, arranged upon 
 the same plan as that at Bo3ton. except that here, therels always a 
 sentry on the wall with a loaded gu.. It contained it that l!me about 
 two hundred prisoners. A spot was shown me in the sleepSg ward 
 where a watchman was murdered some years since in the deld of 
 mght, m a desperate attempt to escape, made by a priiner who had 
 broken from his oell A woman, too. was pointed out to me. who for 
 the murder of her husband, had been a close prisoner for s^ieen 
 
 "Do you think." I asked of my conductor, "that after so very 
 
 SiWtT""""*' "''" ""'' '"^ ''''"'^' °' ^°P^ "' ever regaining 
 "Oh dear yes," he answered. "To be sure she has." 
 bhe has no chance of obtaining it, I suppose >" 
 
 .'w n** ^^f y/*^l' *^^y couldn't get her out. I suppose?" 
 Well, not the first time, perhaps, nor yet the second 1 
 
 321 
 
 tiring 
 
American Notes 
 
 66 
 
 and wearying for a few years might do it." 
 
 "Does that ever do it?" 
 
 "Why yes, that'll do it sometimes. Political friends'll do it some- 
 times. It's pretty often done, one way or another." 
 
 I shall always entertain a very pleasant and grateful recollection 
 of Hartford. It is a lovely place, and I had many friends there, whom 
 I can never remember with indifference. We left it with no little 
 regret on the evening of Fridr-y the nth, and travelled that night 
 by railroad to New Haven. Upon the way, the guard and I were 
 formally introduced to each other (as we usually were on such 
 occasions), and exchanged a variety of small- talk. We reached New 
 Haven at about eight o'clock, after a journey of three hours, and put 
 up for the night at the best inn. 
 
 New Haven, known also as the City of Elms, is a fine town. Many 
 of its streets (as its alias sufficiently imports) are planted with rows 
 of grand old elm-troes; and the same natural ornaments surround 
 Yale College, an establishment of considerable eminence and repu- 
 tation. The ' arious departments of this Institution are erected in a 
 kind of park or common in the middle of the town, where they are 
 dimly visible among the shadowing trees. The effect is very like 
 that of an old cathedral yard in England; and when their branches 
 are in full leaf, must be extremely picturesque. Even in the winter 
 time, these groups of well-grown trees, clustering among the busy 
 streets and houses of a thriving city, have a very quaint appearance: 
 seeming to bring about a kind of compromise between town and 
 country; as if each had met the other half-way, and shaken hands 
 upon it; which is at once novel and pleasant. 
 
 After a night's rest we rose early, and in good time went down to 
 the wharf, and on board the packet New York for New York. This 
 was the first American steamboat of any size that I had seen; and 
 certainly to an English eye it was infinitely less like a steamboat' than 
 a huge floating bath. I could hardly persuade myself, indeed, but 
 that the bathing establishment off Westminster Bridge, which I left 
 a baby, had suddenly grown to an enormous size; run away from 
 home; and set up in foreign parts as a steapier. Being in America, too, 
 which our vagabonds do so particularly favour, it seemed the more 
 probable. 
 
 The great difference in appearance between these packets and ours, 
 is, that there is so much of them out of the water: the main-deck 
 being enclosed on all sides, and filled with casks and goods, like any 
 second or third floor in a stack of warehouses; and the promenade 
 or hurricane-deck being a-top of that again. A part of the machinery 
 is always above this deck; where the connecting-rod, in a strong ar^; 
 lofty frame, is seen working away like an iron top-sawyer. Ther^ is 
 seldom any mast or tackle: nothing aloft but two tall black chimneys. 
 The man at the helm is shut up in a little house in the fore part of 
 
 tllP hnnf {■^Ytfi wViool Vioirirr />i-\rir»or>f«y4 ori^-V. 4-V>^ ^..J.1_» 1 : _i _• _ 
 
 ^ , ,„_,„, j^ v-_-iiiiT.VLt.ti YTXi-ii tHc X uuuci uy null Cilcims, 
 
 working the whole length of the deck); and the passengerc, unless 
 
American Notes 5^ 
 
 the weather be very fine in(>prl iic»nii„ ^ . , ' 
 
 you have left the wharf Xhe lil^i Jcf"^'^?^ ^^^°^- ^^^^^tlv 
 cease. You wondeXr a lonftim^ h. ?'"' ^"""^ ^"'^^^ °^ « P^^^ket 
 to be nobody in charge of he^^^T '^^ ^^^^ «"' ^^^ there seems 
 
 machines corses spthfnVoy.'^'ou feel qufte indi^' ."' t^.^^^ ^"" 
 sullen, cumbrous ungraceful unshinHi.^V indignant with it. as a 
 
 that the vessel you afe^'^bLTo'ft^^^^ vTrV^oTntetan ^^^^^^ 
 
 yolr^flre; f SL^ fa^^^.'.^ ,t?agT In'd ^^tf "^^^^^ ^^ P^^ 
 room; and in short a greai vS of nlni .?^ '°2"''' ^"gi^eer's 
 discovery of the gentleman's cabin f ^P^^f ^'^^"^^^^^ ^^"^^^ the 
 It often^ccupies trSe Lngth o? the "oat Li dT^ .^.'^^"^^y- 
 and has th e or four tiers of Wi^c^ ^u -/^^ ^"^ ^^^^ ^ase). 
 descended into theTabrof^L'SL" Vo'rk if Too^^ •' ^^^^ 
 unaccustomed eyes, about as long as the Burltgton ^^1 '" "'^ 
 The Sound which has to be crossed on fT„-c ^ ^ Arcade. 
 
 v.ry safe or pleasant navigation Id has^^^^^^^^^ 
 unfortunate accidents It was ^ w^f^ ■ "^ ?^ ^^^"® of some 
 we soon lost sight ofiand The drv w?,Ti"^\^"^ ^"^ "^^^^y- ^"^ 
 ened towards noon After exhaus^i^Jf??""' ^^^^^^r. and bright- 
 the larder, and the'stoctoT^^td !, ^I fav dowJtoT ^ '^ ^^ 
 very much tired with the fatigues of y;sterdav B^if T ^^E' ^/'"^ 
 my nap in time to hurry ud and «;pp MliTr- f ^'t. tt ^ ^°^® ^^^m 
 Frying Pan. and otSotorious locaHtii ^Jr *^^ "^^'^ ^^^k' ^^e 
 of famous Diedrich Kni?Scker'f hSo^^^^^^ *° ^" '^^^^'^ 
 narrow channel, with sloping banks on ^ill^-^^t "^^""^ "**^ ^^ a 
 pleasant villas, and madrref reSi^^^^^^^ ^^th 
 
 Soon we shot in qu^fsucfessSi Vast ^"iSf^^ ^^ *"'^ ^"^ *^^^^- 
 (how the lunatics flung urthefr canrand rn/^^ ^ madhouse 
 
 Cloudless s^^^^^^^^^^^ ^:^e;^;:^^^^^^ «. no^w 
 
 heJps^y^Sfd^ls^^^^^^^^^^^^^ -' trthe'^Sglf confused 
 
 dow^n upon the feW'b^'lo'w" a^^^^^^^^^^ Se^Igtn^^^el^l^? 
 
 lazy smoke; and in the forparonnri o , " '"f^v . ^gam, a cloud of 
 with flappiAg sails and wavf„r/aicms^'°^='''P^' -^t^- -cheery 
 the oppositelhore. were steSerrTboaSTaSf „ Sh ^ri^ ^''"i *° 
 
 restless Insects, wire two or three CI l'"' "*^'"''^ ^""""K t*'^^^ 
 majestic pace, 'as crea ures of ap'oX SS'' dTrt^""^, 7"? ^^"'^ 
 puny journeys, and making for the broad sea R^^^h"' "l*''^''" 
 heights, and islands in the rfandn^ stl t' ?^°?''; "'^'^ *'"™E 
 less blue and bright than theTky ?!eemed to meef TW-.^^T^'^ 
 
 I »ibu..._the_clinking of capsta':,s, tS rtaeta "„f Ll'^t.'Lt.l^l'J" 
 •-■^uugb, tne ciattenng of wheels tinf??:»H in+i7^ r Z~"-'' ""^ ^-a^i^nig 
 
 ^ Which life and stir. coLng ac^rt Stt^i^g^tttcrulhTneru?: 
 
 I i\ 
 
 I i 
 
 if.! 
 
 K h 
 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
68 
 
 American Notes 
 
 and animation from its free companionship; and, sympathising 
 with its buoyant spirits, glistened as it seemed in sport upon its 
 surface, and hemmed the vessel round, and plashed the water 
 high about her sides, and, floating her gallantly into the dock, flew 
 off again to welcome other comers, and speed before them to the busy 
 port. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 The beautiful metropolis of America is by no means so clean a city 
 as Boston, but many of its streets have the same characteristics; 
 except that the houses are not quite so fresh-coloured, the sign- 
 boards are not quite so gaudy, the gilded letters not quite so golden, 
 the bricks not quite so red, the stone not quite so white, the blinds 
 and area railings not quite so green, the knobs and pUtes upon the 
 street doors not quite so bright and twinkling. There are many by- 
 streets, almost as neutral in clean colours, and positive in dirty ones, 
 as by-streets in London; and there is one quarter, commonly called 
 the Five Points, which, in respect of filth and wretchedness, may be 
 safely backed against Seven Dials, or any other part of famed St. 
 Giles's. 
 
 The great promenade and thoroughfare, as most people know, is 
 Broadway; a wide and bustling street, which, from the Battery 
 Gardens to its opposite termination in a country road, may be four 
 miles long. Shall we sit down in an upper floor of the Carlton House 
 Hotel (situated in the best part of this main artery of New York), 
 and when we are tired of looking down upon the life below, sally 
 forth arm-in-arm, and mingle with the stream? 
 
 Warm weather! The sun strikes upon our heads at this open win- 
 dow, as though its rays were concentrate/i through a burning-glass; 
 but the day is in its zenith, and the season an unusual one. Was there 
 ever such a sunny street as this Broadway! The pavement stones are 
 polished with the tread of feet until they shine again; the red bricks 
 of the houses might be yet in the dr^r, hot kilns; and the roofs of those 
 omnibuses look as though, if water were poured on them, they would 
 hiss and smoke, and smell like half-quenched fires. No stint of 
 omnibuses here ! Half a-dozen have gone by within as many minutes. 
 Plenty of hackney cabs and coaches too; gigs, phaetons, large- 
 wheeled tilburies, and private carriages — rather of a clumsy make, 
 and not very different from the public vehicles, but built for the 
 heavy roads beyond the city pavement. Negro coachmen and white; 
 in straw hats, black hats, whifft hnfs ala»f>rl ra-nc fnt- /^o.^o. ;^ ^ — 4.^ 
 
 of drab, black, brown, green, blue, nankeen, striped jean and linen; 
 
ipathising 
 t upon its 
 the water 
 dock, flew 
 o the busy 
 
 American Notes 
 
 69 
 
 ean a city 
 ,cteristics; 
 
 the sign- 
 so golden, 
 the blinds 
 
 upon the 
 many by- 
 iirty ones, 
 nly called 
 s, may be 
 [amed St. 
 
 i know, is 
 ! Battery 
 y be four 
 on House 
 !W York), 
 iow, sally 
 
 )pen win- 
 ing-glass; 
 Vas there 
 itones are 
 ed bricks 
 s of those 
 ley would 
 stint of 
 minutes. 
 IS, large- 
 sy make, 
 t for the 
 rid white; 
 
 .nd linen; 
 
 late) in suits of hvery. Some southern republican that, who puts his 
 blacks in uniform, and swells with SultaS pomp and power Yondl 
 
 sla'dW at tSe.:;'*^ *^' well-clipped pair oF grays^Is stop^'d-!! 
 verv lon/in th^^^^^^^ """"^rr^'f Yorkshire groom, who has not beer 
 nak o? ton hno?« ^I'^l' V""^ ^°^^' sorrowfully round for a companion 
 pair of top-boots, which he may traverse the city half a year without 
 
 TobSn trele^tf "' *^V"^ir ^°" ^^^^ ^'^^'^ ^e ha^rsel more 
 colours m these ten minutes, than we should have seen -Isewhere in 
 
 whatTnkT. ^^f,t.--rtP-asols! what rainbo^si^ks ^nd sa^^^^^^^^ 
 what pmking of thm stockmgs, and pinching of thin shoes and 
 lluttering of ribbons and silk tassels, and display of rich cloaks wi^h 
 gaudy hoods and linings! The young gentlemen are fond you Tee 
 of turning down their shirt-collars and cultivating thek 'wWskers' 
 
 SrdtL^or'bear^nf r-'"\^'^^ ^T"^^ approlch^Te TaS?n 
 rneir aress or bearing, being, to say the truth, humanity of auite 
 
 "e whlt'^nd^nr"' 1.'^^ ^^^^ "^^ counter,'pass on Ld l?t us 
 
 hohlv cloihl of K *^°'^ ^'^ ^^^^^^ y^" t^°«^ two labourers in 
 Holiday clothes of whom one carries in his hand a crumpled scrao 
 
 lt'k?aW?o7?t"on^.'ll'^^^^ 'P^" T ^ ^^^^ --^' -^"- tl- "tS 
 looKs about tor it on all the doors and windows. 
 
 theSloTtanS' lJ°" ""^l^* know them, if they were masked, by 
 roisers wWrh fh """"^ri ^^^ ^"^^^ buttons, and their drab 
 
 ^ousers. which they wear like men well used to working dresses 
 who are easy m no others. It would be hard to keep vour model 
 republics gomg without the countrymen and count^m^en ofThose 
 Z^^^^"""""'; ^^'7^° ^^'^ ^^"1^ di^' ^"d delve. an^Xdge. and do 
 ofTnt.^ Jt'^' ^"^ "^^^^ "^"^^^ ^"d ^°^ds. and execute |reat lines 
 find o^wLfT^^f V l"'^"^"" ^°th. and sorely puzzled too, to 
 of Lme and th.Tf -; ^ft^^ ^° ^°^"' ^^^ *^^^P ^h^em, for the love 
 honesTmen .n^ i ^'"1* ""^ ^iK^'^^ ^^^^^ ^^"^^^s of honest service to 
 Tha-? w;itrw r'* "^^^^ for honest bread, no matter what it be. 
 written J I ^ ^r^ ^°* ^t the right address at last, though it is 
 
 S than . ipn tI ^ ""^ *v ^ 'P^^^ t^^ ^iter better knows the use 
 there? TtfJ; "^^ ^ ^'^' y°"^^^' ^^^ ^'"^^ business takes them 
 
 there? They carry savings: to hoard up? No. They are brothers 
 
 harveTand'l- '''.^ '^^ ''" "^°^^' ^"^ ^^^^^^g ^^^ hard ^r one 
 out Thl;^ Tv? '^^'■^^'■' "^^^^ ^^"-^^ ^"0"gh to bring the other 
 sharini'hli^^^' ^^"^7°^^/?. ^^g^*^^^^ «ide by side, contented^ 
 3isS.^. ^^tl ^""^ ^Y.^ ^^^^"^ ^^" ^^°th«^ t^^"^' an^ then their 
 
 and vearn. ?rL ^^' k ^ P^'^'"/'^^ ^^^"^ ^^ ^^^^less in a strange land, 
 gravS .t h^ '" ^r^'' ?^ '^y^' ^"^°"S ^^^ P^^Ple in the old 
 God hlt^ 1, T.I- ^"^ '° they go to pay her passage back: .nd 
 God help her and them, and every simple heart, and .11 who . „^ % 
 
 comS^TS tiei^i^C^^^ '^^' ^"' '^^^ an altar:fire upon the 
 
 ^ ^1 .'■ 
 
 I ' 
 
 1 i 
 
 l!!t ' i' 
 
70 
 
 American Notes 
 
 This narrow thoroughfare, baking and blistering in the sun, is 
 Wall Street: the Stock Exchange and Lombard Street of New York. 
 Many a rapid fortune has been made in this street, and many a no 
 less rapid ruin. Some of these very merchants whom you see hanging 
 about here now, have locked up money in their strong-boxes, like 
 the man in the Arabian Nights, and opening them again, have found 
 but withered leaves. Below, here by the water-side, where the bow- 
 sprits of ships stretch across the footway, and almost thrust them- 
 selves into the windows, lie the noble American vessels which have 
 made their Packet Service the finest in the world. They have brought 
 hither the foreigners who abound in all the streets: not. perhaps, that 
 there are more here, than in other commercial" cities; but elsewhere, 
 they have particular haunts, and you must find them out; here,' 
 they pervade the town. 
 
 We must cross Broadway again; gaining some refreshment from 
 the heat, in the sight of the great blocks of clean ice which are being 
 carried into shops and bar-rooms; and the pine-apples and water 
 n--lons profusely displayed for sale. Fine streets of spacious houses 
 here, you see!— Wall Street has furnished and dismantled many 
 of them very often — and here a deep green leafy square. Be sure that 
 it is a hospitable house With inmates to be affectior«ately remembered 
 always, where they have the open door and pretty show of plants 
 within, and where the child with laughing eyes is peeping out of 
 window at the little dog below. You wonder what may be the use 
 of this tall flagstaff in the by-street, with something like Liberty's 
 head-dress on its top: so do I. But there is a passion for tall flagstaff s 
 hereabout, and you may see its twin brother in five minutes, if you 
 have a mind. 
 
 Again across Broadway, and so — passing from the many-coloured 
 crowd and glittering shops — into another long main street, the 
 Bowery. A railroad yonder, see, where two stout horses trot along, 
 drawing a score or two of people and a great wooden ark, with ease. 
 The stores are poorer here; the passengers less gay. Clothes ready- 
 made, and meat ready-cooked, are to be bought in these parts; and 
 the lively whirl of carriages is exchanged for the deep rumble of 
 carts and waggons. These signs which are so plentiful, in shape like 
 river buoys, or small balloons, hoisted by cords to poles, and dangling 
 there, announce, as you may see by looking up, "Oysters in every 
 Style." They tempt the hungry most at night, for then dull candles 
 ghmme.ing inside, illuminate these dainty words, and make the 
 mouths of idlers water, as they read and linger. 
 
 What is this dismal-fronted pile of bastard Egyptian, like an 
 enchanter's palace in a meloaiama! — a famous prison, called The 
 Tombs. Shall we go in? 
 
 So. A long, narrow, lofty building, stove-heated as usual, with 
 four galleries, one above the other, going round it, and communicat- 
 ing >^y stairs. Between the two sides of each gallery, and in its centre, 
 a bridge, for the greater convenience of crossing. On each of these 
 
 bridges 
 
 p?nion 
 
 They 1( 
 
 fires wi 
 
 with dr 
 
 is light 
 
 dangle, 
 
 A m; 
 
 fellow, 
 
 "Are 
 
 "Yes 
 
 "Are 
 
 "Wei 
 
 about i1 
 
 "Thoi 
 
 "Whj 
 
 "Whe 
 
 "Wei] 
 
 "Do t 
 
 "Cons 
 
 "Som( 
 
 "Well 
 
 "But ! 
 
 only a pi 
 
 they are 
 
 affords c 
 
 trials, an 
 
 here iFor 
 
 •'Well, 
 
 "Bo y< 
 
 at that li 
 
 "He ra 
 
 "Will ^ 
 
 "All, ii 
 
 The fa 
 
 on its hir 
 
 enters th 
 
 washing, 
 
 sixty; rea 
 
 shake; an 
 
 heads, thi 
 
 has murd 
 
 "How 1 
 
 "A mor 
 
 "When 
 
 "Nexti 
 
 vv neii 
 
he sun, is 
 STew York, 
 nany a no 
 ie hanging 
 )oxes, like 
 ave found 
 i the bow- 
 ust them- 
 hich have 
 '^e brought 
 haps, that 
 elsewhere, 
 out; here, 
 
 Qent from 
 
 are being 
 
 md water 
 
 >us houses 
 
 led many 
 
 ! sure that 
 
 nembered 
 
 of plants 
 
 ng out of 
 
 e the use 
 
 Liberty's 
 
 . flagstaff s 
 
 :es, if you 
 
 -coloured 
 :reet, the 
 rot along, 
 Arith ease, 
 ies ready- 
 >arts; and 
 umble of 
 ihape like 
 [ dangling 
 
 IN EVERY 
 
 11 candles 
 nake the 
 
 , like an 
 illed The 
 
 ual, with 
 
 municat- 
 
 is Centre, 
 
 of these 
 
 American Notes 
 
 bridges sits a man: dozing or reading or falUnrr i-^ -^t 
 ' p?nion. On each tipr ^t^ L ^L talkmg to an idle com- 
 
 Are those black doors the cells?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Are they all full?" 
 
 ab3 1" '^''^''' P''"^ "^^^ '""' ^^^ *^^^'« - ^--t' -nd no two ways 
 ''Those at the bottom are unwholesome, surely'" 
 
 Why, we do only put coloured people in 'em. That's the truth " 
 ^ When do the prisoners take exercise?" ^ *'^"*^- 
 
 Well they do without it pretty much." 
 
 Do they never walk in the yard?" 
 
 Considerable seldom." 
 "Sometimes, I suppose?" 
 ''Well, it's rare they do. They keep pretty bright without it " 
 
 ^ He might walk some, perhaps— not much." 
 Will you open one of the doors?" 
 All, if you like." 
 
 on^?s%tn1esTett'ln"? '^'t' ^^?, °"" °^ *^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ns slowly 
 
 How long has he been here?" 
 'A month." 
 
 "When will he be tried?" 
 I'Next term." 
 "When is that?" 
 "Next month." 
 
 
 fit 
 
 rtf^'i 
 
f'lF 
 
 ! f: ii 
 
 
 72 
 
 American Notes 
 
 "In England, if a man be under sentence of death, even he has air 
 and exercise at certain periods of the day." 
 "Possible?" 
 
 With what stupendous and untranslatable coolness he says this, 
 and how loungingly he leads on to the women's side: making, as be 
 ^oe£ a kind of iron castanet of the key and the stair-rail! 
 
 Each cell door on this side has a square aperture in it. Some of the 
 women peep anxiously through it at the sound of footsteps; others 
 shrink away in shame. — For what offence can that lonely child, of 
 ten or twelve years old, be shut up here? Oh! that boy? He is the son 
 of the prisoner we saw just now; is a witness against his father; and 
 is detained here for safe keeping, until the trial; that'^ all. 
 
 But it is a dreadful place for the child to pass the long c.ays and 
 nights in. This is rather hard treatment for a young witness, is it 
 not? — ^What says our conductor? 
 
 "Well, it an't a very rowdy life, and thaVs a fact!" 
 Again he clinks his metal castanet, and leads us L surely away. 
 I have a question to ask him as we go. 
 
 "Pray why do they call this place The Tombs?" 
 "Well, it's the cant name." 
 "I know it is. Why?" 
 
 "Some suicides happened here, when it was first built. I expect it 
 come about from that." 
 
 "I saw just now, that that man's clothes were scattered auout the 
 floor of his cell. Don't you oblige the prisoners to be orderly, and put 
 such things away? " 
 
 "Where should they put 'em?" 
 
 "Not on the ground surely. What do you say to hanging them 
 up?" 
 
 He stops and looks round to emphasise his answer: 
 "Why, I say that's just it. When they had hooks they wouldhssig 
 themselves, so they're taken out of every cell, and there's only the 
 marks left where they used to be!" 
 
 The prison-yard in which he pauses now, has been the scene of 
 terrible performances. Into this narrow, ^grave-like place, men are 
 brought out to die. The wretched creature stands beneath the gibbet 
 on the ground; the rope about his neck; and when the sign is given, 
 a weight at its other end comes running down, and swings him up 
 into the air — a corpse. 
 
 The law requires that there be present at this dismal spectacle, 
 the judge, the jury, and citizens to the amount of twenty-five. 
 From the community it is hidden. To the dissolute and bad, the 
 thing remains a frightful mystery. Between the criminal and them, 
 the p-^i son- wall is interposed as a thick gloomy veil. It is the curtain 
 to hib bed of death, his winding-sheet, and grave. From him it shuts 
 out IJin, and all the motives to unrepenting hardihood in that last 
 
 
 
 LU 
 
 sustain. There are no bold eyes to make him bold; no ruffians to 
 
American Notes 
 
 Let us go forth again into the cheerful streets 
 
 blue parasol which pas^d a„d reoass4/tS» Lt.? *^ '*'"*' ''«''' 
 times while we were^sitting tht^ ^Hfe glg1:';ro:' hire "xaS 
 an? a sfkc^'^a^" ?r',^ ^T ""^ *™*«"S upUi"d tWs''S„lg'^'= 
 ?u^ed ttcofnen'^ half-a-doeen gentlemeu hogs have just n^ 
 
 Here is a solitary swine lounging homeward bv himwif H. l,,. . 
 
 St;;3Ktrg:?s^r-VeidS^"^^^ 
 ihiro^f orrbi'^^n aTsr^tael' t rS^^^^^^^^ 
 
 at a certain hour, throw.Tn,s"^f '^^^the ttTferSo^^hif 
 day m some manner quite satisfactory to himself and .^i^ . 
 appears at the door of his own house again at nirtT lit. ft "f"''?'''^ 
 master of Gil Bias He is •> frer3 .!t? t ? ' '•*!.*''^ mysterious 
 
 pg. having a verylaryacqu:i:Ll.rjm:ng o^^^^^^^^^ °' 
 
 character, whom he rather know«! hv =t,iV It ^^ *^® ^^"^^ 
 
 seldom troubles himsdf Wop'a/dTxchanS cSiS^Tv"' ''^ 
 ?r!;rf&*^ l^-'-V^J; *"™'"S «P thetwILTsmr't^fof'SI 
 buTh£ o^ :t?i ht^ve^nitltrfort?'- ST"* ""^""^ ^ *^"' 
 h.ve been at that too^7IU^:Zn'^d°iXtrZ^^ ^t^Z 
 ^^Vmi;|^7^rtt^St"^X^t^^^^^^^^ 
 
 »e Sm-h7w-tTft pXr&elsiSS"^^ F^" 
 
 ^» ^or.TeiTis'^d-Xi-iSli^^^ 
 
 Whose carcase garnishes a butcher's drroost W h^ 1"^"^' 
 
 "Such is hfe: all flesh is porkl'' bSs hi nose ,V. fh.\. ^''"*' °"* 
 
 They are the city scavengers, these pigs. Ugly brutes th^v ar«. 
 having, for the most part, scanty brown Lckslil.^fi;!r!i ^.?j 
 horsehair trunks: spotted'with u';iwhoTesomf &^^^^ 1^'^ 
 
 have long gaunt legs, too, and such peaked snoutf that ? one 'V +h 
 could be persuaded to sit for his profile, nobody w^juldreco^isi I ^ 
 a pig's likeness. They are never attended utS^ or Th^^^ ^^ '* ^°^ 
 caught, but are thrown upon their own Xu^ces n ;ariv^ir' °^' 
 become preternaturally knowing in consequence Fv^^t^ 5^- u^ ^""^ 
 where he lives, much letter thL anyTdrcouM l^r^.^^^A^.^? 
 bed hv^'iof ^''''T^ is closing in, you will see them roam'ing towards 
 bed by^scores, eatmg their way to the last. Occasionally, some ye^ 
 
 ua 
 
74 
 
 American Notes 
 
 Wf 
 
 1 1: 
 
 among them who has over-eaten himself, or has been worried by dogs, 
 trots shrinkingly homeward, like a prodigal son: but this is a rare 
 case: perfect self-possession and self-reliance, and immovable com- 
 posure, being their foremost attributes. 
 
 The streets and shops are lighted now; and as the eye travels down 
 the long thoroughfare, dotted with bright jets of gas, it is reminded 
 of Oxford Street, or Piccadilly. Here and there a flight of broad stone 
 cellar-steps appears, and a painted lamp directs you to the Bowling 
 Saloon, or Ten-Pin alley; Ten-Pins being a game of mingled chance 
 and skill, invented when the legislature passed an act forbidding 
 Nine-Pins. At other downward flight of steps, are other lamps, 
 marking the whereabouts of oyster-cellars — pleasant retreats, say I: 
 not only by reason of their wonderful cookery of oysters, pretty nigh 
 as large as cheese-plates (or for thy dear sake, heartiest of Greek 
 Professors !) , but because of all kinds of eaters of fish, or flesh, or 
 fowl, in these latitudes, the swallowers of oysters alone are not 
 gregarious; but subduing thvimselves, as it were, to the nature of 
 what they work in, and copying the coyness of the thing they eat, do 
 sit apart in curtained boxes, and consort by twos, not by two hun- 
 dreds. 
 
 But how quiet the streets are! Are there not itinerant bands; no 
 wind or stringed instruments? No, not one. By day, are there no 
 Punches, Fantoccini, Dancing-dogs, Jugglers, Conjurers, Orches- 
 trinas, or even Barrel-organs? No, not one. Yes, I remember one. 
 One barrel-organ and a dancing-monkey — sportive by nature, but 
 fast fading into a dull, lumpish monkey, of the Utilitarian school, 
 Beyond that, nothing lively; no, not so much as a white mouse in a 
 twirling cage. 
 
 Are there no amusements? Yes. There is a lecture-room across the 
 way, from v/hich that glare of light proceeds, and there may be 
 evening service for the ladies thrice a week, or oftener. For the young 
 gentlemen, there is the counting-house, the store, the bar-ioom: 
 the latter, as you may see through these windows, pretty full. Hark! 
 to the clinking sound of hammers breaking lumps of ice, and to the 
 cool gurgling of the pounded bits, as, in the process of mixing, they 
 are poured from glass to glass! No amusements? What are these 
 suckers of cigars and swallowers of strong drinks, whose hats and 
 legs we see in every possible variety of twist, doing, but amusing 
 themselves? What are the fifty newspapers, which those precocious 
 urchins are bawling down the street, and which are kept filed within, 
 what are they but amusements? Not vapid, waterish amusements, 
 but good strong stuff; dealing in round abuse and blackguard 
 names; pulling off the roofs of private houses, as the Halting Devil 
 did in Spain; pimping and pandering for all degrees of vicious taste, 
 and gorging with coined lies the most voracious maw; imputing to 
 every man in public life the coarsest and the vilest motives; scaring 
 away from the stabbed and prostrate body-politic, every Samaritan 
 of clear conscience and good deeds; and setting on, with yell and 
 
American Notes 75 
 
 whistle and the clapping of foul hands, the vilest vermin and worst 
 birds of prey. — No amusements! 
 
 Let us go on again; and passing this wilderness of an hotel with 
 stores about its base, like some Continental theatre, or the London 
 Opera House shorn of its colonnade, plunge into the Five Points 
 But It IS needful, first, that we take as our escort these two heads of 
 the police, whom you would know for sharp and well-trained officers 
 If you met them in the Great Desert. So true it is. that certain 
 pursuits, wherever carried on, will stamp men with the same 
 character. These two might have been begotten, born, and bred in 
 Bow btreet. 
 
 We have seen no beggars in the streets by night or day; but of 
 other kinds of strollers, plenty. Poverty, wretchedness, and vice are 
 rife enough where we are going now. 
 
 This is the place: these narrow ways, diverging to the right and 
 left, and reekmg every^vhere with dirt and filth. Such lives as are led 
 here bear the same fruits here as elsewhere. The coarse and bloated 
 faces at the doors, have counterparts at home, and all the wide world 
 over Debauchery has made the very houses prematurely old. See 
 how the rotten beams are tumbling down, and how the patched and 
 broken windows seem to scowl dimly, like eyes that have been hurt 
 in drunken frays. Many of those pigs live here. Do they ever wonder 
 why their masters walk upright in lieu of going on all-fours? and 
 why they talk instead of grunting? 
 
 So far. nearly every house is a low tavern; and on the bar-room 
 walls, are coloured prints of Washington, and Queen Victoria of 
 fu^uli' ^""^ the American Eagle. Among the pigeon-holes that hold 
 the bottles, are pieces of plate-glass and coloured paper, for there is 
 m some sort, a taste for decoration, even here And as seamen 
 irequent these haunts, there are maritime pictures by the dozen- of 
 ^f^K^^K ^etween sailors and their lady-loves, portraits of William 
 of the ballad and his Black-Eyed Susan; of Will Watch, the Bo?d 
 Smuggler; of Paul Jones the Pirate, and the like: on which the painted 
 eyes of Queen Victoria, and of Washington to boot, rest in as strange 
 companionship, as on most of the scenes that are enacted in their 
 wondering presence. 
 
 What place is this, to which the squalid street conducts us? A kind 
 of square of leprous houses, some of which are attainable onlv bv 
 crazy wooden stairs without. What lies beyond this tottering flight 
 of steps that creak beneath our tread?-a miserable room, lighted 
 by one dim candle, and destitute of all comfort, save that which mav 
 
 knees: his forehead hidden m his hands. "What ails that man?'' asks 
 
 I Ton "''T^'* ?'^'''' T"T'" ^' ^""^^^y ^^Pli^«' without looking S 
 Conceive the fancies of a feverish brain in such a place as this' ^' 
 
 wm" ?^^^Pitc^-dark stairs, heedful of a false footing on the 
 
 tremui.ng L,oarus, anu grope your way with me into this wolfish den 
 
 where neither ray of light nor breath of air, appears to come A 
 
 m 
 
r 
 
 i>i 
 
 76 
 
 American Notes 
 
 negro lad, startled from his sleep by the officer's voice — he knows it 
 well — but comforted by his assurance that he has not come on 
 business, officiously bestirs himself to light a candle. The match 
 flickers for a moment, and shows great mounds of dusty rags upon 
 the ground; then dies away and leaves a denser darkness than before, 
 if there can be degrees in such extremes. He stumbles down the 
 stairs and presently comes back, shading a flaring taper with his 
 hand. Then the mounds of rags are seen to be astir, and rise slowly 
 up, and the floor is covered with heaps of negro women, waking from 
 their sleep: their white teeth chattering, and their bright eyes 
 glistening and winking on all sides with surprise and fear, like the 
 countless repetition of one astonished African face in some strange 
 mirror. 
 
 Mount up these other stairs with no less caution (there are traps, 
 and pitfalls here, for those who are not so well escorted as ourselves) 
 into the housetop; where the bare beams and rafters meet overhead, 
 and calm night looks down through the crevices in the roof. Open the 
 door of one of these cramped hutches full of sleeping negroes. Pah ! 
 They have a charcoal fire within; there is a smell of singeing clothes, 
 or flesh, so close they gather round the brazier; and vapours issue 
 forth that blind and suffocate. From every corner, as you glance 
 about you in these dark retreats, some figure crawls half-awakened, 
 as if the judgment-hour were near at hand, and every obscene grave 
 were giving up its dead. Where dogs would howl to lie, women, and 
 men, and boys slink off to sleep, forcing the dislodged rats to move 
 away in quest of better lodgings. 
 
 Here too are lanes and alleys, paved with mud knee-deep, under- 
 ground chambers, where they dance and game; the walls bedecked 
 with rough designs of ships, and forts, and flags, and American 
 eagles out of number: ruined houses, open to the street, whence, 
 through wide gaps in the walls, other ruins loom upon the eye, as 
 though the world of vice and misery had nothing else to show; 
 hideous tenements which take their name from robbery and murder; 
 all that is loathsome, drooping, and decayed is here. 
 
 Our leader has his hand upon the latch of "Almack's." and calls 
 to us from the bottom of the steps; for the assembly-rc ti of the 
 Five Point fashionables is approached by a descent. Shall we go in.' 
 It is but a moment. 
 
 Heyday! the landlady of Almack's thrives! A buxom fat mulatto 
 woman, with sparkling eyes, whose head is daintily ornamented with 
 a handkerchief of many colours. Nor is the landlord much behind her 
 in his finery, being attired in a smart blue jacket, like a ship's 
 steward, with a thick gold ring upon his little finger, and round his 
 neck a gleaming golden watch-guard. How glad he is to see us ! What 
 will we please to call for? A dance? It shall be done directly, sir; "a 
 regular break-down." 
 
 The corpulent black fiddler, and his friend who plays the tambourine, 
 
 sed orchestra in which they 
 
 
 4-1. - 
 
 
 ^£ J.-U^ _. 
 
 11 
 
American Notes *jm 
 
 sit. and play a lively measure. Five or six couple come uoon the flnnr 
 marshaUed by a lively young negro, who is tL^t of tKsemSl' 
 and the greatest dancer known. He never lPa^/,«« ^« r^li . ^^"^^'y- 
 faces, and is the delight of all thTresTwlTo ^r ntort"r^r^^^^^^ 
 incessantly Among the dancers are two younf mulX gfrls with 
 arge, black, droopmg eyes, and head-gear aftir th^fashfon ^f th^ 
 hostess, who are as shy, or feign to be. L though tLy never da^^^^^^ 
 
 st^Sh1ng\^r .^ong^^^^^^^ -- ^^^ ^^-^^^ 
 
 ong about It that the sport beginsTlangu^sl whe^^uddenlv th^ 
 lively hero dashes in to the rescue. Instantly the fiddler grlns^ and 
 goes at It tooth and nail; there is new energy in the tambourW- T 
 laughter m the dancers; new smiles in theYaidlady n^t con^^^^^^^ 
 in the landlord; new brightness in the very candles Sin aufK^ 
 double shuffle, cut and cro'ss-cut; snapping hfs fmge s roS'h s e^vt ' 
 turning m his knees, presenting the backs of his iL inTront SDinTn^ 
 
 fh.'^Sn.to^'' *°f ^"^ *^".^^^ "^^ ^«*hi"g but the mar?s finSrs on 
 the tambourme; dancmg with two left legs, two right legs two wooden 
 
 lf;,Z\w""t ^^^^S^riP""^ ^^^^-^11 ««^ts of legfand noTegs- 
 what IS this to him? And in what walk of life, or dince of Hfe dnTI 
 man ever get such stimulating applause as thundere abm t' hfr^ 
 when, having danced his partner off her feet, and h^mse^rtoo he 
 finishes by leaping gloriously on the bar-counter and call w' }Z 
 somethmg to drink, with the chuckle of a mmion of counterfe^S m 
 Crows, in one mimitable sound! ^"""xerieit jim 
 
 atmosphe^e^rf^if.^h"'^ distempered parts, is fresh after the stifling 
 atmosphere of the houses; and now. as we emerge into a br >adf.r 
 
 What! do you thrust your common offenders against tho t,„t,,.. 
 discplme of the town, into such holes as thesef Do Srand women 
 
 su^'oTn Jed rrhaTo" ^'''^'^' "^ """'^ *" ""S"^' » ^rfec?dSe™; 
 surrounded by the noisome vapours which encircle that flavin,; 
 
 ten^hrwh'^''* f •""''• ^°<1 breathing this fi'?hy and oSi vf 
 stench! Why such mdecent and disgusting dangeons as these c^N. 
 
 Lo"hfm S'" "^^ '^' ""* ^^'^"^ ^^^"^ *^ "™'^^' 
 LOOK at them, man— you, who see them every night and keen th^ 
 
 be^w^h ''^ T ""■".* *'y *^«? '°° y°^ know-how dktas are madi 
 
 betrata^rst^gnrntp"*''^^^ '"^^ '"'■"^'' — ^^-- '-?' ^ 
 
 locted''„!if f''°?h* ^°^- "^ "^^ ^'^ five-and-twenty young women 
 
 It 1,a?H^V'2 ™7.5!'.^*- °- *™«. ^'nd you'd hardl^ reaTs^ 
 T^ n"l\ — ' r""^ "^ciu wcic among 'em. 
 In God s name I shut the door upon the wretched creature who is 
 
78 
 
 American Notes 
 
 m It now, and put its screen before a place, quite unsurpassed in all 
 the vice, neglect, and devilry, of the worst old town in Europe. 
 
 Are people really left all night, untried, in those black sties> -Ev jry 
 night. The watch is set at seven in the evening. The magi - .te o'jcns 
 his court at ^ve in the morning. That is the earliest horr ;t wii oh the 
 first prisoner can be released; and if an officer appear ags . . m he 
 IS not taken out till nine o'clock or ten.— But if any one an. them 
 die m the interval, as one man did, not long ago? Then he .^ half- 
 eaten by the rats in an hour's time; as that man wiiS- '-1 there 
 an end. 
 
 What is this intolerable tolling of great bells, and crashing of 
 wheels, and shouting in the distance? A fire. And what that deep red 
 light m the opposite direction? Another fire. And what these charred 
 And blackened walls we stand before? A dwelling where a fire has 
 been. It was more than hinted, in an official report, not long ago that 
 some of these conflagrations were not wholly accidental, and' tfcat 
 speculation and enterprise found a field of exertion, even in flames 
 but be this as it may, there was a fire last night, there are two to- 
 night, and you may lay an even wager there will be at least one 
 to-morrow. So, carrying that with us for our comfort, let us sav' 
 Good night, and climb up-stairs to bed. ' 
 
 One day, during my stay in New York, I paid a visit to the different 
 public institutions on Long Island, or Rhode Island- I forget which 
 One of them is a Lunatic Asylum. The building is handsome; and is 
 remarkable foi- a spacious and elegant staircase. The whole structure 
 is not yet finished, but it is already one of considerable size and 
 extent, and is capable of accommodating a very large number of 
 
 I cannot say that I derived much comfort from the inspection of 
 this charity. The different wards might have been cleaner and better 
 ordered; I saw nothing of that salutary system which had impressed 
 me so favourably elsewhere; and everything had a lounging, listless 
 madhouse air. which was very painful. The moping idiot, cowering 
 down with long dishevelled hair; the gibbering maniac, with his 
 hideous laugh and pointed finger; the vacant eye, the fierce wild face 
 the gloomy picking of the hands and lips, and munching of the nails 
 there they were all, without disguise, in naked ugliness and horror In 
 the dinmg-room a bare, dull, dreary place, with nothing for the eye 
 to rest on but the empty walls, a woman was locked up alone. She 
 was bent, they told me. on committing suicide. If anything could 
 have strengthened her in her resolution, it would certainly have been 
 the insupportable monotony of such an existence 
 
 The terrible crowd with which these halls and galleries were filled 
 so shocked me. that I abridged my stay within the shortest limits' 
 and declined to see that portion of the building in which the re- 
 tractory and violent were under closer restraint I ha^/o n^ 'i—b^ 
 that tne gentleman who presided over this establishment at the time 
 

 American Notes yg 
 
 I write of, was competent to manage it. and had done ail in hia 
 power to promote its usefulness: but will it be Meved tLT .k! 
 
 oTffflft V'"?H°' ''^rju'^^^'"^ ^^ ^-"-d even into Js sad Xe 
 w4h are t'o watcTn'"' humanity? Will it be believed that Vhe lyS 
 wmcn are to watch over and control the wanderings of minds on 
 u^ich the most dreadful visitat^m to which our nature is exposeS 
 
 Wi Vh be beHevrtha't%t"" "' --« -etched sicIe'i'pXics? 
 It De Deiieved that the governor of such a house ai thU i. 
 
 K'2^''' h"*^ '^•'P°'""^' '">'' "^h^-^gcd perpetaally a^ Parties 
 thTs way or thS^'A^h" ^ '!lf despic'able'^eWrc.^ks Le Wow^ 
 
 I never turned my back upon it with feelings of such d^o dk^n!; ,nH 
 measureless contempt, as when I crossed tUthreshofd'oUh^i^lrd' 
 
 Ho1,se^ ?Saf iftn*"'^ ^IS'" ^'f ''""'"8 '^ *"°ther called the Alms 
 rn:tStfon'afso:°lSrging^ TStT whe'l'^T ^'"\^*"' '^ ' '"^e 
 thousand poor.. It wa! "bld.y vlSieXt^d bad?^ UghSd'^I^L? 
 
 good and eviftsrnrrm1xed\'n1rumb,iZprget\:r^^ =""°""' °' 
 
 nu[L?LXed"fdiZrstit*ttY'S^H^°"°«°'^^ 
 
 and I can the more easUv L^dii if ? 'f '"'"^ '* '' ™" conducted; 
 
 usually are.1n AmerSi of that L',.??"? '"°^'"? ''°"' ""■"^'"' ^W 
 rememUaU l^Crrnlanl yZg c^WreT '" *^ "^''"^ ^'^''^ 
 the' MLT^:il'i:^ro::rtT:^Jyj:Z'' *" ^^ ^oat be.ongi„g to 
 
 itpLessS/a-n^^tjrSg^-lSf^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 ;eLtb-^Tht^ttr:rSo?st'tS:^ iS^k- " ' 
 
 hanri TKo^o K • ^^I'uur m certam stone-q 
 
 Jiand. The day bemg very wet indeed, this labour w Jc„o^.„^„. __ , 
 
 "ic prisoners were in their cpll<? Tmao^ir,^ ^Tu'"" ■—■^"^t"-'-^^^^. and 
 three hundred in n„mber:i;Ste4^Ca*t;SedTprtiron°I 
 
 ?il 
 
 1 
 
 II 
 
So 
 
 American Notes 
 
 ., iF 
 
 at his door for air, with his hands thrust through the grate; this one 
 in bed (in the middle of the day, remember); and this one flung down 
 in a heap upon the ground, with his head against the bars, like a wild 
 beast. Make the rain pour down, outside, in torrents. Put the ever- 
 lasting stove in the niidst; hot, and suffocating, and vaporous, as a 
 witch's cauldron. Add a collection of gentle odours, such as would 
 arise from a thousand mildewed umbrellas, wet through, and a 
 thousand buck-baskets, full of half-washed linen— and there is the 
 prison, as it was that day. 
 
 The prison for the State at Sing Sing, is, on the other hand, a 
 model jail. That, and Aubuia, are, I believe, the largest and best 
 examples of the silent system. 
 
 In another part of the city, is the Refuge for the Destitute: an 
 Institution whose object is to reclaim youthful offenders, male and 
 female, black and white, wit'iout distinction; to teach them useful 
 trades, apprentice them tc respectable masters, and make them 
 worthy members of society. Its design, it will be seen, is similar to 
 that at Boston; and it is a no less meritorious and admirable estab- 
 lishment. A suspicion crossed my mind during my inspection of this 
 noble charity, whether the superintendent had quite sufficient know- 
 ledge of the world and worldly characters; and whether he did not 
 commit a great mistake in treating some young girls, who were to all 
 intents and purposes, by their years and their past lives, women, as 
 though they were little children; which certainly had a ludicrous 
 effect in my eyes, and, or I am much mistaken, in theirs also. As the 
 Institution, however, is always under a vigilant examination of a 
 body of gentlemen of great intelligence and experience, it cannot fail 
 to be well conducted; and whether I am right or wrong in this slight 
 particular, is unimportant to its deserts and character, which it 
 would be difficult to estimate too higaly. 
 
 In addition to these establishments, there are in New York, 
 excellent hospitals and schools, literary institutions and libraries; 
 an admirable fire department (as indeed it should be, having constant 
 practice), and charities of every sort and kind. In the suburbs there 
 is a spacious cemetery: unfinished yet, but every day improvmg. The 
 saddest tomb I saw there was "The Strangers' Grave. Dedicated to 
 the different hotels in this city." 
 
 There are three principal theatres. Two of them, the Park and the 
 Bowery, are large, elegant, and handsome buildings, and are, I grieve 
 to write it, generally deserted. The third, the Olympic, is a tiny show- 
 box for vaudevilles and burlesques. It is singularly well conducted 
 by Mr. Mitchell, a comic actor of great quiet humour and originality, 
 who is well remembered and esteemed by London playgoers. I am 
 happy to report of this deserving gentleman, that his benches are 
 usually well filled, and that his theatre rings with merriment every 
 night. I had almost forgotten a small summer theatre, called Niblo's, 
 with gardens and open air amusements attached: but I believe it is 
 not exempt from the general depression under vvhich Theatrical 
 
American Notes 
 
 8i 
 
 StXre^' °' ^^*^* " humorousJ.y called by that name, unfortunately 
 The country round New York is surpassingly and exquisitely 
 
 SlhrwlTrnS'ww'^' ^' ^5^r ^^"^^y intimated, is somewhat 
 of the warmest What it would be. without the sea breezes which 
 come from its beautiful Bay in the evening time, I will not throw 
 myself or my readers into a fever by inquiring. 
 
 The toae of the best society in this city, is like that of Boston- 
 here and there, it nay be. with a greater infusion of the mercantile 
 spirit, but generally polished and refined, and always most nospitable. 
 The houses and tables are elegant; the hours later and more rakish- 
 and there is. perhaps, a greater spirit of contention in reference to 
 appearances, and the display of wealth ar i costly living The ladies 
 are singularly beautiful. J & '=> ictuicj, 
 
 hn^^lZ\lAr ^^"^ w "■ u ^ ''f "^^ arrangements for securing a passage 
 home in th^ George Washington packet ship, which was advertised to 
 sail m June: that being the month in which I had determined if 
 America '''' accident in the course of my ramblings, to leive 
 
 I never thought that going back to England, returning to all who 
 are dear to me. and to pursuits that have insensibly grSwn to be a 
 part of my nature, I could have felt so much sorrow as I endured 
 when I parted at last, on board this ship, with the friends who had 
 accompanied me from this city. I never thought the name of anv 
 place, so far away and so lately known, could ever associate itself in 
 my mmd with the crowd of affectionate remembrances that now 
 cluster about it. There are those in this city who would brighten to 
 me, the darkest wmter-day that ever glimmered and went out in 
 Lapland; and before whoL3 presence even Home grew dim. when they 
 and I exchanged that painful word wnich mingles with our everv 
 thought ajid deed; which haunts our cradle-heads in infancy, and 
 closes up the vista of oui lives in age. 
 
 1^ 1 
 
 CHAPTER VIl 
 
 m 
 
 PHILADELPHIA. AND ITS SOLITARY PRISOr 
 
 The journey from New York to Philadelphia, is made by railroad 
 and two femes; and usually occupies between five and six hours It 
 was a fine evening when we were passengers in the train: and watch- 
 ing the bngLc sunset from a little window near the door by which we 
 sat. my attention was attracted to a remarkable appearance issuing 
 from the windows of the gentleman s car immediately in front of us 
 
 which I siinnospr! fnr cnme. +iwyc. ,.ra« : j »_■' . ' 
 
 mdustrjous persons mside. rippmg open feather beds, and giving the 
 
 
 .* ''% 
 
82 
 
 American Notes 
 
 feathers to the wind. At length it occurred to me that they were onlv 
 spitting, which was indeed the case; though how any number of 
 passengers which it was possible for that car to contain, could have 
 maintained such a playful and incessant shower of expectoration I 
 am still at a loss to understand: notwithstanding the experience 'in 
 all sahvatory phenomena which I afterwards acquired 
 
 I made acquaintance, on this journey, with a mild and modest 
 young quaker. who opened the discourse by informing me, in a grave 
 whisper, that his grandfather was the inventor of cold-drawn castor 
 oil I mention the circumstance here, thinking it probable that this 
 is the first occasion on which the valuable medicine in question was 
 ever used as a conversational aperient. 
 
 We reached the city, late that night. Looking out of my chamber- 
 window, before gomg to bed, I saw, on the opposite side of the wav 
 a handsome building of white marble, which had a mournful ghost- 
 like aspect, dreary to behold. I attributed this to the sombre inilu- 
 ence of the night, and on rising in the morning looked out again 
 expecting to see its steps and portico thronged with groups of people 
 passing m and out. The door was still tight shut, however; the^same 
 cold cheerless air prevailed; and the building looked as if the marble 
 statue of Don Guzman could alone have any business to transact 
 within its gloomy walls. I hastened to inquire its name and purpose 
 and tht-n my surprise vanished. It was the tomb of many fortunes' 
 toe^Great Catacomb of investment; the Memorable United States 
 
 The stoppage of this Bank, with all its ruinous consequences had 
 cast (as I was told on every side) a gloom on Philadelphia, under the 
 depressing effect of which it yet laboured. It certainly did seem 
 rather dull and out of spirits. .y ^ ^ seem 
 
 .u^i\% handsome city, but distractingly regular. After walking 
 about it for an hour or two. I felt that I would have given the world 
 for a crooked street. The collar of my coat kppeared to stiffen and 
 h.t /v!"" I ""^ hat to expand, beneath its quakery influence. My 
 hair shrunk in a sleek short crop, my hands folded themselve upon 
 my breast of their own calm accord, and thoughts of taking lodgings 
 m Mark Lane over against the Market Pla^.e. and of m^Ving a large 
 tortune by speculations in corn, came over me involunta i 
 
 Philadelphia IS most bountifully provided wit) .freshw^ic- which 
 is showered and jerked about, and turned on, and r. ured off eveiv- 
 where. The Waterworks, which are on a height iv.ar the citv are?o 
 '.ess ornamental than useful, being tastefully laid r t a«« a oublic 
 garden, and kept in the best and neatest ord.^r. Th nver is dammed 
 at this point and forced by its ov;n power into certain bif h tanks or 
 re.«;ervoirs. whence the whole city, to the top stories o. the houses is 
 supplied at a very trifling expense. ""ubcb, is 
 
 I'here are various public institutions. Among thera - mo ,t excellent 
 Hospital-a quaker establishment, but not sectarian in thf great 
 -enexxts u couxcrs; a quiet, quaint old library, named atier Frc^nklin- 
 
American Notes 
 
 83 
 
 a handsome Exchange and Post Office; and so forth. In connection 
 w th the quaker Hospital, there Is a picture by West, which is exh^ 
 b ted for the benefit of the funds of the institiition. Th^Iubleci is our 
 
 f f r"i. 'f^'"'^ *^^ 'If^' ^^^ '^ ''' P^^h^Ps. as favourable a spedmen 
 of the master as can be seen anywhere. Whether this be hi^h nr^ 
 praise, depends upon the reader's taste. ^"'^'^ ^^'^ ^^ ^'^^ ^^ ^ow 
 
 In the same room, there is a very charar+^ristir anH Uf^ n 
 portrait of Mr. Sully, a distinguished AmerSn'artf^^^^ ^"^ ^'^'-^'^' 
 
 My stay m Philadelphia was very short but what I ..w .f •. 
 
 T'^K' r'^'V'^'''' Treating S its g^nerll char^^^ 
 
 taste and criticism, savouring ratL of thoi^c;on?.t^^ 
 upon the same themes, in conSctLn t^h ShfSsS^^^^^^^ 
 Musical Glasses, of which we read in the Vic^r of Wak?fi^' Near h^ 
 
 CntZ ^'^'''^ f k"^^^ unfinished marble structure' ? the G^a^d 
 College, founded by a deceased gertleman of that name and 0I 
 enormous wealth, which, if comoL-ted arr .rHincr +^ ^vT ■■ t 
 design will be perhaps the ricS^idifice"oTmode?„ dmes' Buft"h 
 bequest IS involved in legal disputes, and pending thSi the work 
 has stopped; so that like many other great undertakin"^^^ A^ • 
 'T '^' '' I^*"^' 8°'"8 to be done one^f these Xs than dotnTnow 
 
 ^"s^:^ ^ s?t:r.::i?nrr:r "^ -^^- 
 
 In its intention. I am well convinced that it is kind humane anrl' 
 meant for retormation; but I am persuaded that those X demised 
 whn 'r*'"^.°^^"'"^ Discipline, .n.l those benevolenrgLtiemen 
 who carry it into execv,,tion. do not know what it is that thev are 
 domg. I believe that very few men are capable of estimating th.^ 
 immense amount of torture and agony whic^h this dreiruf punish! 
 ment. prolonged for year., inflicts upon the sufferers; and in guessTne 
 at It myself, ard in reasoning Lorn v.hat I have seen wri?tf n uDon 
 their faces, and what to my ce.tn^ln knowledge they ^eel w thl^ I^am 
 on y the more convinced th.f there is a depth of iexribllenduranS 
 in It which none bu. the sm . .jrs themselves can fathom and whth 
 no man has a right t. ir.lict upon his fellow-cxeature I hoM t^^^ 
 slow and daily tamperiag with the mysteries of the brain f o be im 
 measurably worse than any (orture of the body and because Ss 
 ghastly sigr. .nd tokens are not so palpable to the eye and sense of 
 touch as scars upon the flesh; because its wounds are not nno^ f i?l 
 sumce. and it extorts few cries that human ears can hear thTefor: 
 I the more denounce 1- as a secret punishment which slumberW 
 h... amty iH not re a ^p to stay. I hesitated once. debaW S 
 myself, whether, u • had the power of saying "Yes" or ''No - T 
 ., , ,..io-. ir ^o t>.- r leu 111 jcrtain cases, where the tprm<! r,f ;«, 
 .nsonment were sh. but now. I solemnly decUe ZTjbZ 
 
 K,v\ ^^'ii-*'' 
 
 ■ mm-.^^sAi 
 
m 
 
 Pill. 
 
 84 
 
 American Notes 
 
 rewards or honours could I walk a happy man beneath the open skv 
 by day. or he me down upon my bed at night, with the consciousness 
 that one human creature, for any length of time, no matter what, lay 
 sutfermg this unknown punishment in his silent cell, and I the cause 
 or I consentmg to it in the least degree. 
 
 I was accompanied to this prison by two gentlemen officially 
 connected with its management, and passed the day in going from 
 cell to cell and talking with the inmates. Every facility was afforded 
 me, that the utmost courtesy could suggest. Nothing was concealed 
 or hidden from my view, and every piece of information that I 
 sought, was openly and frankly given. The perfect order of the build- 
 ing cannot be praised too highly, and of the excellent motives of all 
 who are immediately concerned in the administration of the system 
 there can be no kind of question. ^ ' 
 
 Between the body of the prison and the outer wall, there is a 
 spacious garden. Entering it. by a wicket in the massive gate we 
 pursued the path before us to its other termination, and passed 'into 
 a large chamber, from which seven long passages radiate. On either 
 side of each is a long, long row of low cell doors, with a certain number 
 over every one. Above, a gallery of cells, like those below, except 
 that they have no narrow yard attached (as those in the ground tier 
 have), and are somewhat smaller. The possession of two of these 
 IS supposec to compensate for the absence of so much air and exercise 
 as can be had m the dull strip attached to each of the others in an 
 hour s time every da- d therefore every prisoner in this upper 
 story has two cells, a^ ig and communicating with, each other 
 
 btandmg at the c point, and looking down these dreary 
 
 passages, the dull repose ^nd quiet that prevails, is awful. Occasion- 
 ally, there is a drowsy sound from some lone weaver's shuttle or 
 shoemaker's last, but it is stifled by the thick walls and heivy 
 dungeon-door, and only serves to make the general stillness more 
 profound. Over the head and face of every prisoner who comes into 
 this melancholy house, a black hood is drawn; and in this dark 
 shroud, an emblem of the curtain dropped between him and the livine: 
 world he is led to the cell from which he aever again comes forth 
 until his whole term of imprisonment has expired. He never hears of 
 wife and children; home or friends; the life or death of any single 
 creature. He sees the prison officers, but with that exception he never 
 looks upon a human countenance, or hears a human vo^re He is a 
 man buried alive; to be dug out in the slow round of 3 ea- ■ and in the 
 dlT air'""^ *° everything but torturing anxieties and horrible 
 
 His name, and crime, and term of suffering, are unknown even 
 to the officer who delivers him his daily food. There is a nuX'r over 
 his ceh -door, and in a book of which the governor of the prison has 
 sZ^^^^""^ ^^1'^'''^' instructor another: this is the index of Ms 
 and^-„^"/?"?.^^l^" P^?^^*h^ P'^''^ 1^^'^ no record of his existence 
 ana .x^v^ugx. i^c iive to vc m tne same cell ten weary years, he has no 
 
American Notes 
 
 85 
 
 means of knowing, down to the very last hour, in what part of the 
 building It IS situated; what kind of men there ai about him whethe? 
 m the long winter nights there are living peoole near or ir^Tn ! 
 lonely corner of the great jail, with wXSd passages "^^^ 
 doors bel^een him and the nearest sharer in its solita^ Srrors 
 Every cell has doub e doors: the outer one of sturdy^akX other 
 
 hL^ed He h'L'.^''5T," '^T '^^ *^^P ^^^-"g^ wh'lch his food is 
 handed. He has a Bible, and a slate and pencil, and under certain 
 
 restrictions has sometimes other books, provided foV the puSose 
 
 and pen and ink and paper. His razor, plate"^ and can, Sid bas^Han^ 
 
 upon the wall, or shine upon the little shelf Fresh water i^laH r^"^ 
 
 every cell and he can dl^aw it at his pleasure Du'wth^^^^^ 
 
 bedstead turns up against the wall, and leaves more smce for hLfo 
 
 work m. His loom, or bench, or wheel, ^s there; ?nd there h^Lb^^^ 
 
 sle^eps and wakes, and counts the seasons as they chan":, and grows 
 
 The first man I saw. was seated at his loom, at work He had been 
 
 He stopped his work when we went in, took off his spectacles nnA 
 ansvered freely to everything that was said to him. but alwa^^^^ 
 
 a pap^harof M??'' ^^-""^ '" " ^°-' thoughtfurvoice He r^ 
 a paper hat of his own making, and was pleased to have it noticed 
 
 D^ln^'w"^- ^" ^^^.^"^ ingeniously manufactured a sort 0I 
 £)ttte served for'thr' ^ I'^^^lf^.^dds and ends; and his vinegar- 
 Dottie served for the pendulum. Seeing me interested in this cotSt-,- 
 vance. Le looked up at it with a great deal of prSe and said that he 
 and .r.,''''"^'"^^^ improving it. and that he hiped the har^Ler 
 
 lont '' He had'? f ^'°J'^ ^'^'' ""'''^^ '' "^°"ld P^^y music bXe 
 v^rt ^ / extracted some colours from the yarn with which he 
 worked, and painted a few poor figures on the waH Ore of rfemale 
 over the door, he called. "The Lady of the Lake." ' ^^^^' 
 
 fiW^K^^ V ^%} ^?''^^^ ^* ^^^^^ contrivances to while away the 
 time; but when I looked from them to him I saw that hisin f^.mKi^-? 
 and could have counted the beating of ihirWrt T forL/h 5 
 came about, but some allusion was^made to hrhavinrf ^il'^He 
 ^rhandf'^' "' *'' "^^'' *™^^ ^''^^' -d covere7L%:c" 
 "But you are resigned now!" said one of the eentlempn afw o 
 short pause, during which he had resumed h^fofmer manner He 
 answered with a sigh that seemed quite reckless in Ttsh^pelessne^^^ 
 th^nk?'''.Werf ■' ^ '^fP'^ '^ ''■" "A"" ^^- ^ better man ^ou 
 pr tt^ quS^" T^-?'"' '"'? ' ^°P^ ' "^^y ^''" "And time g^oes 
 walls!"^ ^ "^^"^ ^°"^' gentlemen, within these four 
 
 He gazed about him— Heaven only knows how wearily!— as he 
 
86 
 
 American Notes 
 
 IP 
 
 I' tii^ 
 
 w 
 
 w 
 
 illlll 
 
 said these words; and in the act of doing so, fell into a strange stare 
 as if he had forgotten something. A moment afterwards he sighed 
 heavily, put on his spectacles, and went about his work again. 
 
 In another cell, there was a German, sentenced to five years 
 imprisonment for larceny, two of which had just expired. With 
 colours procured in the same manner, he had painted every inch of 
 the walls and ceiling quite beautifully. He had laid out the few feet 
 of ground, behind, with exquisite neatness, and had made a little bed 
 in the centre, that looked by-the-bye, like a grave. The taste and 
 ingenuity he had displayed in everything were most extraordinary; 
 and yet a more dejected, heart-broken, wretched creature, it would 
 be difficult to imagine. I never saw such a picture of forlorn affliction 
 and distress of mind. My heart bled for him; and when the tears ran 
 down his cheeks, and he took one of the visitors aside, to ask, with 
 his trembling hands nervously clutching at his coat to detain him, 
 whether there was no hope of his dismal sentence being commuted; 
 the spectacle was really too painful to witness. I never saw or heard 
 of any kind of misery that impressed me more than the wretchedness 
 of this man. 
 
 In a third cell, was a tall, strong black, a burglar, working at his 
 proper trade of making screws and the like. His time was nearly out. 
 He was not only a very dexterous thief, but was notorious for his 
 boldness and hardihood, and for the number of his previous con- 
 victions. He entertained us with a long account of his achievements, 
 which he narrated with such infinite relish, that he actually seemed to 
 lick his lips as he told us racy anecdotes of stolen plate, and of old 
 ladies whom he had watched as they sat at windows in silver spect- 
 acles (he had plainly had an eye to their metal even from the other 
 side of the street) and had afterwards robbed. This fellow, upon {he 
 slightest encouragement, would have mingled with his professional 
 recollections the most detestable cant; but I am very much mistaken 
 if he could have surpassed the unmitigated hypocrisy with which he 
 declared that he blessed the day on which he came into that prison, 
 and that he never would commit another ro])bery as long as he lived! 
 There was one man who was allowed, as an indulgence, to keep 
 rabbits. His room having rather a close smell in consequence, they 
 called to him at the door to come out into the passage. He com- 
 plied of course, and stood shading his haggard face in the unwonted 
 sunlight of the great window, looking as wan and unearthly as if he 
 had been summoned from the grave. He had a white rabbit in his 
 jreast; and when the little creature, getting down upon the ground, 
 ! tole back into the cell, and he, being dismissed, crept timidly after 
 it, I thought it would have been very hard to say in what respect the 
 man was the nobler animal of the two. 
 
 There was an English thief who had been there but a few days out 
 of seven years: a villainous, low-browed, thin-lipped fellow, with a 
 white face; who had as yet no relish for visitors, and who, but for the 
 
 additional npnalfv WrtuM ha\7« orlarlUr o+-oV»l-io/4 »r»" ti.-**^ *--'- -1 
 
American Notes 
 
 87 
 
 maker s knife. There was another German who had entered the iail 
 but yesterday, and who started from his bed when we looked in ind 
 pleaded, m his broken English, very hard for work. There was a Doet 
 who after doing two days' work in everv fn„rVtJ JV V ^ ^ ^' 
 for himself anione for'the pdson. l^oTe ve^r'eT^^^^^^^^ 
 by trade a mariner), and "the maddening wine-cup '' and his frtn^! 
 at horne. There were very many of them.^Some red^deneda^ the sight 
 of visitors, and some turned very pale. Some two or three h«H 
 prisoner nurses with them, for they were very sick and nn^ J f!f 1^ 
 negro whose leg had been take/ olwS the iaU h!dW 
 ^n:^^:^ti^^ ^"' .If acconlpirshld^r^^^^^^^^^ 
 fvXwafrp Stty^^^^^^ -- slight 
 
 criminals in Philadelphia thenP'-^saii I "veshnf"^? ^T ^^.^-^^ 
 children." Noble aristocracy in crime i ' ^* ""^^ ^°' ^^^*" 
 
 There was a sailor who had been there upwards of eleven vears 
 and who in a few months' time would be free. E even veJrs of 
 solidary confinement! -cieven years ot 
 
 . I ^'^.Z'''^ S^rl"^ ^'^ ^^^"^ y°"^ t^"^e is nearly out." What does h^ 
 
 say? Nothing Why does he stare at his hands, and pick the flesh unon 
 
 his hngers. and raise his eyes for an instant, every now and then^ to 
 
 harslm^rimef "'^^' '^^' ^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^ grey? uTsV.X' h^ 
 
 Does he never look men in the facp anri «^r.oc v,^ ^1 1 , 
 
 Srfor :eerv?h°S; "i'^'"^' ^ ^'"^ '""« -SoXtt ts' os °a°U 
 
 broken mIn^lr,S^H„V '"l'"V»°"^. *» be a helpless, crushed, and 
 
 th^rougSyVatifik?"™" "' '" """^" *''^' "^ h- his humour 
 
 There were three young women in adjoining cells all convicted 
 
 at the same time of a conspiracy to rob theil DrosecnMr In t^ 
 
 recollect; whose snow-white room was hu„g\?th the w^rk of 's^e 
 former prisoner, and upon whose downcast fa-e the ^?n i„ ^^ 
 splendour shone down through the hSh rWnVfrth. u '? ^" "' 
 narrow strip of bright blue sk'y was%'Sble "he vaf ver^^nte'n? :n"d 
 
 rnd^at^lTcT.^^n'rwrd^''' *^ ->J,<-'^ I beli:S?raad"h:,"^ 
 uiiuu at peace, in a word, you are happy here?" saiH nn« r^f ^, 
 
 companions. She struggled-she did struggle vei^ hard Zanswe? 
 ■^^ v..«.i..a..,., uu. ic was natural that she should sometimes long to go 
 
 i J 
 
88 
 
 American Notes 
 
 out of that one cell: she could not help that," she sobbed, poor thing! 
 
 I went from cell to cell that day; and every face I saw, or word I 
 heard, or incident I noted, is present to my mind in all its painful- 
 ness. But let me pass them by, for one, more pleasant, glance of a 
 prison on the same plan which I afterwards saw at Pittsburg. 
 
 When I had gone over thai in the same manner, I asked the 
 governor if he had any person in his charge who was shortly going 
 out. He had one, he said, whose time was up next day; but he had 
 only been a prisoner two years. 
 
 Two years! I looked back through two years of my own life — out 
 of jail, prosperous, happy, surrounded by blessings, comforts, good 
 fortune — and thought how wide a gap it was, and how long those 
 two years passed in solitary captivity would have been. I have the 
 face of this man, who was going to be released next day, before me 
 now. It is almost more memorable in its happiness than the other 
 faces in their misery. How easy and how natural it was for him to say 
 that the system was a good one; and that the time went "pretty 
 quick— considering;" and that when a man once felt that he had 
 offended the law, and must satisfy it, "he got along, somehow:" and 
 so forth ! 
 
 "What did he call you back to say to you, in that strange flutter? " 
 J asked of my conductor, when he had locked the door and joined me 
 in the passage. 
 
 "Oh! That he was afraid the soles of his boots were not fit for 
 walking, as they were a good deal worn when he came in; and that he 
 would thank me very much to have them mended, ready." 
 
 Those boots had been taken off his feet, and put away with the rest 
 of his clothes, two years before ! 
 
 I took the opportunity of inquiring how they conducted themselves 
 immediately before going out; adding that I presumed they trembled 
 very much. 
 
 "Well, it's not so much a trembling," was the answer — "though 
 they do quiver — as a complete derangement of the nervous system. 
 They can't sign their names to the book; sometimes can't even hold 
 the pen; look about 'em without appearing to know why, or where 
 they are; and sometimes get up and sit down again, twenty times in a 
 minute. This is when they're in the office, where they are taken with 
 the hood on, as they were brought in. When they get outside the 
 gate, they stop, and look first one way and then the other; not 
 knowing which to take. Sometimes they stagger as if thev .ore 
 drunk, and sometimes are forced to lean against the fence, they're so 
 bad: — but they clear off in course of time." 
 
 As I walked aJhong these solitary cells, and looked at the faces cf 
 the men within them, I tried to picture to myself the thoughts and 
 feelings natural to their condition. I imagined the hood just taken off, 
 and the scene of their captivity disclosed to them in all ics dismal 
 monotony. 
 
 At first, the man is stunned. His confinement is a hideous vision; 
 
 and his 
 
 there ab 
 
 and ban 
 
 the trap 
 
 work. "C 
 
 He ha 
 
 every no 
 
 years th; 
 
 piercing : 
 
 knowledj 
 
 narrow r 
 
 spirits te 
 
 Again 
 
 starts up 
 
 another c 
 
 There i 
 
 remembe 
 
 here him 
 
 could not 
 
 is the nea 
 
 both dire( 
 
 or is he -v 
 
 long? Is '. 
 
 Does he tl 
 
 Scarcel 
 
 conjures 
 
 moving al 
 
 certain of 
 
 other side 
 
 Day after 
 
 night, he 
 
 never cha 
 
 them — an 
 
 hidden fe; 
 
 makes hin 
 
 The we; 
 
 funeral; ai 
 
 have some 
 
 their smoo 
 
 which ton 
 
 head bene 
 
 lor <ing do 
 
 ugly phan- 
 
 prison win 
 
 By slow 
 
 until they 
 
 hideous, ar 
 
American Notes 
 
 89 
 
 and his old life a reality. He throws himself upon his bed, and lies 
 there abandoned to despair. By degrees the insupportable solitude 
 and barrenness of the place rouses him from this stupor, and when 
 the trap in his grated door is opened, he humbly begs and prays for 
 work. "Give me some work to do, or I shall go raving mad!" 
 
 He has it; and by fits and starts applies himself to labour; but 
 every now and then there comes upon him a burning sense of the 
 years that must be wasted in that stone coffin, and an agony so 
 piercmg in the recollection of those who are hidden from his view and 
 knowledge, that he starts from his seat, and striding up and down the 
 narrow room with both hands clasped on his uplifted head, hears 
 spirits tempting him to beat his brains out on the wall. 
 
 Again he falls upon his bed, and lies there, moaning. Suddenly he 
 starts up, wondering whether any other man is near; whether there is 
 another cell like that on either side of him: and listens keenly. 
 
 There is no sound, but other prisoners may be near for all that He 
 remembers to have heard once, when he little thought of comin^ 
 here himself, that the cells were so constructed that the prisoners 
 could not hear each other, though the officers could hear them. Where 
 is the nearest man— upon the right, or on the left? or is there one in 
 both directions? Where is he sitting now— with his face to the light? 
 or is he walking to and fro? How is he dressed? Has he been here 
 long? Is he much worn away? Is he very white and spectre-like? 
 Does he think of his neighbour too? 
 
 Scarcely venturing to breathe, and listening while he thinks he 
 conjures up a figure with his back towards him, and imagines it 
 moving about in this next cell. He has no idea of the face, but he is 
 certain of the dark form of a stooping man. In the cell upon the 
 other side, he puts another figure, whose face is hidden from him also 
 Day after day, and often when he wakes up in the middle of the 
 night, he thinks of these two men until he is almost distracted He 
 never changes them. There they are always as he first imagined 
 ^ • j^~^" ^^^ "^^" ^^ *^^ ^^^ht; a younger man upon the left— whose 
 hidden features torture him to death, and have a mystery that 
 makes him tremble. 
 
 The weary days pass on with solemn pace, like mourners at a 
 funeral; and slowly he begins to feel that the white walls of the cell 
 have something dreadful in them: that their colour is horrible- that 
 their smooth surface chills his blood: that there is one hateful corner 
 which torments him. Every morning when he wakes, he hides his 
 head beneath the coverlet, and shudders to see the ghastly ceilina 
 lor ung down upon him. The blessed light of day itself peeps in an 
 ugly phantom face, through the unchangeable crevice which is' his 
 prison window. 
 
 By slow but sure degrees, the terrors of that hateful comer swell 
 until they beset him at all times; invade his rest, make his dreams 
 hideous, and his nights dreadful. At first, he took a strange dislikp to 
 it; iceimg as tnough it gave birth in his brain to something of corre- 
 
90 
 
 American Notes 
 
 I 
 
 spondinR shape, which ought not to he there, and racked his head 
 with pains. 'I'hen ho began to fear it, then to dream of it, and of men 
 whispering its name and pointing to it. Then he could not bear to 
 look at it, nor yet to turn his back upon it. Now, it is every night the 
 lurking-place of a ghost: a shadow: — a silent something, horrible to 
 see, but whether bird, or beast, or muflied human shape, he cannot 
 tell. 
 
 When he is in his cell by day, he fears the little yard without. 
 When he is in the yard, he dre;uls to re-enter the cell. When night 
 comes, there stands the phantom in the corner. If he have the courage 
 to stand in its place, antl drive it out (he had once: being desperate), 
 it broods upon his bed. In the twilight, and always at the same hour, 
 a voice calls to him by name; as the darkness thickens, his Loom 
 begins to live; and even that, his comfort, is a hideous figure, watching 
 him till daybreak. 
 
 Again, by slow degrees, these horrible fancies depart from him one 
 by one: returning .sometimes, unexpectedly, but at longer intervals, 
 and in less alarming shapes. He has talked upon religious matters 
 with the gentleman who visits him, and has read his IMble. and has 
 written a prayer upon his slate, and hung it up as a kind of protection, 
 and an assurance of Hea,venly companionship. He dreams now, some- 
 times, of his children or his wife, but is sure that they are dead, or 
 have deserted him. He is easily moved to tears; is gentle, submissive, 
 and broken-spirited. Occasionally, the old agony comes back: a very 
 little thing will revive it; even a familiar sound, or the scent of sum- 
 mi ^iowers in the air; but it does not last long, now: for the world 
 wi. .out, has come to be the vision, and this solitary life, the sad 
 reality. 
 
 If his term of imprisonment be short — I mean comparatively, for 
 short it cannot be — the last half year is almost worse than all; for 
 then he thinks the prison will take fire and he be burnt in the ruins, or 
 that he is doomed to die within the walls, or that he will be detained 
 on some false charge and sentenced for another term: or that some- 
 thing, no matter what, must happen to prevent his going at large. 
 And this is natural, and impossible to be reasoned against, because, 
 after his long separation from human life, aYid his great suffering, any 
 event will appear to him more probable in the contemplation, than 
 the being restored to liberty and his fellow-creatures. 
 
 If his period of confinement have been very long, the prospect of 
 release bewilders and confuses him. His broken heart may flutter for 
 a moment, when he thinks of the world outside, and what it might 
 have been to him in all those lonely years, but that is all. The cell- 
 door has been closed too long on all his hopes and cares. Better to 
 have hanged him in the beginning than bring him to this pass, and 
 send him forth to mingle with his kind, who are his kind no more. 
 
 On the haggard face of every man among these prisoners, the same 
 expression sat. I know not what to liken it to. It had something of 
 that strained attention which we see upon the faces of the blind and 
 
American Notes 
 
 91 
 
 (leaf mingled with a kind of horror, as though they had all been 
 secretly terrified. In every little chamber that I entered and at 
 every grate through which I looked. I seemed to see the sumo appallinL' 
 countenance. It lives in my memory, with the fascination of a 
 remarkable picture. Parade before my eyes, a hundred men. with one 
 among them newly released from this solitary suffering, and I would 
 point him out. 
 
 ^v^^l^''''^u•"u*^u ^o"^^"' as I have said, it humanises and refines. 
 Whether this be because of their better nature, which is elicited in 
 schtude. or because of their l)eing gentler creatures, of greater 
 patience and ^.nger suffering. I do not know; but so it is. That the 
 pimishment .., nevertheless, to my thinking, fully as cruel and as 
 wrong m their case, as in that of the men, I need scarcely add 
 
 My firm conviction is that, independent of the mental anguish it 
 occasions— an anguish so acute and so tremendous, that all imagina- 
 tion of it must fall far short of the reality— it wears the mind into a 
 morbid state, which renders it unfit for the rough contact and busy 
 action of the world. It is my fixed opinion that those who have 
 undergone this punishment, must pass into society again morally 
 unhealthy and diseased. There are many instances on record of men 
 vvlio havechosen, or have been condemned, tolives of perfect solitude 
 but I scarcely remember one. even among sages of strong and 
 vigorous intellect, where its effect has not becoi. apparent, in some 
 disordered tram of thought, or some gloomy hallucination What 
 monstrous phantoms, bred of despondency and doubt, and born and 
 reared m solitude, have stalked upon the earth, making creation 
 ugly, and darkening the face of Heaven! 
 
 Suicides are rare among these prisoners: are almost, indeed 
 unknown. But no argument in favour of the system, can reasonably 
 he deduced from this circumstance, although it is very often urged 
 All men who have made diseases of the mind their study, know 
 perfectly^ well that such extreme depression and despair as will 
 change the whole character, and beat down all its powers of elasticity 
 and self-r»sistance. may be at work within a man, and yet stop short 
 of self-destruction. This is a common case. 
 
 That it makes the senses dull, and by degr< ea impairs the bodily 
 laculties. I am quite sure. I remarked to those who were with me in this 
 very establishment at Philadelphia, that the criminals who had been 
 there long, were deaf. They, who were in the habit of seeing these men 
 constantly, were perfectly amazed at the idea, which they regarded 
 as groundless and fanciful. And yet the very first prisoner to whom 
 they appealed— one of their own selection— confirmed my im- 
 pression (which was unknown to him) instantly, and said with a 
 genuine air it was impossible to doubt, that he couldn't think how it 
 happened, but he was growing very dull of hearing. 
 
 That it is a singularly unequal punishment, and affects the worst 
 man least, there is no doubt. In its superior efficiency as a m^ans r.f 
 reformation, compared with that other code of regulations which 
 
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 American Notes 
 
 allows the prisoners to work in company without communicating 
 together, I have not the smalle3t faith. All the instaixes of reforma- 
 tion that were mentioned to me, were of a kind that might have 
 been— and I have no doubt whatever, in my own mind, would have 
 been— equally well brought about by the Silent System. With 
 regard to such men as the negro burglar and the English thief, even 
 the most enthusiastic have scarcely any hope of their conversion. 
 
 It seems to me that the objection that nothing wholesome or good 
 has ever had its growth in such unnatural solitude, and that even 
 a dog or any of the more intelligent among beasts, would pine, and 
 mope and rust away, oeneath its influence, would be in itself a 
 sufficient argument against this system. But when we recollect in 
 addition, how very cruel and severe it is, and that a solitary life is 
 always liable to peculiar and distinct objections of a most deplorable 
 nature which have arisen here, and oall to mind, moreover, that the 
 choice 'is not between this system, and a bad or ill-considered one, 
 but between it and another which has worked well, and is, in its 
 whole design and practice, excellent; there is surely more than 
 sufficient reason for abandoning a mode of punishment attended by 
 so little hope or promise, and fraught, beyond dispute, with such a 
 
 a host of evils. ; ^ .„ , ^r.- i, i. -^.u 
 
 As a relief to its contemplation, I will close this chapter with a 
 curious story arising out of the same theme, which was related to me, 
 on the occasion of this visit, by some of the gentlemen concerned. 
 
 At one of the periodical meetings of the inspectors of this prison, a 
 working man of Philadelphia presented himself before the Board, 
 and earnestly requested to be placed m solitar^r confinement. On 
 being asked what motive could possibly prompt him to make this 
 strange demand, he answered that he had an irresistible propensity 
 to get drunk; that he was constantly indulging it, to his great misery 
 and ruin- that he had no power of resistance; that he wished to be 
 put beyond the reach of temptation; and that he could think of no 
 better way than this. It was pointed out to him, in reply, that the 
 prison was for criminals who had been tried and sentenced by the 
 law and could not be made available for any such fanciful purpc >s; 
 he was exhorted to abstain from intoxicating drinks, as he surely 
 mi^ht if he would; and received other very good advice, with which 
 he retired, exceedingly dissatisfied with the result of his application. 
 He came again, and again, and again, and was so very earnest and 
 importunate, that at last they took counsel together, and said, "He 
 will certainly qualify himself for admission, if we reject him any 
 more. Let us shut him up. He will soon be glad to go away, and then 
 we shall get rid of him." So they made him sign a statement which 
 would prevent his ever sustaining an action for false imprisonment, 
 to the effect that his incarceration was voluntary, and of his own 
 seeking; they requested him to take notice that the officer in atten- 
 dance had orders to release him at any hour of the day or night, 
 when he might knock upon his door for that purpose; but desired 
 
 WASHING 
 
 We left P 
 
American Notes 
 
 93 
 
 him to understand, that once going out, he would not be admitted 
 any more. These conditions agreed upon, and he still remaining in the 
 same mind, he was conducted to the prison, and shut up in one of the 
 cells. 
 
 In this cell, the man, who had not the firmness to leave a glass of 
 liquor standing untasted on a table before him — in this qell, in solitary 
 confinement, and working every da-y at his trade of shoemaking, this 
 man remained nearly two years. His health beginning to fail at the 
 expiration of thq^t time, the surgeon recommended that he should 
 work occasionally in the garden; and as he liked the notion very 
 much, he went about this new occupation with great cheerfulness. 
 
 He was digging here, one summer day, very industriously, when the 
 wicket in the outer gate chanced to be left open: showing, beyond, 
 the well-remembered dusty road and sun-burnt fields. The way was 
 as free to him as any man living, but he no sooner raised his head and 
 caught sight of it, all shining in the light, than, with the involuntary 
 I.istinct of a prisoner, he cast away his spade, scampered off as fast 
 as his legs would carry him, and never cnce looked back. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 WASHINGTON. THE LEGISLATURE. AND THE PRESIDENT'S HOUSE 
 
 We left Philadelphia by steamboat, at six o'clock one very cold 
 morning, and turned our faces towards Washington. 
 
 In the course of this day's journey, as on subsequent occasions, we 
 encountered some Englishmen (small farmers, perhaps, or country 
 publicans at home) who were settled in America, and were travelling 
 on their own affairs. Of all grades and kinds of men that jostle one in 
 the public conveyances of the States, these are often the most intoler- 
 able and the most insufferable companions. United to every disagree- 
 able characteristic that the worst kind of American travellers 
 possess, these countrymen of ours display an amount of insc'ent 
 conceit and cool assumption of superiority, quite monstrous to be- 
 hold. In the coarse familiarity of their approach, and the effrontery 
 of their inquisitiveness (which they are in great haste to assert, as if 
 they panted to revenge themselves upon the decent old restraints of 
 home), they surpass any native specimens that came within my range 
 of observation; and I often grew go patriotic when I saw and heard 
 them, that I would cheerfully have submitted to a reasonable fine, 
 if I could have given any other country in the whole world, the 
 honour of claiming them for its children. 
 
 As Washington may be called the headquarters of tobacco-tinc- 
 tured saliva, the time is come when I must confess, without any 
 disguis;, that the prevalence of those two odious practices of chewing 
 
94 
 
 American Notes 
 
 li 
 
 I t 
 
 and expectoratingbegan about this time to be anything but agreeable, 
 and soon became most offensive and sickening. In all the public 
 places of America, this filthy custom is recognised. In the courts of 
 law, the judge has his spittoon, the crier his, the witness his, and the 
 prisoner his; while th? jurymen and spectators are provided for, as so 
 many men who in the course of nature must desire to spit incessantly. 
 In the hospitals, the students of medicine are requested, by notices 
 upon the wall, to eject their tobacco juice into the boxes provided for 
 that purpose, and not to discolour the stairs. In public buildings, 
 visitors are implored, through the same agency, to squirt the essence 
 of their quids, or "plugs," as I have heard them called by gentlemen 
 learned in this kind of sweetmeat, into the national spittoons, and 
 not about the bases of the marble columnr . But in some parts, this 
 custom Is inseparably mixed up with every meal and morning call, 
 and with all the transactions of social life. The stranger, who follows 
 in the track I took myself, will find it in its full bloom and glory, 
 luxuriant in all its alarming recklessness, at Washington. And let 
 him not persuade himself (as I once did, to my shame) that previous 
 tourists have exaggerated its extent. The thing itself is an exaggera- 
 tion of nastiness, which cannot be outdone. 
 
 On board this steaniboat, there were two young gentlemen, with 
 shirt-collars reversed as usual, and r^^ned with very big walking- 
 sticks; who planted two seats in the middle of the deck, at a distance 
 of some four paces apart; took out their tobacco-boxes; and sat down 
 opposite each other to chew. In less than a quarter of an hour's time, 
 these hopeful youths had shed about them on the clean boards, a 
 copious shower of yellow rain; clearing, by that means, a kind of 
 magic circle, within whose limits no intruders dared to come, and 
 which they never failed to refresh and re-refresh before a spot was 
 dry. This being before breakfast, rather disposed me, 1 confess, to 
 nausea; but looking attentively at one of the expectorators, I plainly 
 saw that he was young in chewing, and felt inwardly uneasy, himself. 
 A glow of delight came over me at this discovery; and as I marked 
 his face turn paler and paler, and saw the ball of tobacco in his left 
 cheek, quiver with his suppressed agony, while yet he spat, and chewed, 
 and spat again, in emulation of his older friend, I could have fallen 
 on his neck and implored him to go on for hours. 
 
 We all sat down to a comfortable breakfast in the cabin below, 
 where there was no more hurry or confusion than at such a meal in 
 England, and where there was certainly greater politeness exhibited 
 than at most of our stage-coach banquets. At about nine o'clock we 
 arrived at the railroad station, and went on by the cars. At noon we 
 turned out again, to cross a wide river in another steamboat; landed 
 at a continuation of the railroad on the opposite shore: and went on 
 by other cars; in which, in the course of the next hour or so, we crossed 
 by wooden bridges, each a mile in length, two creeks, called respec- 
 tively Great and Little Gunpowder. The water in both was blackened 
 with flights of canvas-backed ducks, which are most delicious eating, 
 
 and aboun 
 These bi 
 enough fo: 
 smallest a( 
 are startlii 
 We stoj 
 were waite 
 ing any sej 
 being, for 
 enviable o 
 and most r 
 though I V 
 me with a 
 
 After dii 
 seats in th( 
 boys who 
 curious in : 
 in which I 
 shoulders; 
 fell to com 
 with as mu 
 so much ur 
 and eyes, c 
 on difteren 
 behind, as 
 by exercisi] 
 precocious 
 return to tl 
 has walked 
 his pocketJ 
 refreshing ] 
 water-jug; < 
 the street I 
 "Come on 
 entreaties c 
 
 We read 
 had upon t 
 building of 
 manding er 
 that night; 
 
 Breakfasi 
 or two, and 
 back, and 1< 
 my eye. 
 
 Take the 
 straggling ( 
 serving all • 
 ings, occupi 
 
95 
 
 , American Notes 
 
 and abound hereabouts at that season of the year. 
 
 These bridges are of wood, have no parapet, and are only just wide 
 enough for the passage of the trains; which, in the event of the 
 smallest accident, would iiv vitably be plunged into the river. They 
 are startling contrivances, and are most agreeable when passed. 
 
 We stopped to dine at Baltimore, and being now in Maryland, 
 were waited on, for the fint time, by slaves. The sensation of exact- 
 ing any service from human creatures who are bought and sold, and 
 being, for the time, a party as it were to their condition, is not an 
 enviable one. The institution exists, perhaps, in its least repulsive 
 and most mitigated form in such a town as this; but it is slavery; and 
 though I was, with respect to it, an innocent man, its presence filled 
 me with a sense of shame and self-reproach. 
 
 After dinner, we went down to the railroad again, and took our 
 seats in the cars for Washington. Being rather early, those men and 
 boys who happened to have nothing particular to do, and were 
 curious in foreigners, came (according to custom) round the carriage 
 in which I sat; let down all the windows; thrust in their heads and 
 shoulders; hooked themselves on conveniently, by their elbows; and 
 fell to comparing notes on the subject of my personal appearance, 
 with as much indifference as if I were a stuffed figure. I never gained 
 so much uncompromising information with reference to my own nose 
 and eyes, and various impressions wrought by my mouth and chin 
 on different minds, and how my head looks when it is viewed from 
 behind, as on these occasions. Some gentlemen were only satisfied 
 by exercising their sense of touch; and the boys (who are surprisingly 
 precocious in America) were seldom satisfied, even by that, but would 
 return to the charge over and over again. Many a budding president 
 has walked into my room with his cap on his head and his hands in 
 his pockets, and stared at me for two whole hours: occasionally 
 refreshing himself with a tweak of his nose, or a draught from the 
 water-jug; or by walking to the windows and inviting other boys in 
 the street below, to come up and do likewise: crying, "Here he is!" 
 "Come on!" "Bring all your Brothers!" with other hospitable 
 entreaties of that nature. 
 
 We reached Washington at about half-past six that evening, and 
 had upon the way a beautiful view of the Capitol, which is a fine 
 building of the Corinthian order, placed upon a noble and com- 
 manding eminence. Arrived at the hotel; I saw no more of the place 
 that night; Doing very tired, and glad to get to bed. 
 
 Breakfast over next morning, I walk about the streets for an hour 
 or two, and, coming home, throw up the window in the front and 
 back, and look out. Here is Washington, fresh in my mind and under 
 iny eye. 
 
 Take the worst parts of the City Road and Pentonville, or the 
 straggling outskirts of Paris, where the houses are smallest, pre- 
 serving all their oddities, but especially the small shops and dwell- 
 ings, occupied in Pentonville (but not in Washington) by fumiture- 
 
 If-' 
 
 l.li-T; 
 
f 
 
 T^' 
 
 96 
 
 American Notes 
 
 iv 
 
 brokers, keepers of poor eating-houses, and fanciers of birds. Burn the 
 whole down; build it up again in wood and plaster, widen it a ittle; 
 throw in part of St. John's Wood; put green blinds outside all the 
 private houses, with a red curtain and a white one in every wuidow; 
 plough up all the roads: plant a great deal of coarse turf m every place 
 where it ought not to be; erect three handsome buildings in stone and 
 marble, anywhere, but the more entirely out of eveg^body s way the 
 better; call one the Post Office, one the Patent Office, and one the 
 Treasury; make it scorching hot in the morning, and freezing cold m 
 the afternoon, with an occasional tornado of wind and dust; leave a 
 brick-field without the bricks, in all central places where a street may 
 naturally be expected: and that's Washington. 
 
 The hotel in which we live, is a long row of small houses fronting 
 on the street, md opening at the back upon a common yard, in which 
 hangs a great triangle. Whenever a servant is wanted, somebody 
 beats on this triangle from one stroke up to seven, according to the 
 number of the house in which his presence is required; and as all the 
 servants arc always being wanted, and none of them ever come this 
 enlivening engine is in full performance the whole day through. 
 Clothes arc drying in the same yard; female slaves, with cotton 
 handkerchiefs twisted' round their heads, are runnmg to and fro 
 on the hotel business; black waiters cross and recross w-th dishes in 
 their hands; two great dogs are playing upon a mound of loose bricks 
 in the centre of the little square; a pig is turnmg up his stomach to 
 the sun. and grunting "that's comfortable!" and neither the men. 
 nor the women, nor the dogs, nor the pig. nor any created creature 
 takes the smallest notice of the triangle, which is tmghng madly all 
 
 I wSk to the front window, and look across the road upon a long, 
 straggling row of houses, one story high, terminating, nearly 
 opposite, but a little to the left, in a melancholy piece of wa^te 
 gfound with frowzy grass, which looks like a small piece of country 
 Sat has taken to drinking, and has quite lost itself Standing any- 
 how and all wrong, upon this open space, like something meteoric 
 that has lallen down from the moon, is an odd lop-sided. one-eyed 
 kind of wooden building, that looks like a church, with a, flag-staff as 
 long as itself sticking out of a steeple something larger than a tea- 
 chelt. Under the window is a small stand of coaches, whose slave- 
 drivers are sunning themselves on the steps of our door and talking 
 idlv together. The three most obtrusive houses near at hand are the 
 three meanest. On one -a shop, which never has anything m the 
 window, and never has the door open— is painted m large characters. 
 "The City Lunch." At another, which looks hke a backway to some- 
 where else, but is an independent building in itself, oysters are pm- 
 cui^ble in every style. At the third, which is a very, very httle 
 taSr4 shop. pSits ire fixed to order, or in other words pantaloons 
 are made to measure. And that is our street m ^yashlngton. 
 
 It is sometimes called the City of Magnificent Distances, Imt it 
 
American Notes 
 
 97 
 
 might with greater propriety be termed the City of Magnificent 
 Intentions; for It IS only on taking a bird's-eye view of it from the 
 top of the Capitol, that one can at all comprehend the vast designs 
 of its projector an aspiring Frenchman. Spacious avenues, that begin 
 in nothing, and lead nowhere; streets, mile-long, that only want 
 houses roads and inhabitants; public buildings that need but a 
 public to be complete; and ornaments of great thoroughfares, which 
 only lack great thoroughfares to ornament-are its leading features 
 One might fancy the season over, and most of the houses gone out of 
 town for ever with their masters. To the admirers of cities it is a 
 Barmecide Feast: a pleasant field for the imagination to rove in- a 
 monument raised to a deceased project, with not even a legible 
 inscription to record its departed greatness. 
 
 Such as it is. it is likely to remain. It was originally chosen for the 
 seat of Government, as a means of averting the conflictine iealonsiPQ 
 and interests of the different States; and ve^ry probably to^o'asS 
 remote from mobs: a consideration not to be slighted, even in 
 America. It has no trade or commerce of its own: having little or no 
 population beyond the President and his establishment; the members 
 of the egislature who reside there during the session; the Govern- 
 ment clerks and officers employed in the various departments; the 
 keepers of the hotels and boarding houses; and the tradesmen who 
 supply their tables. It is very unhealthy. Few people would live in 
 Washington. I take it. who were not obliged to reside there; and the 
 tides of emigration and speculation, those rapid and regardless 
 currents, are little likely to flow at any time towards such dull and 
 sluggish water. 
 
 The principal features of the Capitol, are. of course, the two houses 
 of Assembly. But there is, be. ' Jes. in the centre of the building a 
 fine rotunda, ninety-six feet in diameter, and ninety-six high whose 
 circular wall is divided into compartments, ornamented by historical 
 pictures. Four of these have for their subjects prominent events in the 
 revolutionary struggle. They were painted by Colonel Trumbull 
 himself a member of Washington's staff at the time of their occur- 
 rence; from which circumstance they derive a peculiar interest of their 
 own In this same hall Mr. Greenough's large statue of Washington 
 has been lately placed. It has great merits of course, but it struck me 
 as being rather strained and violent for its subject. I could wish 
 however, to have seen it in a better light than it can ever be viewed 
 m, where it stands. 
 
 There is a very pleasant and commodious library in the Capitol 
 and from a balcony in front, the bird's-eye view, of which I fiave 
 ]ust spoken, may be had. together with a beautiful prospect of the 
 adjacent country. In one of the ornamented portions of the building 
 there is a figure of Justice; whereunto the Guide Book says "the 
 artist at first contemplated giving more of nudity, but he was warned 
 that the public sentiment in this country would not admit of it and 
 in his caution he has gone, perhaps, into the opposite extreme." 
 322 
 
 >)i 
 
 h n 
 
r 
 
 98 
 
 American Notes 
 
 IS If 
 
 l!ili?.< 
 
 i 
 
 Poor Justice I she has been made to wear much stranger garments 
 in America than those she pines in, in the Capitol. Let us hope that 
 she has changed her dress-maker since they were fashioned, and that 
 the public sentiment of the country did not cut out the clothes she 
 hides her lovely figure in, just now. 
 
 The House of Representatives is a beautiful and spacious hall, of 
 semicirculai saape, supported by handsome pillars. One part of the 
 gallery is appropriated to the ladies, and there they sit in front rows, 
 and come in, and go out, as at a play or concert. The chair is canopied, 
 and raised considerably above the floor of the House; and every 
 member hai an easy chair and a writing desk to himself: which is 
 denounced by some people out of doors as a most unfortunate and 
 injudicious arrangement, tending to long sittings and prosaic 
 speeches. It is an elegant chamber to lobk at, but a singularly bad 
 one for all purposes of hearing. The Senate, which is smaller, is free 
 from this objection, and is exceedingly well adapted to the uses fcr 
 which it is designed. The sittings, I need hardly add, take place in the 
 day; and the parliamentary forms are modelled on those of the old 
 country. 
 
 I was sometimes asked, in my progress through other places, 
 vvhether I had not been ,very much impressed by the heads of the law- 
 makers at Washington; meaning not their chiefs and leaders, but 
 literally their individual and personal heads, whereon their hair 
 grew, and whereby the phrenological character of each legislator was 
 expressed: and I almost as often struck my questioner dumb with 
 indignant consternation by answering "No, that I didn't remember 
 being at all overcome." As I must, at whatever hazard, repeat the 
 avowal here, I will follow it up by relating my impressions on this 
 subject in as few words as possible. 
 
 In the first place — it may be from some imperfect development of 
 my organ of veneration — I do not remcaiber having ever fainted 
 away, or having even been moved to tears of joyful pride, at sight of 
 any legislative body. I have borne the House of Commons like a man, 
 and have yielded to no weakness, but slumber, in the House of Lords. 
 I have seen elections for borough and county, and have never been 
 impelled (no matter which party won) to damage my hat by throwing 
 it up into the air in triumph, or to crack my voice by shouting forth 
 any reference to our Glorious Constitution, to the noble purity of our 
 independent voters, or, the unimpeachable integrity of our inde- 
 pendent members. Having withstood such strong attack^ upon my 
 fortitude, it is possible that I may be of a cold and insensible tempera- 
 ment, amounting to iciness, in such matters; and therefore my 
 impressions of the live pillars of the Capitol at Washington must be 
 received with such grains of allowance as this free confession may 
 seem to demand. 
 
 Did I see in this public body an assemblage of men, bound together 
 in the sacred names of Liberty and Freedom, and so asserting the 
 chaste dignity of those twin goddesses, in all their discussions, as to 
 
American Notes 
 
 99 
 
 exalt at once the Eternal Principles to which their names are Riven 
 and their own character and the character of their countrymen in the 
 adminng eyes of the whole world? ^ 
 
 It was but a week, since an aged, grey-haired man. a lasting honour 
 to the land that gave him birth, who has done good servife to nis 
 country, as his lorefathers did. and who will be remembered scores 
 upon scores of years after the worms bred in its corruption, are but S 
 many grams of dust-it was but a week, since this old man had stood 
 for days upon his trial before this very body, charged with havSg 
 dared to assert the infamy of that traffic, which has for its accursed 
 merchandise men and women, and their unborn children Yes And 
 publicly exhibited in the same city all the while; gilded, framed and 
 glazed; hung up for general admiration, shown to strangers not with 
 shame, but pride; its face not turned towards the will, itself not 
 taken down and burned; is the Unanimous Declaration of the 
 Thuteen United States of America, which solemnly declares that All 
 Men are created Equal; and are endowed by their Creator with the 
 Inalienable Rights of Life. Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiliess ! 
 
 It was not a month, since this same body hud sat calmly by and 
 heard a man. one of themselves, with oaths which beggars in their 
 dnnk reject, threaten to cut another's throat from ear to ear There 
 he sat^ among them; not crushed by the general feeling of the 
 assembly, but as good a man as any. ** 
 
 There was but a week to come, and another of that body, for doing 
 his duty to those who sent him there; for claiming in a Republic thi 
 Liberty and Freedom of expressing their sentiments, and makine 
 known theu- prayer; would be tried, found guilty, and have stroni 
 censure passed upon him by the rest. His was a grave offence indeed • 
 for years before, he had risen up and said. "A gang of male and female 
 slaves for sale, warranted to breed like cattle, linked to each otheTbv 
 iron fetters, are passing now along the open street beneath the 
 windows of your Temple of Equality! Look!" But there are many 
 kinds of hunters engaged in the Pursuit of Happiness, and they eo 
 variously armed It is the Inalienable Right of some among them, to 
 take the field after thetr Happiuess equipped with cat and cartv/hio 
 stocks, and iron collar, and to shout their view halloa! (always in 
 praise of Liberty) to the music of clanking chains and bloody stripes 
 
 VVhere sat the many legislators of coarse threats; of "words and blows 
 such as coalheavers deal upon each other, when they forget their 
 breeding? On every side. Every session had its anecdotes of that 
 kind, and the actors were all there. 
 
 Did I recognise in this assembly, a body of men, who. applying 
 themselves m a new world to correct some of the falsehoods and vices 
 of the old. purified the avenuesto Public Life, paved the dirty ways to 
 Place and Power, debated and made laws for the Common Good, and 
 had no parly but their Country? 
 
 I saw in them the wheels that move the meanest perversion of 
 virtuous Political Machinery that the worst tools ever wrought. 
 
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 $A 
 
 100 American ^ otes 
 
 Despicable trickery at elections; under-handed tamperings with 
 public officers; co\va,rdly attacks upon opponents, with scurrilous 
 newspapers for shields, and hired pens for daggers; shameful truck- 
 lings to mercenary knaves, whose claim to be considered, is, that 
 every day and week they sow new crops of ruin with their venal 
 types, which are the dragon's teeth of yore, in everything but sharp- 
 ness; aidings and abettings of every bad inclination in the popular 
 mind, and artful suppressions of all its good influences: such things as 
 these, and in a word. Dishonest Faction in its inoat depraved and 
 most unblushing form, stared out from every comer of the crowded hall. 
 
 Did I see among them, the intelligence and refintment: the true, 
 honest, patriotic heart of America? Here and there, were drops of its 
 blood and life, but they scarcely coloured the stren.Ti of desperate 
 adventurers which sets that way for profit and for pay. It is the 
 game of these men, and of their profligate organs, to make the strife 
 of politics so fierce and brutal, and so destructive of all self-respect in 
 worthy men, that sensitive and delicate-minded persons shall be 
 kept aloof, and they, and such as they, be left to battle out their 
 selfish views unchecked. And thus this lowest of all scrambling 
 fights goes on, and they who in other countries would, from their 
 intelligence and station,, most aspire to make the laws, do here recoil 
 the farthest from that degradation. 
 
 That there are, among the representatives of the people in both 
 Houses, and among all parties, some men of high character and great 
 abilities, I need not say. The foremost among those politicians who 
 are known in Europe, have been already described, and I see no 
 reason to depart from the rule I have laid down for my guidance, of 
 abstaining from all mention of individuals. It will be sufficient to add, 
 that to the most favourable accounts that have been written of them, 
 I more than fully and most heartily subscribe; and that personal 
 intercourse and free communication have bred within me, not the 
 result predicted in the very doubtful proverb, but increased admira- 
 tion and respect. They are striking men to look at, hard to deceive, 
 prompt to act, lions in energy, Crichtons in varied accomplishments, 
 Indians in fire of eye and gesture, Americans in strong and generous 
 impulse; and they as well represent the hbnour and wisdom of their 
 country at home, as the distinguished gentleman who is now its 
 Minister at the British Court sustains its highest character abroad. 
 
 I visited both houses nearly every day, during my stay in Wash- 
 ington. On my initiatory visit to the House of Representatives, they 
 divided against a decision of the chair; but the chair won. The second 
 time I went, the member who was speaking, being interrupted by a 
 laugh, mimicked it, as one child would in quarrelling with another, 
 and added, "that he would make honourable gentlemen opposite, 
 sing out a little more on the other side of their mouths presently." 
 But interruptions are rare; the speaker being usually heard in silence. 
 There are more quarrels than with us, and more threatenings than 
 gentlemen are accustomed to exchange in any civilised society of 
 
American Notes 10.1 
 
 which we have record: but farm-yard imitations have not as 3ret been 
 imported from the Parliament of the United Kingdom. The feature 
 m oratory which appears to be the most practised, and most relished 
 1? the constant repetition of the same idea or shadow of an idea in 
 fresh words; and the inquiry out of doors is not, "What did he 
 say?" but. "How long did he speak'" These, however, are but 
 enlargements of a principle whi:h prevails elsewhere. 
 
 The Senate is a dignified and decorous body, and its proceedings 
 are conducted with much gravity and order. Both houses are hand- 
 somely carpeted; but the state to which these carpets are reduced by 
 the universal disregp.d of the spittoon with which every honourable 
 member is accommodated, and the extraordinary improvements on 
 the pattern which are squirted and dabbled upon it in every direction, 
 do not admit of being described. I will merely observe, that I strongly 
 recommend all strangers not to look at the floor; and if they happen 
 to drop anything, though it be their purse, not to pick it up with aii 
 ungloved hand on any account. 
 
 It is somewhat remarkable too. at first, to say the least, to see so 
 many honourable members with swelled faces; and it is scarcely less 
 remarkable to discover that this appearance is caused by the 
 quantity of tobacco they contrive to stow within the hollow of the 
 cheek. It is strange enough too, to see an honourable gentleman 
 leaning back in his tilted chair with his legs on the desk before him 
 shaping a convenient "plug" with his penknife, and when it is quite 
 ready for use, shooting the old one from his mouth, as from a pop- 
 gun, and clapping the new one in its place, 
 
 I was surprised to observe that even steady old chcwers of great 
 experience. ar'=> not always good marksmen, which has rather 
 incline ' ': doubt that general proficiency with the rifle, of which 
 we h,? "o much in England. Several gentlemen called upon 
 
 ^® w^ ^ >■' se of conversation, frequently missed the spittoon 
 
 ^^ fi^*- ■>ne (but he was certainly short-sighted) mistook 
 
 the clot the open window, at three. On another occasion 
 
 when I dui md was sitting with two ladies and some gentle- 
 
 men round a lire before dinner, on-, of the company fell short of the 
 fireplace, six distinct times, l an. disposed to think, however, that 
 this was occasioned by his not aiming at that object; as there was a 
 white marble hearth before the fender which was more convenient, 
 and may have suited his purpose better. 
 
 The Patent Office at Washington, furnishes an extraordinary 
 example of American enterprise and ingenuity; for the immense 
 number of models it contai.iS are the accumulated inventions of 
 only five years; the whole of the previous collection having been 
 ciestroyed by fire. The elegant structure in which they are arranged 
 is one of design rather than execution, for there is but one side 
 erected out of four, though the works are stopped. The Post Office 
 IS a very compact and very beautiful building. In one of the depart- 
 ments, among a collection of rare and curious articles, are deposited 
 
MpmRiPPiMip 
 
 loa Anioricuin Nt>tcs 
 
 llm ptrNrHtii whUh 5mx"* Ihth n>tt«lc fnun time ti) time t<» tho Ainrri- 
 i*n ttn»UiiHtt»lorn «( Iui.Imu ruurtu by lli»^ vitrl«»UH potnuUtrn In 
 whom thry wrrr thi* mt lotlltfU mr'^hIm of llio Koi.ubllc; Hilin which 
 by Ih'^ U\v lhc»y wrr not iH'riuittrtI to irtuiii. I toiil. hh thut I Uiokrd 
 upon thi« fts H vory paiulul rxhlhitliui, unci one l»y no n»runf< llutterinK 
 to Ww national htrtiuhinl ot lionoMty unci htMUUir. Ihut cun m an c ly bo 
 u high KtMto ot moiul Irt'lInK whUh inrnKinoH ii Kcntlonmn ol n^iuit. 
 and Httttion. likoly to l>c riinnptrd. in tlio .lini harx«^ of uin tbity. by 
 tJ>o pirxent oi a Hnull box. oi a i u hly niotinttnl Hwonl. or an hiuNtrrn 
 ..hawl. luul Kutvly tl>o Nation who' rop«moH ionll«|rnce in hrr ap- 
 pointcil Noivrtnt;^," In Ukolv to Jw better Hrrvnl. than who who mukcN 
 thon\ tho nnbioct of such vi rv moan an«l paltry suNpit ions. 
 
 At t;<H>rno Town. n» tho HU^nirbs. tnoto »m a josnit tolloKo; uoliKht- 
 fully NituatoM. atul. m» far uh I Iwul an t»pportunlty of t ^m, woll 
 inrtimKod. Mnny porNoUH who arc not nuinlKiH of tho UomlHh 
 Chunh. avail tiuMn.HolvoH. I In^liovo. of t bono institutions, and of tho 
 advat»t'\Koous op!H)VtunitioM thry a»'t»rd h»r t)u> oducation of thoir 
 chlldivn. I ho homhts of this ijoiKbi onrhoovl. abovo tho l\»t<>n»ac 
 Kivcr, art» vory pictnro.s»pio: and aro (roo. I Hhould concolvo. i.on* 
 somo of tho insiilubritioH of Washinnto i. Iho air. at that olovatior, 
 wa.N Muito cool and rofivsbinK. whot» in t»»o city H wan burning hot. 
 
 Tho IhvHidont's mansion is moro like an ICnglish clnb-houso. both 
 within and without, than any t>thor kind of ostablishmont with. wh«cl\ 
 1 can c<m\varr it. Iho ornamoiHal grnind abo\it it has boon laid out 
 in tho ganicn walks: thov aiv protty. ami aKrooablt* t.^ tho oyo; thonKlj 
 thoy have that unct>mfortablo air of having Ihhmi mado yesterday, 
 which is tar frxun favourable to tho tlisplay of such boautios. 
 
 My first viwit tv» this house was on the morning after n»y arrival, 
 when I was c-turied thither by an olficial gojitloinan. who was su 
 kind as to chargt^ himself with xwy presentation to tho I'rosident. 
 
 We otilereil a largo hall, and having twUe or thrico rung a bell 
 which nolHuly answeu^l. walkovl without further ceremony through 
 the riHims on tho groiuul lloor. as divera other gentlemen (mostly 
 with their hats on. and their hands in their pockets) wore domg very 
 leisun^ly. Sv>me of these had ladies with them, tti whom thoy were 
 showing the pi-omisos; others were lounging on tho chairs and sofas; 
 others, in a i^rfect state of exhaustitui from listlessness, were 
 vawning dr^^arily. The gn.\iter portion of this assemblage were rather 
 assertii\g their supr'.Muacv than doing anything else, as they bad no 
 jvarticular business theW\ that anybody knew of. A few were 
 closely e\^ing the movables, as if to make quite sure that tho Presi- 
 dent (who was far from iK)pular) had not made away with any of the 
 furniture, or sold the fixtures for his private benefit. 
 
 After glancing st these loungers; who were scattered over a pretty 
 drawing-room, opening upoa a terrace which commanded a beautiful 
 pn>spect of the river and the adjacent country: and who were 
 sauntering, too, about a larger state-room called the Eastern Drawmg- 
 rooni; we went vp-stairs into another chamber, where were certam 
 
Amefickin Kites 103 
 
 vlnltofi, wniHnR f(ir nn.llnncf m nl^ht nf my coRr1u'-*or. a black in 
 plnlti ( IcJthrH tvu\ yrllow nli,r,«.rM who wan KlMing noiiwl«Hnly atKiiit, 
 ind whlMp'TtnK mcuHaK^^n 1 tho *?ttrii ot i\w morn Impatient, made a 
 .iKM «pf m Munition, nnd ^lldinl nfi to unnr»unrr» him. 
 
 VVr hiu! jni'vinuNly !««.l<<vl Into anothrr rh.'iml)rr flttrd all round 
 wilh HK»'*''»1. '"irr. "/oodnn drHk ortriiinirr, wh<Tcofi hiy ftleN of n«wii- 
 p.ipcrH, i'> which Niindry Kimtlnmon wore rRfrrrln^. Mut thcr« were no 
 !ni(li mc(in« of hcKuliinx thn tim« In thh Hpni.mont, which wan an 
 impntmlHinK und tlrr;«omc nn any waltlnj^-room in <»no of our public 
 rsl.ihllMhiiirntM, or any phyHician'M dlninK-room during hid ..jur» of 
 ( oMNiiltatlon at homn. 
 
 Thrrr wrrn somn fUt»i<in or twenty poriion t in thft room. One, a talt, 
 wiry, mnmiilar old num. from thn wi-Mt; Munburnt and Hwarthy; with 
 a brown whitn hat on IiIh kn»wH, and a ^iant indmilla reciting l>ctwecn 
 hif« Ickn; who Mat bolt unrl^ht in hin cliair, frowning Mtcadily at the 
 (arppt, and twitching the hard HnrM abfjMt hhi mouth, an if he had 
 made up his mind "to fix" the l>refiident on what he had to Hay. and 
 wouldn't bate him a grain. .Another, a Kentucky farmer, Hix-fcet-«ix 
 in height, with bin hat on. and hin handH under IiIh coat-tailn, who 
 h'aned against the wall an<l kicked tho floor with hl« heel. aN though 
 he had I'ime'M head r !' r his shoo, and were literaUy "killing" him. 
 A third, nn oval-fac- .1, bilious-l(;oking man, with sleek black hair 
 cropped close, and whiskenj and beard 8havod down to blue dots, who 
 sucked the head of a thick .stick, and from time to time took it out 
 of his mouth, to sec how it was getting on. A fourth did nothing but 
 whistle. A fifth did nothing but spit. And indeed all these gentlemen 
 wcfe so very ]>er.scvcring and energetic in this latter particulai-, and 
 bestowed their favours so abundantly upon the carpet, that I take it 
 for granted tho l^esldcntial h)U.semaids have high wages, or, to 
 speak more genteelly, an ample amount of "compensation:" which is 
 the American word for salary, in the ca.se of nil public servants. 
 
 We had not rva'ted in this room many minutes, before the black 
 incs.songer returned, and conducted us into another of 8r»ialler 
 dimensions, where, at a busine.s3-likc table covered with papers, sat 
 t!ic President himself. He looked somewhat worn and anxious, and 
 \volI he might; being at war with everybody — but the expression cf 
 his face was mild and pleasant, and his manner was remarkably 
 unaffected, gentlemanly, and agreeable. I thought that in his whole 
 carriage and demeanour, he became his station singularly wed. 
 
 Being advised that the .sensible etiquette of the republican court 
 julmitted of a traveller, like myself, declining, without any impro- 
 priety, an invitation to dinner, which did not reach me until I had 
 concluded my arrangements for leaving Washington scmj days 
 before that to which it referred, 7 only '•eturiiAd to this house once. It 
 was on the occasion of one of those general assemblies which are held 
 on csrtain nights, between the hours of nine and twelve o'clock, and 
 are called, rather oddly, Levees. 
 
 I went, with my wife, at about ten. There was a pretty dense 
 
 M 
 
 if 
 
 m 
 
104 
 
 American Notes 
 
 crowd of carriages and people in the court-yard, and so far as I 
 could make out, there were no very clear regulations for the taking 
 up or the setting down of company. There were certainly no police- 
 men to soothe startled horses, either by sawing at their bridles or 
 flourishing truncheons in their eyes; and I am ready to make oath 
 that no inoffensive persons were knocked violently on the head, or 
 poked acutely in their backs or stomachs; or brought to a st:.nd-still 
 by any siTch gentle means, and then taken into custody for not 
 moving on. But there was no confusion or disorder. Our carriage 
 reached the porch in its turn, without any blustering, swearing, 
 shouting, backing, or other disturbance: and we dismounted with as 
 much ease and comfort as though we had been escorted by the whole 
 Metropolitan Force from A to Z inclusive. 
 
 The suite of rooms on the ground-floor were lighted up and a 
 military band was playing in the hall. In the smaller drawing-room, 
 the centre of a circle of company, were the President and his daughter- 
 in-law, who acted as the lady of the mansion; and a very interesting, 
 graceful, and accomplished lady too. One gentleman who stood 
 among this group, appeared to take upon himself the functions of a 
 master of the ceremonies. I saw no other officers or attendants, and 
 none were needed. 
 
 The great drawing-room, which I have already mentioned, and the 
 other chambers on the ground-floor, were crowded to excess. The 
 company was not, in our sense of the term, select, for it comprehended 
 persons of very many grades and classes; nor was there any great 
 display of costly attire: indeed, some of the costumes may have been, 
 for aught I know, grotesque enough. But the decorum and propriety 
 of behaviour which prevailed, were unbroken by any rude or disagree- 
 able incident; and every man, even among the miscellaneous crowd 
 in the hall who wee admitted without any orders or tickets to look 
 on, appeared to feel that he was a part of the Institution, and was 
 respciisible for its preserving a becoming character, and appearing 
 to the best advantage. 
 
 That these visitors, too, whatever their station, were not without 
 some refinement of taste and appreciation of intellectual gifts, and 
 gratitude to those men who, by the peaceful exercise of great abilities, 
 shed new charms and associations upon the homes of their country- 
 men, and elevate their character in other lands, was most earnestly 
 testified by their reception of Washington Irving, my dear friend, 
 who had recently been appointed Minister at the court of Spain, and 
 who was among them that night, in his new character, for the first 
 and last time before going abroad. I sincerely believe that in all the 
 madness of American politics, few public men would have been so 
 earnestly, devotedly, and affectionately caressed, as this most charm- 
 ing writer: and I have seldom respected a public assembly more, than 
 I did this eager throng, when I saw them turning with one mind from 
 noisy s..ratnrs and officers of state, and flockinp^ with a p'enerous and 
 honest impulse round the man of quiet pursuits: proud in his promo- 
 
American Notes 
 
 105 
 
 tion as reflecting back upon their country: and grateful to him with 
 their whole hearts for the store of graceful fancies he had poured out 
 among them. Long may he dispense such treasures with unsparing 
 hand; and long may they remember him as worthily ! 
 
 rhe term we had assigned for the duration of our stay in Washing- 
 ton was now at an end. and we were to begin to travel; for llie rail- 
 road distances we had traversed yet. in journeying among these older 
 towns, are on that great continent looked upon as nothing 
 
 I had at first intended going South— to Charleston. But when I 
 came to consider the length of time which this journey would occupv 
 and the premature heat of the season, which even at Washington had 
 been often very trying; anc weighed moreover, in my own mind the 
 pam of hvmg in the constant contemplation of slavery against the 
 more than doubtful chances of my ever seeing it. in the time I had to 
 spare, stripped of the disguises in which it would certainly be dressed 
 and so adding any item to the host of facts already heaped togethe^ 
 on the subject; I began to listen to old whisperings which had often 
 been present to me at home in England, when I little thought of ever 
 Wbmg here; and to dream again of cities growing up. like palaces in 
 tairy tales, among the wilds and forests of the west 
 
 The advice I received in most quarters when I began to yield to mv 
 desire of traveUmg towards chat point of the compass was. according 
 to custom, sufficiently cheerless: my companion being threatened 
 with more perils, dangers, and discomforts, than I can remember or 
 would catalogue if I could; but of which it will be sufficient to remark 
 that blowmgs-up in steamboats and breakings-down in coaches 
 were among the least. But. having a western route sketched out for 
 me by the best and kindest authority to which I could have resorted 
 and putting no great faith in these discouragements, I soon deter- 
 mined on my plan of action. 
 
 This was to travel south, only to Richmond in Virginia; and then 
 to turn, and shape our course for the Far West; whither I beseech the 
 reader s company, in a new chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 A NIGHT STEAMER ON THE POTOMAC RIVER. VIRGINIA ROAD AND A 
 BLACK DRIVER. RICHMOND. BALTIMORE. THE HARRISBURG MAIL 
 AND A GLIMPSE OF THE CITY. A CANAL BOAT. 
 
 We were to proceed in the first instance by steamboat; and as it is 
 usual to sleep on board, in consequence of the starting-hour being 
 tour o c^ocxciii the luummg, we went down to where she lay at that 
 very uncomfortable time for such expeditions when slippers are most 
 322* 
 
 ■3 i , I 
 
io6 
 
 American Notes 
 
 valuable, and a familiar bed, in the perspective of an hour or two, 
 looks uncommonly pleasant. 
 
 It is ten o'clock at night: say half-past ten: moonlight, warm, and 
 dull enough. The steamer (not unlike a child's Noah's ark in form, 
 with the machinery on the top of the roof) is riding lazily up and down, 
 and bumping clumsily against the wooden pier, as the ripple of the 
 river trifles with its unwieldly carcase. The wharf is some distance 
 from the city. There is nobody down here; and one or two dull lamps 
 upon the steamer's decks are the only signs of life remaining, when 
 our coach has driven away. As soon as our footsteps are heard upon 
 the planks, a fat negress, particularly favoured by nature in respect 
 of bustle, emerges from some dark stairs, and marshals my wife to- 
 wards the ladies' cabin, to which retreat she goes, foUowedby a mighty 
 bale of cloaks and great-coats. I valiantly resolve not to go to bed at 
 all, but to walk up and down the pier till morning. 
 
 I begin my promenade — thinking of all kinds of distant things and 
 persons, and of nothing near — and pace up and down for half-an- 
 hour. Then I go on board again; and getting into the light of one of 
 the lamps, look at my watch and think it must have stopped; and 
 wonder what has become of the faithful secretary whom I brought 
 along with me from Boston. He is supping with our late landlord (a 
 Field Marshal, at least, no doubt) in honors of our departure, and 
 may be two hours longer. I walk again, but it gets duller and duller: 
 the moon goes down: next June seems farther off in the dark, and the 
 echoes of my footsteps ir^ake me nervous. It has turned cold too; 
 and walking up and down without my companion in such lonely 
 circumstances, is but poor amusement. So I break my staunch 
 resolution, and think it may be, perhaps, as well to go to bed. 
 
 I go on board again; open the door of the gentlemen's cabin; and 
 walk in. Somehow or other — from its being so quiet, I suppose — I 
 have taken it into my head that there is nobody there. To my horror 
 and amazement it is full of sleepers in every stage, shape, attitude, 
 and variety of slumber: in the berths, on the chairs, on the floors, on 
 the tables, and particularly round the stove, my detested enemy. I 
 take another step forward, and slip on the shining face of a black 
 steward, who lies rolled in a blanket on the floor. He jumps up, grins 
 half in pain and half in hospitality; whispers my own name in my ear; 
 and groping among the sleepers, leads me to my berth. Standing 
 beside it, I count these slumbering passengers, a, '\ get past forty. 
 There is no use in going further, so I begin to undress. As the chairs 
 are all occupied, and there is nothing else to put my clothes on, I 
 deposit them on the ground: not without soiling my hands, for it is 
 in the same condition as the carpets in the Capitol, and from the same 
 cause. Having but partially undressed, I clamber on my shelf, and 
 hold the curtain open for a few minutes while I look round on all my 
 fellow-travellers again. That done, I let it fall on them, and on the 
 ^vorld: turn round: and go to sleep. 
 
 i wake, of course, when we get under weigh, for there is a good deal 
 
American Notes 
 
 107 
 
 of noise. The day is then just breaking. Everybody wakes at the same 
 time. Some are self-possessed directly, and some are much perplexed 
 to niake out where they are until they have rubbed their eyes, and 
 leaning on one elbow, looked about them. Some yawn, some groan 
 nearly all spit, and a few get up. I am among the risers: for it is easy 
 to feel, without going into the fresh air, that the atmosphere of the 
 cabin is vile in the last degree. I huddle on my clothes, go down into 
 the fore-cabin, get shaved by the barber, and wash myself. The wash- 
 ing and dressing apparatus for the passengers generally, consists of 
 two jack-towels, three small wooden basins, a keg of water and a 
 ladle to serve it out wi^h, six square inches of looking-glass, two 
 ditto ditto of yellow soap, a comb and brush for the head! and 
 nothing for the teeth. Everybody uses the comb and brush, except 
 myself. Everybody stares to see me using my own; ard two or threo 
 gentlemen are strongly disposed to banter me on my prejudices, but 
 don't. When I have made my toilet, I go upon the hurricane-deck, 
 and set in for two hours of hard walking up and down. The sun is 
 rising brilliantly; we are passing Mount Vernon, where Washington 
 lies buried; the river is wide and rapid; and its banks are beautiful. 
 All the glory and splendour of the day are coming on, and growing 
 brighter every minute. 
 
 At eight o'clock we breakfast in the cabin where I passed the night, 
 but the windows and doors are all thrown open, and now it is fresh 
 enough. There is no hurry or greediness apparent in the despatch 
 of the meal. It is longer than a travelling breakfast with us; more 
 orderly, and more polite. 
 
 Soon after nine o'clock we come to Potomac Creek, where we are 
 to land; and then comes the oddest part of the journey. Seven stage- 
 coaches are preparing to carry us on. Some of them are ready, some 
 of them are not ready. Some of the drivers are blacks, some whites. 
 There are four horses to each coach, and all the horses, harnessed or 
 unharnessed, are there. The passengers are getting out of the steam- 
 boat, and into the coaches; the luggage is being transferred in noisy 
 wheelbarrows; the horses are frightened, and impatient to start; the 
 black drivers are chattering to them like so many monkeys, and the 
 white ones whooping like so many drovers: for the main thing to be 
 done in all kinds of hostlering here, is to make as m-^ch noise as possi- 
 ble. The coaches are something like the French coaches, but not nearly 
 so good. In lieu of springs, they are hung on bands of the strongest 
 leather. There is very little choice or difference between them; and 
 they may be likened to the car portion of the swings at an English fair, 
 roofed, put upon axle-trees and wheels, and curtained with painted 
 canvas. They are covered with mud from the roof to the wheel-tire, 
 and have never been cleaned since they were first built. 
 
 The tickets we have received on board the steamboat are marked 
 No. I, so we belong to coach No. i. I throw my coat on the box, and 
 ..•-•t.,v xixjf rrii^, aiiu iici liiaiu. ixiLu Liic iiisiuc. it HEo OHiy Ouc sicp, and 
 that being about a yard from the ground, is usually approached by 
 
 I Si 
 
io8 
 
 American Notes 
 
 i»,;' 'i!' 
 
 Il'i 
 
 ll 'I 
 
 It 
 
 a chair: when there is no chair, ladies trust in Providence. The coach 
 holds nine inside, having a seat across from door to door, where we in 
 England put our legs: so that there is only one feat more difficult in the 
 performance than getting in, and that is, getting out again. There is 
 only one outside passenger, and he sits upon the box. As I am that 
 one, I climb up; and v/hile they are strapping the luggage on the roof, 
 and heaping it into a kind of tray behind, have a good opportxmity 
 of looking at the driver. 
 
 He is a negro — very black indeed. He is dressed in a coarse pepper- 
 and-salt suit excessively patched and darned (particularly at the 
 knees), grey stockings, enormous unblacked high-low shoes, and 
 veiy short trousers. He has two odd gloves: one of parti-coloured 
 worsted, and one of leather. He has a very short whip, broken in the 
 middle and bandaged up with string. And yet he wears a low-crowned, 
 broad-brimmed, black hat: faintly shadowing forth a kind of insane 
 imitation of an English coachman ! But somebody in authority cries 
 "Go ahead!" as I am making these observations. The mail takes the 
 lead in a four-horse waggon, and all the coaches follow in procession: 
 headed by No. i. 
 
 By the way, whenever an Englishman would cry "All right!" an 
 American cries "Go ahead!" which is somewhat expressive of the 
 national character of the two countries. 
 
 The first half-mile of the road is over bridges made of loose planks 
 laid across two parallel poles, which tilt up as the wheels roll over 
 them; and in the river. The river has a clayey bottom and is full of 
 holes, so that half a horse is constantly disappearing unexpectedly, 
 and can't be found again for some time. 
 
 But we get past even this, and come to the road itself, which is a 
 series of alternate swamps and gravel-pits. A tremendous place is 
 close before us, the black driver rolls his eyes, screws his mouth up 
 very round, and looks straight between the two leaders, as if he were 
 saying to himself, "We have done this often before, but now I think 
 we shall have a crash." He takes a rein in each hand; jerks and pulls 
 at both; and dances on the splashboard with both feet (keeping his 
 seat, of course) like the late lamented Ducrow on two of his fiery 
 coursers. We come to the spot, sink down in the mire nearly to the 
 coach windows, tilt on one side at an angle of forty-five degrees, and 
 stick there. The insides scream dismally; the coach stops; the horses 
 flounder; all the other six coaches stop; and their four-and-twenty 
 horses flounder likewise: but merely for company, and in sympathy 
 with ours. Then the following circumstances occur. 
 
 Black Driver (to the horses). "Hi!" 
 
 Nothing happens. Insides scream again. 
 
 Black Driver (to the horses). "Ho!" 
 
 Horses plunge, and splash the black driver. 
 
 Gentleman inside (looking out). "Why, what on airth — *' 
 
 Gentleman receives a variety of splashes and draws his head in 
 again, without finishing his question or waiting for an answer. 
 
 -I. JL11.0 
 
American Notes 
 
 109 
 
 Black Driver (stiU to the horses). "Jiddy! Jiddy!" 
 
 Horses pull violently, drag the coach out of the hole, and draw it 
 up a bank; so steep, that the black driver's legs fly up into the air, 
 and he goes back among the luggage on the roof. But he immediately 
 recovers himself, and cries (still to the horses), 
 
 "Pill!" 
 
 No effect. On the contrary, the coach begins to roll back upon 
 No. 2, which rolls back upon No. 3, which rolls back upon No. 4, and 
 so on, until No. 7 is heard to curse and swear, nearly a quarter of a 
 mile behind. 
 
 Black Driver (louder than before). "Pill!" 
 
 Horses make another struggle to get up the bank, and again the 
 coach rolls backward. 
 
 Black Driver (louder than before). "Pe-e-e-illl" 
 
 Horses make a desperate struggle. 
 
 Black Driver (recovering spirits). "Hi, Jiddy, Jiddy, Pill!" 
 
 Horses make another effort. 
 
 Black Driver (with great vigour). "Ally Loo! Hi. Jiddy. Jiddy. 
 Pill. Ally Loo!" 
 
 Horses almost do it. 
 
 Black Driver (with his eyes starting out of his head). "Lee, den. 
 Lee, dere. Hi. Jiddy, Jiddy. Pill. Ally Loo. Lee-e-e-e-e!" 
 
 They run up the bank, and go down again on the other side at a 
 fearful pace. It is impossible to stop them, and at the bottom there is 
 a deep hollow, full of water. The coach rolls frightfully. The insides 
 scream. The mud and water fly about us. The black driver dances like 
 a madman. Suddenly we are all right by some extraordinary means, 
 and stop to breathe. 
 
 A black friend of the black driver is sitting on a fence. The bh ,^ 
 driver recognises him by twirling his head round and round like a 
 harlequin, rolling his eyes, shrugging his shoulders, and grinning from 
 ear to ear. He stops short, turns to me, and says: 
 
 "We shall get you through sa, like a fiddle, and hope a please you 
 when we get you through sa. Old 'ooman at home sa:" chuckling very 
 much. "Outside gentleman sa, he often remember old 'ooman at 
 home sa," grinning again. 
 
 "Ay ay, we'll take care of the old woman. Don't be afraid." 
 
 The black driver grins again, but there is another hole, and beyond 
 that, another bank, close before us. So he stops short: cries (to 
 the horses again) "Easy. Easy den. Ease. Steady. Hi. Jiddy. Pill. 
 Ally. Loo," but never "Lee!" until we are reduced to the very last 
 extremity, and are in the midst of difficulties, extrication from which 
 appears to be all but impossible. 
 
 And so we do the ten miles or thereabouts in two hours and a 
 half; breaking no bones, though bruising a great many; and in short 
 getting through the distance, "like a fiddle." 
 
 whence there is a railway to Richmond. The tract of country through 
 
 < !-■ 
 
.1. 
 
 110 American Notes 
 
 which it takes its course was once productive; but the soil has been 
 exhausted by the system of employing a great amount of slave labour 
 in forcing crops, without strengthening the land; and it is now little 
 better than a sandy desert overgrown with t-ees. Dreary and unin- 
 teresting as its aspect is, I was glad to the heart to find anything on 
 which one of the curses of this horrible institution has fallen; and had 
 greater pleasure in contemplating the withered ground, than the 
 richest and most thriving cultivation in the same place could possibly 
 have afforded me. 
 
 In this district, as in all others where slavery sits.broodmg, (I 
 have frequently heard this admitted, even by those who are its 
 warmest advocates:) there is an air of ruin and decay abroad, which 
 is inseparable from the system. The bams and outhouses are moulder- 
 ing away; the sheds are patched and half roofless; the log cabins 
 (built in Virginia with external chimneys made of clay or wood) are 
 squalid in the last degree. There is no look of decent comfort any- 
 where. The miserable stations by the railway side; the great wild 
 wood-yards, whence the engine is supplied with fuel; the negro 
 children rolling on the ground before the cabin doors, with dogs and 
 pigs; the biped beasts of burden sinking past: gloom and dejection 
 are upon them all. 
 
 In the negro car belonging to the train in which we made this 
 journey, were a mother and her children who had just been pur- 
 chased; the husband and father being left behind with their old 
 owner. The children cried the whol ^ray, and the mother was misery's 
 picture. The champion of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happi- 
 ness, who had bought them, rode in the same train; and, every time 
 we stopped, got down to see that they were safe. The black in Sin- 
 bad's Travels with one eye in the middle of his forehead which shone 
 like a burning coal, was nature's aristocrat compared with this white 
 gentleman. 
 
 It was between six and seven o'clock in the evening, when we 
 drove to the hotel: in front of which, and on the top of the broad 
 flight of steps leading to the door, two or three citizens were balancing 
 themselves on rocking-chairs, and smoking cigars. We found it a 
 very large and elegant establishment, and were as well entertained as 
 travellers need desire to be. The cUmate being a thirsty one, there 
 was never, at any hour of the day, a scarcity of 1 lungers in the 
 spacious bar, or a cessation of the mixing of cool liquors: but they 
 were a merrier people here, and had musical instruments playing 
 to them o' nights, which it was a treat to hear again. 
 
 The next day, and the next, we rode and walked about the town, 
 which is delightfully situated on eight hills, overhanging James 
 River; a sparkling stream, studded here and there with bright 
 islands, or brawling over broken rocks. Although it was yet but the 
 middle of March, the weather in this southern temperature was 
 extremely warm; the peach-trees and magnolias were m full bloom; 
 and the trees were green. In a low ground among the hills, is a valley 
 
 
 
 known t 
 which o 
 and, lik< 
 wild peo 
 much. 
 
 Theci 
 shady le 
 the hot 
 constitu 
 many pj 
 lounge : 
 volumes 
 are all s] 
 
 I saw 
 drying, 
 with, w£ 
 suppose( 
 the com; 
 the oil-c 
 to its CO 
 
 Many 
 necessar 
 two o'cl 
 at a tim 
 hymn ir 
 nieanwh 
 forth inl 
 said sev< 
 the gent 
 denly ti 
 appeara 
 
 On th 
 twelve h 
 althougl 
 as that ] 
 to enter 
 very crc 
 children 
 believe 
 who inh 
 human ! 
 viction. 
 
 The J 
 Defoe's 
 day was 
 and dooi 
 which w 
 Before t 
 
American Notes iii 
 
 known as "Bloody Run," from a terrible conflict with the Indians 
 which once occurred there. It is a good place for such a struggle, 
 and, like every other spot I saw associated with any legend of 'hat 
 wild people now so rapidly fading from the earth, interested me very 
 much. 
 
 The city is the seat of the local parliament of Virginia; and in its 
 shady legislative halls, some orators were drowsily holding forth to 
 the hot noon day. By dint of constant repetition, however, these 
 constitutional sights had very little more interest for me than so 
 many parochial vestries; and I was glad to exchange this one for a. 
 lounge in a well-arranged public library of some ten thousand 
 volumes, and a visit to a tobacco manufactory, where the workmen 
 are all slaves. 
 
 I saw in this place the whole process of picking, rolling, pressing, 
 drying, packing in casks, and branding. All the tobacco thus dealt 
 with, was in course of manufacture for chewing; and one would have 
 supposed there was enough in that one storehouse to have filled even 
 the comprehensive jaws of America. In this form, the weed looks like 
 the oil-cake on which we fatten cattle; and even without reference 
 to its consequences, is sufficiently uninviting. 
 
 Many of the workmen appeared to be strong men, and it is hardly 
 necessary to a Id that they were all labouring quietly, then. After 
 two o'clock in the day, they are allowed to sing, a certain number 
 at a time. The hour striking while I was there, some twenty sang a 
 hymn in parts, and sang it by no means ill; pursuing their work 
 meanwhile. A bell rang as I was about to leave, and they all poured 
 forth into a building on the opposite side of the street to dinner. I 
 said several times that I should like to see them at their meal; but as 
 the gentleman to whom I mentioned this desire appeared to be sud- 
 denly taken rather deaf, I did not pursue the request. Of their 
 appearance I shall have something to say, presently. 
 
 On the following day, I visited a plantation or farm, of about 
 twelve hundred acres, on the opposite bank of the river. Here again, 
 although I went down with the owner of the estate, to "the quarter," 
 as that part of it in which the slaves live is called, I was not invited 
 to enter into any of their huts. All I saw of them, was, that they were 
 very crazy, wretched cabins, near to which groups of half-naked 
 children basked in the sun, or wallowed on the dusty ground. But I 
 believe that this gentleman is a considerate and excellent master, 
 who inherited his fifty slaves, and is neither a buyer nor a seller of 
 human stock; and I am sure, from my own observation and con- 
 viction, that he is a kind-hearted, worthy man. 
 
 The planter's house was an airy, rustic dwelling, that brought 
 Defce's description of such places strongly to my recollection. The 
 day was very warm, but the blinds being all closed, and the windows 
 and doors set wide open, a shady coolness rustled through the rooms, 
 which was exquisitely refreshing after the glare and heat without. 
 Before the windows was an open piazza, where, in what they call tUo 
 
 W 
 
 V:' m 
 
 
 1 
 
112 American Notes 
 
 hot weather — ^whatever that may be — they sling hammocks, and 
 drink and doze luxuriously. I do not know how their cool reflections 
 may taste within the hammocks, but having experience, I can 
 report that, cut of them, the mounds of ices and the bowls of mint- 
 julep and sherry-cobbler they make in these latitudes, are refresh- 
 ments never to be thought of afterwards, in summer, by those who 
 would preserve contented minds. 
 
 There are two bridges across the river: one belongs to the railroad, 
 and the other, whk:h is a very crazy affair, is the private property 
 of some old lady in the neighbourhood, who levies tolls upon the 
 townspeople. Crossing this bridge, on my way back, I saw a notice 
 painted on the gate, cautioning all persons to drive slowly: under a 
 penalty, if the offender were a whice man, of five dollars; if a negro, 
 fifteen stripes. 
 
 The same deciv- and gloom that overhang the way by which it is 
 approached, hover above the town of Richmond. TTiere are pretty 
 villas and cheerful houses in its streets, and Nature smiles upon 
 the country round; but jostling its handsome residences, like slavery 
 itself going hand in hand with many lofty virtues, are deplorable 
 tenements, fences unrepaired, walls crumblmg into ruinous heaps. 
 Hinting gloomily at things below the surface, these, and many other 
 tokens of the same description, force themselves upon the notice, and 
 are remembered with depressing influence, when livelier features are 
 forgotten. 
 
 To those who are happily unaccustomed to them, .he countenances 
 in the streets and labouring-places, too, are shocking. All men who 
 know that there are laws against instructing slaves, of which the 
 pains and penalties greatly exceed in their amount the fines imposed 
 on those who maim and torture them, must be prepared to find their 
 faces very low in the scale of intellectual expression. But the darkness 
 — not of skin, but mind — which meets the stranger's eye at every 
 turn; the brutalizing and blotting out of all fairer characters traced 
 by Nature's hand; immeasurably outdo his worst belief. That 
 travelled creation of the great satirist's brain, who fresh from living 
 among horses, peered from a high casement down upon his own kind 
 with trembling horror, was scarcely more repelled and daunted by 
 the sight, than those who look upon some of these faces for the first 
 time must surely be. 
 
 I left the last of them behind me in the person of a wretched 
 drudge, who, after running to and fro all day till midnight, and 
 moping in his stealthy winks of sleep upon the stairs between whiles, 
 was washing the dark passag3s at four o'clock in the morning; and 
 went upon my way with a grateful heart that I was not doomed to 
 live where slavery was, and had never had my senses blunted to its 
 wrongs and horrors in a slave-rocked cradle. 
 
 It had been my intention to proceed by James River and Chesa- 
 peake Bay to Baltimore; but one of the steamboats being ausent 
 from her station through some ac ^nt and the means of conveyance 
 
American Notes 
 
 "3 
 
 being consequently rendered uncertain, we returned to Washington 
 by the way we had come (there were two constables on board the 
 steamboat, in pursuit of runaway slaves), and h 'ting there again for 
 one night, went on to Baltimore next afternoon. 
 
 The most comfortable of all the hotels of which I had any experi- 
 ence in the United States, and they were not a few, is Bamum's, in 
 that city: where the English traveller will find curtains to his bed, for 
 the first and probably the last time in America (this is a disinterested 
 remark, for I never use them); and where he will be likely to have 
 enough water for washing himself, which is not at all a common case. 
 
 This capital of the state of Maryland is a bustling, busy town, 
 with a great deal of traffic of various kinds, and in particular of water 
 commerce. That portion of the town which it most favours is none 
 of the cleanest, it is true; but the upper part is of a very different 
 character, and has many agreeable streets and public buildings. 
 The Washington Monument, which is a handsome pillar with a 
 statue on its summit; the Medical College; and the Battle Monument 
 in memory of an engagement with the British at North Point; are 
 the most conspicuous among them. 
 
 There is a very good prison in this city, and the State Penitentiary 
 is also among its institutions. In this latter establishment there were 
 two curious cases. 
 
 One was that of a young man, who had been tried for the murder 
 of his father. The evidence was entirely circumstantial, and was very 
 conflicting and doubtful; nor was it possible to assign any motive 
 which could have tempted him to the commission of so tremendous 
 a crime. He had been tried twice; and on the second occasion the 
 jury felt so much hesitation in convicting him, that they found a 
 verdict of manslaughter, or murder in the second degree; which it 
 could not possibly be, as there had, beyond all doubt, been no quarrel 
 or provocation, and if he were guilty at all, he was unquestionably 
 guilty of murder ir its broadest and worst signification. 
 
 The remarkable feature in the case was, that if the unfortunate 
 deceased were not really murdered by this own son of his he must 
 have been murdered by his own brother. The evidence lay in a most 
 remarkable manner, between those two. On all the suspicious points, 
 the dead man's brother was the witness: all the explanations for the 
 prisoner (some of them extremely plausible) went, by construction 
 and inference, to inculcate him as plotting to fix the guilt upon his 
 nephew. It must have been one of them; and the jury had to decide 
 between two sets of suspicions, almost equally unnatural, unac- 
 countable, and strange. 
 
 The other case, was that of a man who once went to a certain 
 distiller's and stole a copper measure containing a quantity ox liquor. 
 He was pursued and taken with the property in his possession, and 
 was sentenced to two years' imprisonment. On coming out of the 
 
 jail. 
 
 a,(. thu 
 
 CXpliu.i.IUIi Ui. thut tcXUI, he WCXxt bu^K LU (.lie oUUiU Ulci- 
 
 1; I 
 
 I 
 
 tiller's, and stole the same copper measure containing the same 
 
 wi»«tta mtf.wB Bfeiiaft« 
 
114 
 
 American Notes 
 
 ilii 
 
 M 
 
 quantity of liquor. There was not the slightest reason to suppose that 
 the man wished to return to prison: indeed ever>'thing, but the com- 
 mission of the offence, made directly against that assumption. 
 There aie only two ways of accounting for this extraordmary proceed- 
 ing One is. that after undergoing so much for this copper measure 
 he conceived he had established a sort of claim and right to it. The 
 other that, by dint of long thinking about, it had become a mono- 
 mania with him. and had acquired a fascination which he found it 
 impossible to resist; swelling from an Earthly Coppei Gallon into an 
 Ethereal Golden Vat. . 
 
 After remaining here a couple of days I bound myself to a ngid 
 adherence to the plan I had laid down so recently, and resolved to 
 set forward on our western journev without any more delay. Accord- 
 ingly having reduced the luggage within the smallest possible com- 
 pass (by sending back to New York, to be afterwards forwarded to us 
 in Canada, so much of it as was not absolutely wanted); and having 
 procured the necessary credentials to banking-houses on the way; 
 and having moreover looked for two evenings at the setting sun, with 
 as well-def.ned an idea of thf country before us as if we had been 
 going to travel into the very centre of that planet; we left Baltimore 
 by another railway at half-past eight in the morning, and reached 
 the town of York, some sixty miles off. by the early dinner-time of 
 the Hotel which was the starting-place .. the four-horse coach, 
 wherein we were to proceed to Harrisbufg. 
 
 This conveyance, the box of which I was fortunate enough to 
 secure, had come down to meet us at the railroad station, and was 
 as muddy and cumbersome as usual. As more passengers were 
 waiting for us at the inn-door, the coachman observed under his 
 breath, in the usual self-communicative voice, looking the wh^e at 
 his mouldy harness as if it were to that he was addressing himself, 
 
 "I expect we shall want /Ae fcig- coach." , , . v- 
 
 I could not help wondering within myself what the size of this big 
 coach might be. and how many persons it might be designed to hold; 
 for the vehicle which was too small for our purpose was something 
 larger than two English heavy night coaches, and might have been 
 the twin-brother of a French Diligence. My speculations were speedily 
 at rest however, for as soon as we had dined, there came rumbling 
 up the street, shaking its sides like a corpulent giant, a kind of barge 
 on wheels. After much blundering and backing, it stopped at tae door: 
 rolling heavily from side to side when its other motion had ceased, 
 as if it had taken cold in its damp stable, and between that, and the 
 having been required in its dropsical old age to move at any faster 
 pace than a walk, were distressed by shortness of wind. 
 
 "If here ain't the Harrisburg mail at last, and dreadful bright and 
 smart to look at too. " cried an elderly gentleman in some excitement, 
 "dam mv mother!" 
 
 * I don't know what the sensation of being darned may be, or 
 whether a man's mother has a keener relish or disrelish of the process 
 
American Notes 
 
 115 
 
 than anybody else; but if the endurance of this mysterious ceremony 
 by the old lady in question had depended on the accuracy of her son's 
 vision in respect to the abstract brightness and smartness of tho 
 Harrisburg mail, she would certainly have undergone its infliction. 
 However, they booked twelve people inside; and the luggage 
 (including such trifles as a large rocking-chair, and a good-sized 
 (lining-table) being at length made fast upon the roof, we started off 
 in great state. 
 
 At the door of another hotel, there was another passenger to be 
 taken up. 
 
 "Any room, sir?" cries the new passenger to the coachman. 
 
 "Well, there's room enough," replies the coachman, without 
 getting down, or even looking at him. 
 
 "There an't no room at all, sir," bawls a gentleman inside. Which 
 another gentleman (also inside) confirms, by predicting that tho 
 attempt to introduce any more passengers ' v/on't fit nohow." 
 
 The new passenger, without any expression of anxiety, lool.s into 
 the coach, and then looks up at the coachman: "Now, how do you 
 mean to fix it?" says he, after a pause: 'for I must go." 
 
 The corchman employs himself in twisting the lash of his whip 
 into a knot, and takes no more notice of the question: clearly signi- 
 fying that it is anybody's business but his, and that the passengers 
 would do well to fix it, among themselves. In this state of things, 
 matters seem to be approximating to a fix of another kind, when 
 another inside passenger in a corner, who is nearly suffocated, cries 
 faintly, "I'll get out." 
 
 This is no matter of relief or self-congratulation to the driver, for 
 his immovable philosophy is perfectly undisturbed by anything that 
 happens in the coach. Of all things in the world, the coach would 
 seem to be the very last upon his mind. The exchange is made, 
 however, and then the passenger who has given up his seat makes a 
 third upon the box, seating himself in what he calls the middle; that 
 is, with half his person on my legs, and the other half on the driver's. 
 
 "Go a-head, cap'en," cries the colonel, who directs. 
 
 "G6-lang!" cries the cap'en to his company, the horses, and away 
 we go. 
 
 We took up at a rural bar-room, after we had gone a few miles, an 
 intoxicated gentleman who climbed upon the roof among the lug- 
 gage, and subsequently slipping off without hurting himself, was seen 
 in the distant perspective reeling back to the grog-shop where we 
 had found him. We also parted with more of our freight at diffe; ~nt 
 times, so that when we came to change horses, I was again alone 
 outside. 
 
 The coachmen always change with the horses, and are usually as 
 dirty as the coach. The first was dressed like very shabby English 
 baker; the second like a Russian peasant: for he wore a loose purple 
 camlet robe, with a fur collar, tied round his waist with a paxti- 
 coloured worsted sash; grey trousers; light blue gloves: and a cap of 
 
 i 1 
 
 i'" 
 
ii6 
 
 American Notes 
 
 %<j 
 
 lii 
 
 bearskin. It had by this time come on to rain verj' heavily, and there 
 was a cold damp mist besides, which penetrated to the skin. I was 
 Rlad to take advantage of a stoppage and get down to stretch my 
 legs, shake the water off my great-coat, and swallov/ the usual anti- 
 temperance recipe for keeping out the cold. 
 
 When I mounted to my seat again, I observed a new parcel lying 
 on the coach roof, which I took to be a rather large fiddle in a brown 
 bag. In the course of a few miles, however, I discovered t^hat it had 
 a glazed ccip at one end and a pair of muddy shoes at the other; and 
 further observation demonstrated it to be a small boy in a snuff- 
 coloured coat, with his arms pinioned to his sides, by deep forcing 
 into his pockets. He was, I presume, a relative or friend of the coach- 
 man's, as he lay a-top of the luggage with his face towards the rain; 
 and except when a change of position brought his shoes in contact 
 with my hat, he appeared to be asleep. At last, on some occasion of 
 our stopping, this thing slowly upreared itself to the height of three 
 feet six, and fixing its eyes on me, observed in piping accents, with 
 a complaisant yawn, half quenched in an obliging air of friendly 
 patronage, "Well now, stranger, I guess you find this a'most like an 
 English arternoon, hey?" 
 
 The scenery which had been tame enough at first, was, for the last 
 ten or twelve miles, beatitiful. Our road wound through the pleasant 
 valley of the Susquehanna; the river, dotted with innumerable green 
 islands, lay upon our right; and on the left, a steep ascent, craggy with 
 broken rock, and dark with pine trees. The mist, wreathing itself into 
 a hundred fantastic shapes, moved solemnly upon the water; and the 
 gloom of evening gave to all an air of mystery and silence which 
 greatly enhanced its natural interest. 
 
 We crossed this river by a wooden bridge, roofed and covered in 
 on all sides, and nearly a mile in length. It was profoundly dark; 
 perplexed, with great beams, crossing and recrossing it at every 
 possible angle; and through the broad chinks and crevices in the floor, 
 the rapid river gleamed, far down beiow, like a legion of eyes. We 
 had no lamps; and as the horses stumbled and floundered through 
 this place, towards the distant speck of dying light, it seemed 
 interminable. I really could not at first persuade myself as we 
 rumbled heavily on, filling the bridge with hollow noises, and I held 
 down my head to save it from the rafters above, but that I was in a 
 painful dream; for I have often dreamed of toiling through such 
 places, and as often argued, even at the time, "this cannot be 
 reality." 
 
 At lengi , however, we emerged upon the streets of Harrisburg, 
 whose feeble lights, reflected aismally from the wet ground, did not 
 shine out upon a very cheerful city. We were soon established in a 
 snug hotel, which though smaller and far less splendid than many we 
 put up at, is raised above them all in my remembrance, by having 
 for its landlord the most obliging, considerate, and gentlemanly 
 person I ever had to deal with. 
 
 d u 
 
ily, and there 
 le skin. I was 
 to stretch my 
 he usual anti- 
 
 V parcel lying 
 lie in a brown 
 :d that it had 
 he other; and 
 )y in a snuff- 
 deep forcing 
 of the coach - 
 ards the rain; 
 )es in contact 
 le occasion of 
 eight of three 
 accents, with 
 ir of friendly 
 I'most like an 
 
 IS, for the last 
 I the pleasant 
 nerable green 
 t, craggy with 
 ing itself into 
 ^ater; and the 
 silence which 
 
 id covered in 
 oundly dark; 
 J it at every 
 ;s in the floor, 
 I of eyes. "We 
 ered through 
 t, it seemed 
 lyself as we 
 55, and I held 
 at I was in a 
 ihrough such 
 is cannot be 
 
 : Harrisburg, 
 ►und, did not 
 ablished in a 
 lan many we 
 e, by having 
 gentlemanly 
 
 
 American Notes u^ 
 
 .^u^^ were not to proceed upon our journey until the afternoon. I 
 walked out after breakfast the next morning, to look about m^ai d 
 was duly shown a model prison on the solitary system, just ereited 
 and as yet without an inmate; the trunk ofan old ^e toThkh 
 
 h!f«^;'' T^- " ^* ^"^^1^1 ^^'^ (afterwards buried under it), was tied by 
 hostile Indians, with his funeral pile about him, when L was saved 
 
 the river S Kf ^"?f ^ ^ ^?^°^5 P^'^^ °" ^« °PI««»^^« «hore oi 
 tne river, the local legislature for there was another of those bodies 
 
 here again, m full debate); and the other curiosities of the town 
 •nnr^r^rn.^^*™"''^. interested in looking over a number of treaties 
 u%.Jl^- ^'""f.u^ *'°'® "^'^^ *^® P°^' Indians, signed by the 
 imZni fu'^^V^ *^.^ P'^"^^ °^ ^^^'' ratification, and preserved in the 
 office of the Secretary to the Commonwealth. These signatures, 
 traced of course by their own hands, are rough drawings of the 
 creatures or weapons they were called after. Thus, the Great Turtle 
 Iw.^'k ' ^^«^ked pen-and-ink outline of a great turtle; the Buffalo 
 sketches a buffalo; the War Hatchet sets a rough image of that 
 weapon for his mark. So with the Arrow, the Fish, the Scalp, the Big 
 Canoe, nd all of them. ^ ** 
 
 Jj°!^}^ "°^^u"* think-as I looked at these feeble and tremulous 
 productions of hands which could draw the longest arrow to the head 
 in a .tout elk-horn bow, or split a bead or feather with a rifle-ball^-of 
 Crabbe s musiags over the Parish Register, -^nd the irregular 
 scratches made with a pen. by men who wo; , olough aTengthv 
 
 or'iT/wK^^* u?"" *^"^ *° ^°^- ^°' ^°"^d I aelp bestowing r^any 
 sorrowful thoughts upon the simple warrior, whose hands and 
 hearts were set there, m all truth and honesty, and who only learned 
 in course of time from white men how to break their fith^ 
 ?r".dnln„?« x'"'^" and bonds. I wonder, too. how many times the 
 frt^^!Z ?l^"'*^^'.°f *^^'*^"S ^-^"^« Hatchet, had put his mark to 
 treaties which were falsely read to him; and had signed away he 
 knew not what, until it went and cast him loose upon the^Aew 
 possessors of the land, a savage indeed. 
 
 n^?!."!! ?''-\^?''°"u^!'^' ^^^""^^ ^^'^ ^^^^y ^^"^e^' that some members 
 of the legislative body proposed to do us the honour of calling He 
 had kindly yielded up to us his wife's own little parlour and when 
 1 begged that he would show them in. I saw him look with painful 
 apprehension at its pretty carpet; though, being otherwise occupied 
 at the time, the cause of his uneasiness did not occur to me. 
 Jri ^^rtffly would have been more pleasant to all parties concerned, 
 and would not. I thmk. have compromised their independence in any 
 material degree, if some of these gentlemen had not only yielded to 
 the prejudice m favour of spittoons, but had -.bandoned themselves 
 handkerc^°eTs^°*' ^""^"^ *° *^^ conventional absurdity of pocket- 
 It still continued to rain heavily, and when we went down to the 
 L.anai tsoat (for that was the mode of convev.anrf* hv whif'h '-- "--^- 
 to proceed) after dinner, the weather w^'as uiipr^^ng '^d 
 
 M. i 
 
 t^ '■ f 
 
 I 
 
Ii5 
 
 American Notes 
 
 I; nil 
 
 obstinately wet as one would desire to see. Nor was the sight of this 
 canal boat, in which we were to spend three or four days, by any 
 means a cheerful one; as it involved some uneasy speculations 
 concerning the disposal of the passengers at night, and opened a 
 wide field of inquiry touching the other domestic arrangements of 
 the ertablishment, which was sufficiently disconcerting. 
 
 However, there it was — a barge with a little house in it, viewed 
 from the outside; and a caravan at a fair, viewed from within: the 
 gentlemen being accommodated, as the spectators usually are, in one 
 of those locomotive museums of .penny wonders; and the ladies being 
 partitioned off by a red curtain, after the manner of the dwarfs and 
 giants in the same establishments, whose private lives are passed in 
 rather close exclusiveness. 
 
 We sat here, looking silently at the row of little tables, which 
 extended down both sides of the cabin, and listening to the rain as it 
 dripped and pattered on the boat, and plashed with a dismal mem- 
 ment in the water, until the arrival of the railway train, for whose 
 final contribution to our stock of passengers, our departure was 
 alone deferred. It brought a great many boxes, which were bumped 
 and tossed upon the roof, almost as painfully as if they had been 
 deposited on one's own head, without the intervention of a porter's 
 knot; and several damp gentlemen, whose clothes, on their drawing 
 round the stove, began to steam again. No doubt it would have been 
 a thought more comfortable if the driving rain, which now poured 
 down more soakingly than ever, had admitted of a window being 
 opened, or if our number had been something less than thirty; but 
 there was scarcely time to think as much, when a train of three 
 horses v/as attached to the tow-rope, the boy upon the leader 
 smacked his whip, the i adder creaked and groaned complainingly, 
 and we had begun our journey. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF THE CANAL BOAT, ITS DOMESTIC ECON- 
 OMY, AND ITS PASSENGERS, JOURNEY TO PITTSBURG ACROSS THE 
 ALLEGHANY MOUNTAINS. PITTSBURG. 
 
 As it continued to rain most perseveringly, we all remained below: 
 the damp gentlemen round the stove, gradually becoming mildewed 
 by the action of the fire; and the dry gentlemen lying at full length 
 upon the seats, or slumbering uneasily with their faces on the tables, 
 or walking up and down the cabin, which it was barely possible for a 
 man of the middle height to do, without making bald places on his 
 head by scraping it against the roof. At about six o'clock, all the 
 small tables were put together to form one long table, and every- 
 
 body sai 
 
 steaks, p 
 
 "Will 
 
 potatoes 
 
 fixings?" 
 
 There 
 
 word "fij 
 
 call upor 
 
 that he i 
 
 which yc 
 
 board a s 
 
 ready soc 
 
 below, tl 
 
 cloth. Yo 
 
 not to be 
 
 indisposil 
 
 who will ' 
 
 One nij 
 
 was stayi 
 
 the table 
 
 "fixed pr 
 
 overheari 
 
 sented hii 
 
 that, fixinj 
 
 There i 
 
 tendered 
 
 of somew] 
 
 bladed kn 
 
 than I eve 
 
 skilful jug 
 
 omitted a 
 
 comfort. I 
 
 rambles ii 
 
 rudeness. 
 
 By the 
 
 worn itsel: 
 
 it became 
 
 standing i1 
 
 by the lug 
 
 tarpaulin < 
 
 became a s 
 
 the canal. 
 
 duck nimb 
 
 "Bridge!" 
 
 down near] 
 
 were so mj 
 
 this. 
 
 As night 
 
ht of this 
 3, by any 
 iculations 
 opened a 
 ments of 
 
 t, viewed 
 ithin: the 
 re, in one 
 lies being 
 varfs and 
 passed in 
 
 3S, which 
 rain as it 
 lal meiTi- 
 'or whose 
 ture was 
 ! bumped 
 had been 
 I porter's 
 ■ drawing 
 lave been 
 w poured 
 ow being 
 lirty; but 
 of three 
 le leader 
 iainingly, 
 
 IC ECON- 
 ROSS THE 
 
 !d below: 
 nildewed 
 ill length 
 le tables, 
 ible for a 
 es on his 
 :, all the 
 id every- 
 
 American Notes 
 
 119 
 
 body sat down to tea, coffee, bread, butter, salmon, shad liver 
 steaks potatoes, pickles, ham, chops, black-puddings, ind saisages 
 nnf^Yoic^K" l'^' '^^^ ""^ ^PP^'^^^ neighbour, handiAg me a dish oi 
 fixings?" "^ '" "^'^^ ^^^ ^"""'' "^"^ y°" ^^ «^«^^ of these 
 
 ^Jrd^'L^'M^^.^''r^^^ u^.""^ P^^^°"" ""^^ ^^^iO"S duties as this 
 word fix. It IS the Caleb Quotem of the American vocabulary You 
 call upon a gentleman ma country town, and his help informs you 
 that he IS fixmg nimself" ust now, but will be down direcTlv-T 
 which you are to understand that he is dressing. You inquire' on 
 board a steamboat, of a fellow-passenger, whether breakfast wfl'l be 
 ready soon, and he tells you he should think so, for when he w^ las? 
 below, they were "fixing the tables:" in other words! lay W the 
 cloth. You beg a porter to collect your luggage, and he entr Jatlvon 
 not to be uneasy, for he'll "fix it presently?' 'lAd?fyouco^^^^^^^^ 
 '::^^&^J^^:^ '^ ^^- — ^^ ^-t- So^Lnd^o 
 One night. I ordered a bottle of mulled wine at an hotel where I 
 
 r/ilT""^;^"^ "^^''^"^ ^ 1^^^ *^°^^ ^^' i*' ^t ^^"gth it was put upon 
 he table with an apology from the landlord that he feared it wasn't 
 fixed properly." And I recollect once, at a stage-coach dTnner 
 overhearing a very stern gentleman demand of a waiter who pri 
 sented him with a plate of underdone roast-beef, "whether he callfS 
 thai, fixing God A'mighty's vittles?" wnetner he called 
 
 There is no doubt that the meal, at which the invitation was 
 tendered to me which has occasioned this digression, w^dTspoIed 
 somewhat ravenously; and that the gentlemen thrust the Sold- 
 bladed knives and the two-pronged forks further down their throats 
 than I ever saw the same weapons go before, except in the hands of a 
 Skilful juggler: but no man sat down until the ladies were seated or 
 
 cTmfort Sd dr^' °' P°''''"^^^ "^^^^ ^^"^^ contribute ?othe'r 
 r.^w!c* A ? ^"'^'^ ''''^^' '''' ^"y occasion, anywhere, during my 
 rambles in America, see a woman exposed to the slightest act of 
 rudeness, incivility, or even inattention. ° 
 
 By the time the meal was over, the rain, which seemed to have 
 
 worn Itself out by coming down so fast, was nearly over too and 
 
 t became feasible to go on deck: which was a great relief. no?Wuh- 
 
 standing its being a very small deck, and being rendered st 11 smlller 
 
 ta^rnanl n ^^^^'' ""^i"^ ^^' ^"^^"^ ^^^ethcr in the middle u^er a 
 
 arpdulin covering; leavmg. on either side, a path so narrow that it 
 
 became a science to walk to and fro without tumbling overboard ?nto 
 
 the canal It was somewhat embarrassing at first. .00. to have to 
 
 'Brti".H '' J 7""'' ^:' ""^""'u"' ^^^^"^^^^ '^'^ "^^" ^t tt^. helm cried 
 Bridge! and sc etimes. when the cry was "Low Bridge " to lie 
 
 down nearly flat. But custom familiarises one to anything lid there 
 
 were so many bridges that it took a very short time to get used to 
 
 As night came on, and we drew in sight of the first range of hills. 
 
120 
 
 American Notes 
 
 lii'l 
 
 ■ii 
 
 m 
 
 which are the outposts of the Alleghany Mountains, the scenery, 
 which had been uninteresting hitherto, became more bold and 
 striking. The wet ground reeked and smoked, after the heavy fall of 
 rain; and the croaking of the frogs (whose noise in these parts is 
 almost incredible) sounded as though a million of fairy teams with 
 bells were travelling through the air, and keeping pace with us. The 
 night was cloudy yet, but moonlight too: and when we crossed the 
 Susquehanna river — over which there is an extraordinary wooden 
 bridge with two galleries, one above the other, so that even there, 
 two boat teams meeting, may pass without confusion — it was wild 
 and grand. 
 
 I have mentioned my having been in some uncertainty and doubt, 
 at first, relative to the sleeping arrangements on board this boat. I 
 remained in the same vague state of mind until ten o'clock or 
 thereabouts, ^vilen going below, I found suspended on either side of 
 the cabin, three long tiers of hanging book-shelves, designed appar- 
 ently for volumes of the small octavo size. Looking with greater 
 attention at these contrivances (wondering to find such literary 
 preparations in such a place), I descried on each shelf a sort of 
 microscopic sheet and blanket; then I began dimly to comprehend 
 that the passengers were the library, and that they were to be 
 arranged edge-wise, on these shelves, till morning. 
 
 I was assisted to this conclusion by seeing some of them gathered 
 round the master of the boat, at one of the tables, drawing lots with 
 all the anxieties and passions of gamesters depicted in their counte- 
 nances; while others, with small pieces of cardboard in their hands, 
 were groping among the shelves in search of numbers corresponding 
 with those they had drawn. As soon as any gentleman found his 
 number, he took possession of ?t by immediately undressing himself 
 and crawling into bed. The rapidity with which an agitated gambler 
 subsided into a snoring slumberer, was one of the most singular 
 effects I have ever witnessed. As to the ladies, they were already 
 abed, behind the red curtain, which was carefully drawn and pinned 
 up the centre; though as every cough, or sneeze, or whisper, behind 
 this curtain, was perfectly audible before it, we had still a lively 
 consciousness of their society . *■ 
 
 The politeness of the person in authority had secured to me a shelf 
 in a nook near this red curtain, in some degree removed from the 
 great body of sleepers: to which place I retired, with many acknow- 
 ledgments to him for his attention. I found it, on after-measurement, 
 just the width of an ordinary sheet of Bath post letter-paper; and I 
 was at first in some uncertainty as to the best means of getting into 
 it. But the shelf being a bottom one, I finally determined on lying 
 upon the floor, rolling gently in, stojpping immediately I touched the 
 mattress, and remaining for the night with that side uppermost, 
 whatever it might be. Luckily, I came upon my back at exactly the 
 right moment. I was much alarmed on looking upward, to see. by the 
 shape of his half-yard of sacking (which his weight had bent into an 
 
 . xeedir 
 
 me, who 
 
 could nc 
 
 event of 
 
 again wi 
 
 ladies; a 
 
 upon th< 
 
 One o 
 
 reference 
 
 they car 
 
 all; or t] 
 
 mingling 
 
 canal, th 
 
 coat, bei 
 
 gentleme 
 
 Theory c 
 
 on the c 
 
 conditioi 
 
 Betwe 
 
 of us wen 
 
 down; wl 
 
 rusty stc 
 
 with the 
 
 liberal alj 
 
 was a tin 
 
 thought i 
 
 weakness 
 
 z tin basi 
 
 hanging i 
 
 vicinity c 
 
 hair-brus: 
 
 At eigl: 
 
 the table 
 
 bread, bi 
 
 chops, blc 
 
 of compoi 
 
 As each j 
 
 coffee, br 
 
 ham, choj 
 
 When ev( 
 
 cleared av 
 
 of a barbi 
 
 while the 
 
 Dinner wj 
 
 and breali 
 
 There v 
 
 face pnri ! 
 
scenery, 
 3old and 
 vy fall of 
 ! parts is 
 ims with 
 1 us. The 
 Dssed the 
 ^ wooden 
 en there, 
 was wild 
 
 id doubt, 
 s boat. I 
 'clock or 
 sr side of 
 id appar- 
 1 greater 
 literary 
 1 sort of 
 iprehend 
 re to be 
 
 gathered 
 lots with 
 r counte- 
 ir hands, 
 sponding 
 ound his 
 ^ himself 
 gambler 
 singular 
 : already 
 d pinned 
 *, behind 
 a lively 
 
 le a shelf 
 from the 
 acknow- 
 irement, 
 2r; and I 
 ting into 
 on lying 
 ched the 
 permost, 
 Lctly the 
 e. by the 
 t into an 
 
 American Notes 121 
 
 - xeedingly tight bag), that there was a very heavy gentleman above 
 me whom the slender cords seemed quite incapable of holding; and I 
 could not help reflectmg upon the grief of my wife and family in the 
 event of his commg down in the night. But as I could not have got up 
 agam without a severe bodily struggle, which might have alarmed the 
 ladies; and as I had nowhere to go to, even if I had; I shut my eves 
 upon the danger, and remained there. 
 
 One of two remarkable circumstances is indisputably a fact with 
 reference to tha. class of society who travel in these boats. Either 
 they carry their restlessness to such a pitch that they never sleep at 
 all; or they expectorate in dreams, which would be a remarkable 
 mingling of the real and ideal. All night long, and every night, on this 
 canal, there was a perfect storm and tempest of spitting; and once mv 
 coat being in the very centre of the hurricane sustained by five 
 gentlemen (which moved vertically, strictly carrying out Reids 
 Theory of the Law of Storms), I was fain the next morning to lay it 
 on the deck, and rub it down with fair water before it was in a 
 condition to be worn again. 
 
 Between five and six o'clock in the morning we got up and some 
 of us went on deck, to give them an opportunity of taking the shelves 
 aown; while others the morning being very cold, crowded round the 
 rusty stove, cherishing the newly kindled fire, and filling the grate 
 with those voluntary contributions of which they had been so 
 hberal all night. The washing accommodations were primitive There 
 was a tin ladle chained to the deck, with which every gentleman who 
 thought it necessary to cleanse himself (many were superior to this 
 weakness), fished the dirty water out of the canal, and poured it into 
 2 tin basm. secured in like manner. There was also a jack-towel And 
 hanging up before a little looking-glass in the bar. in the immediate 
 hS^brus'h ^^^^^^ ^""^ biscuits, were a public comb and 
 
 ^u^i ^l^^^ o'clock, the shelves being taken down and put away and 
 the tables joined together, everybody sat down to the tea. coffee 
 bread, butter, salmon, shad, liver, steak, potatoes, pickles, ham' 
 chops, black-puddings, and sausages, all over again. Some were fond 
 of compounding this variety, and having it all on their plates at once 
 As each gentleman got through his own personal amount of tea' 
 coffee, bread butter, salmon, shad, liver, steak, potatoes, pickles' 
 ham, chops, black-puddings, and sausages, he rose up and walked off' 
 When everybody had done with everything, the fragments were 
 of'f btl^J^Lr"^ T °f the waiters-appearing anew in the character 
 Of a barber, shaved such of the company as desired to be shaved- 
 while the remainder looked on. or yawned over their newspapers! 
 Dhmer was breakfast again, without the tea and coffee; and supper 
 and breakfast were identical. s-upper 
 
 tJ^^'^^7'^ ^ ""^"^ ^"^ ^°^^^ *h^s boat, with a light fresh-coloured 
 f,-.;AVIii";: - i--^-t-— "--^<xxt oait yx wudico, wno was the most inquisi- 
 tive fellow that can possibly be imagined. He never spoke otherwise 
 
 ■ .K 
 
 tf 
 
I M 
 
 |i,f 
 
 I ^ 
 
 122 American Notes 
 
 than interrogatively. He was an embodied inquiry. Sitting down or 
 standing up. still or moving, walking the deck or taking his meals, 
 there he was, with a great note of interrogation in each eye, two in 
 his cocked ears, two more in his turned-up nose and chin, at least 
 half a dozen more about the corners of his mouth, and the largest one 
 of all in his hair, which was brushed pertly off his forehead in a flaxen 
 clump. Every button in his clothes said, "Eh? What's that? Did you 
 speak? Say that again, will you?" He was always wide awake, like 
 the enchanted bride who drove her husband frantic; always restless; 
 always thirsting for answers; perpetually seeking and never finding! 
 There never was such a curious man. 
 
 I wore a fur great-coat at that time, and before we were well clear 
 of the wharf, he questioned me concerning it, and its price, and 
 where I bought it, and when, and what fur it was, and what it 
 weighed, ?,nd what it cost. Then he took notice of my watch, and 
 asked me what that cost, and whether it was a French watch, and 
 where I got it, and how I got it, and whether I bought it or had it 
 given me, and how it went, and where the key-hole was, and when I 
 wound it, every night or every morning, and whether I ever forgot to 
 wind it at all, and if I did, what then? Where had I been to last, and 
 where was I going next, and where was I going after that, and haci I 
 seen the President, and what did he say, and what did I say, and 
 what did he say when I had said that? Eh? Lor now ! do tell ! 
 
 Finding that nothing would satisfy him, I evaded his questions 
 after the first score or two, and in particular pleaded ignorance 
 respecting the name of the fur whereof the coat was made. I am 
 unable to say whether this was the reason, but that coat fascinated 
 him afterwards; he usually kept close behind me as 1 walked, and 
 moved as I moved, that he might look at it the better; and he frequently 
 dived into narrow places after me at the risk of his life, that he might 
 have the satisfaction of passing his hand up the back, and rubbing 
 it the wrong way. 
 
 We had another odd specimen on board, of a different kind. This 
 was a thin-faced, spare-figured man of middle age and stature, dressed 
 in a dusty drabbish-coloured suit, such as I^never saw before. He was 
 perfectly quiet during the first part of the journey: indeed I don't 
 remember having so much as seen him until he was brought out by 
 circumstances, as great men often are. The conjunction of events 
 which made him famous, happened, briefly, thus. 
 
 The canal extends to the foot of the mountain, and there, of 
 course, it stops; the passengers being conveyed across it by land 
 carriage, and taken on afterwards by another canal boat, the counter- 
 part of the first, which awaits them on the other side. There are two 
 canal lines of passage-boats; one is called The Express, and one (a 
 cheaper one) The Pioneer. The Pioneer gets first to the mountain, and 
 waits for the Express people to come up; both sets of passengers being 
 Gonveved across it at the same f imf W^f* *vf»rf* fhf* 'c'-vr'.rr»cc r'—.rrt— .■sr-.-ir- 
 but when we had crossed the mountain, and had come to the second 
 
 boat, th( 
 into it ] 
 accessioi 
 the pros 
 people d 
 whole fr( 
 At home 
 I held n: 
 people o: 
 anybodj 
 
 "This 
 very wel 
 suit my i 
 Now! I 'I 
 the sun s 
 / live, th 
 Cake. Th 
 Rather, 
 glad of ii 
 company 
 'em, / ar 
 little too 
 sentence: 
 himself a 
 turning I 
 
 It is in 
 the word 
 sengers Ic 
 boat was 
 be coaxe( 
 
 When 
 bold to ! 
 prospects 
 (waving ] 
 "No you 
 you may, 
 Cakes cai 
 from the 1 
 He was u 
 there is a 
 services: i 
 rest of th 
 except sil 
 of the buj 
 Pittsburg 
 steps, an( 
 
 of the Mi! 
 
down or 
 is meals, 
 e, two in 
 at least 
 rgest one 
 I a flaxen 
 Did you 
 ake, like 
 restless; 
 ■ finding. 
 
 irell clear 
 ice, and 
 what it 
 tch, and 
 tch, and 
 )r had it 
 i when I 
 forgot to 
 last, and 
 id had I 
 say, and 
 ! 
 
 uestions 
 [norance 
 le. I am 
 scinated 
 ced, and 
 jquently 
 le might 
 rubbing 
 
 nd. This 
 , dressed 
 , He was 
 I don't 
 b out by 
 f events 
 
 here, of 
 by land 
 :ounter- 
 are two 
 i one (a 
 ain, and 
 !rs being 
 
 s second 
 
 American Notes 
 
 123 
 
 boat, the proprietors took it into their heads to draft all the Pioneers 
 mto It likewise, so that we were five-and-forty at least and the 
 accession of passengers was not at all of that kind which improved 
 the prospect of sleeping at night. Our people grumbled at this as 
 people do in such cases; but suffered ^he boat to be towed off with the 
 whole freight aboard nevertheless; and away we went down the canal. 
 At home, I should have protested lustily, but being a foreigner here* 
 I held my peace. Not so this passenger. He cleft a path among the 
 people on deck (we were nearly all on deck), and without addressing 
 anybody whomsoever, soliloquised as follows; 
 
 "This may suit:voM, this may. but it don't suit me. 1 j m.:^y be all 
 very well with Down Easters, and men of Boston raising, but it won't 
 suit my figure nohow; and no two ways about that: and so I tell you 
 Now! I'm from the brown forests of the Mississippi, / am, and when 
 the sun shines on me, it does shine — a little. It don't glimmer where 
 / live, the sun don't. No. I'm a brown forester. I am. I an't a Johnny 
 Cake. There are no smooth skins where I live. We're rough men there. 
 Rather. If Down Easters and men of Boston raising like this, I'm 
 glad of it, but I'm none of that raising nor of that breed. No.'This 
 company wants a little fixing, it does. I'm the wrong sort of man for 
 'em, / am. They won't hke me, they won't. This is piling of it up a 
 httle too mountainoiis, this is." At the end of every one of these short 
 sentences he turned upon his heel, and walked the other way checkin<» 
 himself abruptly when he had finished another short sentence and 
 turning back again. 
 
 It is impossible for me to say what terrific meaning was hidden in 
 the words of this brown forester, but I know that the other pas- 
 sengers looked on in a sort of admiring horror, and that presently the 
 boat was put back to the wharf, and as many of the Pioneers as could 
 be coaxed or bullied into going away, were got rid of. 
 
 When we started again, some of the boldest spirits on board, made 
 bold to say to the obvious occasion of this improvement in our 
 prospects, "Much obliged to you, sir;" whcreunto the brown forester 
 (waving his hand, and still walking up and down as before), replied 
 "No you an't. You're none o' my raising. You may act for yourselves' 
 you may. I have pinted out the way. Down Easters and Johnny 
 Cakes can follow if they please. I an't a Johnny Cake. / an't. I am 
 from the brown forests of the Mississippi, / am"— and so on as before 
 He was unanimously voted one of the tables fo^- his bed at night- 
 there IS a great contest for the tables— in consid. ation for his public 
 services: and he had the warmest corner by the stove throughout the 
 rest of the journey. But I never could find out that he did anything 
 except sit there; nor did I hear him speak again until, in the midst 
 of the bustle and turmoil of getting the luggage ashore in the dark at 
 Pittsburg, I stumbled over him as he sat smoking a cigar on the cabin 
 steps, and heard him muttering to himself, with a short laugh of 
 •^•wiiaiiv-w, i dii i, a juiiiiuy v-.aK:e, i an t. i'ai iroiii the brown forests 
 of the Mississippi, / am, damme 1" I am inclined to argue from this. 
 
 ! 
 
 I 
 
 ■i I 
 
124 
 
 American Notes 
 
 
 AnH \ ^^ Of Game, not mentioned in the Bill of Fare 
 And yet despite these oddities— and even thev hpHfnV r«o ^ 
 least, a humour of their own-there was mnrh^ii^+K- ^® ""^ 
 
 looking through, rather than at, the deep blue skv- the ^Udi^l ^l^i 
 night, so noiselessly, past frownine hills snnlnSu^ T ? ^ °" ^* 
 
 hmp5d^„pp,.ng of the water as the boat went'^n* aU thesf we'^pur: 
 
 a.r without the door, whereon was rangS the household storeTn^ 
 hard to count, of earthen iars anrf r„^t? -ri, """^""O'" store, not 
 
 the st„n,ps of great trees tSrst^e™' in te^'fiddoTwhl^^^ '1 
 
 StTeftirn^f aVdl^s'teTr^ f' ^".Sa^sf wfth^S^^^dred 
 water It wi Quite Jr/nH ''^^"<=''«^ stopped in its unwholesome 
 
 where;s^ttTe?srr4trrnT„rr„%tri"?l" S'^i*. *-^^ 
 wounaeu bodies lay about, like those of mura^^ed creatures: ;hre 
 
 seeme< 
 
 had cc 
 
 out th( 
 
 new cc 
 
 Wei 
 
 at the i 
 
 ten inc 
 
 are dra 
 
 of stati 
 
 travers 
 
 as the c 
 
 verge o 
 
 travelle 
 
 into the 
 
 howeve 
 
 precaut 
 
 Itwa; 
 
 of the r 
 
 light ar 
 
 scattere 
 
 bark, w] 
 
 homewa 
 
 upward 
 
 on at th 
 
 we ridinj 
 
 too, whe 
 
 other mc 
 
 see the ( 
 
 like a gr( 
 
 that if it 
 
 have had 
 
 short of ij 
 
 and, befc 
 
 the passe 
 
 the road 
 
 On the 
 
 the banks 
 
 tion of thi 
 
 place — a 
 
 stranger t 
 
 chamber f 
 
 01 buildinj 
 
 water, wh( 
 
American Notes 
 
 times, at nighi. the wa^lund thro^^^^^^ ?" ""1' ^°' ^°"^«- 
 mountain pass in ScotlaL Snl aXniT^ f^T^V 8^°"«^' ^'^^ ^ 
 of the moon, and so closed in by h"|hsteeS-"^ '''" ^'^^' 
 
 seemed to be no egress save through ^1^,? ^" '■°""'*' *^^* *^ere 
 
 had come, until one rugged hnSet^^^^^ ^y ^^ich we 
 
 out the moonlight as we^ssed in o its gSoml^'thfo "^ ^"^ '"^""^"^ 
 new course in shade and darkness ^^^^"'y th^at. wrapped our 
 
 at fh: t't ol^^e'^un^^^^^^^ Sis^^cro'^^H^?^^ "^^^"^^ - ^-ved 
 ten inclined planes; five asce^^inl .n^^^^^ ^^ ''^"^°^^- There are 
 are dragged up the former and let slotfv "/'""^k^^?^' *^^ ^^"^^ges 
 of stationary Ingines; the compISttel^^^Ieve^^^^^^ 'T/' ^^ "^^ '"« 
 traversed, sometimes by hor?e and Ini Jf ^ T between, being 
 as the case demands Occa4nalivth^r!.T '"I^^.^y ^"^^"« Po^er! 
 verge of a giddy precipice! aSk^n/from^^^^ ^^'"^ "P^" '^" «^^^«"^« 
 traveller gazes sheer down without a ftn^^^^ ""^"'f^^ ^^"^°^' ^^e 
 into the mountain depths bdowTht io?,rnf '""'^^ °^ ^^"^^ ^^*^««"' 
 however; only two clTrLsesTr^t^Uil^^^^^^ 
 
 precautions a^e taken. isTot toTe .^^fadTfor^V "h^ ^^"^ P^^P^^ 
 
 It was very prettvtravpllinc,fi,!;o ^l^^^^^. for its dangers, 
 of the mountain Keef S to lL\'T^ P^"" ^^^"^ *^^ ^^^^^^ 
 light and softness; cSinT glimpses th^^ i^^^^^ 
 scattered cabins; children runnS^tn f hi h "^? ^^® tree-tops. of 
 bark, whom we could see wXut hS^^^^ ^"^«*^"g ^"^ to 
 
 homewards; families sitting out in the r^r',,!?^ ^5 P'^' scampering 
 upward with a stupid indifference men In^^ • ^l"""^^""' ^°^« g^«"g 
 on at their unfinished W^ pTan^n^ on. ?' '^'"^-'^"^^^^ ^o«ki"g 
 we riding onward, high above ihemhkf.whT'"°7°T^'' ^°^k' ^"^ 
 too, when we had dined and rat^;i.f/ ''"^r^''^- 1* was amusing 
 other moving power ?Sk the we ^ht of^^^^ ^ P P^''' ^^^^"^ ^^° 
 see the engine released lonffTfSr n. ? ^^"^ges themselves, to 
 like a great insect, its bkck o^f ^reen fn/°"i? ^'"^^ "^ ^°^^ ^^0"^' 
 that if it had spread a pair of Ss ."h .^"^^^^ '^^"^"^ ^" ^^^ ^un 
 have had occasion. aslfandS forthe?.-f ^'^^^' "° °"^ ^^^^^ 
 
 short of us in a very businS hkl ^. least surprise. But it stopped 
 
 and. before we lef t^ the Srt 4ntT/n'/^ 
 
 the passengers whohadwS our iritpl?.^.^^^ ^^'^ ^'^^ ^S^^"' ^^^^ 
 the road by which we hld^come *^^ ""^^"^ °^ *^^^^^sing 
 
 the^bVnt ofThtcVnirwf^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^.-^ hammers on 
 
 tion of this part of our ^rnev Aftlrl approached the termina- 
 Place~a long aqueS ISs fhe IX^'^'^'^i^-^^^^^^^^^^^n^y 
 
 stranger than the bridge at Harrisburth^ ^'^^'■' ^^^^^ ^^ 
 chamberfullofwater^i'eemVr^'n'i^^^^^^ i<^w> wooden 
 
 oi Duiidings and crazy galleries and 'st^frT''"^-^''"?''''''^"^*^^^^^ 
 
 water, whether it be rive? sea canS nr^^f k ? ^^"^^^^ ^^"^^ «» 
 
 iver, sea. canal, or ditch; and were at Pittsburg 
 
± 
 
 126 
 
 American Notes 
 
 II 
 
 'I 
 i. 
 
 Pittsburg is like Birmingham in England, at least its townspeople 
 say so. Setting anide the streets, the shops, the houses, waggons, 
 factories, public buildings, and population, perhaps it may be. It 
 certainly has a great quantity of smoke hanging about it, and is 
 famous for its iron-works. Besides the prison to which I have already 
 referred, this town contains a pretty arsenal and other institutions. 
 It is very beautifully situated on the Alleghany River, over which 
 there are two bridges; and the villas of the wealthier citizens sprinkled 
 about the high grounds in the neighbourhood, are pretty enough. 
 We lodged at a most excellent hotel, and were admirably served. 
 As usual it was full of boarders, was very large, and had a broad 
 colonnade to every story of the house. 
 
 We tarried here three days. Our next point was Cincinnati: and as 
 this was a steamboat journey, and western steamboats usually blow 
 up one or two a week in the season, it was advisable to collect opinions 
 in reference to the comparative safety of the vessel bound that way, 
 then lying in the river. One called the Messenger was the best recom- 
 mended. Sb" had been advertised to start positively, every day for a 
 fortnight or so, and had not gone yet, nor did her captain seem to 
 have any very fixed intention on the subject. But this is the custom: 
 for if the law were to bi'nd down a free and independent citizen to 
 keep his word with the public, what would become of the liberty of 
 the subject? Besides, it is in the way of trade. And if passengers be 
 decoyed in the way of trade, and people be inconvenienced in the 
 way of trade, what man, who is a sharp tra 'esman himself, shall say, 
 "We must put a stop to this?" 
 
 Impressed by the deep solemnity of the public announcement, I 
 (being then ignorant of these usages) was for hurrying on board in a 
 breati^less state, immediately; but receiving private and confidential 
 information that the boat would certainly not start until Friday, 
 April the First, we made ourselves very comfortable in the mean 
 while, and went on board at noon that day. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 FROM PITTSBURG TO CINCINNATI IN A WESTERN STEAMBOAT. 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 
 The Messenger was one among a crowd of high-pressure steamboats, 
 clustered together by a wharf-side, which, looked down upon from 
 the rising ground that forms the landing-place, and backed by the 
 lofty bank on the opposite side of the river, appeared no larger than 
 so many floating models. She had some forty passengers on board, 
 exclusive of the poorer persons on the lower deck; and iu half an hour, 
 or less, proceeded on her way. 
 
 We had 
 
 opening ou 
 
 satisfactor 
 
 we had be€ 
 
 as far aft 
 
 forward."] 
 
 circumstan 
 
 ciently test 
 
 an unspeal 
 
 where one < 
 
 this was oii 
 
 cabin, whic 
 
 the other p 
 
 and gaze u] 
 
 quarters wi 
 
 If the na 
 
 we are in tl: 
 
 more foreig 
 
 I hardly kn 
 
 In the fir 
 
 other such I 
 
 calculated t 
 
 that they ar 
 
 might be ir 
 
 perform son 
 
 There is no 
 
 covered wit] 
 
 chimneys, a 
 
 Then, in ore 
 
 and doors, 
 
 together as 
 
 tastes of a c 
 
 resting on a 
 
 in the narro 
 
 deck, are th< 
 
 wind that bl 
 
 Passing 01 
 
 fire, exposed 
 
 the frail piL 
 
 guarded in a 
 
 idlers and en 
 
 the manager 
 
 mysteries mj 
 
 that the won 
 
 but that any 
 
 Within, th 
 
 ho;if • {rr\nn t^r] 
 
 of it at the st 
 
American Notes 127 
 
 We had, for ourselves, a tiny state-room with two berths in if 
 
 sTtiSo^l* fi iv ^f.f -' -bi/xhere was. undoubt:dly^meiSi;*g 
 satisfactory in this "location," inasmuch as it was in the s* rn and 
 
 ls^^aftZ^^'%'^''^ '''^'' T^ ^'^^''y -ecommendeu to'keep 
 fomard •• Nnr^wf '?i^' ^""^"'^ *^^ steamboats generally blew up 
 forward Nor was this ai. unnecessary caution, as the occurrence and 
 
 riwi ^'I'f j'^."'^'^ *^^" °"« «"^^ fatality during our stay suffi- 
 ciently testified. Apart from this source of self-congrltulation it was 
 
 whero^^ne ro'' H K^'^f '° ^"7 ^"^ P^^^^' "° "^^"^^ how confined! 
 f hi w.?^ V, "^ ,^^ ^ u "^= ^"^ ^' *^^ "°^ °* l»^tl« chambers of which 
 cabin wh,Vh ^^"^ ^^?^ ^ '''°"^ glass-door besides that in the ladies' 
 ^^r ^/k ''P^''^'^ °'' ^ ""^"^^ g^^le^y outside the vessel, where 
 
 the other passengers seldom came, and where one could sit in pea 'e 
 
 nnf rf.^"? "T '\'^\^'^S prospect. we took possession of ou?new 
 quarters with much pleasure. 
 
 vve^Lei^nTh^hT.^^'/' ^^^""^ ^^''^^^ described be unlike anything 
 we are in the habit of seeing on water, these western vessels are still 
 
 TZJ?'^^^'' *° ^i^ *A' '??^' ^^ ^^ accustomed to entertain of boats 
 I hardly know what to liken them to, or how to describe them. 
 
 in the first place, they have no mast, cordage, tackle, rigging or 
 c1ku?j2 ,^°^*-^^.k«/^^'' r^ have they anything in their'shf pe ft all 
 
 f hi?/h ° ^Tu"""^ °"^ °^ ^ ^°^^'" h^^d' «t^^"' sides, or keel. Except 
 that they are in the water, and display a couple of paddle-boxes thev 
 might be intended, for anything thlt appears to the conSy to 
 
 T wJ^ '°°'^- "Ki^'^r? '^'''^^^' ^^8h and dry. upon a mountain top. 
 There is no visible deck, even: nothing but a long, black, ugly roof 
 covered with burnt-out feathery .parks; above which tower twoTron 
 chimneys, and a hoarse escape valve, and a glass steerage-house. 
 Then in order as the eye descends towards the water, are the sides 
 and doors, and windows of the state-rooms, jumbled as oddl^ 
 together as though they formed a small street, built by the varying 
 tastes of a dozen men: the whole is supported on beams and pillar! 
 resting on a dirty barge, but a few inches above the water's edge- and 
 ILt l^Tv,""^. 'P'""® between this upper structure and this barge's 
 wln^'fw Jjf ^'''''^^! ^''^' ^""^ machinery, open at the sides to every 
 wind that blows and every storm of raux it drives along its path. 
 
 Passing one of these boats at right, and seeing the great bodv of 
 fire, exposed as I have just described, that rages and roars beneath 
 the frail pile of painted wood: the machinery, not warded off or 
 guarded m any way. but doing its wci'k in the midst of the crowd of 
 dlers and emigrants and children, who throng the lower deck: under 
 the management, oc of reckless men whose acquaintance with its 
 mysteries may have been cf six months' standing: one feels directly 
 that the wonder is, not that there should be so many fatal accidents 
 but that any journey should be safely made. 
 
 hn^??'"' ^^'u'^li''''^ ^"""S ""^"^^ ^a^i"' ^^^ whole length of the 
 ^fT+'oV^u* "/"""•'"'' ^'-'t'-r^"""" ^pen, on Doili sides. A smaUT>ortion 
 01 it at the stem is partitioned off for the ladies; and the bar ii at the 
 
 4 i 
 
 
 
 
 'u > 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 s ■■ ■ i 
 
128 
 
 American Notes 
 
 
 if' 
 M 
 
 121 
 
 opposite extreme. There is a long table down the cen\ie, and at either 
 end a stove. The washing apparatus is forward, on the de^K. It is a 
 little better than on board the canal boat, but not much. In all 
 modes of travelling, the American customs, with reference to the 
 means of personal cleanliness and wholesome ablution, arc extremely 
 negligent and filthy; and I strongly incline to the belief that a con- 
 siderable amount of illness is referable to this cause. 
 
 We are to be on board the Messenger three days: arriving at 
 Cincinnati (barring accidents) on Monday morning. There are three 
 meals a day. Breakfast at seven, dinner at half-past twelve, supper 
 about six. At each, there are a great many small dishes and plates 
 upon the table, with very little in them; so that although there is 
 every appearance of a mighty "spread," there is seldom really more 
 than a joint: except for those who fancy slices of beet-root, shreds of 
 dried beef, comj^iicatcd entanglements of yellow pickle; maize, 
 Indian com, applv-^-snuce, and pumpkin. 
 
 Some people fancy all these little dainties together (and sweet 
 preserves beside), by way of relish to their roast pig. They are 
 generally those dyspeptic ladies and gentlemen who eat unheard-of 
 quantities of hot com tjread (almost as good for the digestion as a 
 kneaded pin-cushion), for breakfast, and for supper. Those who do 
 not observe this custom, and who help themselves several times 
 instead, usually suck their knives and forks meditatively, until they 
 have decided what to take next: then pull them out of their mouths: 
 put them in the dish; help themselves; and fall to work again. At 
 dinner, there is nothing to drink upon the table, but great jugs full 
 of cold water. Nobody says anything, at any meal, to anybody. All 
 the passengers are very dismal, and seem to have tremendous secrets 
 weighing on their minds. There is no conversation, no laughter, no 
 cheerfulness, np sociality, except in spitting; and that is done in 
 silent fellowship round the stove, when the meal is over. Every man 
 sits down, dull and languid; swallows his fare as if breakfasts, dinners, 
 and suppers, were necessities of nature never to be coupled with 
 recreation or enjoyment; and having bolted his food in a gloomy 
 silence, bolts himself, in the same state. -^ But for these animal ob- 
 servances, you might suppose the whole male portion of the company 
 to be the melancholy ghosts of departed book-keepers, who had 
 fallen dead at the desk: such is their weary air of business and 
 calculation. Undertakers on duty would be sprightly beside them; 
 and a collation of funeral-baked meats, in comparison with these 
 meals, would be a sparkling festivity. 
 
 The people are all alike, too. There is no diversity of character. 
 They travel about on the same errands, say and do the same things 
 in exactly the same manner, and follow in the same dull cheerless 
 round. All down the long table, there is scarcely a man who is in 
 anything different from his neighbour. It is quite a relief to have, 
 sitting opposite, that iittie girl of fifteen with the loquacious chin: 
 who, to do her justice, acts up to it, and fully identifies nature's 
 
 handwr 
 
 repose t 
 
 beautifi 
 
 there — i 
 
 beyond 
 
 West, w 
 
 They w 
 
 omen ai 
 
 liead, w 
 
 She was 
 
 bright a 
 
 Furth 
 
 their ph 
 
 mine. H 
 
 cottages 
 
 people t 
 
 together 
 
 evening 
 
 off pisto 
 
 They, 
 
 rise, and 
 
 room, re 
 
 A fine 
 
 others: a 
 
 dividing 
 
 maybe t( 
 
 village (] 
 
 are for t 
 
 hereabou 
 
 and mile 
 
 trace of '. 
 
 but the I 
 
 it looks 1: 
 
 its little ! 
 
 and send 
 
 in the cor 
 
 stumps, ] 
 
 just now 
 
 house on 
 
 leans up( 
 
 from the 
 
 is like a § 
 
 The dog c 
 
 face agaii 
 
 common 
 
 still there 
 
 itc 
 
 
American Notes 
 
 It either 
 :, It is a 
 I. In all 
 i to the 
 ;tremely 
 t a con- 
 
 iving at 
 re three 
 , supper 
 d plates 
 there is 
 lly more 
 hreds of 
 maize, 
 
 d sweet 
 hey are 
 heard-of 
 ion as a 
 who do 
 a.1 times 
 itil they 
 mouths: 
 gain. At 
 jugs full 
 ody. All 
 s secrets 
 hter, no 
 done in 
 ery man 
 dinners, 
 led with 
 gloomy 
 mal ob- 
 ompany 
 vho had 
 less and 
 le them; 
 th these 
 
 laracter. 
 le things 
 :heerless 
 rho is in 
 to have, 
 >U3 chin: 
 nature's 
 
 129 
 
 handwntmg. for of all the small chatterboxes that ever invaded the 
 repose of drowsy ladies' cabin, she is the first and foremost The 
 beautiful girl, who sits a little beyond her— farther down the table 
 there— married the young man with the dark whiskers, who sits 
 beyond her. only la . month. They are going to settle in the very Far 
 West, where he has lived four years, but where she has never been 
 Ihey were both overturned in a stage-coach the other day (a bad 
 omen anywhere else, where overturns are not so common), and his 
 head, which bears the marks of a recent wound, is bound up still 
 She was hurt too. at the same time, and lay insensible for some davs' 
 bright as her eyes are, now. ^ ' 
 
 Further down still, sits a man who is going some miles beyond 
 their place of destination, to "improve" a newly-discovered copper 
 mine. He carries the village— that is to be— with him: a few frame 
 cottages, and an apparatus for smelting the copper. He carries its 
 people too. They are partly American and partly Irish, and herd 
 together on the lower deck; where they amused themselves last 
 evening till the night was pretty far advanced, by alternately firing 
 oft pistols and singing hymns. -^ 6 
 
 They, and the very few who have been left at table twenty minutes 
 rise, and go away. We do so too; and passing through our little state- 
 room. resuHxC our seats in the quiet gallery without. 
 
 A fine broad river always, but in some parts much wider than in 
 others: and then there is usually a green island, covered with trees 
 dividing It into two streams. Occasionally, we stop for a few minutes' 
 maybe to take m wood, maybe for passengers, at some small town or 
 village (I ought to say city, every place is a city here); bx>.t the banks 
 are lor the most part deep solitudes, overgrown with trees which 
 hereabouts, are already in leaf and very green. For miles, and miles' 
 and miles, these solitudes are unbroken by any sign of human life or 
 l''^.^!u° i""™^^ footstep; nor is anything seen to move about them 
 but the blue jay, whose colour is so bright, and yet so delicate, that 
 It looks like a flying flower. At lengthened intervals a log cabin wi^h 
 Its httle space of cleared land about it. nestles under a rising gr'ound 
 and sends its thread of blue smoke curling up into the sky. It stands 
 m the corner of the poor field of wheat, which is full of great unsightlv 
 stumps, like earthly butchers'-blocks. Sometimes the ground is only 
 ]ust now cleared: the felled trees lying yet upon the soil: and the log- 
 house only this morning begun. As we pass this clearing, the settler 
 leans upon his axe or hammer, and looks wistfully at the people 
 from the world. The children creep out of the temporary hut which 
 IS like a gipsy tent upon the ground, and clap their hands and shout 
 I he dog only glances round at us, and then looks up into his master's 
 lace again, as if he were rendered uneasy by any suspension of the 
 common business, and had nothing more to do with pleasures. And 
 still there is the same, eternal foreground. The ri"- - has washed away 
 I ^^P-'^^' ^"" stateiy trees have fallen down into the stream Some 
 have been there so long, that they are mere dry, grizzly skeletons. 
 323 
 
 ' 1 
 
 mmtm 
 
130 
 
 American Notes 
 
 Some have just toppled over, and having earth yet about their roots, 
 ate bathing their green heads in the river, and putting forth new 
 shoots and branches. Some arc almost sliding down, as you look at 
 them. And some were drowned so long ago, that their bleached arms 
 start out from the middle of the current, and seem to try to grasp the 
 boat, and drag it under water. 
 
 Through such a scene as this, the unwieldy machine takes its 
 hoarse, sullen way: venting, at every revolution of the paddles, a 
 loud high-pressure blast; enough, one would think, to waken up the 
 host of Indians who lie buried in a great mound yonder: so old, that 
 mighty oaks and other forest trees have struck their roots into its 
 earth; and so high, that it is a hill, even among the hills that Nature 
 planted round it. The very river, as though it shared one's feelings 
 of compassion for the extinct tribes who lived so pleasantly here, in 
 their blessed ignorance of white existence, hundreds of years ago, 
 steals out of its way to ripple near this mound: and there are few places 
 where the Ohio sparkles more brightly than in the Big Grave Creek. 
 
 All this I see as I sit in the little stem-galley mentioned just now. 
 Evening slowly steals upon the landscape and changes it before me, 
 when we stop to set some emigrants ashore. 
 
 Five men, as many wopien, and a little girl. All their worldly goods 
 are a bag, a large chest and an old chair: one, old, high-backed, rush- 
 bottomed chair: a solitary settler in itself. They are rowed ashore in 
 the boat, while the vessel stands a little off awaiting its return, the 
 water being shallow. They are landed at the foot of a high bank, on 
 the summit of which are a few log cabins, attainable only by a long 
 winding path. It is growing dusk; but the sun is very red, and shines 
 in the water and on some of the tree-tops, like fire. 
 
 The men get out of the boat first; help out the women; take out the 
 bag, the chest, the chair; bid th^ rowers "good-bye;" and shove the 
 boat off for them. At the first plash of the oars in the water, the 
 oldest woman of the party sits down in the old chair, close to the 
 water's edge, without speaking a word. None of the others sit down, 
 though the chest is large enough for many seats. They all stand where 
 they landed, as if stricken into stone; and look after the boat. So they 
 remain, quite still and silent: the old womaai and her old chair, in the 
 centre; the bag and chest upon the shore, without anybody heeding 
 them: all eyes fixed upon the boat. It comes alongside, is made fast, 
 the men jump on board, the engine is put in motion, and we go 
 hoarsely on again. There they stand yet, without the motion of a 
 hand. I can see them through my glass, when, in the distance and 
 increasing darkness, they are mere specks to the eye: lingering there 
 still: the old woman i" th^ oid chair, and all the rest about her: not 
 stirring in the least degree. And thus I slowly lose them. 
 
 The night is dark, and we proceed within the shadow of the wooded 
 bank, which makes it darker. After gliding past the sombre maze of 
 boughs for a long time, we come upon an open space where the tall 
 trees are burning. Tuc shape Oi every uiancu snu twig is cxp-resscu 
 
 in a dee] 
 to vegel 
 enchant 
 ing awa] 
 and go i 
 this grot 
 ashes, th 
 men of d 
 their fell 
 the roUii 
 but verj 
 heard, ai 
 foot. 
 
 Midnij 
 the mor 
 before w 
 and flag! 
 there we 
 of a thoi 
 
 Cincin 
 I have n 
 pleasant! 
 houses oj 
 tile. Nor 
 The stret 
 residence 
 thing of 
 erections 
 fectly de 
 qualities 
 villas am 
 flowers, i 
 to those 
 agreeable 
 its adjoir 
 an amph: 
 is seen to 
 
 There 
 on the dc 
 processio 
 they star 
 It compri 
 ington A 
 officers o: 
 with scar 
 gaily. Th 
 and it wii 
 
 I was 
 
American Notes 
 
 131 
 
 
 in a deep red glow, and as the light wind stirs and ruffles it. they seem 
 to vegetate in fire. It is such a sight as we read of in legends of 
 enchanted forests: saving that it is sad to see these noble works wast- 
 ing away so awfully, alone; and to think how many years must come 
 and go before the magic that created them will rear their like upon 
 this ground again. But the time will come: and when, in their changed 
 ashes, the growth of centuries unborn has struck its roots, the restless 
 men of distant ages will repair to these again unpeopled solitudes; and 
 their fellows, in cities far away, that slumber now, perhaps, beneath 
 the rolling sea, will read in language strange to any ears in being now, 
 but very old to them, of primeval forests where the axe was never 
 heard, and where the jungled ground was never trodden by a human 
 foot. 
 
 Midnight and sleep blot out these scenes and thoughts: and wheji 
 the morning shines again, it gilds the house-tops of a lively city, 
 before whose broad paved wharf the boat is moored; with other boats,' 
 and flags, and moving wheels, and hum of men around it; as though 
 there were not a solitary or silent rood of ground within the compass 
 of a thousand miles. 
 
 Cincinnati is a beautiful city; cheerful, thriving, and animated. 
 I have not often seen a place that commends itself so favourably and 
 pleasantly to a stranger at the first glance as this does: with its clean 
 houses of red and white, its well-paved roads, and loot-ways of bright 
 tile. Nor does it become less prepossessing on a closer acquaintance. 
 The streets are broad and airy, the shops extremely good, the private 
 residences remarkable for their elegance and neatness. There is some- 
 thing of invention and fancy in the varying styles of these latter 
 erections, which, after the dull company of the steamboat, is per- 
 fectly delightful, as conveying an assurance that there are such 
 qualities still in existence. The disposition to ornament these pretty 
 villas and render them attractive, leads to the culture of trees and 
 flowers, and the laying out of well-kept gardens, the sight of which, 
 to those who walk along the streets, is inexpressibly refreshing and 
 agreeable. I was quite charmed with the appearance of the town, and 
 its adjoining suburb of Mount Auburn: from which the cily, lying in 
 an amphitheatre of hills, forms a picture of remarkable beauty, and 
 is seen to great advantage. 
 
 There happened to be a great Temperance Convention held here 
 on the day after our arrival; and as the order of march brought the 
 procession under the windows of the hotel in which we lodged, when 
 they started in the morning, I had a good opportunity of seeing it. 
 It comprised several thousand men; the members of various "Wash- 
 ington Auxiliary Temperance Societies;" and was marshalled by 
 officers on horseback, who cantered briskly up and down the line, 
 with scarves and ribbons of bright colours fluttering out behind them 
 gaily. There were bands of music too, and banners out of number: 
 and it was a fresh, holiday-looking concourse altogether. 
 
 I was particularly pleased to see the Irishmen, who formed a 
 
 '■mm 
 
132 
 
 American Notes 
 
 distinct society among themselves, and mustered very strong with 
 their green scarves; carrying their national Harp and their Portrait 
 of Father Mathew, high above the people's heads. They looked as 
 jolly and good-humoured as ever; and, working (here) the hardest 
 for their living and doing any kind of sturdy labour that came in 
 their way, were the most independent fellows there, I thought. 
 
 The banners were very well painted, and flaunted down the street 
 famously. There was the smiting of the rock, and the gushing forth 
 of the waters; and there was a temperate man with "considerable of 
 a hatchet" (as the standard-bearer would probably have said), aiming 
 a deadly blow at a serpent which was apparently about to spring 
 upon him from the top of a barrel of spirits. But the chief feature of 
 this part of the show was a huge allegorical device, borne among the 
 ship-carpenters, on one side whereof the steamboat Alcohol was 
 represented bursting her boiler and exploding with a great crash, 
 while upon the other, the good ship Temperance sailed away with a 
 fair wind, to the heart's content of the captain, crew, and passengers. 
 After going round the town, the procession repaired to a certain 
 appointed place, where, as the printed programme set forth, it would 
 be received by the children of the different free schools, "singing 
 Temperance Songs." I was prevented from getting there, in time to 
 hear these Little Warblers, or to report upon this novel kind of vocal 
 entertainment: novel, at least, to me: but I found in a large open 
 space, each society gathered round its own banners, and listening in 
 silent attention to its own orator. The speeches, judging from the 
 little I could hear of them, were certainly adapted to the occasion, as 
 having that degree of relationship to cold water which wet blankets 
 may claim: but the main thing was the conduct and appearance of 
 the audience throughout the day; and that was admirable and full 
 of promise. 
 
 Cincinnati is honourably famous for its free schools, of which it 
 has so many that no person's child among its population can, by 
 possibility, want the means of education, which are extended, upon 
 an average, to four thousand pupils, annually. 1 was only present in 
 one of these establishments during the hours of instruction. In the 
 boys' department, which was full of little urchins (varying in their 
 ages, I should say, from six years old to ten or twelve), the master 
 offered to institute an extemporary examination of the pupils in 
 algebra; a proposal, which, as I was by no means confident of my 
 aDility to detect mistakes in that science, I declined with some alarm. 
 In the girls' school, reading was proposed; and as I felt tolerably 
 equal to that art, I expressed my willingness to hear a class. Bocks 
 were distributed accordingly, and some half-dozen girls relieved each 
 other in reading paragraphs from English History. But it seemed to 
 be a dry compilation, infinitely above their powers; and when they 
 had blundered through three or four dreary passages concerning the 
 
 
 - X1.2. x^x^xlg 
 
 
 
 
 same ixaLUic 
 
 (obviously without comprehending ten words), I expressed myself 
 
! 
 
 American Notes 
 
 A nuisance cause ;™n^ ttre wetlt ''^"^ ""■^^''y '«*''"^d- 
 the witnesses, r.unsel and i,,rf f^ i^ "''"y spectators; and 
 sufficiently jocose and snug ' ^^ """""^ ^ ^°"'' °' *a">"y "rcle, 
 
 ag^tMe'"*?h:th:btonLr!ln^ --.-t-1'igent, courteous, and 
 one of the most iSeresti"*g^n ^^"^^^^^^^^^ P-T" "'.^"^"- "'^ "^ 
 beautiful and thrivine a-Tit i= „™ j '' ""* 8°°<1 reason: for 
 
 population of flftyttoSsanV ,„^r' k"." j»"'aining, as it does, a 
 parsed away since the eroundnni' ., v* t^-^nd-fifty years have 
 for a few doLSrwS?d tood and i t ''^"'^' '"""S" ^* '"at time 
 of dweliers in scittereVr^^rts^tprthl^^erTshTr" '"* =" '^^"'^'"' 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Pittsburg. As tms passage dL l^^ '"^ ""^^^^ ^^ ^^^ *=°"^e from 
 thirteen hours we TSed to U . i?''"?? "^°"^ *^^^ ^^^^ve or 
 the distinction oTsSnffn I .f^.""'^ *^t* "^^^*- "«* ^o^etrng 
 sleep anywhere else ^^ ^ state-room, when it was possible tS 
 
 dre^rrcrtTof ptst.^^^^^^^^^^ '^1'^^'' ^° ^^^^^^^ *« ^^^ usual 
 tribeof Indlns. whHS'/i?^^^^^^^ ^/^^"^ °^ *^« ^^o^^t^^ 
 
 pleasure of a long conve'sl^^^^^ '° °''' ^^^ ^^*^ ^^°°^ ^ ^^^ the 
 
 the^'ll^fuage^^f 4^^^^^^^^ ^^-^^ ^^ had not begun to learn 
 
 read mfnyt;<^ls and Sco"^*'^,^^^^^^^^ ^ y°""? "^^^ g^own. He had 
 impressio? on his Snd'^e^V/J^^^^^^^ 'f'/ ^^^^^ 
 
 Lake, and the great battle scene in M^?^^^ ^?^ ^^^^ °^ ^^^ 
 from the congeniality of the suwLtst^^^^^^^ '^ '^^^^' ^° ^°"bt 
 he had great interest °pH 11 -^j^t 4* -- -°''" P""'"^*' ^^^ *^«t^«' 
 rectlvalihe harl rp.a ^- or,^ - ••t.i^i. x^c vippcarea to understand cor- 
 
 .» J.eliel'-l^^^Xt- Uil^^ran^dir^ri'tl^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 11 
 
134 
 
 American Notes 
 
 fiercely. He was dressed in our ordinary every-day costume, which 
 hung about his fine figure loosely, and with indifferent grace. On my 
 telling him that I regretted not to see him in his own attire, he threw 
 up his right arm, for a moment, as though he were brandishing some 
 heavy weapon, and answered, as he let it fall again, that his race 
 were losing many things besides their dress, and would soon be seen 
 upon the earth no more: but he wore it at home, he added proudly. 
 
 He told me that he had been away from his home, west of the 
 Mississippi, seventeen months: and was now returning. He had been 
 chiefly at Washington on some negotiations pending between his 
 Tribe and the Government: which were not settled yet (he said in a 
 melancholy way), and he feared n(;ver would be: for what could a few 
 poor Indians do, against such well-skilled men of business as the 
 whites? He had no love for Washington; tired of towns and cities 
 very soon; and longed for the Forest and the Prairie. 
 
 I asked him what he thought of Congress? He answered, with a 
 smile, that it wanted dignity, in an Indian's eyes. 
 
 He would very much like, he said, to see England before he died; 
 and spoke with much interest about the great things to be seen there. 
 When I told him of that chamber in the British Museum wherein are 
 preserved household rriemorials of a race that ceased to be, thousands 
 of years ago, he was very attentive, and it was not hard to see that 
 he had a reference in his mind to the gradual fading away of his own 
 people. 
 
 This led us to speak of Mr. Catlin's gallery, which he praised highly: 
 observing that his* own portrait was among the collection, and that 
 all the likenesses were "elegant." Mr. Cooper, he said, had painted 
 the Red Man well; and so would I, he knew, if I would go home with 
 him and hunt buffaloes, which he was quite anxious I should do. 
 When I told him that supposing I went, I should not be very likely 
 to damage the buffaloes much, he took it as a great joke and laughed 
 heartily. 
 
 He was a remarkably handsome man; some years past forty, I 
 should judge; with long black hair, an aquiline nose, broad cheek- 
 bones, a sunburnt complexion, and a v.ery bright, keen, dark, and 
 piercing eye. There were but twenty thousand of the Choctaws left, 
 he said, and their number was decreasing every day. A few of his 
 brother chiefs had been obliged to become civilised, and to make 
 themselves acquainted with what the whites knew, for it was their 
 only chance of existence. But they were not many; and the rest were 
 as they always had been. He dwelt on this: and said several times 
 that unless they tried to assimilate themselves to their conquerors, 
 they nmst be swnpt away before the strides of civilised society. 
 
 When we shook hands at parting, I told him he must come to 
 England, as he longed to see the land so much: that I should hope to 
 see him there, one day: and that I could promise him he would be 
 well received and kindly treated. He was evidently pleased by this 
 assurance, though he rejoined /ith a good-humoured smile and an 
 
American Notes 
 
 Jf35 
 
 arch shake of is head, that the English used to be very fond of the 
 Red Men when they wanted their help, but had not cared much for 
 them, since. 
 
 He took his leave; as stately and complete a gentleman of Nature's 
 making, as ever I beheld; and moved among the people in the boat, 
 another kind of being. He sent me a lithographed portrait of himself 
 soon afterwards; very like, though scarcely handsome enough; which 
 I have carefully preserved in memory of our brief acquaintance. 
 
 There was nothing very interesting in the scenery of this day's 
 journey, which brought us at midnight to Louisville. We slept at the 
 Gait House; a splendid hotel; and were as handsomely lodged as 
 though we had been in Paris, rather than hundreds of miles beyond 
 the AUeghanies. 
 
 The city presenting no objects of sufficient interest to detain us on 
 our way, -e resolved to proceed next day by another steamboat, the 
 Fulton, and to join it, about noon, at a suburb called Portland, where 
 it would be delayed some time in passing through a canal. 
 
 The interval, after breakfast, we devoted to riding through the 
 town, which is regular and cheerful: the streets being laid out at 
 right angles, and planted with young trees. The buildings are smoky 
 and blackened, from the use of bituminous ;oal, but an Englishman 
 is well used to that appearance, and indisposed to quarrel with it. 
 There did not appear to be much business stirring; and some un- 
 finished buildings and improvements seemed to intimate that the 
 city had been overbuilt in the ardour of "going-a-head," and waa 
 suffering under the re-action consequent upon such feverish forcing 
 of its powers. 
 
 On our way to Portland, we passed a "Magistrate's office," which 
 amused me, as looking far more like a dame school than any police 
 establishment: for this awful Institution was nothing but a little 
 lazy, good-for-nothing front parlour, open to the street; wherein two 
 or three figures (I presume the magistrate and his myrmidons) were 
 basking in the sunshine, the very effigies of languor and repose. It 
 was a perfect picture of Justice retired from business for want of 
 customers; her sword and scales sold off; napping comfortably with 
 her legs upon the table. 
 
 Here, as elsewhere in these parts, the road was perfectly alive with 
 pi|^s of all ages; lying about in every direction, fast asleep; or grunting 
 along in quest of hidden dainties. I had always a sneaking kindness 
 for these odd animals, and found a constant source of amusement, 
 when all others failed, in watching their proceedings. As we were 
 riding along this morning, I observed a little incident between two 
 youthful pigs, which was so very human as to be inexpressibly 
 comical and grotesque at the time, though I dare say, in telling, it 
 is tame enough. 
 
 One young gentleman (a very delicafR porker with several strawf> 
 sticking about his nose, betokening recent investigations in a dung- 
 hill) was walking deliberately on, profoundly thinking, when suddenly 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 M 
 
 1^ 
 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 'r 
 
 
 I J^^M^^^^H 
 
 1 
 
 
 '-^1 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 ;| 
 
 
 Tl 
 
 l'.> 
 
m 
 
 136 
 
 American Notes 
 
 his brother, who was lying in a miry hole unseen by him, rose up 
 immediately before his startled eyes, ghostly with damp mud. Never 
 was pig's whole mass of blood so turned. He turned back at least 
 three feet, gazed for a moment, and then shot off as hard as he could 
 go: his excessively little tail vibrating with speed and terror like a 
 distracted pendulum. But before he had gone very far, he began to 
 reason with himself as to the nature of this frightful appearance; 
 and as he reasoned, he relaxed his speed by gradual degrees; until at 
 last he stopped, and faced about. There was his brother, with the 
 mud upon him glazing in the sun, yet staring out of the very same 
 hole, perfectly amazed at his proceedings ! He was no sooner assured 
 ot this; and he assured himself so carefully that one may almost say 
 he shaded his eyes with his hand to see the better; than he came back 
 at a round trot, pounced upon him, and summarily took off a piece of 
 his tail; as a caution to him to be careful what he was about for the 
 future, and never to play tricks with his family any more. 
 
 We found the steamboat in the canal, waiting for the slow process 
 of getting through the lock, and went on board, where we shortly 
 afterwards had a new kind of visitor in the person of a certain 
 Kentucky Giant whose name is Porter, and who is of the moderate 
 height of seven feet eight inches, in his stockings. 
 
 There never was a race of people who so completely gave the lie to 
 history as these giants, or whom all the chroniclers have so cruelly 
 libelled. Instead of roaring and ravaging about the world, constantly 
 catering for their cannibal larders, and perpetually going to market 
 in an unlawful manner, they are the meekest people in any man's 
 acquaintance: rather inclining to milk and vegetable diet, and bearing 
 anything for a quiet life. So decidedly are amiability and mildness 
 their characteristics, that I confess I look upon that youth who 
 distinguished himself by the slaughter of these inoffensive persons, 
 as a false-hearted brigand, who, pre jnding to philanthropic motives, 
 was secretly influenced only by the wealth stored up within their 
 castles, and the hope of plunder. And I lean the more to this opinion 
 from finding that even the historian" of those exploits, with all his 
 partiality for his hero, is fain to admit that the slaughtered monsters 
 in question were of a very innocent and simple turn; extremely 
 guileless and ready of belief; lending a credulous ear to the most 
 improbable tales; suffering themselves to be easily entrapped into 
 pits; and even (as in the case of the Welsh Giant) with an excess of 
 the hospitable politeness of a landlord, ripping themselves open, 
 rather than hint at the possibility of their guests being versed in the 
 vagabond arts of sleight-of-hand and hocus-pocus. 
 
 The Kentucky Giant was but another illustration of the truth of 
 this position. He had a weakness in the region of the knees, and a 
 trustfulness in his long face, which appealed even to five-feet nine 
 for encouragement and support. He was only twenty-five years old, 
 he said, and had grown recently, for it had been found necessary to 
 make an addition to the legs of his inexpressibles. At fifteen he was a 
 
 short be 
 had rati 
 credit o 
 though 
 whisper 
 
 I und 
 unless h 
 upon hi 
 comprel 
 "The Li 
 make ti 
 shown h 
 instrum( 
 feet higl 
 
 Withi 
 in the O 
 
 The a 
 and the 
 same tii 
 and wit 
 oppresse 
 capacity 
 see such 
 recollect 
 wretchec 
 really di 
 and was 
 or a pui 
 part of i 
 Sage's st 
 down wi 
 a busine 
 as he ca 
 ments st 
 natural ( 
 believe t 
 mare to 
 
 There 
 in the 0I 
 handson 
 able, as 
 us at the 
 against ■ 
 magnetis 
 most fac 
 have be< 
 horror, 
 weary, ii 
 
 323' 
 
American Notes 
 
 137 
 
 short boy, and in those days his English father and his Irish mother 
 had rather snubbed him, as being too small of stature to sustain the 
 credit of the family. He added that his health had not been good, 
 though it was better now; but short people are not wanting who 
 whisper that he drinks too hard. 
 
 I understand he drives a hackney-coach, though how he does it, 
 unless he stands on the footboard behind, and lies along the roof 
 upon his chest, with his chin in the box, it would be difficult to 
 comprehend. He brought his gun with him, as a curiosity. Christened 
 "The Little Rifle," and displayed outside a shop-window, it would 
 make the fortune of any retail business in Holborn. When he had 
 shown himself and talked a little while, he withdrew with his pocket- 
 instrument, and went bobbing down the cabin, among men of six 
 feet high and upwards, like a lighthouse walking among lamp-posts. 
 
 Within a few minutes afterwards, we were out of the canal, and 
 in the Ohio river again. 
 
 The arrangements of the boat were like those of the Messenger, 
 and the passengers were of the same order of people. We fed at the 
 same times, on the same kind of viands, in the same dull manner, 
 and with the same observances. The company appeared to be 
 oppressed by the same tremendous concealments, and had as little 
 capacity of enjoyment or light-heartedness. I never in my life did 
 see such listless, heavy dulness as brooded over these meals: the very 
 recollection of it weighs me down, and makes me, for the moment, 
 wretched. Reading and writing on my knee, in our little cabin, I 
 really dreaded the coming of the hour that srmmoned us > table; 
 and was as glad to escape from it again, as if it had been a penance 
 or a punishment. Healthy cheerfulness and good spirits forming a 
 part of the banquet, I could soak my crusts in the fountain with Jbe 
 Sage's strolling player, and revel in their glad enjoyment: but sitting 
 down with so many fellow-animals to ward off thirst and hunger as 
 a business; to empty, each creature, his Yahoo's trough as quickly 
 as he can, and then slink sullenly away; to have these social sacra- 
 ments stripped of everything but the mere greedy satisfaction of the 
 natural cravings; goes so against the grain with me, that I seriously 
 believe the recollection of these funeral feasts will be a waking night- 
 mare to me all my life. 
 
 There Jva3 some relief in this boat, too, which there had not been 
 in the other, for the captain (a blunt, good-natured fellow) had his 
 handsome wife with him, who was disposed to be lively and agree- 
 able, as were a few other lady-passengers who had their seats about 
 us at the same end of the table. But nothing could have made head 
 against the depressing influence of the general body. There was a 
 magnetism of dulness in them which would have beaten down the 
 most facetious companion that the earth ever knew. A jest would 
 have been a crime, and a smile would have faded into a grinning 
 horror. Such deadly, leaden people; such systematic plodding, 
 weary, insupportable heaviness; such a mass of animated indigestion 
 
 323* 
 
 I 
 
138 
 
 American Notes 
 
 mm'i 
 
 W^t 
 
 in respect of all that was genial, jovial, frank, social, or hearty; never, 
 sure, was brought together elsewhere since the world began. 
 
 Nor was the scenery, as we approached the junction of the Ohio 
 and Mississippi rivers, at all inspiriting in its influence. The trees were 
 stunted in their growth; the banks were low and flat; the settlements 
 and log cabins fewer in number: their inhabitants more wan and 
 wretched than any we had encountered yet. No songs of birds were 
 in the air, no pleasant scents, no moving lights and shadows from 
 swift passing clouds. Hour after hour, the changeless glare of the hot, 
 unwinking sky, shone upon the same monotonous objects. Hour after 
 hour, the river rollcv' along, as wear' '>'- i slowly as the time itself. 
 
 At length, upon the morning of th^ tn. \y, we arrived at a spot 
 so much more desolate than any we had yet beheld, that the forlorn- 
 est places we had passed, were, in comparison with it, full of interest. 
 At the junction of the two rivers, on ground so flat and low and 
 marshy, that at certain seasons of the year it is inundated to the 
 house-tops, lies a breeding-place of fever, ague, and death; vaunted in 
 England as a mine of Golden Hope, and speculated in, on the faith of 
 monstrous representations, to many people's ruin. A dismal swamp 
 an which the half -built houses rot away: cleared here and there for th 
 space of a few yards; ^nd teeming, then, with rank unwholesome 
 vegetation, in whose baleful shade the wretched wanderers who are 
 tempted hither, droop, and die, and lay their bones; the hateful 
 Mississippi circling and eddying before it, and turning off upon its 
 southern course a slimy monster hideous to behold; a hotbed of 
 disease, an ugly sepulchre, a grave uncheered by any gleam of 
 promise: a place without one single quality, in earth or air or water, 
 to commend it: such is this dismal Cairo. 
 
 But what words shall describe the Mississippi, great father of 
 rivers, who (praise be to Heaven) has no young children like him! 
 An enormous ditch, sometimes two or three miles wide, running liquid 
 mud, six miles an hour: its strong and frothy current choked and 
 obstructed everywhere by huge logs and whole forest trees: now 
 twining themselves together in great rafts, from the interstices of 
 which a sedgy, lazy foam works up, to float upon the water'r top; 
 now rolling past like monstrous bodies, ttieir tangled roots showing 
 like matted hair; now glancing singly by like giant leeches; and now 
 writhing round and round in the vortex of some small whirlpool, like 
 wounded snakes. The banks low, the trees dwarfish, the marshes 
 swarming with frogs, the wretched cabins few and far apart, their 
 inmates hollow-cheeked and pale, the weather very hot, mosquitoes 
 penetrating into every crack and crevice of the boat, mud and slime 
 on everything: nothing pleasant in its aspect, but the harmless light- 
 ning which flickers every night upon the dark horizon. 
 
 For two days we toiled up this foul stream, striking constantly 
 against the floating timber, or stopping to avoid those more danger- 
 
 
 
 
 trees that have their roots below the tide. When the nights are very 
 
American Notes 
 
 139 
 
 dark, the look-out stationed in the head of the boat, knows by the 
 ripple of the water if any great impediment be near at hand, and 
 rings a bell beside him, which is the signal for the engine to be 
 stopped; but always in the night this bell has work to do, and after 
 every ring, there comes a blow which renders it no easy matter to 
 remain in bed. 
 
 The decline of day here was very gorgeous; tingeing the firmament 
 deeply with red and gold, up to the very keystone of the arch above 
 us. As the sun went down behind the bank, the slightest blades c. 
 grass upon it seemed to become as distinctly visible as the arteries 
 in the skeleton of a leaf; and when, as it slowly sank, the red and 
 golden bars upon the water grew dimmer, and dimmer yet, as if they 
 were sinking too; and all the glowing colours of departing day paled, 
 inch by inch, before the sombre night; the scene became a thousand 
 times more lonesome and j more dreary than before, and all its 
 influences darkened with the sky. 
 
 We drank the muddy water of this river while we were upon it. It 
 is considered wholesome by the natives, and is something more 
 opaque than gruel. I have seen water like it at the Filter-shops, but 
 nowhere else. 
 
 On the fourth night after leaving Louisville, we reached St. Louis, 
 and here I witnessed the conclusion of an incident, trifling enough in 
 itself, but very pleasant to see, which had interested me during the 
 whole journey. 
 
 There was a little woman on board, with a little baby; and both 
 little woman and little child were cheerful, good-looking, bright- 
 eyed, and fair to see. The little woman had been passing a long time 
 with her sick mother in New York, and had left her home in St. 
 Louis, in that condition in which ladies who truly love their lords 
 desire to be. The baby was born in her mother's house; and she had 
 not seen her husband (to whom she was now returning), for twelve 
 months: having left him a month or two after their marriage. 
 
 Well, to be sure, there never was a little v/oman so full of hope, and 
 tenderness, and love, and anxiety, as this little woman was: and all 
 day long she wondered whether " He " would be at the wharf and 
 whether "He" had got her letter; and whether, if she sent the baby 
 ashore by somebody else, "He" would know it, meeting it in the 
 street: which, seeing that he had never set eyes upon it in his life, was 
 not very likely in the abstract, but was probable enough, to the 
 young mother. She was such an artless little creature; and was in such 
 a sunny, beaming, hopeful state; and let out all this matter clinging 
 close about her heart, so freely; that all the other lady passengers 
 entered into the spirit of it as much as she; and the captain (who 
 heard all about it from his wife) was wondrous sly, I promise you: 
 inquiring, every time we met at table, as in forgetfulness, whether 
 she expected anybody to meet her at St. Louis, and whether she 
 would w^ant to go ashore the night vve reached it (but he supposed she 
 wouldn't) , and cutting many other dry jokes of that nature. There was 
 
 ^^^n 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 ' ^'"' 
 
 1 
 
 >*f i'i 
 
 > 'I 
 

 140 
 
 American Notes 
 
 one htt' 3 weazen, dried-apple-faced old woman, who took occasion 
 to doub. the constancy of husbands in such circumstances of bereave- 
 ment; and there was another lady (with a lap-dog) old enough to 
 moralize on the lightness of human affections, and yet not so old that 
 she could help nursing the baby, now and then, or laughing with the 
 rest, when the little woman called it by its father's name, and asked 
 It all manner of fantastic questions concerning him in the joy of her 
 heart. 
 
 It was something of a blow to the little woman, that when we were 
 within twenty miles of our destination, it became clearly necessary 
 to put this baby to bed. But she got over it with the same good 
 humour; tied a handkerchief round her head; and came out into the 
 little gallery with the rest. Then, such an oracle as she became in 
 reference to the localities ! and such facetiousness as was displayed 
 by the married ladies! and such sympathy as was shown by the 
 single ones! and such peals of laughter as the little woman herself 
 (who would just as soon have cried) greeted every jest with! 
 
 At last, there were the lights of St. LouIlv and here was the wharf, 
 and those were the steps: a. ' the little woman covering her face with 
 her hands, and laughing (or seeming to laugh) more than ever, ran 
 into her own cabin, and shut herself up. I have no doubt that in the 
 charming inconsistency of such excitement, she stopped her ears, lest 
 she should hear "Him" asking for her: but I did not see her do it. 
 
 Then, a great crowd of people rushed on board, though the boat 
 was not yet made fast, but was wandering about, among the other 
 boats, to find a landing-place: an( verybody looked for the husband- 
 and nobody saw him: when, in the midst of us all— Heaven knows 
 how she ever got there— there was the little woman clinging with 
 both arms tight round the neck of a fine, good-looking, sturdy young 
 fellow! and in a moment afterwards, there she was again, actually 
 clapping her little hands for joy. as she dragged him through the small 
 door of her small cabin, to look at the baby as he lay asleep! 
 
 We went to a large hotel, called the Planter's House: built like an 
 English hospital, with long passages and bare walls, and skylights 
 above the room-doors for the free circulation of air. There were a 
 great many boarders in it; and as many lights sparkled and glistened 
 from the windows down into the street below, when we drove up, 
 as if it had been illuminated on some occasion of rejoicing. It is an 
 excellent house, and the proprietors have most bountiful notions of 
 providing the creature comforts. Dining alone with my wife in our 
 own room, one day, I counted fourteen dishes on the table at 
 once. 
 
 In the old French portion of the town, the thoroughfares are 
 narrow and crooked, and some of the houses are very quaint and 
 picturesque: being built of wood, with tumble-down galleries before 
 the windows, approachable by stairs or rather ladders from the street. 
 
 There arn mippr lif+l^ l-»arl-»oT"o' cKnno r,r>A a 
 
 •«*^1ip««^#v l«^-w..»^ 
 
 — -p'-j ana Gnninng-iiOuses luu, iii xiua 
 quarter; and abundance of crazy old tenements with blinking case- 
 
 ments, 
 habitat 
 have a 
 age, api 
 ing in a 
 
 It is 
 warehoi 
 vast pla 
 good he 
 far a-he 
 a few y( 
 vie, in p 
 
 The 
 French 
 are a Je 
 and a k 
 erection 
 on the 
 this bull 
 works p: 
 Belgium 
 
 In ad 
 cathedra 
 by the n 
 . church, 
 tribes. 
 
 The I 
 most otl 
 excellen( 
 it befriei 
 any sect 
 construe 
 
 There 
 in this ci 
 
 No mj 
 (unless 1: 
 doubt, b 
 the perfe 
 rather di 
 adding, t 
 of undra 
 own opir 
 
 As I h 
 the furth 
 town had 
 me; a da 
 Looki-.g- 
 Deeming 
 
.^rib J^Rl 
 
 American Notes 
 
 141 
 
 ments, such as may be seen in Flanders. Some of rhese ancient 
 habitations, with high garret gable-windows perking to the roofs 
 have a kind of French shrug about them ; and being lop-sided with 
 age, appear to hold their heads askew, besides, as if they were grimac- 
 mg in astonishment at the American Improvements. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to say, that these consist of wharfs and 
 warehouses, and new buildings in all directions; and of a great many 
 vast plans which are still "progressing." Already, however, some very 
 good houses, broad streets, and marble-fronted shops, have gone so 
 far a-head as to be in a state of completion; and the town bids fair in 
 a few years to improve considerably: though it is not likely ever to 
 vie, in point of elegance or beauty, with Cincinnati. 
 
 The Roman Catholic religion, introduced here by the early 
 French settlers, prevails extensively. Among the public institutions 
 are a Jesuit college; a convent for "the Ladies of the Sacred Heart" 
 and a large chapel attached to the college, which was in course of 
 erection at the time of my visit, and was intended to be consecrated 
 on the second of December in the next year. The architect of 
 this building, is one of the reverend fathers of the school, and the 
 works proceed under his sole direction. The organ will be sent from 
 Belgium. 
 
 In addition to these establishments, there is a Roman Catholic 
 cathedral, dedicated to Saint Francis Xavier; and a hospital, founded 
 by the munificence of a deceased resident, who was a member of that 
 church. It also sends missionaries from hence among the Indian 
 tribes. 
 
 The Unitarian church is represented, in this remote place, as in 
 most other parts of America, by a gentleman of great worth and 
 excellence. The poor have good reason to remember and bless it; for 
 it befriends them and aids the cause of rational education, without 
 any sectarian or selfish views. It is liberal in all its actions; of kind 
 construction; and of wide benevolence. 
 
 There are three free-schools already erected, and in full operation 
 in this city. A fourth is building, and will soon be opened. 
 
 No man ever admits the unhealthiness of the place he dwells in 
 (unless he is going away from it), and I shall therefore, I have no 
 doubt, be at issue with the inhabitants of St. Louis, in questioning 
 the perfect salubrity of its climate, and in hinting that I think it must 
 rather dispose to fever, in the summer and autumnal seasons. Just 
 adding, that it is very hot. lies among great rivers, and has vast tracts 
 of undrained swampy land around it. I leave the reader to form his 
 own opinion. 
 
 As I had a great desire to see a Prairie before turning back from 
 the furthest point of my wanderings; and as some gentlemen of the 
 town had, in their hospitable consideration, an equal desire to gratify 
 me; a dav was fixed, hefnrp mv rlAr«arfiiro fn-r o« ^-u-ry^AUi^.^ ^^ au_ 
 Lookiy.g-Glass Prairie, which is within thirty miles of the town. 
 Deeming it possible that my readers max ot objec. to know what 
 
 tu ii 
 
 ■I IlllLUUItl WUMM 
 
it 
 
 142 
 
 American Notes 
 
 kind of thing such a gipsy party may be at that distance from home, 
 and among what sort of objects it moves, I will describe the jaunt in 
 another chapter. 
 
 If 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A JAUNT TO THE LOOKING-GLASS PRAIRIE AND BACK 
 
 I MAY premise that the word Prairie is variously pronounced paraaer, 
 parearer, and paroarer. The latter mode of pronunciation is perhaps 
 the most in favour. 
 
 We were fourteen in all, and all young men: indeed it is a singular 
 though very natural feature in the society of these distant settle- 
 ments, that it is mainly composed of adventurous persons in tho 
 prime of life, and has very few grey heads among it. There were no 
 ladies: the trip being a fatiguing one: and we were to start at five 
 o'clock in the morning punctually. 
 
 I was called at four,; that I might be certain of keeping nobody 
 waiting; and having got some bread and milk for breakfast, threw up 
 the window and loolfcd down into the street, expecting to see the 
 whole party busily astir, and great preparations going on below. But 
 as everything was very quiet, and the street presented that hopeless 
 aspect with which five o'clock in the morning is familiar elsewhere, I 
 deemed it as well to go to bed again, and went accordingly. 
 
 I woke again at seven o'clock, and by that time the party had 
 assembled, and were gathered round, one light carriage, with a very 
 stout axletree; one something on wheels like an amateur carrier's 
 cart; one double phaeton of great antiquity and unearthly con- 
 struction; one gig with a great hole in its back and a broken head; and 
 one rider on horseback who was to go on before. I got into the first 
 coach with three companions; the rest bestowed themselves in the 
 other vehicles; two large baskets were made fast to the lightest; two 
 large stone jars in wicker cases, technicaUy kaown as demi-johns, 
 were consigned to the "least rowdy" of the party for safe-keeping; 
 and the procession moved oflE to the ferry-boat, in which it was to 
 cross the river bodily, men, horses, carriages, and all, as the manner 
 in these parts is. 
 
 We got over the river in due course, and mustered again before a 
 little wooden box on wheels, hove down al) aslant in a morass, with 
 "merchant tailor" painted in very lar'i^e letters over the door. 
 Having settled the order of proceeding, and the road to be taken, we 
 started off once more and began to make our way through an ill- 
 favoured Black Hollow, called, less expressively, the American 
 
 The previous day had been— not to say hot, for the term is weak 
 
'«• I 
 
 American Notes 
 
 143 
 
 and lukewarm m its power of conveying an idea of the temperature. 
 The town had been on fire; in a blaze. But at night it had come on tu 
 
 [?/"J".*°"®"*^' *"*** *^^ "*^^* '°"8? ** ^^^ ^ai'^ed without cessation. 
 We had a pair of very strong horses, but travelled at the rat^ of little 
 more than a couple of miles an hour, through one unbroken slough 
 of black mud and water. It had no variety but in depth. Now it was 
 only half over the wheels, now it hid the axletree, and now the coach 
 sank down m it almost to the windows. The air resounded in all 
 directions with the loud chirping of the frogs, who. with the pigs (a 
 coarse, ngly breed, as unwholesome-looking as though they were 
 the spontaneous growth of the country), had the whole scene to 
 themselves. Here and there we passed a log hut: but the wretched 
 cabins were wide apart and thinly scattered, for though the soil is 
 very rich in this place, few people can exist in such a deadly atmo- 
 sphere. On either side of the track, if it deserve the name, was the 
 thick bush;" and everywhere was stagnant, slimy, rotten, filthy 
 
 As it is the custom in these parts to give a horse a gallon or so of 
 cold water whenever he is in - foam with heat, we halted for that 
 purpose, at a log inn in the wood, far rer oved from any other 
 residence. It consisted of one room, bare-roofed and bare-walled of 
 course, with a loft above. The ministering priest was a swarthy 
 young savage, in a shirt of cotton print like bed-furniture, and a pair 
 of ragged trousers. There were a couple of young boys, too. nearly 
 naked, lying idle by the well; and they, and he, and the traveUer at the 
 mn, turned out to look at us. 
 
 The traveller was an old man with a grey gristly beard two inches 
 long a shaggy moustache of the same hue, and enom.ous eyebrows- 
 which almost obscured his lazy, semi-drunken glance, as he stood 
 regarding us with folded arms: poising himself alternately upon his 
 toes and heels. On being addressed by one of the party, he drew 
 nearer and said, rubbing his chin (which scraped under his horny 
 hand like fresh gravel beneath a nailed shoe), that he was from Dela- 
 ware, and had lately bought a farm "down there," pointing into one 
 ot the marshes where the stunted trees were. thickest. He was "going " 
 he added, to St. Louis, to fetch his family, whom he had left behind- 
 but he seemed m no great hurry to bring on these incumbrances, for 
 when we moved away, he loitered back into the cabin, and was 
 plainly bent on stopping there so long as his money lasted. He was a 
 great politician of course, and explained his opinions at some length 
 to one of our company; but I only remember that he concluded with 
 two sentiments one of which was. Somebody for ever; and the other. 
 Blast everybody else! which is by no means a bad abstract of the 
 general creed in these mat+ers. 
 
 When the horses were swollen out to about twice their natural 
 dimensions (there seems to be an idea hftm fha^- +>ii= i^i"^ «f i«flo4.;^^ 
 improves their going), we went forward again, through muT and 
 mire, and damp, and festering heat, and brake and bush, attended 
 
 I 
 
144 
 
 American Notes 
 
 always by the music of the frogs and pigs, until nearly noon, when 
 we halted at a place called Belleville. 
 
 Belleville was a small collection of wooden houses, huddled 
 together in the very heart of the bush and swamp. Many of them 
 had singularly bright doors of red and yellow; for the place had been 
 lately visited by a travelling pamter, "who got along," as I was told, 
 "by eating his way." The criminal court was sitting, and was at that 
 moment trying some criminals for horse-stealirj;: with whom it would 
 most likely go hard: for live stock of all kinds being necessarily very 
 much exposed in the woods, is held by the community in rather 
 higher value than human life; and for this reason, juries generally 
 make a point of finding all men indicted for cattle-stealing, guilty, 
 whether or no. 
 
 The horses belonging to the bar, the judge, ar ^ witnesses, were 
 tied to temporary racks set up roughly in the roac y which is to be 
 understood, a forest path, nearly knee-deep in mv ^nd slime. 
 
 There was an hotel in this place, which, like all hotels in America, 
 had its large dining-room for the public table. It was an odd, sham- 
 bling, low-roofed out-house, half-cowshed and half-kitchen, with a 
 coarse brown canvas table-cloth, and tin sconces stuck against the 
 walls, to hold candles at supper-time. The horseman had gone forward 
 to have cofifee and some eatables prepared, and they were by this 
 time nearly ready. He had ordered "wheat-bread and chicken 
 fixing," in preference to "corn-bread and common doings." The 
 latter kind of refection includes only pork and bacon. The former 
 comprehends broiled ham, sausages, veal cutlets, steaks, and such 
 other viands of that nature as may be supposed, by a toleraoly wide 
 poetical construction, "to fix" a chicken comfortably in the digestive 
 organs of any lady or gentleman. 
 
 On one of the door-posts at this inn, was a tin plate, whereon was 
 inscribed in characters of gold, "Doctor Crocus;" and on a sheet of 
 paper, pasted up by the side of this plate, was a written announce- 
 ment that Dr. Crocus would that evening deliver a lecture on Phren- 
 ology for the benefit of the Belleville public; at a charge, for ad^nis- 
 sion, of so much a head. 
 
 Straying up-stairs, during the preparation of the chicken fixings, 
 I happened to pass the doctor's chamber; and as the door stood wide 
 open, and the room was empty, I made bold to peep in. 
 
 It was a bare, unfurnished, comfortless room, with an unframed 
 portrait hanging up at the head of the bed; a likeness I take it, of the 
 /^octor, for the forehead was fully displayed, and great stress was laid 
 ay the artist upon its phrenological develr oments. The bed itself was 
 covered with an old patch-work counterpane. The room was destitute 
 of carpet or of curtain. There was a damp fireplace without any stove, 
 full of wood ashes; a chair, and a very small table; and on the last- 
 named piece of furniture was displayed, 'n grand array, the doctor's 
 
 llVfc^O«»«» ^^^-k' 
 
 AJL S^'* "LUX. ■ 
 
 
 ^■C 
 
 .«. u^\e A^^^^ ««. 
 
 Liix^ \_-i ovuic iia.ii-u.VyZ.cii 
 
 gi-^-isy 
 
 -^u 1 1 
 
 Now, it certainly looked about the last apartment on the whole 
 
American Notes 
 
 145 
 
 earth out of which any man would be likely to get anything to do ' .m 
 good. But the door, as I have said, stood coaxingly open, and -^'amly 
 said in conjunction with the chair, the portrait, the table, a». 1 the 
 books, "Walk in, gentlemen, walk in I Don't be ill, gentlemen, when 
 you may be well in no time. Doctor « rocus is here, gentlemen, the 
 celebrated Dr. Croc v ! Doctor Crocus has come all this way to cure 
 you, gentlemen. If you haven't heard of Dr. Crocus, it's your fault, 
 gentlemen, who live a little way out of the wor'.d here: not Dr! 
 Crocus's. Walk in. gentlemen, walk in!" 
 
 In the passage below, when I went down-stairs again, was Dr. 
 Crocus himself. A crowd '^ad flocked in from the Court House, and a 
 voice from among them c, - 2d out to the landlord, ' * Colonel i introduce 
 Doctor Crocus." 
 "Mr. Dickens," says the colonel. "Doctor Crocus." 
 Upon which Doctor Crocus, who is a tall, fine-looking Scotchman, 
 but rather fierce and warlike in appearance for a professor of the 
 peaceful art of healing, bursts out of the concourse with his right arm 
 extended, and his chest thrown out as far as it will possibly come 
 and says: ' 
 
 "Your countryman, sir I" 
 
 Whereupon Doctor Crocus and I shake hands; and Doctor Crocus 
 looks as if I didn't by any means realise his expectations, which, in 
 a linen blouse, and a great straw hat. with a green ribbon, and' no 
 gloves, and my face and nose profusely ornamented with the stings 
 of mosquitoes and the bites of bugs, it is very likely I did not. 
 "Long in these parts, sir?" says I. 
 "Three or four months, sir," says the Doctor. 
 "Do you think of soon returning to the old country?" «?ayR I. 
 Doctor Crocus makes no verbfJ answer, but gives me an imploring 
 look, which says so plainly 'Will you ask me that ag^in. a little 
 louder, if you please?" that I repeat the question. 
 
 "Think of soon returning to the old country, sir!" repeats the 
 Doctor. 
 
 "To the old country, sir," I rejoin. 
 
 Doctor Crocus looks round upon the crowd to observe the effect 
 he produces, rubs his hands, and says, in a very loud voice: 
 
 "Not yet awhile, sir, not yet. You won't Cctch me at that just yet, 
 sir, I am a little too fond of freedom for that, sir. Ha, ha! It's not so 
 easy for a man to tear himself from a free country such as this is 
 sir. Ha, ha! No, no! Ha. ha! None of that till one's obliged to do it' 
 sir. No, no!" * 
 
 As Doctor Crocus says these latter words, he shakes his head, 
 knowingly, and laughs again. Many of the bystanders shake their 
 heads in concert with the doctor, and laugh too, and look at each 
 other as much as to say, "A pretty bright and first-rate sort of chap 
 is Crocus ! " and unless I am very much mistaken, a good many people 
 went to the lecture that night, who never thought about phrenology, 
 or about Doctor Crocus either, in all their lives before. 
 
 W. . I. 
 
iL. 
 
 
 II 
 
 Hi if' 
 
 I 
 .1 
 
 ii:< 
 
 146 
 
 American Notes 
 
 From Belleville, we went on, through the same desolate kind of 
 waste, and constantly attended, without the interval of a moment, 
 by the same music; until, at three o'clock in the afternoon, we 
 halted once more at a village called Lebanon to inflate the horses 
 again, and give them some corn besides: of which they stood much in 
 need. Pending this ceremony, I walked into the village, where I 
 met a full-sized dwelling-house coming down-hill at a round trot, 
 drawn by a score or more of oxen. 
 
 The public-house was so very clean and good a one, that the 
 managers of the jaunt resolved to rotum to it and put up there for 
 the night, if possible. This course decided on, and the horses being 
 well refreshed, we again pushed forward, and came upon the Prairie 
 at sunset. 
 
 It would be difficult to say why, or how — though it was possibly 
 from having heard and read so much about it — but the effect on me 
 was disappointment. Looking towards the setting sun, there lay, 
 stretched out before my view, a vast expanse of level ground; un- 
 broken, save by one thin line of trees, which scarcely amounted to a 
 scratch upon the great blank; until it met the glowing sky, wherein 
 it seemed to dip: mingling with its rich colours, and mellowing in its 
 distant blue. There it! lay, a tranquil sea or lake without water, if 
 such a simile be admissible, with the day going down upon it: a few 
 birds wheeling here and there: and solitude and silence reigning 
 paramount around. But the grass was not yet high; there were bare 
 black patches on the f;round; and the few wild flowers that the eye 
 could see, v"^re pc nnri scanty. Great as the picture was, its very 
 flatness and • 't^n ,. uich left nothing to the imagination, tamed it 
 down and ci ii|>.-,d s interest. I felt little of that sense of freedom 
 and exhilarat*-^ nich a Scottish heath inspires, or even our 
 English downs awaken. It was loiiely and wild, but oppressive in its 
 barren monotony. I felt that in traversing the Prairies, I could never 
 abandon myself to the scene, forgetful of all else; as I should do 
 instinctively, were the heathei underneath my feet, or an iron- 
 bound coast beyond; but should often glance towards the distant 
 and frequently-receding line of the >iorizon, and wish it gained and 
 passed. It is not a scene to be forgotten, but it is scarcely one, I 
 think (at ail events, as I saw it), to remember with much pleasure, 
 or to covet the looking-on again, in after-life. 
 
 We encamped near a solitary log-house, for the sake of its water, 
 and dined upon the plain. The baskets contained roast fowls, 
 buffalo's tongue (an exquisite dainty, by the way), ham, bread, 
 cheese, and butter; biscuits, champagne, sherry; lemons and sugar 
 for punch; and abundance of rough ice. The meal was delicious, and 
 the entertainers were the soul of kindness and good humour. I have 
 often recalled that cheerful party to my pleasant recollection since, 
 and shall not easily forget, in junketings nearer home with friends of 
 older date, my boon companions 01 the Prairie. 
 
 Returning to Lebanon that night, we lay at the little inn at which 
 
 
 we had 
 
 it woul 
 
 of a ho 
 
 Risir 
 villaee: 
 
American Notes 
 
 147 
 
 we had halted in the afternoon. In point of cleanliness and comfort 
 it would have suffered by no comparison with any English alehouse, 
 of a homely kind, in England. 
 
 Rising at five o'clock next morning, I took a walk about the 
 village: none of the houses were strolling about to-day, but it was 
 early for them yet, perhaps: and then amused myself by lounging 
 in a kind of xarm-yard behind the tavern, of which the leading 
 features were, a strange jumble of rough sheds for stables; a rude 
 colonnade, ! ailt as a cool place of summer resort; a deep v/ell; a 
 great earthen mound for keeping vegetables in, in winter time; and 
 a pigeon-house, whose little apertures looked, as they do in all 
 pigeon-houses, very much too small for the admission of the plump 
 and swelling-lDreasted birds who were strutting about it, though 
 they tried to get in never so hard. That interest exhausted, I took a 
 survey of the inn's two parlours, which were decorated with coloured 
 prints of Washington, and President Madison, and of a white-faced 
 young lady (much speckled by the flies), who held up her gold neck- 
 chain for the admiration of the spectator, and informed all admiring 
 comers that she was "Just Seventeen:" although I should have 
 thought her older. In the best room were two oil portraits of the kit- 
 cat size, representing the landlord and his infant son; both looking 
 as bold as lions, and staring out of the canvas with an intensity that 
 would have been cheap at any price, They were painted, I think, 
 by the artist who had touched up the Belleville doors with red and 
 gold; for I seemed to recognise his style immediately. 
 
 After breakfast, we started to return by a different way from that 
 which we had taken yesterday, and coming up at ten o'clock with 
 an encampment of German emigrants carrying their goods in carts, 
 who had made a rousing fire which they were just quitting, stopped 
 there to refresh. And very pleasant the fire was; for, hot though it 
 had been yesterday, it was quite cold to-day, and the wind blew 
 keenly. Looming in the distance, as we rode along, was another of 
 the ancient Indian burial-places, called The Monks' Mound; in 
 memory of a body of fanatics of the order of La Trappe, who founded 
 a desolate convent there, many years ago, when there were no 
 settlers within a thousand miles, and were all swept off by the 
 pernicious climate: in which lamentable fatality, few rational people 
 will suppose, perhaps, that society experienced any very severe 
 deprivation. 
 
 The track of to-day had the same features as the track of yester- 
 day. There was the swamp, the bush, and the perpetual chorus of 
 frogs, the rank unseemly growth, the unwholesome steaming earth. 
 Here and there, and frequently too, we encountered a solitary broken- 
 down waggon, full of some new settler's goods. It was a pitiful sight 
 to see one of these vehicles leep in the mire; the axletree broken; the 
 wheel lying idly by ts side; the man eone miles? away, to look for 
 assistance; the woman seated among their wandering household 
 gods with a baby at her breast, a picture of forlorn, dejected 
 
 t II 
 
 I 
 
148 
 
 American Notes 
 
 WW 
 
 
 patience; the team of oxen crouching down mournfully in the mud, 
 and breathing forth such clouds of vapour from their mouths and 
 nostrils, that all the damp mist and fog around seemed to have come 
 direct from them. 
 
 In due time we mustered once again before the merchant tailor's, 
 and having done so, crossed over to the city in the ferry-boat: 
 passing, on the way, a spot called Bloody Island, the duelling-ground 
 of St. Louis, and so designated in honour of the last fatal combat 
 fought there, which was with pistols, breast to breast. Both com- 
 batants fell dead upon the ground; and possibly some rational people 
 may think of them, as of the gloomy madmen on the Monks' Mound, 
 that they were no great loss to the community 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 RETURN TO CINCINNATI. A STAGE-COACH RIDE FROM THAT CITY TO 
 COLUMBUS, AND THENCE TO SANDUSKY. SO, BY LAKE ERIE, 
 TO THE FALLS OF NIAGARA 
 
 As I had a desire to travel through the interior of the state of Ohio, 
 and to "strike the lakes," as the phrase is, at a small town called 
 Sandusky, to which that route would conduct us on our way to 
 Niagara, we had to return from St. Louis by the way we had come, 
 and to retrace our former track as far as Cincinnati. 
 
 The day on which we were to take leave of St. Louis being very 
 fine; and the steamboat, which was to have started I don't know 
 how early in the morning, postponing, for the third or fourth time, 
 her departure until the afternoon; we rode forward to an old French 
 village on the river, called properly Carondelet, and nicknamed Vide 
 Pochs, and arranged that the packet should call for us there. 
 
 The place consisted of a few poor cottages, and two or three 
 public-houses; the state of whose larders certainly seemed to justify 
 the second designation of the village, for there was nothing to eat in 
 any of them. At length, however, by going back some half a mile or 
 so, we found a solitary house where ham ana coffee were procurable; 
 and there we tarried to await the advent of the boat, which would 
 come in sight from the green before the door, a long way off. 
 
 It was a neat, unpretending village tavern, and we took our repast 
 in a quaint little room with a bed in it, decorated with some old oil 
 paintings, which in their time had probably done duty in a Catholic 
 chapel or monastery. The fare was very good, and served with great 
 cleanliness. The house was kept by a characteristic old couple, with 
 whom we had a long talk, and who were perhaps a very good sample 
 of that kind of people in the West. 
 
 The la 
 old eith( 
 had beti 
 seen all 
 near seei 
 and loco 
 the son ( 
 said (slij 
 the roon 
 the hou£ 
 morrow 
 proper t 
 serve as 
 year to 
 behind t 
 left thoi 
 succeed. 
 
 His wi 
 with hin 
 Philadel] 
 had littl( 
 die here 
 heart wa 
 even to : 
 eased it 
 
 The b( 
 old lady 
 place, wi 
 and stea 
 
 If the 
 stream, 1 
 current i 
 twelve o 
 labyrintl 
 to see be 
 for five : 
 again, so 
 dealt in 
 enough 1 
 Looking 
 with mo 
 came sta 
 way amc 
 for the n 
 a long in 
 about he 
 that she 
 was Cv.n£ 
 
American Notes 
 
 149 
 
 The landlord was a dry, tough, hard-faced old fellow (not so very 
 old either, for he was but just turned sixty, I should think), who 
 had been out with the militia in the last war with England, and had 
 seen all kinds of service, — except a battle; and he had been very 
 near seeing that, he added: very near. He had all his life been restless 
 and locomotive, with an irresistible desire for change; and was still 
 the son of his old self: for if he had nothing to keep him at home, he 
 said (slightly jerking his hat and his thumb towards the window of 
 the room in which the old lady sat, as we stood talking in front of 
 the house), he would clean up his musket, and be off to Texas to- 
 morrow morning. He was one of the very many descendants of Cain 
 proper to this continent, who seem destined from their birth to 
 serve as pioneers in the great human army: who gladly go on from 
 year to year extending its outposts, and leaving home after home 
 behind them; and die at last, utterly regardless of their graves being 
 left thousands of miles behind, by the wandering generation who 
 succeed. 
 
 His wife was a domesticated, kind-hearted old soul, who had come 
 with him, "from the queen city of the world," which, it seemed, was 
 Philadelphia; but had no love for this Western country, and indeed 
 had little reason to bear it any; having seen her children, one by one, 
 die here of fever, in the full prime and beauty of their youth. Her 
 heart was sore, she said, to think of them; and to talk on this theme, 
 even to strangers, in that blighted place, so far from her old home, 
 eased it somewhat, and became a melancholy pleasure. 
 
 The boat appearing towards evening, we bade adieu to the poor 
 old lady and her vagrant spouse, and making for the nearest landing- 
 place, were soon on board The Messenger again, in our old cabin, 
 and steaming down the Mississippi. 
 
 If the coming up this river, slowly making head against the 
 stream, be an irksome journey, the shooting down it with the turbid 
 current is almost worse; for then the boat, proceeding at the rate of 
 twelve or fifteen miles an hour, has to force its passage through a 
 labyrinth of floating logs, which, in the dark, it is often npossible 
 to see beforehand or avoid. All that night, the bell was never silent 
 for five minutes at a time; and after every ring the vessel reeled 
 again, sometimes beneath a single blow, sometimes beneath a dozen 
 dealt in quick succession, the lightest of which seemed more than 
 enough to beat in her frail keel, as though it had been pie-crust. 
 Looking down upon the filthy river after dark, it seemed to be alive 
 with monsters, as these black masses rolled upon the surface, or 
 came starting up again, head first, when the boat, in ploughing her 
 way among a shoal of such obstructions, drove a few among them 
 for the moment under water. Sometimes the engine stopped during 
 a long interval, and then before her and behind, and gathering close 
 about her on all sides, were so many of these ill-favoured obstacles 
 that she was fairly lieiumed in; the centre of a floating island; and 
 was constrained to pause until they parted, somewhere, as dark 
 
It 
 
 ill 
 
 150 
 
 American Notes 
 
 clouds will do before the wind, and opened by degrees a channel out. 
 
 In good time next morning, however, we came again in sight of 
 the detestable morass called Cairo; and stopping there to take in 
 wood, lay alongside a barge, whose starting timbers scarcely held 
 together. It was moored to the bank, and on its side was painted 
 "Coffee House;" that being, I suppose, the floating paradise to 
 which the people fly for shelter when they lose their houses for a 
 month or two beneath the hideous waters of the Mississippi. But 
 looking southwards from this point, we had the satisfaction of seeing 
 that intolerable river dragging its slimy length and ugly freight 
 abruptly off towards New Orleans; and passing a yellow line which 
 stretched across the current, were again upon the clear Ohio, never, 
 I trust, to see the Mississippi more, saving in troubled dreams and 
 nightmares. Leaving it for the company of its sparkling neighbour, 
 was like the transition from pain to ease, or the awakening from a 
 horrible vision to cheerful realities. 
 
 We arrived at Louisville on the fourth night, and gladly availed 
 ourselves of its excellent hotel. Next day we went on in the Ben 
 Franklin, a beautiful mail steamboat, and reached Cincinnati shortly 
 after midnight. Being by this time nearly tired of sleeping upon 
 shelves, we had remained awake to go ashore straightway; and 
 groping a passage across the dark decks of other boats, and among 
 labyrinths of engine-machinery and leaking casks of molasses, we 
 reached the streets, knocked up the porter at the >otel where we had 
 stayed before, and were, to our great joy, safely housed soon after- 
 wards. 
 
 We rested but one day at Cincinnati, and then resumed our journey 
 to Sandusky. As it comprised two varieties of stage-coach travelling, 
 which, with those I have already glanced at, comprehend the main 
 characteristics of this mode of transit in America, I will take the 
 reader as our fellow-passenger, and pledge myself to perform the 
 distance with all possible despatch. 
 
 Our place of destination in the first instance is Columbus. It is 
 distant about a hundred and twenty miles from Cincinnati, but there 
 is a macadamised road (rare blessing!) the whole way, and the rate 
 of travelling upon it is six miles an hour. ' 
 
 We start at eight o'clock in the morning, in a great mail-coach, 
 whose I uge cheeks are so very ruddy and plethoric, that it appears 
 to be troubled with a tendency of blood to the head. Dropsical it 
 certainly is, for it will hold a dozen passengers inside. But, wonderful 
 to add, it is very clean and bright, being nearly new; and rattles 
 through the streets of Cincinnati gaily. 
 
 Our way lies through a beautiful country, richly cultivated, and 
 luxuriant in its promise of an abundant harvest. Sometimes we pass 
 a field where the strong bristling stalks of Indian corn look like a 
 crop of walking-sticks, and sometimes an enclosure where the green 
 wheat is springing up among a iabjorinth of stumps; the primitive 
 worm-fence is universal, and an ugly thing it is; but the farms are 
 
American Notes 
 
 151 
 
 neatly kept and. save for these differences, one might be travelling 
 just now m Kent. ^ 
 
 We often stop to water at a roadside inn, which is always dull 
 and silent. The coachman dismounts and fills his bucket, and holds 
 It to the horses' heads. There is scarcely ever any one to help him- 
 there are seldom any loungers standing round; and never any stable- 
 company with jokes to crack. Sometimes, when we have changed 
 our team, there is a difficulty in starting again, arising out of the 
 prevalent mode of breaking a young horse: which is to catch him 
 harness him against his will, and put him in a stage-coach without 
 further notice: but we get on somehow or other, after a great many 
 kicks and a violent struggle; and jog on as before again. 
 
 Occasionally, when we stop to change, some two or three half- 
 drunken loafers will come loitering out with then: hands in their 
 pockets, or will be seen kicking their heels in rocking-chairs or 
 lounging on the wmdow-sill, or sitting on a rail within the colonnade- 
 they have not often anything to say though, either to us or to each 
 other, but sit there idly staring at the coach and horses. The landlord 
 of the mn is usually among them, and seems, of all the party, to be 
 the least connected with the business of the house. Indeed he is 
 with reference to the tavern, what the driver is in relation to the 
 coach and passengers: whatever happens in his sphere of action he 
 is quite indifferent, and perfectly easy in his mind. 
 
 The frequent change of coachmen works no change or variety in 
 the coachman's character. He is always durty. sullen, and taciturn. 
 11 he be capable of smartness of any kind, moral or physical, he has 
 a faculty of concealing it which is truly marvellous. He never speaks 
 to you as you sit beside him on the box, and if you speak to him he 
 answers (if at all) in monosyllables. He points out nothing on the 
 road and seldom looks at anything: being, to all appearance, thor- 
 oughly weary of it and of existence generally. As to doing the 
 honours of his coach, his business, as I have said, is with the horses. 
 1 he coach follows because it is attached to them and goes on wheels- 
 not because you are in it. Sometimes, towards the end of a long stage' 
 he suddenly breaks out into a discordant fragment of an election 
 song, but his face never sings along with him: it is only his voice 
 and not often that. ' 
 
 He always chews and always spits, and never encumbers himself 
 with a pocket-handkerchief. The consequences to the box passenger 
 especially when the wind blows towards him, are not agreeable ' 
 
 Whenever the coach stops, and you can hear the voices of the 
 mside passengers; or whenever any bystander addresses them or 
 any one among them; or they address each other; you will hear one 
 phrase repeated over and over and over again to the most extra- 
 ordinary extent. It IS an ordinary and unpromising phrase enough 
 being neither more nor less than "Yes, sir;" but it is adapted +0 
 
 Sr^tioi^fThus-l"''"'''^''''^' ^"""^ ^^^" "P ^""^"^ pause ^in "the 
 
 
152 
 
 American Notes 
 
 !>■ 
 
 The time is one o'clock at noon. The scene, a place where we are 
 to stay and dine, on this journey. The coach drives up to the door cf 
 an inn. The day is warm, and there are several idlers lingering about 
 the tavern, and waiting for the public dinner. Among them, is a 
 stout gentleman in a brown hat, swinging himself to and fro in a 
 rocking-chair on the pavement. 
 
 As the coach stops, a gentleman in a straw hat looks out of the 
 window: 
 
 Straw Hat. (To the stout gentleman in the rocking-chair.) 1 
 reckon that's Judge Jefferson, an't it? 
 
 Brown Hat. (Still swinging; speaking very slowly; and without 
 any emotion whatever.) Yes, sir. 
 
 Straw Hat. Warm weather, Judge. 
 
 Brown Hat. Yes, sir. 
 
 Straw Hat. There was a snap of cold, last week. 
 
 Brown Hat. Yes, «^ir. 
 
 Straw Hat. Yes, sir. 
 
 A. pause. They look at each other, very seriously. 
 
 Straw Hat. I calculate you'll have got through that case of the 
 corporation. Judge, by this time, now? 
 
 Brown Hat. Yes, sir^ 
 
 Straw Hat. How did the verdict go, sir? 
 
 Brown Hat. For the defendant, sir. 
 
 Straw Hat. ( Interrogatively.) Yes, sir? 
 
 Brown Hat. (Affirmatively.) Yes, sir. 
 
 Both. (Musingly, as each gazes down the street.) Yes, sir. 
 
 Another pause. They look at each other again, still more seriously 
 than before. 
 
 Brown Hat. This coach is rather behind its time to-day, I guess. 
 
 Straw Hat. (Doubtingly.) Yes, sir. 
 
 Brown Hat. (Looking at his watch.) Yes, sir; nigh upon two 
 hours. 
 
 Straw Hat. (Raising his eyebrows in very great surprise.) Yes, 
 sir! 
 
 Brown Hat. (Decisively, as he puts up his watch.) Yes, sir. 
 
 All the other inside Passengers. (Among themselves.) Yes, 
 sir. 
 
 Coachman. (In a very surly tone.) No it an't. 
 
 Straw Hat. (To the coachman.) Well, I don't know, sir. We were 
 a pretty tali time coming that last fifteen mile. That's a fact. 
 
 The coachman making no reply, and plainly declining to enter 
 into any controversy on a subject so far removed from his sympathies 
 and feelings, another passenger says, "Yes, sir;" and the gentleman 
 in the straw hat in acknowledgment of his courtesy, says "Yes, sir," 
 to him, in return. The straw hat then inquires of the brown hat, 
 whether that coach in which he (the straw hat) tiien sits, is not a 
 new one? To wiisch the brown i^at again maices answer, j. es, sir. 
 
 Straw Hat. I thought so. Pretty loud smell of varnish, sir? 
 
 Brow: 
 
 All ti 
 Brow: 
 The c< 
 time pre 
 out; and 
 boarders 
 As they ; 
 but it is 
 or mone^ 
 reluctani 
 but I ne 
 induced 
 quality c 
 rather su 
 by way 
 spirituou 
 of such 
 tavern-k( 
 Dinnei 
 (for the 
 journey; 
 evening, 
 supper; a 
 through 1 
 (the draj 
 a piece oi 
 There be 
 very mel 
 head of i 
 his wife a 
 than per 
 subjects ( 
 In it we I 
 when we 
 hour or s( 
 ton over 
 table: to ■ 
 selves the 
 Sangrado 
 a very bi 
 and stati 
 always sp 
 with ver^ 
 me how t 
 away and 
 this uncle 
 he were t 
 
 i^ 
 
American Notes 
 
 153 
 
 Brown Hat. Yes, sir. 
 
 All the other inside Passengers. Yes, sir. 
 
 Brown Hat. (To the company in general.) Yes, sir. 
 
 The conversational powers of the company having been by this 
 time pretty heavily taxed, the straw hat opens the door and gets 
 out; and all the rest alight also. We dine soon afterwards with the 
 boarders in the house, and have nothing to drink but tea and coffee. 
 As they are both very bad and the water is worse, I ask for brandy; 
 but it is a Temperance Hotel, and spirits are not to be had for love 
 or money. This preposterous forcing of unpleasant drinks down the 
 reluctant throats of travellers is not at all uncommon in America, 
 but I never discovered that the scruples of such wincing landlords 
 induced them to preserve any unusually nice balance between the 
 quality of their fare, and their scale of charges: on the contrary, I 
 rather suspected them of diminishing the one and exalting the other, 
 by way of recompense for the loss of their profit on the sale of 
 spirituous liquors. After ail, perhaps, the p' linest course for persons 
 of such tender consciences, would be ,, total abstinence from 
 tavern-keeping. 
 
 Dinner over, we get into another vehicle which is ready at the door 
 (for the coach has been changed in the interval), and resume our 
 journey; which continues through the same kind of country until 
 evening, when we come to the town where we are to stop for tea and 
 supper; and having delivered the mail bags at the Post-office, ride 
 through the usual wide street, lined with the usual stores and houses 
 (the drapers always having hung up at their door, by way of sign, 
 a piece of bright red cloth), to the hotel where this meal is prepared! 
 There being many boarders here, we sit down, a large party, and a 
 very melancholy one as usual. But there is a buxom hostess at the 
 head of the table, and opposite, a simple Welsh schoolmaster with 
 his wife and child; who came here, on a speculation of greater promise 
 than performance, to teach the classics: and they are sufficient 
 subjects of interest until the meal is over, and another coach is ready. 
 In it we go on once more, lighted by a bright moon, until midnight; 
 when we stop to change the coach again, and remain for half an 
 hour or so in a miserable room, with a blurred lithograph of Washing- 
 ton over the smoky fireplace, and a mighty jug of cold water on the 
 table: to which refreshment the moody passengers do so apply them- 
 selves that they would seem to be, one and all, keen patients of Dr. 
 Sangrado. Among them is a very little boy, who chews tobacco like 
 a very big one; and a droning gentleman, who talks arithmetically 
 and statistically on all subjects, from poetry downwards; and who 
 always speaks in the same key, with exactly the same emphasis, and 
 with very grave deliberation. He came outside just now, and told 
 me how that the uncle of a certain young lady who had been spirited 
 away and married by a certain captain, lived in these parts; and how 
 this uncle was so valiant and ferocious that he shouldn't wonder if 
 he were to follow the said captain to England, "and shoot him dov/n 
 
 }'j» : 
 
i 
 
 
 154 
 
 American Notes 
 
 in the street wherever he found him," in the feasibility of which 
 strong measure I. being for the moment rather prone to contradic- 
 tion, from feeling half asleep and very tired, declined to acquiesce: 
 assuring him that if the uncle did resort to it, or gratified any other 
 little whim of the like nature, he would find himself one morning 
 prematurely throttled at the Old Bailey: and that he would do well 
 to make his will before he went, as he would certainly want it 
 before he had been in Britain very long. 
 
 On we go, all night, and by-and-by the day begins to break, 
 and presently the first cheerful rays of the warm sun come slanting 
 on us brightly. It sheds its light upon a miserable waste of sodden 
 grass, and dull trees, and squalid huts, whose aspect is forlorn and 
 grievous in the last degree. A very desert in the wood, whose growth 
 of green is dank and noxious like that upon the top of standmg 
 water: where poisonous fungus grows in the rare footprint on the 
 oozy ground, and sprouts like witches' coral, from the crevices in 
 the cabin wall and floor; it is a hideous thing to lie upon the very 
 threshold of a city. But it was purchased years ago, and as the owner 
 cannot be discovered, the State has been unable to reclaim it. So 
 there it remains, in the midst of cultivation and improvement, like 
 ground accursed, and m^-de obscene and rank by some great crime. 
 We reached Columbus shortly before seven o'clock, and stayed 
 there, to refresh, that day and night: having excellent apartments in 
 a very lar-c unfinished hotel called the Neill House, which were 
 richly fitted with the polished wood of the black walnut, and opened 
 on a handsome portico and stone verandah, like rooms in some 
 Italian mansion. The town is clean and pretty, and of course is 
 "going to be" much larger. It is the seat of the State legislature of 
 Ohio, and lays claim, in consequence, to some consideration and 
 importance. 
 
 There being no stage-coach next day, upon the road we wished to 
 take, I hired "an extra," at a reasonable charge, to carry us to Tiffin; 
 a small town from whence there is a railroad to Sandusky. This 
 extra was an ordinary four-horse stage-coach, such as I have de- 
 scribed, changing horses and drivers, as the stage-coach would, but 
 was exclusively our own for the journe)^. To ensure our having 
 horses at the proper stations, and being incommoded by no strangers, 
 the proprietors sent an agent on the box, who was to accompany us 
 the whole way through; and thus attended, and bearing with us, 
 besides a hamper full of savoury cold meats, and fruit, and wine,' 
 we started off again in high spirits, at half-past six o'clock next 
 morning, very much delighted to be by ourselves, and disposed to 
 enjoy even the roughest journey. 
 
 It was well for us, that we were in this humour, for the road we 
 went over that day, was certainly enough to have shaken tempers 
 that were not resolutely at Set Fair, down to some inches below 
 wtorm3\ At one time we were all fiung together in a heap at the 
 bottom of the coach, and at another we were crushing our heads 
 
 against 
 
 were he 
 
 of the t 
 
 state, w 
 
 eminen< 
 
 "Unhar 
 
 certain! 
 
 so twisi 
 
 fashion, 
 
 circums 
 
 with th 
 
 nothing, 
 
 expecte( 
 
 getting 
 
 called a 
 
 into a m 
 
 the jolts 
 
 enough, 
 
 body. It 
 
 in any c 
 
 to the tc 
 
 was the 
 
 we are 
 
 approacl 
 
 vehicle t 
 
 Still, i 
 
 though A 
 
 leaving 1 
 
 alighted 
 
 on a fall 
 
 and our 
 
 like grai: 
 
 commissi 
 
 As nig 
 
 at last it 
 
 find his A 
 
 that ther 
 
 a wheel \ 
 
 he was fa 
 
 upon the 
 
 from fur 
 
 horses ha 
 
 for that; 
 
 such a V 
 
 along, qu 
 
 These s 
 
 The vary 
 
 grows da] 
 
American Notes 155 
 
 against the roof. Now. one side was down deep in the ..lire, and we 
 were holding on to the other. Now. the coach was lying on the tails 
 of the two wheelers; and now it was rearing up in the air. in a frantic 
 state, with all four horses standing on tke top of an insurmountable 
 eminence. looking coolly back at it, as though they would sav 
 Unharness us. It can't be done." The drivers on these roads who 
 certainly get over the ground in a manner which is quite miraculous 
 so twist and turn the team about in forcing a passage, corkscrew 
 fashion, through the bogs and swamps, that it was quite a common 
 circumstance on looking out of the window, to see the coachman 
 with the ends of a pair of reins in his hands, apparently driving 
 nothing, or playing at horses, and the leaders scaring at one un- 
 expectedly from the back of the coach, as if they had some idea of 
 getting up behind. A great portion of the way was over what is 
 called a corduroy road, which is made by throwing trunks of trees 
 mto a marsh, and leaving them to settle there. The very slightest of 
 the jolts with which the ponderous can ge fell from log to log was 
 enough, it seemed, to have dislocated all the bones in the human 
 body. It would be impossible to experience a similar set of sensations 
 in any other circumstances, unless perhaps in attempting to go up 
 to the top of St. Paul's in an omnibus. Never, never once that dav 
 was the coach in any position, attitude, or kind of motion to which 
 we are accustomed in coaches. Never did it make the smallest 
 approach to one's experience of the proceedings of anv sort of 
 vehicle that goes on wheels. 
 
 Still, it was a l.ne day. and the temperature was delicious and 
 though we had left Summer behind us in the west, and were fast 
 leaving Spring, we were moving towards Niagara and homr We 
 alighted in a pleasant wood towards the middle of the day dined 
 on a fallen tree, and leaving our best fragments with a cottager 
 and our worst with the pigs (who swarm in this part of the countr^^ 
 like grains of sand on the sea-shore, to the great comfort of our 
 commissariat in Canada), we went forward again, gaily. 
 
 As night came on, the track grew narrower and narrower until 
 at last it so lost Itself among the trees, that the driver seemed to 
 find his way by instinct. We had the comfort of knowing at least 
 that there was no danger of his falling asleep, for every now' and then 
 a wheel would strike against an unseen stump with such a jerk that 
 he was fain to hold on pretty tight and pretty quick, to keep himself 
 upon the box. Nor was there any reason to dread the least danger 
 from furious driving, inasmuch as over that broken ground the 
 horses had enough to do to walk; as to shying, there was no room 
 for that; and a herd of wild elephants could not have run away in 
 such a wood, with such a coach at their heels. So we stumbled 
 along, quite satisfied. 
 
 These stumps of trees are a curious featnrA in Amorio-ir, +^o,,«ii:-„ 
 I he varymg illusions they present to the unaccustomed eye as it 
 grows dark, are quite astonishing in their number and reality. Now, 
 
 m-ii 
 
 1 ' 
 
 E I 
 
156 
 
 American Notes 
 
 :t* ( 
 
 f SI* 
 
 T ( 
 
 kill' 
 
 there is a Grecian urn erected in the centre of a lonely field; now there 
 is a woman weeping at a tomb; now a very commonplace old gentle- 
 man in a white waistcoat, with a thumb thrust into each arm-hole 
 of his coat; now a student poring on a book; now a crouching negro; 
 now, a horse, a dog, a cannon, an armed man; a hunch-back throw- 
 ing off his cloak and stepping forth into the light. They were often 
 as entertaining to me as so many glasses in a magic lantern, and 
 never took their shapes at my bidding, but seemed to force them- 
 selves upon me, whether I would or no; and strange to say, I some- 
 times recognised in them counterparts of figures once familiar to me 
 in pictures attached to childish books, forgotten long ago. 
 
 It soon became too dark, however, even for this amusement, and 
 the trees were so close together that their dry branches rattled 
 against the coach on either side, and obliged us all to keep our heads 
 within. It lightened too, for three whole hours; each flash being very 
 bright, and blue, and long; and as the vivid streaks came darting in 
 among the crowded branches, and the thunder rolled gloomily above 
 the tree tops, one could scarcely help thinking that there were better 
 neighbourhoods at such a time than thick woods afforded. 
 
 At length, between ten and eleven o'clock at night, a few feeble 
 lights appeared in the distance, and Upper Sandusky, an Indian 
 village, where we were to stay till morning, lay before us. 
 
 They were gone to bed at the log Inn, which was the only house 
 of entertainment in the place, but soon answered to our knocking, 
 and got some tea for us in a sort of kitchen or common room, 
 tapestried with old newspapers, pasted against the wall. The bed- 
 chamber to which my wife - nd I were shown, was a large, low, 
 ghostly room; with a quantity of withered branches on the hearth' 
 and two doors without any fastening, opposite to each other, both 
 opening on the black night and wild country, and so contrived, that 
 one of them always blew the other open; a novelty in domestic 
 architecture, which I do not remember to have seen before, and 
 which I was somewhat disconcerted to have forced on my attention 
 after getting into bed, as I had a considerable sum in gold for our 
 travelling expenses, in my dressing-case. Some of the luggage, how- 
 ever, piled against the panels, soon settled this difficulty, and my 
 sleep would not have been very much affected that night, I believe, 
 though it had failed to do so. 
 
 My Boston friend climbed up to bed, somewhere in the roof, 
 where another guest was already snoring hugely. But being bitten 
 beyond his power of endurance, he turned out &.gain, and fled for 
 shelter tc the coach, which was airing itself in front of the house. 
 This was not a very politic step, as it turned out; for the pigs scenting 
 him, and looking upon the coach as a kind of pie with some manner 
 of meat inside, grunted round it so hideously, that he was afraid to 
 come out again, and lay there shivering, till morning. N'^r was it 
 possible to warm hirn, when he did come out, by means of a glass of 
 brandy: for in Indian villages, the legislature, with a very good and 
 
 '.vise inte 
 precautic 
 to procu] 
 pedlars. 
 
 It is a 
 Among t 
 had been 
 in condu( 
 eluded a 
 in consid 
 some Ian 
 way beyc 
 attachme 
 to the bi 
 to leave 
 with pair 
 The ques- 
 among tl 
 the logs c 
 speaking 
 and even 
 known, t] 
 withdrew 
 
 We me 
 ponies. T 
 have seer 
 matter of 
 people. 
 
 Leavin; 
 again, ov 
 arrived a 
 two o'cloi 
 slow, its 
 marshy; j 
 put up at 
 there thai 
 a steamb 
 sluggish a 
 an Englis 
 
 Our hos 
 able, was 
 from New 
 When I s{ 
 his hat on 
 and lay dc 
 and read i 
 of the cou 
 been disaj 
 
American Notes 
 
 157 
 
 '.vise intention, forbids the sale of spirits by tavern keepers. The 
 precaution, however, is quite inefficacious, for the Indians never fail 
 to procure liquor of a worse kind, at a dearer price, from travelling 
 pedlars. 
 
 It is a settlement of the Wyandot Indians who inhabit this place. 
 Among the company at breakfast was a mild old gentleman, who 
 had been for many years employed by the United States Government 
 m conducting negotiations with the Indians, and who had just con- 
 cluded a treaty with these people by which they bound themselves, 
 in consideration of a certain annual sum, to remove next year to 
 some land piwyided for them, west of the Mississippi, and a little 
 way beyond St. Louis. He gave me a moving account of their strong 
 attachment to the familiar scenes of their infancy, and in particular 
 to the burial-places of their kindred; and of their great reluctance 
 to leave them. He had witnessed many such removals, and always 
 with pain, though he knew that they departed for their own good. 
 The question whether this tribe should go or stay, had been discussed 
 among them a day or two before, in a hut erected for the purpose, 
 the logs of which still lay upon the ground before the inn. When the 
 speaking was done, the ayes and noes were ranged on opposite sides, 
 and every male adult voted in his turn. The moment the result was 
 known, the minority (a large one) cheerfully yielded to the rest, and 
 withdrew all kind of opposition. 
 
 We met some of these poor Indians afterwards, riding on shaggy 
 ponies. They were so like the meaner sort of gipsies, that if I could 
 have seen any of them in England. I should have concluded, as a 
 matter of course, that they belonged to that wandering ani restless 
 people. 
 
 Leaving this town directly after breakfast, we pushed forward 
 agam, over a rather worse road than yesterday, if possible, and 
 arrived about noon at Tiffin, where we parted with the extra. At 
 two o'clock we took the railroad; the travelling on which was very 
 slow, its construction being indifferent, and the ground wet and 
 marshy; and arrived at Sandusky in time to dine that evening. We 
 put up at a comfortable little hotel on the brink of Lake Erie, lay 
 there that night, and had no choice but to wait there next day, until 
 a steamboat bound for Buffalo appeared. The town, which was 
 sluggish and uninteresting enough, was something hke the back of 
 an English watering-place, out of the season. 
 
 Our host, who was very attentive and anxious to make us comfort- 
 able, was a handsome middle-aged man, who had come to this town 
 from New England, in which part of the country he was "raised." 
 When I say that he constantly walked in and out of the room with 
 his hat on; and stopped to converse in the same free-and-easy state; 
 and lay down on our sofa, and pulled his newspaper out of his pocket, 
 and read it at his ease; I merely mention these traits as characteristic 
 of the country: not at ail as being matter of complaint, or as having 
 been disagreeable to me. I should undoubtedly be offended by such 
 
 1^ 1 
 
 t| 
 
158 
 
 American Notes 
 
 Hil' 
 
 proceedings at home, because there they are not the custom, and 
 where they are not, they would be impertinencies; but in America, 
 the only desire of a good-natured fellow of this kind, is to treat his 
 guests hospitably and well; and I had no more right, and I can truly 
 say no more disposition, to measure his conduct by our English rule 
 and standard, than I had to quarrel with him for not being of the 
 exact p';ature which would qualify him for admission into the Queen's 
 grenadier guards. As little inclination had I to find fault with a funny 
 old lady who was an upper domestic in this establishment, and who, 
 when she came to wait upon us at any meal, sat herself down com- 
 fortably in the most convenient chair, and producing a large pin to 
 pick her teeth with, remained performing that ceremony, and stead- 
 fastly regarding us meanwhile with much gravity and composure 
 (now and then pressing us to eat a little more), until it was time to 
 clear away. It was enough for us, that whatever we wished done was 
 done with great civility and readiness, and a desire to oblige, not 
 only here, but everywhere else; and that all our wants were, in 
 general, zealously anticipated. 
 
 We were taking an early dinner at this house, on the day after our 
 arrival, which was Sunday, when a steamboat came in sight, and 
 presently touched at the wharf. As she proved to be on her way to 
 Buffalo, we hurried on board with all speed, and soon left Sandusky 
 far behind us. 
 
 She was a large vessel of five hundred tons, and handsomely fitted 
 up, though with high-pressure engines; which always conveyed that 
 kind of feeling to me, which I should be likely to experiencfe, I think, 
 if I had lodgings on the first-floor of a powder-mill. She was laden 
 with flour, some casks of which commodity were stored upon the 
 deck. The captain coming up to have a little conversation, and to 
 introduce a friend, seated himself astride of one of these barrels, like 
 a Bacchus of private life; and pulling a great clasp-knife out of his 
 pocket, began to "whittle" it as he talked, by paring thin slices off 
 the edges. And he whittled with such industry and hearty good will, 
 that but for his being called away very soon, it must have disap- 
 peared bodily, and left nothing in its place but grist f^nd shavings. 
 
 After calling at one or two flat places, with low dams stretching 
 out into the lake, whereon were stumpy lighthouses, like windmills 
 without sails, the whole looking like a Dutch vignette, we came at 
 midnight to Cleveland, where we lay all night, and until nine o'clock 
 next morning. 
 
 I entertained quite a curiosity in reference to this place, from 
 having s an at Sandusky a specimen of its literature in the shape of 
 a newspaper, which was very strong indeed upon the subject of 
 Lord Ashburton's recent arrival at Washington, to adjust the points 
 in dispute between tne United States Government and Great Britain: 
 informing its readers that as America had "whipped" England in her 
 
 sary that she must whip her once again in her maturity; and pledging 
 
 its credil 
 
 the appr( 
 
 in doubh 
 
 Doodle i 
 
 Westmin 
 
 beholdinj 
 
 just quot 
 
 the parai 
 
 man in h 
 
 There 
 
 learned 1 
 
 from the 
 
 unwittinf 
 
 or wherei 
 
 dissatisfy 
 
 ludicrous 
 
 and couk 
 
 leaned up 
 
 my dear. 
 
 "Boz kee 
 
 not very 
 
 done with 
 
 elapsed, c 
 
 from side 
 
 "I suppoj 
 
 all our m 
 
 board a b 
 
 We call 
 
 there an 
 
 Buffalo, V 
 
 to wait p; 
 
 morning s 
 
 It was J 
 
 the trees ; 
 
 the train 1 
 
 my eyes ir 
 
 the river 
 
 behold th( 
 
 I saw two 
 
 the depth! 
 
 then for t 
 
 the groun( 
 
 The bai 
 
 melted ice 
 
 bottom, ai 
 
 and had j< 
 
 half-blind« 
 
 of the Am< 
 
American Notes 
 
 159 
 
 ftffl'j 
 
 Its credit to all True Americans, that if Mr. Webster did his duty in 
 the approaching negotiations, and sent the English Lord home again 
 in double quick time, they should, within two years, sing "Yankee 
 Doodle m Hyde Park, and Hail Columbia in the scarlet courts of 
 Westminster!" I found it a pretty town, and had the satisfaction of 
 beholding the outside of the office of the journal from which I 1 ve 
 just quoted. I did not enjoy the delight of seeing the wit who indited 
 the paragraph in question, but I have no doubt he is a prodigious 
 man m his way, and held in high repute by a select circle. 
 
 There was a gentleman on board, to whom, as I uniatentionally 
 learned through the thin partition which divided our state-room 
 froni the cabin in which he and his wife conversed together, I was 
 unwittingly the occasion of very great uneasiness. I don't know why 
 or wherefore, but I appeared to run in iiis mind perpetually, and to 
 dissatisfy him very much. First of all I heard him cay: an. I the most 
 ludicrous part of the business was, that he said it in my very ear, 
 and could not have communicated more directly with me, if he had 
 leaned upon my shoulder, and whispered me: 'Boz is m board still, 
 my dear." After a considerable pause, he added, com >lainingly, 
 • Boz keeps himself very < 'ose;" which was true enough, for I was 
 not very well, and was i>in^' down, with a book. I thotg'r.t he had 
 done with me T,fter this, but I was deceived; for a long inter val having 
 elapsed, dur ag which I imai^ine him to have been +urnini' restlessly 
 from side to side, and trying to go to sleep; he broke out I'^'ain, with 
 I suppose that Boz will be writing a book by-and-by, and putting 
 all our names in it!" at which imaginarj^ consequence of boing on 
 board a boat with Boz, he groaned, and became silent. 
 
 We called at the town of Erie, at eight o'clock that night, and lay 
 there an hour. Between five and Six next morr' g, we arrived at 
 Buffalo, where we breakfasted; and being too near the Great Falls 
 to wait patiently anywhere else, wf. set off by the train, the same 
 morning at nine o'clock, to Niagara. 
 
 It was a miserable day; chilly and raw; a damp mist falling- and 
 the trees m that northern region quite bare and . Intry. Whenever 
 the train halted, I listened for the roar; and was constantly straining 
 my eyes in the direction where I knew the Falls must be, frr .;n seeing 
 the river rolling on towards them; every moment expecting to 
 behold the spray. Within a few minutes of our stopping, not before 
 I saw two great white clouds rising up slowly and majestically from 
 the depths of the earth. That was all. At length we alighted- and 
 then for the first time, I heard the mighty rush of water, and felt 
 the ground tremble underneath my feet. 
 
 The bank is very steep, and was slippery with rain, and half- 
 melted ice. I hardly know how I got down, but I was soon at the 
 bottom, and climbing, with two English officers wio were crossing 
 and had joined me, over some broken rocks, deafened by the noise 
 
 Iialf-hlinHprl hir ■t-'ho. c-nm^r riry^ 
 
 wSi. to 
 
 tiic skin. 
 
 we were at tne loot 
 
 01 the American Fall. I could see an immense torrent of water tearing 
 
 ?* ,• 
 
 I 
 
 a f. 
 

 i6o 
 
 American Notes 
 
 II 
 
 lieacllong down from some great height, but had no idea of shape, or 
 situation, or anything but vague immensity. 
 
 When we were seated in the little ferry-boat, and were crossing the 
 swollen river immediately before both cataracts, I began to feel what 
 It was: but I was in p. manner stunned, and unable to comprehend the 
 vastness of the scene: It was not until I came on Table Rock, and 
 ooked— Great Heaven, on what a fall of bright-green water!— that 
 it came upon me m its full might and majesty. 
 
 rhen. when I felt how near to my Creator I was standing, the first 
 eltect, and the enduring one— instant and lasting— of the tremendous 
 spectacle, was Peace. Peace of Mind, tranquillity, calm recollections 
 o the Dead, great thoughts of Eternal iiest and Happiness: nothing 
 ot gloom or terror. Niagara was at once stamped upon my heart, an 
 image of Beauty; to remain there, changeless and indc ble. until its 
 p\Mses cease to beat, for ever. 
 
 Oh how the strife and trouble of daily life receded from mv view 
 and lessened in the distance, during the ten memorable days we 
 passed on that Enchanted Ground! V/hat -oices spoke from out the 
 thundering water; what faces, faded from tae earth, looked out upon 
 me from its gleaming depths; what Heavenly promise glistened in 
 those angeis tears, the drops of many hues, that showered around 
 and twined themselves about the gorgeous arches which the changing 
 lainbows made! ° ° 
 
 I never stirred in all that time from the Canadian side, whither I 
 nad gone at first. I never crossed the river again; for I knew there 
 were people on the other shore, and in such a place it is natural to 
 Shan strange company. To wander to and fro all day. and see the 
 cataracts from all points of view; to stand upon the edge of the great 
 Horse-Shoe Fall, marking the hurried water gathering strength as 
 t approached the verge, yet seeming, too, to pause before it shot 
 into the gulf below; to gaze from the river's level up at the torrent 
 as It came streaming down; to climb the neighbouring heights and 
 watch It through the trees, and see the wreathing water in the rapids 
 hurrying on to take its fearful plunge; to linger in the shadow of the 
 solemn rocks three miles below; watching the river as, stirred bv no 
 visible cause. It heaved and eddied and awoke the echoes, being 
 troubled yet. far down beneath the surface, by its giant leap; to have 
 iSiagam before iie. lighted by the sun and by the moon, red in the 
 flay s decline, and grey as evening slowly fell upon it; to look upon 
 It every day, and wake up in the night and hear its ceaseless voice- 
 this was enough. 
 
 I think in every quiet season now, still do those waters roll and 
 
 r.?-,' ^" .k""^' ""l'"^ *.""\^^^' ^^^ ^^y ^°"g' «till are the rainbows 
 spanning them, a hundred leet below. Still, when the sun is on them 
 do they shme and glow like mo'.en gold. Still, when the day is 
 gloomy do they fall like snow, or seem to crumble away like the 
 front of a great chalk cliff, or roll down the rock like dense white 
 "' --"- "^^''"j'a uoca fciiu raigaty stream appear to die as it comes 
 
 down, a 
 dous gh< 
 this plac 
 the dee] 
 rushing 
 
 IN CANA] 
 IN T 
 
 WES' 
 
 I WISH t( 
 
 parallel \ 
 ard thosi 
 shall conl 
 latter ter 
 But bei 
 stance wJ 
 traveller 
 On Tal 
 little relic 
 names in 
 which a g 
 request is 
 remarks a 
 here." 
 
 But for 
 
 on which 
 
 drawing-n 
 
 certain sta 
 
 framed an 
 
 this annot 
 
 preserved, 
 
 with the ^ 
 
 delighted i 
 
 Itishun 
 
 so obscene 
 
 able profai 
 
 But that tl 
 
 swine, and 
 
 disgrace to 
 
 I hope few 
 
 reproach to 
 
 The qua] 
 
 324 
 
American Notes j^j 
 
 this place with the same dread soIemnitrsTnce LTknes^^^^^^^ 
 the deep, and that first flood be W the DelJee Ti^^^^^^^ 
 rushing on Creation at the word of God. ^^^"8^— Light— came 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 IN CANADA; TORONTO; KINGSTON; MONTREAL' QUEBEC «;t t^^xxt'o 
 IN THE UNITED STAnT<5 Ar-ATM. r t^t, . «UtBEC, ST. JOHNS. 
 
 WEST POINT ' ^^^^N°N; '^HE shaker VILLAGE; 
 
 shall confine myself to a verTbrief account nfnf; °' *""' ''=^'°°' ' 
 latter territory ^ account of our journeyings in the 
 
 stanch whth carSrdiXvclrcSf tlfo^" °"^ f'''"f^^« "-— 
 traveller who has visited the FaS ""-''"ation of any decent 
 
 litt°e%lHc"he'p?aS'ie''soH"rH''l°"^'"? *° ^ Guide, where 
 names in a book\e^rL%he 'urpo"e On th^'^'T /!P'^^ *>>"' 
 
 which a great man/of these%S:-a?e"preteTved1hefo^^^^^^ 
 request is posted: "Visitors will r,lP«<=A r^^+ ' lollowing 
 
 r^ar.s anS poetical e^^LltSTe ^i^^^^^ 
 
 0^^^':^^:;^ wrca-^^fuVfeisr rv^or-"- 
 fhr:ir„ct?„t-to-ftS^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 sooVs^nfShTe^fth^t'^hTvtn^'^^^^^^^^ 
 able profanatiorupoT the lery^tens : '^ ^'^^'"^ *"" '"'^"- 
 
 But that these should be hoarded . p (or the deirh? n?S* w n*"^' 
 swme, and kept in a public place where any eyes mavLetif-^^^ 
 disgrare to the English laneuaire in ^hiXZu ^ ^^ *'='"• "^ » 
 
 I hope few of thesf entr^fesSbeen 4ade I f17h"'" f*""^'' 
 reproach to the Enoii.i, .;a„ t_ ..° : ° 7?*^^ "^ Englishmen), and a 
 
 Xh^^«-o?our soldic;;;rNilg2a!'LrfiSf and airily 
 
 i il 
 
 :- r 
 
l62 
 
 American Notes 
 
 #1 
 
 ii f 
 
 situated. Some of them are large detached houses on the plain above 
 the Falls, which were originally designed for hotels; and in the even- 
 ing time, when the women and children were leaning over the 
 balconies watching the men as they played at ball and other games 
 upon the grass before, the door, they often presented a little picture 
 of cheerfulness and animation which made it quite a pleasure to pass 
 that way. 
 
 At any garrisoned point where the line of demarcation between 
 one country and another is so very narrow as at Niagara, desertion 
 from the ranks can scarcely fail to be of frequent occurrence: and it 
 may be reasonably supposed that when the soldiers entertain the 
 wildest and maddest hopes of the fortune and independence that 
 await them on the other side, the impulse to play traitor, which such 
 a place suggests to dishonest minds, is not weakened. But it very 
 rarely happens that the men who do desert, are happy or contented 
 afterwards; and many instances have been known in which they 
 have confessed their grievous disappointment, and their earnest 
 desire to return to their old service if they could but be assured of 
 pardon, or lenient treatment. Many of their comrades, notwith- 
 standmg, do the like, from time to time; and instances of loss of life 
 in the effort to cross the river with this object, are far from being 
 uncommon. Several men were drowned in the attempt to swim across, 
 not long ago; and one, who had the madness to trust himself upon a 
 table as a raft, was swept down to the whirlpool, where his mangled 
 body eddied round and round some days. 
 
 I am inclined to think that the noise of the Falls is very much 
 exaggerated; and this will appear the more probable when the depth 
 of the great basin in which the water is received, is taken into account. 
 At no time during our stay there, was the wind at all high or 
 boisterous, but we never heard them, three miles off, even at the 
 very quiet time of sunset, though we often tried. 
 
 Queenston, at whxh place the steamboats start for Toronto (or I 
 should rather say at which place they call, for their wharf is at 
 Lewiston, on the opposite shore), is situated in a delicious valley, 
 through which the Niagara river, in colour a very deep green, pursues 
 its course. It is approached by a road that takes its winding way 
 among the heights by which the town is sheltered; and seen from 
 this point is extremely beautiful and picturesque. On the most con- 
 spicuous of these heights stood a monument erected by the Provincial 
 Legislature in memory of General Brock, who was slain in a battle 
 with the American forces, after having won the victory. Some 
 vagabond, supposed to be a fellow of the name of Lett, who is now, 
 or who lately was, in prison as a felon, blew up this monument two 
 years ago, and it is now a melancholy ruin, with a long fragment of 
 iron railing hanging dejectedly from its top, and waving to and fro 
 like a wild ivy branch or broken vine stem. It is of much higher 
 importance than it may seem, that this statue should be repaired at 
 the public cost, as it ought to have been long ago. Firstly, because 
 
American Notes 
 
 163 
 
 very spot where he died Sec^^^^^^ Ss" "he sT^hT.'''^ ' ^ *^^ 
 sent state, and the recollectir . nf fh« the sight o. it m its pre- 
 broiicrhf if fr. +V,,- ^^^°V^<^"o 1 of the unpunished outrage which 
 
 S Sir a ■."-«"i".sr ;™ trJ 
 
 wife was collecting her few goods WeihZ I " " sergeant's 
 
 eye hard upon the%ortersT&e°lhXTn;S Tboard'^l 
 the other on a hoooless wac;hina f^K ^^^ u- u , ? board, and 
 
 utteriy worthless :ftrLro™rs"'hee:medVen^^ 
 
 wLf rboaT^""-^" '''"'' °-- '°" ^X^'- -^-^ ' rruit-Sin^^uTan^d 
 
 attrMs'?hrS.«nTt\^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 st^^anTc;^;:rrat-o2;^o~^^^ 
 
 contmually, like a roaring idle dog as ..e was. ^ """^ ^"""^^^ 
 
 The soldiers rather Iaugh«d at this blade than with him- seeming t„ 
 
 requu-ed to tell it, they had him out again, fe^et first wUSTe taSs o? 
 1 he half-sobered recruit glanced round for a moment as if his fir«f 
 
 s^LTtifh s^<^:is^:^:^r'T^^ '" 
 
 P^sented to h™ with an oath ?y tLToSS :"ho t^lf^Tfj?.! 
 -10.. anxious of the party, he stuck it in his mouth thru"st h'ishkndl 
 mto his mo.st pockets, and without even shaking the wateiofflt 
 
 I 
 
 1*1 i 
 
 I f 
 
 [ 
 
 ! 
 
i64 
 
 American Notes 
 
 clothes, walked on board whistling; not to say as if nothing had 
 happened, but as if he had meant to do it. and it had been a perfect 
 success. 
 
 Our steamboat came up directly this had left the wharf, and soon 
 bore us to the mouth of the Niagara; where the stars and stripes of 
 America flutter on one side and the Union Jack of England on the 
 other; and so narrow is the space between them that the sentinels in 
 either fort can often hear the watchword of the other country given. 
 Thence we emerged on Lake Ontario, an inland sea; and by half-past 
 six o'clock were at Toronto. 
 
 The country round this town being very Hat, is bare of scenic 
 interest; but the town itself is full of life and motion, bustle, business, 
 and improvement. The streets are well paved, and lighted with gas; 
 the houses are large and good; the shops excellent. Many of them have 
 a display of goods in their windows, such as may be seen in thriving 
 county towns in l^:ngl.and; and there are some which would do no 
 discredit to the metropolis itself. There is a good stone prison here; and 
 there are, besides, a handsome church, a court-house, public offices, 
 many commodious private residences, and a government observatory 
 for noting and recording the magnetic variations. In the College of 
 Upper Canada, which is, one of the public establishments of the city, a 
 sound education in every department of polite learning can be had, at 
 a very moderate expense: the annual charge for the instruction of 
 each pupil, not exceeding nine pounds sterling. It has pretty good 
 endowments in the way of land, and is a valuable and useful institu- 
 tion. 
 
 The first stone of a new college had been laid but a few days before, 
 by the Governor General. It will be a handsome, spacious edifice,' 
 approached by a long avenue, which is already planted and made 
 available as a public walk. The town is well adapted for wholesome 
 exercise at all seasons, for the footways in the thoroughfares which 
 lie beyond the principal street, are planked like floors, and kept in 
 very good and clean repair. 
 
 It is a matter of deep regret that political differences should have 
 run high in this place, and led to most discreditable and disgraceful 
 results. It is not long since guns were distharged from a window in 
 this town at the successful candidiites in an election, and the coach- 
 man of one of them was actually shot in the body, though not danger- 
 ously wounded. But one man was killed on the same occasion; and 
 from the very window whence he received his death, the ver^^^ flag 
 which shielded his murderer (not only in the commission of his 
 crime, but from its consequences), vvas displayed again on the 
 occasion of the public ceremony performed by the Governor General, 
 to which I have just adverted. Of all the colours in the rainbow, there 
 is but one which could be so employed: I need not say that flag was 
 orange. 
 
 The time of leaving Toronto for Kingston is noon. By eight o'clock 
 next morning, the traveller is at the end of his journey, which is 
 
 perforn 
 
 Coburg 
 
 flour fo 
 
 fewer t 
 
 Coburg 
 
 The 1 
 
 a very 
 
 market- 
 
 Kingsto 
 
 half not 
 
 commoc 
 
 neighbo 
 
 There 
 
 excellen 
 
 shoemal 
 
 stonecul 
 
 advance 
 
 necdlewi 
 
 been the 
 
 for the 
 
 Insurrec 
 
 stays; so 
 
 lining of 
 
 would, w 
 
 any man 
 
 in those 
 
 appropri 
 
 this offer 
 
 face, thoi 
 
 there wa 
 
 sharply f 
 
 There 
 
 bold posi 
 
 the town 
 
 imagine, 
 
 small na' 
 
 building, 
 
 We left 
 
 in the mo 
 
 river. Th 
 
 especially 
 
 among th 
 
 and const 
 
 their fluct 
 
 among fch< 
 
 small thai 
 
 variety oi 
 
 forms whi 
 
"Inrlf 
 
 American Notes 
 
 165 
 
 ewer than one thousand and eighty barrels on hn'^ 
 Coburg and Kingston. ^ fe"'-/ oarreis on board, between 
 
 The latter place, which is now the seat of crov<-rnm^nf ir. r j • 
 a very poor town, rendered still cooilr if Ihl Canada, is 
 
 sirs- " •--fsr.r;Kr,r„7r:s:g;; z 
 
 Insurrection: sometimes dressing as a rW and car^fnt th ■ f " 
 stays; sometimes attiring herself at a hm/ ^Z '=*'^'^ "8 '^em in her 
 lining of her hat. In thf S'c^aractJr she' iwlyfr^ Je\" 'a\t 
 
 Jl^otiSon^rd^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 StergSii^rfjiTvigSr/ <^~ -is^oSst-er: 
 
 small that they are mere dimples on its hm^r] hoc^^v,. Vv,.-! :-?:.!° 
 
 S whfrh'^rt' ^^^ *^^. "'""^berless comSinatio'ns ^T be^S 
 torms which the trees growing on them present: all form a pk ture 
 
 L< ',! 
 
i66 
 
 American Noter 
 
 fraught with uncommon interest and pleasure. 
 
 i\*^vx.^^*^"'°°" ^® ^^°* ^°^*^ so'^^ raP^cls where the river boiled 
 and bubbled strangely, and where the force and headlong violence of 
 the current were tremendous. Atseveno'ciOCkwereache(' Dickenson's 
 l^andmg, whence travellers proceed for two or three hours by stage- 
 ^vS?" 1.*^® navigation of the rive, being rendered so dangerous and 
 difficult m the mterval. by rapids, that steamboats do not make the 
 passage. The number and length of tnose portages, over which the 
 roads are bad, and the travelling slow, render the way between the 
 towns of Montreal and Kingston, somewhat tedious. 
 
 Our course lay over a wide, uninclosed tract of country at a little 
 distance from the river-side, whence the uright warning lights on the 
 dangerous parts of he St Lawrence shone vividly. The night was 
 dark and raw. and the way dreary enou-h. It was neariy ten o'clock 
 when we reached the wh-^rf where the next steamboat lay; and went 
 on board, and to bed. 
 
 She lay there all right, and started as soon as it M^as day The 
 morning was ushered m by a violent tli understorm. and was very wet 
 but gradually improved and brightened up. Going on deck after 
 breakfast, I was amazed to see floating down with the stream a most 
 gigantic raft, with somcthirty or forty wooden houses upon it, and at 
 least as many flagmasts. so that it looked like a nautical street. I saw 
 many of^these rafts afterwards, but never one so large. All the timber 
 or lumber, ' as it is called 'n America, which is brought down the St' 
 -Lawrence, is floated down in this manner. When the raft reaches its 
 place of destination, it is broken up; the materials are sold; and the 
 boatmen return for more. 
 
 At eight we landed again, and travelled by a stage-coach for four 
 hours through a pleasant .ad well-cultivated country, perfectlv 
 French m every respect: in the appearance of the cottages; the air 
 language, and dress of the peasantry; the sign-boards on the shops 
 and taverns: and the Virgin's shrines, and crosses, by the wayside 
 Nearly every common labourer and boy, though he had no shoes to 
 his feet wore round his waist a sash of some bright colour: generallv 
 red: and the women, who were working in the fields and gardens, and 
 doing all kinds of husbandry, wore, one and all, great fiat straw hats 
 with most capacious brims. There were Catholic Priests and Sisters of 
 Charity m the village streets; and images of the Saviour at the comers 
 ot cross-roads, and in other public places. 
 
 At noon we went on board another steamboat, and reached the 
 village of Lachine, nine miles from Montreal, by three o'clock There 
 we left the river, and went on by land. 
 
 Montreal is pleasantly situated on the margin of the St. Lawrence 
 and is backed by some bold heights, about which there are charming 
 rides and drives. The streets are generally narrow and irregular, as in 
 most French towns of any age; but in the more modern parts of the 
 
 — 'j "r-^ """" "/^"^ "'"'^ °'"-y- ■^"^>' uispiay a great variety of very- 
 good shops; and both in the town and suburbs there are many 
 
 exceller 
 their be 
 Then 
 with tw 
 in front 
 tower, \ 
 wiseacre 
 immedii 
 Kingsto 
 is a plai 
 road it i 
 ing by t 
 a day's 1 
 
 The s- 
 is to saj 
 Quebec j 
 in Mont: 
 interest , 
 
 The i 
 America 
 air; its ] 
 splendid 
 unique a 
 
 It is a 
 places, o 
 recall. A] 
 associatii 
 interest, 
 and his 1 
 where he 
 defended 
 alive, by 
 among tl: 
 and wort 
 both bra'' 
 
 The cil 
 charities, 
 Governm 
 lies. The 
 mountain 
 with mile 
 veins alo] 
 chimney \ 
 St. Lawn 
 ships belo 
 like spide: 
 decks dwi 
 all this, frj 
 
American Notes 
 
 167 
 
 St^^rso^^^^^^^ ^-^^ ^-ys are re.ar.able for 
 
 iTeacr^ o? lit ^i^^^^'k* ^""^ ^^"^^^^able appearancefand which the 
 Tr^ZTfJ *it^ ^.''^ ^^""^ consequently determined to pull down 
 immediately The Government House is very superior to that at 
 
 s a ?la"k 'road no^tT 'l '1^' f ^ ^"' ^^^*^^^" -^ ^^ ^^^ -^ 
 ioad it IS too l^fh. ^°«*P^*J;r-fi^« or six miles long, and a famous 
 roaa It IS too. All the rides in the vicinity were made doublv interest- 
 
 TLJ'^" ^7'''"? °"' °^ ^P"^^' ^^^^^^^ ^^^^^ «« rapid. thatTtrbut 
 a day 3 leap from barren win , to the blooming youth of summer 
 
 The steamboats to Quebec perform the journey in the S? that 
 n ^r^^y'^^^y ^^^^^ Montreal at six in the evening, and f rriVe at 
 guebec at six next morning. We made this excursion during oTr stay 
 
 intfrLfanJ ^a'ity.^^^^^'^' ^ ^^^^^^^^^^' ^^ ^^ ^^^^-^ ^^^tl 
 
 The impression made upon the visitor by this Gibraltar of 
 
 America: its giddy heights; its citadel suspended, as it weT in the 
 
 air; its picturesque steep streets and frowning gateways and the 
 
 t^^^i:^:^-^'^ ^"-* "p- '^^ ^y^ ^^ --y turZ isi^o^^: 
 
 recall. Apart from the realities of this most picturesque city, there are 
 
 fn w^f Th '^r*'""^ ^^°^* ^* ^^^^^ ^^"^'^ "^^k^ a dessert rkh [n 
 interest. The dangerous precipice along whose rocky front. Wolfe 
 
 where'^hp'r Jrir^J^r^''' "i^^"^ *^ ^^^^^' *^« ^^^^^ ^^ Abraham. 
 H / !^ ^ K f.'''^'^ ^'^ "'^'^^^^ ^°""d; the fortress so chivalrously 
 aUve bv tL^r'?"^' ^."^ \^^f Idler's grave, dug for him whHe yit 
 ahv^e. by the bursting of a shell; are not the least among them or 
 among the gal ant incidents of history. That is a noble MonumenUoo 
 and worthy of two great nations, ^vhich perpetuates the memory of 
 both brave generals, and on which their names are jointly writterT 
 
 rh.Hfil^ Vl '"^ P"^^/^ institutions and in Catholic churches and 
 chanties, but it is mamly m the prospect from the site of the Old 
 Government House, and from the Citadel, that its surpassing beauty 
 lies. Ihe exquisite expanse of country, rich in field and forest 
 
 vp?n.^ Of Canadian villages, glancing in long white streaks, like 
 veins along the landscape; the motley crowd of gables, roofs and 
 chimney tops m the old hilly town immediately at hand; the beat'itiful 
 bt. Lawrence sparkling and flashing in the sunlight; and tl, tiny 
 ships below the rock from which you gaze, whose distant riggim^ looks 
 like spiders' webs against the light. M-hile casks nnd harr.i! .;: ^hig 
 lu^h^^T'^'^^^ft^'' toys and busy mariners become so many puppets; 
 an this, framed by a sunken window in the fortress and looked at from 
 
 
i68 
 
 American Notes 
 
 \U'i 
 
 I 
 
 ii 
 
 the shadowed room within, forms one of the brightest and most 
 enchantmg pictures that the eye can rest upon. 
 
 In the spring of the year, vast numbers of emigrants who have 
 newly arrived from England or from Ireland, pass between Quebec 
 and Montreal on their way to the backwoods and new settlements of 
 Canada. If it be an entertaining lounge (as I very often found it) to 
 take a morning stroll upon the quay at Montreal, and see them 
 grouped in hundreds on the public wharfs about their chests and boxes 
 It IS matter of deep interest to be their fellow-passenger on one of 
 these steamboats, and mingling with the concourse, see and hear them 
 unobserved. 
 
 The vessel in which we returned from Quebec to Montreal was 
 crowded with them, and at night they spread their beds between 
 decks (those who had beds, at least), and slept so close and thick 
 about our cabin door, that the passage to and fro was quite blocked 
 up. I hey were nearly all English; from Gloucestershire the greater 
 part; and had had a long winter-passage out; but it was wonderful to 
 see how clean the children had been kept, and how untiring in their 
 love and self-denial all the poor parents were. 
 
 Cant as we may, and as we shall to the end of all things it is very 
 much harder for the poor to be virtuous than it is for the rich; and the 
 good that IS m them, shines the brighter for it. In many a noble mansion 
 lives a man, the best of husbands and of fathers, whose private worth 
 in both cap: cities is justly lauded to the skies. But bring him here 
 upon this crowded deck. Strip from his fair young wife her silken 
 dress and jewels, unbind her braided hair, stamp early wrinkles on her 
 brow, pincn ner pale chf;ek with care and much privation, array her 
 faded form in coarsely patched attire, let there be nothing but his 
 love to set her forth or deck her out, and you shall put it to the proof 
 indeed. So change his station in the world, that he shall see in those 
 young things wno climb about his knee: not records of his wealth and 
 name: but little wrestlers with him for his daily bread; so many 
 poachers on his scanty meal; so many units to divide his every sum of 
 comfcrt, and farther to reduce its small amount. In lieu of the 
 endearments of childhood in its sweetest aspect, heap upon him all 
 its pains and wants, its sicknesses and ills, its fretfulness, caprice, 
 and querulous endurance: let its prattle be, not of engaging infant 
 fancies, but of cold, and thirst, and hunger: and if his fatherly affection 
 outlive all this, and he be patient, watchful, tender; careful of his 
 children's lives, and mindful always of their joys and sorrows; then 
 send him back to Parliament, and Pulpit, and to Quarter Sessions, 
 and when he hears fine talk of the depravity of those who live from 
 hand to mouth, and labour hard to do it, let him speak up, as one 
 who knows, and tell those holders forth that they, by parallel with 
 such a class, should be High Angels in their daily lives, and lay but 
 humble siege to Heaven at last. 
 
 Which of us shall say what he v/ould be, if such realities, with small 
 relief or change all through his days, were his 1 Looking round upon 
 
American Notes 
 
 169 
 
 these people: far from home, houseless, indigent, wandering, weary 
 with travel and hard living: and seeing how patiently they nursed 
 and tended their young children: how they consulted ever their wants 
 first, then half supplied their own; what gentle ministers of hope and 
 faith the women were; how the men profited by their example; and 
 how very, very seldom even a moment's petulance or harsh complaint 
 broke out among them: I felt a stronger love and honour of my kind 
 come glowing on my heart, and wished to God there had been many 
 Atheists in the better part of human nature there, to read this simple 
 lesson in the book of Life. 
 
 We left Montreal for New York again, on the thirtieth of May; 
 crossing to La Prairie, on the opposite shore of the St. Lawrence, in a 
 steamboat; we then took the railroad to St. John's, which is on the 
 brink of Lake Champlain. Our last greeting in Canada was from the 
 English officers in the pleasant barracks at that place (a class of 
 gentlemen who had made every hour of our visit memorable by their 
 hospitality and friendship); and with "Rule Britannia" sounding in 
 our ears, soon left it far behind. 
 
 But Canada has held, and always will retain, a foremost place in 
 my remembrance. Few Englishmen are prepared to find it what it is. 
 Advancing quietly; old differences settling down, and being fast 
 forgotten; public feeling and private enterprise alike in a sound and 
 wholesome state; nothing of flush or fever in its system, but health 
 and vigour throbbing in its steady pulse: it is full of hope and promise. 
 
 To me who had been accustomed to think of it as something left 
 
 behind in the strides of advancing society, as something neglected 
 and forgotten, slumbering and wasting in its sleep — the demand for 
 labour and the rates of wages; the busy quays of Montreal; the vessels 
 taking in their cargoes, and discharging them; the amount of shipping 
 in the different ports; the commerce, roads, and public works, all 
 made to last; the respectability and character of the public journals; 
 and the amount of rational comfort and happiness which honest 
 industry may earn: were very great surprises. The steamboats on the 
 lakes, in their conveniences, cleanliness, and safety; in the gentle- 
 manly character and bearing of their captains; and in the politeness 
 and perfect comfort of their social regulations; are unsurpassed even 
 by the famous Scotch vessels, deservedly so much esteemed at home. 
 The inns are usually bad; because the custom of boarding at hotels is 
 not so general here as in the States, and the British officers, who form 
 a large portion of the society of every town, live chiefly at the 
 regimental messes: but in every other respect, the traveller in Canada 
 will find as good provision for his comfort as in any place I know. 
 
 There is one American boat — the vessel which carried us on Lake 
 Champlain, from St. John's to Whitehall — which I praise very 
 highly, but no more than it deserves, when I say that it is superior 
 even to that in which we went from Queenston to Toronto, or to that 
 in which we travelled from the latter place to Kingston, or I have no 
 
 324* 
 
 
 ^1 
 
 % 
 
 1 '1 
 
 
 I 
 
 isff 1 
 
 !!• ^ 
 
 I 
 
170 
 
 American Notes 
 
 ! Uf 
 
 A 
 
 canprf Jh?^ r ^? ^"^ ''*^^' '" ^^^ ^°^^^- This steamboat, which is 
 called the Burlington is a perfectly exquisite achievement of neat 
 ness elegance, and order. The decks ar2 drawing-rooms the cabins 
 are boudoirs, choicely furnished and adorned with prinV pictures 
 and musical instruments; every nock and corner in^tl^e ie^sd S 
 
 F.lfl ^h"""'''^ l^ ^'^""^"^ "°"^^"^* ^"d beautiful confr vance 
 Captain Sherman, her commander, to whose ingenuity and excellent 
 taste these results are solely attributable, has bravely and worthiL 
 distmguished himself on more than one trying ocSsion nTlil^ 
 among them, in having the moral courage t^cafr^SS" troops at 
 a time (during the Canadian rebellion) when no^oXr convevanr. 
 was open to them. He and his vessel are held in uni^erSal Sect 
 both by his own countrymen and ours; and no man ever en oyed the 
 fhT thy^e^S^emli^' ^^ ""'' '^'^^^ ^' -^^-' -" -^ worJrb'etfe? 
 By means of this floating palace we were soon in the United 
 States again, and called that evening at Burlington; a prettv town 
 where we lay an hour or so. We reached Whitehall, where we were to 
 disembark, at six next morning; and might have done so eTrlfer bu? 
 that these steamboats lie by for some hours in the night n con 
 sequence of the lake becoming very narrow at that Sart of til 
 journey and difficult of navigation in the dark, its width is so 
 
 After breakfasting at Whitehall, we took the stage-coach lor 
 Albany: a large and busy town, where we arrived between five an h 
 six o'clock that afternoon; after a very hot day's joumev for we ^re 
 now m the height of summer againf At seven le staried for New 
 Jr^ H T ^?u'^ ^ ^''^* ^°'**^ ^^^' steamboat, which was so 
 
 o?T?hl7 l^f ''"^!!;' ^^-^^ *^" "PP^^ ^«^k ^^« like the box Sbby 
 of a theatre between the pieces, and the lower one like Tottenham 
 Court Road on a Saturday night. But we slept soundly notwitS^ 
 standing, and soon after five o'clock next morning reached New 
 
 f^f^r"^ ^f ^ only that day and night, to recruit after our late 
 fatigues, we started off c ^xe more upon our last journey in Amerka 
 We haa yet five days to spare before embarking for England and I 
 had a great desire to see "the Shaker Village," which S Spied bv I 
 religious sect from whom it takes its name peopled by a 
 
 To this end. we went up the North River again, as far as the town 
 of Hudson, and there hired an extra to carry us to Lebanon fh?,^.^ 
 miles d stant: and of course another and a different LeCo^^^^^^^ 
 that VL lage where I slept on the night of the Prairie trip 
 
 The country through which the road meandered, was rich and 
 beautiful; the weather very fine; and for many mileL Te Kaatsk ll 
 mountains, where Rip Van Winkle and the^ ghostly Dutchmen 
 
 g!rdVtL""Fike s°^-!e"— ^^'^^ •^•"^'^ ^'^^"^ '^"' towered t'h^ 
 o-ue aistan.v, like stateiy ciuuas. At one point, as we ascended a 
 
American Notes 
 
 171 
 
 steep hill, athwart whose base a railroad, yet constructing, took its 
 course, we came upon an Irish colony. With means at hand of 
 building decent cabins, it was wonderful to see how clumsy, rough, 
 and wretched, its hovels were. The best were poor protection from 
 the weather; the worst let in the wind and rain through wide breaches 
 in the roofs of sodden grass, and in the walls of mud; some had 
 neither door nor window; some had nearly fallen down, and were 
 imperfectly propped up by stakes and poles, all were ruinous and 
 filthy Hideously ugly old women and very buxom young ones, pigs, 
 dogs men, children, babies, pots, kettles, dunghills, vile refuse, rank 
 straw, and standing water, all wallowing together in an inseparable 
 heap, 'composed the furniture of every dark and dirty hat. 
 
 Between nine and ten o'clock at night, we arrived at Lebanon: 
 which is renowned for its warm baths, and for a great hotel, well 
 adapted, I have no dout'. to the gregarious taste of those seekers 
 after health or pleasure who repair here, but inexpressibly comfort- 
 less to me. We were shown into an immense apartment, lighted by 
 two dim candles, called the drawing-room: from which there was a 
 descent by a flight of steps, to another vast desert, called the dining- 
 room- our bed-chambers were among certain long rows of little white- 
 washed cells, which opened from either side of a dreary passage; 
 and were so like rooms in a prison that I half expected to be locked 
 up when I went to bed. and listened involuntarily for the turning of 
 tfe key on the outside. There need be baths somewhere in the 
 neighbourhood, for the other washing arrangements were on as 
 limited a scale as I ever saw. even in America: indeed, these bed- 
 rooms were so very bare of even such common luxuries as chairs, that 
 I should say they were not provided with enough of anything, but 
 that I bethink myself of our having been most bountifully bitten all 
 
 The house is very pleasantly situated, however, and we had a 
 good breaKfast. That done, we went to visit our place of destination, 
 which was some two miles off, and the way to which was soon 
 indicated by a finger-post, whereon was painted, "To the Shaker 
 
 Village." ,^, , ^ ^ , 
 
 As we rode along, we passed a party of Shakers, who were at work 
 upon the road; who wore the broadest of all broad-brimmed hats; 
 and were in all visible respects such very wooden men. that I felt 
 about as much sympathy for them, and as much interest in them, as 
 if they had been so many figure-heads of ships. Presently we came 
 to the beginning of the village, and alighting at the door of a house 
 where the Shaker manufactisres are sold, and which is the head- 
 quarters of the elders, requested psrmission to see the Shaker worship. 
 Pending the conveyance of this request to some person in author- 
 ity we walked into a grim room, where several grim hats were 
 hanging on grim pegs, and the thnc was grimly told by a grim clock 
 wh^cli uttered everv tick with a kind of struggle, as if it broke the 
 grim silence reluctantly, and under protest. Ranged against tne wall 
 
 ^ 
 
 m 
 
 ^ 
 
 ' W^ m 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 ? 
 
 
 
 i-i 
 
 'n 
 
 m 
 
 i I rm 
 
172 
 
 American Notes 
 
 iZZl i '}T''' ^^ ^ '°^"^^^ ^ newspaper whefein the bodv of 
 rir I'V^'' ,r' P^^^"'^'' -«*y Sh ngtuvVin TrS 
 
 wop it;^^ f tuT<l1,^L^r— c<^^ r^-^ ' -pp-™- 
 
 a spacious summer-house. As there was no getting int^this n ace «nrl 
 nothmg vvas to be done but walk up and down, and look S ?t and the 
 other buildings in the village (which were chiefly of wood painted a 
 dark red like English barns, and composed of many stories il^ 
 
 £"lnH /r*°"n^' ^ ^^"^ "°*^^^"g *° communcaTe to the reader 
 beyond the scanty results I gleaned the while our purchases were 
 
 These people are called Shakers from their peculiar form of adora 
 tK)n which consists of a dance, performed by the r.en anTwomen of 
 all ages, who arrange themselves for thnf T^,„-r.^. • • 
 
 parties the men first'divestinFt^'mtlves of tSTaV^anrSS? 
 which they gravely hang against the wall before they bel and 
 loll bled Th '°""^ '''''' shirt-sleeves, as though they t?e going 
 to be bled. They accompany themselves with a droning humSinf 
 noise, and dance until they are quite exhausted nlWn.l^? ^^ 
 vancing and retiring in a preWerLslorTbH S Th^^^^^^^^^^ 
 to be unspeakably absurd: and if I may judge from a print of +hi. 
 bv tZf^ 1^''^ ^ ""^^^ ^" "^y possession; ^andwh^ch I am"nformed 
 IVnSlZ^t^:^^::''' ^^^ ^^^P^^' ^^ P-^ectly accuratenfmTst 
 They are governed by a woman, and her rule is understood to hP 
 absolute, though she has the assistance of a councilof elders She 
 lives. It IS said m strict seclusion, in certain rooms above ?he chanel 
 and is never shown to profane eves If <?hP af aii%to i ^^^ cnapel. 
 who presided over the s?ore, it i^^gr " tth?r tf toTep trt S 
 
 . ^ ns ana rev^nac^ ui tae settlement are thrown into 
 
American Notes 
 
 173 
 
 a common stock, which is managed by the elders. As they have made 
 converts among people who were well to do in the w nld, and are 
 frugal and thrifty, it is understood that this fund prospers the more 
 especially as they have made large purchases of land. Nor is this at 
 Lebanon the only Shaker settlement: there arc, I think, at least, 
 three others. 
 
 They are good farmers, and all their produce is eagerly purchased 
 and highly esteemed. "Shaker seeds," "Shaker herbs," and "Shaker 
 distilled waters," are commonly announced for sale in the shops of 
 towns and cities. They are good breeders of cattle, and are kind and 
 merciful to the brute creation. Consequently, Shaker beasts seldom 
 fail to find a ready market. 
 
 They eat and drink together, after the Spartan model, at a great 
 public table. There is no union of the sexes, and every Shaker, male 
 and female, is devoted to a life of celibacy. Rumour hue been busy 
 upon this theme, >.>u I here again I must refer to the lady of the store, 
 and say, that if many of the sister Shakers resemble her, 1 treat all 
 such slander as bearing on its face the strongest marks of wild 
 improbability. But that they take as proselytes, persons so young 
 that they cannot know their own minds, and cannot possess much 
 strength of resolution in this or any other respect, I can assert from 
 my own observation of the extreme juvenility of certain youthful 
 Shakers whom I saw at work among the party on the road. 
 
 They are said to be good drivers of bargains, but to be honest and 
 just in their transactions, and even in horse-dealing to resist those 
 thievish tendencies which would seem, for some undiscovered 
 reason, to be almost inseparable from that branch of traffic. In all 
 matters they hold their own course quietly, live in their gloomy, 
 silent commonwealth, and show little desire to interfere with other 
 people. 
 
 This is well enough, but nevertheless I cannot, I cc j^ess, incline 
 towards the Shakers; view them with much favour, or extend 
 towards them any very lenient construction. I so abhor, and from 
 my soul detest that bad spirit, no matter by what class or sect it may 
 be entertained, which would strip life of its healthful graces, rob 
 youth of its innocent pleasures, pluck from maturity and age their 
 pleasant ornaments, and make existence but a narrow path towards 
 the grave: that odious spirit which, if it could have had full scope and 
 sway upon the earth, must have blasted and made barren the imagin- 
 ations of the greatest men, and left them, in their power of raising 
 up enduring images before their fellow-creatures yet unborn, no 
 better than the beasts that, in these very broad-brimmed hats and 
 very sombre coats— in stiff-necked, solemn-visaged piety, in short, 
 no matter what its garb, whether it have cropped hair as in a Shaker 
 village, or long nails as in a Hindoo temple — I recognise the worst 
 among the enemies of Heaven and Earth, who turn the water at the 
 marriage feasts of this poor world, not into wine, but gall. And if 
 there must be people vowed to crush the harmless fancies and the 
 
 ;i 
 
 ! u1 
 
 I III 
 
174 
 
 American Notes 
 
 I'll! 
 
 r 
 
 love of innocent delights and gaieties, which are a part of human 
 nature: as much a part of it as any other love or hope that is our 
 common portion; let them, for me, stand openly revealed among 
 the ribald and licentious; the very idiots know that they are not 
 on the Immortal rodd, and will despise them, and avoid them 
 iviadily. 
 
 Leaving the Shaker village with a hearty dislike of the old Shakers, 
 and a hearty pity for the young ones: tempered by the strong 
 probability of their running away as they grow older anc' wiser, 
 which they not uncommonly do: we returned to Lebanon, ^r d so to 
 Hudson, by the way we had come upon the previous day. There, 
 we took the steamboat down the North River towards New York' 
 but stopped, some four hours' journey short of it, at West Pointi 
 where we remained that night, and all next day, and next night 
 too. ^ 
 
 In this beautiful place: the fairest among the fair and lovely 
 Highlands of the North River: shut in by deep green heights and 
 rumed forts, and looking down upon the distant town of Newburgh 
 along a glittering path of sunl'.t water, with here and there a skiff,' 
 whose white sail often bends on some new tack as sudden flaws of 
 wmd come down upon her from the gullies in the hills hemmed in, 
 besides, all round with memories of Washington, and events of the 
 revolutionary war is the Military School of America. 
 
 It could not stand on more appropriate ground, and any ground 
 more beautiful can hardly be. The course of education is severe, but 
 well devised, and manly. Through June, July, and August,' the 
 young men encamp upon the spacious plain whereon the college 
 stands; and al\ the year their military exercises are performed there 
 daily. The term of study at this institution, which the State requires 
 from all cadets, is four years; but, v liether it be from the rigid 
 nature of the discipline, or the national impatience of restraint, or 
 both causes combined, not more than half Lhe number T\ho bef^in 
 their studies here, ever remain to finish them. " 
 
 The number of cadv^ts being about equal to that of the members of 
 
 Congress, one is sent here from eve'-y Congressional district: 
 
 member influencing the selection. 
 
 its 
 
 w Commissions in the service are 
 
 distributed on the same principle. The dwellings of the various 
 Professors are beautifully situated: and there is a most excellent 
 hotel for strangers, though it has the two drawbacks of being a total 
 abstinence house (wines and spirits being forbidden to the students) 
 and of serving the public meals at rather uncomfortable hours to 
 wit, breakfast at seven, dinner at one, and supper at sunset. 
 
 The beauty and freshness of this calm retreat, in the very dawn 
 and greenness of summer —it was then the beginning of June —were 
 exquisite indeed. Leaving it upon the sixth, and returning to New 
 York, to embark for England on the succeeding day, I was glad to 
 thinly that among the last memorable beauties which had "lided '^ast 
 us, and softened in the bright perspective, were those whos^e pictures. 
 
American Notes 
 
 175 
 
 traced by no common hand, are fresh in most men's minds; not 
 eai?ily to grow old, or fade beneath the dust of Time: the Kaatskill 
 Mountains, Sleepy Hollow, and the Tappaan Zee. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE PASSAGE HOME 
 
 I NEVER had so much interest before, and very likely I shall never 
 have so much interest again, in the state of the wind, as on the long 
 looked-for morning of Tuesday the Seventh of June. Some nautical 
 authority had told me a day or two previous, "anything with west in 
 it, will do;" so when I darted out of bed at daylight, and throwing up 
 the window, was saluted by a lively breeze from the north-west which 
 had sprung up in the night, it came upon me so freshly, rustling with 
 so many happy associations, that I conceived upon the spot a special 
 regard +or all airs blowing from that quarter of the con^pass, which I 
 shall cherish, I dare say, until my own wind has breathed its last frail 
 puff, and withdrawn itself for ever from the mortal calendar. 
 
 The pilot had not been slow to take advantage of this favourable 
 weather, and the ship which yrjsterday had been in such a crowded 
 dock that she might have retired from trade for good and all, for any 
 chance she seemed to have of going to sea, was now full sixteen miles 
 away. A gallant sight she was, when we, fast gaining on her in a steam- 
 boat, saw her in the distance riding at anchor: her tall masts pointing 
 up in graceful lines against the sky, and every rope and spar ex- 
 pressed in delicate and thread-like outline: gallant, too, when, we 
 being all aboard, the anchor came up to the sturdy chorus ' ' Cheerily 
 men, oh cheerily !" and she followed proudly in the towing steamboat's 
 wake: but bravest and most gallant of all, when the tow-rope being 
 cast adrift, the canvas fluttered from her masts, and spreading her 
 white wings she soared away upon her free and solitary course. 
 
 In the after cabin we were only fifteen passengers in all, and the 
 greater part were from Canada, where some of us had known each 
 other. The night was rough and squally, so were the next two days, 
 but they flew by quickly, and we were soon as cheerful and snug a 
 party, with an honest, manly-hearted captain at our head, as ever 
 came to the resolution of being mutually agreeable, on land or water. 
 
 We breakfasted at eight, lunched at twelve, dined at three, and 
 took our tea at half-past seven. We had abundance of amusements, 
 and dinner was not the least among them : firstly, for its own sake; 
 secondly, because of its extraordinary length: its duration, inclusive 
 of all the long pauses between the courses, being seldom less than two 
 
 By way of beguiling the tediousness of these banquets, a select a?oQ- 
 
 H 
 
176 
 
 American Notes 
 
 ciation was formed at the lower end of the table, below the mast to 
 whose distmguished president modesty forbids me to make any 
 further allusion, which, being a very hilarious and jovial institution 
 was (prejudice apart) in high favour with the rest of the communitv' 
 and particularly with a black steward, who lived for three weeks in a 
 broad grm. at the marvellous humour of these incorporated worthies 
 Ihen. we had chess for those who played it. whist, cribbage. books* 
 backgammon, and shovelboard. In all weathers, fair or foul calm o^ 
 wmdy. we were every one on deck, walking up and down in pairs 
 ^'iJ? '"".x^^,, °f *^' eaning over the side, or chatting in a lazy group to- 
 gether We had no lack of music, for one pla3-ed the accordion? another 
 the viohn. and another (who usually began at six o'clock a.m.) the kev- 
 bugle: tb^ combined effect of which instruments, when they all plaved 
 different, tunes in diiferent parts of the ship, at the same time, and 
 within hearing of each other, as they sometimes did (everybody being 
 intensely satisfied with his own performance), was sublimely hideous 
 When all of these means of entertainment failed, a sail would 
 heave m sight: looming, perhaps, the very spirit of a ship, in the 
 misty distance, or passing us so close that through our glasses we could 
 see the people on her decks, and easily make out her name, an d whither 
 she was bound. For hours together we could watch the dolphins and 
 porpoises as they rolled and leaped and dived around the vessel- 
 or those small creatures ever on the wing, the Mother Carey's 
 chickens, which had borne us company from New York bay and 
 for a whole fortnight fluttered about the vessel's stern. For some days 
 we had a dead calm, or very light winds, during which the crew 
 amused themselves with fishing, and hooked an unlucky dolphin who 
 expired, m all his rainbow colours, on the deck: an event of'«nch 
 importance in our barren calendar, that afterwards we dated from 
 the dolphin, and made the day on which he died, an era. 
 
 Besides ail this, when we were five or six days out, there began to be 
 much talk of icebergs, of whicli wandering islands an unusual number 
 had been seen by the vessels that had come into New York a day or 
 two before we left that port, and of whose dangerous neighbourhood 
 we were warned by the ' udden coldness of the weather and the 
 sinking of the mercury in tho barometer. While these tokens lasted 
 
 %?°"^ .!'■?"* "' ' ^^^"' ^"^^ "^^^y ^^smal tales were whispered 
 alter dark, of ships th^ t had struck upon the ice and gone down in tb- 
 nighc; but tie wind obliging us to hold a southward course, wt saw 
 none of them., uid the weather soon grew bright and warm again. 
 
 Ihe obser ,at ; 1 ever^ day at noon, and the subsequent working of 
 the vessel s cpv,: .. war,, as may be supposed, a feature iu -.ur lix^es of 
 paraniount m portance; nor were there wanting (as there never are) 
 sagacious doubtei-, t. the captain's calculations, who. so soon as his 
 back was turned, would, in the absence of compasses, measure ^;>e 
 chart with bits of string, ^nd ends of pocket- h.. ndkerchiefs, and its 
 ot snuffers, and clcai iy prove him to be wrong bv an odd th .sand 
 miles or so. It was very ed.fying to see these unbelievers snak. their 
 
 heads an 
 
 not that 
 
 trusted t 
 
 Indeed, t 
 
 whom yc 
 
 quite pa] 
 
 tains eve 
 
 plate; an( 
 
 sails han^ 
 
 and say. ^ 
 
 they shre 
 
 It ever 
 
 wina won 
 
 shown bj 
 
 long a^ o. 
 
 respected 
 
 lievers as 
 
 ' ard thrc 
 
 was in pre 
 
 we should 
 
 ship, a Sa 
 
 carried it 
 
 Sanguine ( 
 
 Western ( 
 
 he suppose 
 
 of sailing ^ 
 
 life with J 
 
 affect desf 
 
 These w 
 
 vtas still ai 
 
 a hundred 
 
 know indi-i 
 
 deck wher* 
 
 and very o 
 
 and with v 
 
 what errar 
 
 were. The i 
 
 had charge 
 
 them had 1 
 
 and some h 
 
 they were 1 
 
 the passage 
 
 food, and ii 
 
 covered nej 
 
 secret close 
 
 whatever bi 
 
 in the after- 
 
 The who 
 
of 
 
 American Notes i^^ 
 
 nnf f w'\?'''T' ^"^ ^^^^ *^^"^ ^°^^ fo^th Strongly upon navigation 
 
 trusted the rL^"""- ^^y,'^^^ ^^""* ^*' ^"* thf t^hey aSs m° si 
 inni!? !^ P*''''' ''' ''^^"^ weather, or when the wind waradte?.^ 
 Indeed, the mercury itself is not so variable as this class oTpasse™ 
 whom you will see. when the ship is going noblv thmn^h fht \ ' 
 quite pale with admiration. swea?ing that the cantlfn £.V T^ ' 
 
 Srnd^^°""' r' ^^^^ ^-t-|attb^n>£^^^^^^^^^ 
 plate and who. next morning, when the breeze has lulled and all fh^ 
 
 nnh^""^ >f "^ "* ?^ ^^^" ^^' '''^^' their despondei^^ heads aia^ 
 
 wi^=.^-i^r^.^^^ 
 
 longa^o. ihe hrst mate, who whis ,ed for O- 7Aalr^„ol„ ^ f 
 
 respected for his perseverance, and was r^ga^ded even LTS Z^ 
 
 ship, a Sanguine One. and a Despondent Onf The l^?Jr T T"^ 
 
 „, l"?P°^ ? Cunard' steam-packet was now: a id what he thought 
 
 afiectdes^onden^rfSt^^pfa^Lrd'qu'etud''/ *°° "'^^ """^^-^ *° 
 
 v..^sSu:X^l!JreSL^^etr^^:rr^^^^^ 
 
 a hundred passengers: a iSle worW of nowrt! h ^ ^^'''S'' "^"'^ 
 
 ar. 1 -lu 1^^ °°' ^^ became curious to know their histnriP^ 
 
 what"'r?ands t^T'*""™' '"7 ''^'^ '^°'"' °"* *° Imerlca at d on 
 
 ih<. whole system of shippmg and conveying these unfortunate 
 
178 
 
 American Notes 
 
 persons, is one that stands in need of thorough revision. If any class 
 deserve to be protected and assisted by the Government, it is that 
 class who are banished from their native land in search of the bare 
 means of subsistence. All that could be done for these poor people 
 by the great compassion and humanity of the captain and officers 
 was done, but they require much more. The law is bound, at least 
 upon the English side, to see that too many of them are not put on 
 board one ship: and that their accommodations are decent: not 
 demoralising and profligate. It is bound, too, in common humanity, to 
 declare that no man shall be taken on board without his stock of pro- 
 visions being previously inspected by sonie proper officer, and pro- 
 nounced moderately suffxient for his support upon the voyage. It 
 is bound to provide, or to require that there be provided, a medical 
 attendant; whereas in these ships there are none, though sickness of 
 adults, and deaths of children, on the passage, are matters of the very 
 commonest occurrence. Above all it is the duty of any Government, 
 be it monarchy or republic, to interpose and put an end to that system 
 by which a firm of traders in emigrants purchase of the owners the 
 whole 'twcen-decks of a ship, and send on board as many wretched 
 people as they can lay liold of, on any terms they can get, without the 
 smallest reference to the conveniences of the steerage, the number of 
 berths, the slightest separation of the sexes, or anything but their 
 own immediate profit. I'^or is even this the worst of the vicious system: 
 for, certain crimping agents of these houses, who have a percentage on 
 all the passengers they inveigle, are constantly travelling about those 
 districts where poverty and discontent are rife, and tempting the 
 credulous into more misery, by holding out monstrous inducements 
 to emigration which can never be realised. 
 
 The history of every family we had on board was pretty much the 
 same. After hoarding up, and borrowing, and begging, and selling 
 everything to pay the passage, they had gone out to New York, 
 expecting to find its streets paved with gold; and had found them 
 paved with very hard and very real stones. Enterprise was dull; 
 labourers were not wanted; jobs of work were to be got, but the pay- 
 ment was not. They were coming back, even poorer than they went. 
 One of them was carrying an open letter from a young English artisan, 
 who had been in New York a fortnight, to a friend near Manchester, 
 whom he strongly urged to follow him. One of the officers brought it 
 tomeasacuri.^itv. "Thisisthe country, Jem," said the writer. "Hike 
 America. There :" ' .10 despotism here; that's the great thing. Employ- 
 ment of all sorts is going a-begging, and wages are capital. You have 
 only to choose a trade, J tin, and be it. I haven't made choice of one 
 yet, but I shall soon. At present I haven't quite made up my mind 
 whether to be a carpenter — or a tailor." 
 
 There was yet another kind ol passenger, and but one more, who, 
 in the calm and the iight winds, was a constant theme of conversation 
 and observation among us. This was an tuglisli sailor, a smart, 
 thorough-built, English man-of-war's-man from his hat to his shoes. 
 
 who wa 
 
 absence 
 
 himself 1 
 
 that bei 
 
 monev, 1 
 
 "He'd b( 
 
 Accordii 
 
 than he 
 
 crew, an 
 
 like a ca1 
 
 first at tf 
 
 everywh 
 
 sober gri 
 
 my own] 
 
 At len 
 
 earnest, i 
 
 slashing 1 
 
 of the spl 
 
 a furious 
 
 sense of j 
 
 how I lov 
 
 rushing c 
 
 about hei 
 
 mistress j 
 
 being nov 
 
 by day, £ 
 
 homewan 
 
 cheerful 1 
 
 twenty-se 
 
 before us, 
 
 morning, 
 
 that ever 
 
 Dim sp 
 
 more chee 
 
 it seems t( 
 
 separable 
 
 shining or 
 
 extent of '. 
 
 veiling it i 
 
 the moon 
 
 of melancl 
 
 to comfort 
 
 having a f j 
 
 Heaven, t; 
 
 and this ol 
 
 tranquil ni 
 
 The win 
 
 still in the 
 
American Notes 
 
 179 
 
 who was serving in the American navy, and having got leave of 
 absence was on h,s way home to see his friends. When he presented 
 himself to take and pay for his passage, it had been suggested to him 
 that being an able seaman he might as well work it and save the 
 monev but this piece of advice he very indignantly rejected: saying 
 He d be damned but for once he'd go aboard ship, as a gentlemln^' 
 Accordingly, they took his money, but he no sooner came aboard, 
 than he stowed his kit in the forecastle, arranged to mess with the 
 crew, and the very first time the hands were turned up. went aloft 
 like a cat, before anybody. And all through the passage there he was 
 first at the braces, outermost on the yards, perpetually lending a hand 
 everywhere, but always with a sober dignity in his manne?. and a 
 sober grin on his face, which plainly said. "I do it as a gentleman For 
 my own pleasure, mind you!" 
 
 At length and at last, the promised wind came up in right good 
 earnest, and away we went before it, with very stitch of canvas set 
 slashing through the water nobly. There was a grandeur in the motion 
 of the splendid ship, as overshadowed by her mass of sails, she rode at 
 a furious pace upon the waves, which filled one with an indescribable 
 sense of pride and exultation. As she plunged into a foaming vallev 
 how I loved to see the green waves, bordered deep with white conie 
 rushing on astern, to buoy her upward at their pleasure and curl 
 about her as she stooped again, but always own her for their hautrhtv 
 mistress still! On on we flew, with changing lights upon the water 
 being now in the blessed region of fleecy skies; a bright sun lighting us 
 by day, and a bright moon by night; the vane pointing directly 
 homeward, alike the truthful index to the favouring wind and to our 
 cheerful hearts; until at sunrise, one fair Monday morning— the 
 twenty-seventh of June. I shall not easily forget the day— there lav 
 before us. old Cape Clear. God bless it. showing, in the mist of early 
 morning, like a cloud: the brightest and most welcome cloud to us 
 that ever hid the face of Heaven's fallen sister— Home 
 
 Dim speck as it was in the wide prospect, it made the sunrise a 
 more cheerful sight, and gave to it that sort of human interest which 
 it seems to want at sea. There, as elsewhere, the return of day is in- 
 separable from some sense of renewed hope and gladness; but the light 
 shining on the dreary waste of water, and showing it in all its vast 
 extent of loneliness, presents a solemn spectacle, which even night 
 veiling It m darkness and uncertainty, does not surpass. The rising of 
 the moon IS more in keeping with the sohtary ocean; and has an air 
 of melancholy grandeur, which in its soft and gentle influence seems 
 to comfort while it saddens. I recollect when I was a very youiig child 
 having a fancy that the reflection of the moon in water was a path to 
 Heaven, trodden by the spirits of good people on their way to God- 
 and this old feeling often came over me again, when I watched it on a 
 tranquil night at sea. 
 
 i he wind was very light on this same Monday morning, but it was 
 still m the right quaiter, and so, by slow degrees, we left Cape Clear 
 
 Hf 
 
 II 
 
 Bf- 
 
 n ^ 1 
 
i8o 
 
 American Notes 
 
 behind, and sailed along within sight of the coast of Ireland. And how 
 merry we all were, and how loyal to the George Washington, and how 
 full of mutual congratulations, and how venturesome in predictmg the 
 exact hour at which tve should arrive at Liverpool, may be easily 
 imagined and readily understood. Also, how heartily we drank the 
 captain's health that day at dinner; and how restless we became 
 about packing up: and how two or three of the most sangume spirits 
 rejected the idea of going to bed at all that night as something it was 
 not worth while to do, so near the shore, but went nevertheless, and 
 slept soundly; and how to be so near our journey's end. was like a 
 pleasant dream, from which one feared to wake. 
 
 The friendly breeze freshened again next day, and on we went once 
 more before it gallantly: descrying now and then an English ship 
 going homeward under shortened sail, while we, with every inch of 
 canvas crowded on, dashed gaily past, and left her far behind. To- 
 wards evening, the weather turned hazy, with a drizzling rain; and 
 soon became so thick, that we sailed, as it were, in a cloud. Still we 
 swept onward like a phantom ship, and many an eager eye glanced up 
 to where the Look-out on the mast kept watch for Holyhead. 
 
 At length his long-expected cry was heard, and at the same moment 
 there shone out from the haze and mist ahead, a gleaming light, 
 which presently was gone, and soon returned, and soon was gone 
 again. Whenever it came back, the eyes of all on board, brightened and 
 sparkled like itself: and there we all stood, watching this revolving 
 light upon the rock at Holyhead, and praising it for its brightness 
 and its friendly warning, and lauding it, in short, above all other 
 signal lights that ever were displayed, until it once more glimmered 
 faintly in the distance, far behind us. . r ■ 
 
 Then, it was time to fire a gun, for a pilot; and almost before its 
 smoke had cleared away, a little boat with a light at her mast-head 
 came bearing down upon us, through the darkness, swiftly. And 
 presently, our sails being backed, she ran alongside; and the hoarse 
 pilot, wrapped and muffled in pea-coats and shawls to the very bridge 
 of his weather-ploughed-up nose, stood bodily among us on the deck. 
 And I think if that pilot had wanted to borrow fifty pounds for an 
 indefinite period on no security, we should have engaged to lend it to 
 him, among us. before his boat had dropped astern, or (which is the 
 same thing) before every scrap of news in the paper he brought with 
 him had become the common property of all on board . 
 
 We turned in pretty late that night, and turned out pretty early 
 next morning. By six o'clock we clustered on the deck, prepared 
 to go ashore; and' looked upon the spires, and roofs, and smoke, of 
 Liverpool. By eight we all sat down in one of its Hotels, to eat and 
 drink together for the last time. And by nine we had shaken hands 
 all round, and broken up our social company for ever. 
 
 The country, by the railroad, seemed, as we rattled through it, 
 like a luxuriant garden. The beauty of the fields (so suiall thy 
 looked !), the hedge-rows, and the trees; the pretty cottages, the beds 
 
 of floweri 
 known ol 
 in the she 
 the windi 
 tell, or pe 
 
 The uphc 
 system. I 
 proof and 
 The firs 
 cattle, wh( 
 in their tr 
 Institutior 
 which it is 
 howS' (ever 
 guilty heac 
 
 The secc 
 and sellers 
 end, own, i 
 deny the h( 
 as never w; 
 experience 
 at this or a 
 or foreign, 
 tion of thei 
 torture sla-' 
 sailed by an 
 the Freedoi 
 cruel; and > 
 America, is 
 despot than 
 
 The third 
 of all that d( 
 brook an eqi 
 tolerate a m 
 toonear;"w] 
 as a disgrace 
 rights can oi 
 
 It has bee 
 have been n 
 republic of A 
 
American Notes jCj 
 
 tell, or pen of mine d"cribe ^* *"'"'"' '* •*'"' °° '""g^ "==>" 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 SLAVERY 
 
 The upholders of slavery in America n( th. t :■ 
 
 which it is fraugMdaSers which h'^'^' the dangers to society with 
 hows^ .ever tardy in thefr comfn^ ^^^""^^ "^^'^^"^ ^^^^ ^^y be, or 
 guilty head, as irtheS:;^Tfud|mTnt'" '^ '"'^^" ^" ^^" "^^ ^^^ 
 and'sdirof'sU^^^^^^^^ users, buyers 
 
 end. own. bre-d use bnv .n A n A^ ^^^^'^^ ^^^P*^^ has a bloody 
 deny the W^ors ofthe sy'^te^'r^^^^^^ 'f ^^^^^ -^° ^-^^ed! 
 
 as never was brouc^ht to bear on J^".! ^.h t''''^ ^ ""^'^ °* evidence 
 
 experience of everj day contXt^-^^^ '^ '^ ^"^ ^'^ '^^'''^ ^^"^ 
 
 at this or any othTr moment^r.m/ immense amount; who would 
 
 or foreign, provided Th^HLffV''''f''^ America in a war. civil 
 tion of thd^rilht to p^^^^^^^^^ ^°^" ^"^ ^"d object the ^sser- 
 
 torture slaves. unque^tS^^edbv^"?' ^""^ *° ^^^P ^"^ ^°^k and 
 sailed by any humanTowerw>.o^ ^^ ^u""^"" authority, and unas- 
 the Freedom toTppr£Theirk?nd ^i^T^^ °^ ^^^^d°"^' ^^^n 
 cruel; and of whom everv man on b^^^ '^'^^^'' °^^^^^^^««' ^^d 
 
 America, is a more e7ac7inT^J 1 '''^'' ^'"°""^' ^^ ^-epublican 
 despot tlmnthrShphSaroLri^^^^^ I'f''''^^"'^ ^ ^^''^^ responsible 
 The third, and not theSt nli^f '" his angry robe of scarlet, 
 of all that delicate gentilitvu^irh!^.^ ^"^"^"tial. is composed 
 brook an eqrar^tto class w^^^ ^ ^"P^'^or. and cl^nnot 
 
 tolerate a man above me^a^^^^^ "I will not 
 
 toonear;"whosepride ?n'^ InnH? t.^^ ^^°'^' "°"^ "^^s* approach 
 as a disgrace S be minilte^.H^'^'K ^° ""^^^y ^^^itade is shunned 
 rights cL only hTve'Telr ~,rnC^^^^ ^^ose inalienable 
 
 halVriT/r.f 1".^^^^^^^^ in the un^'lling efforts wh..H 
 
 republic of inT;rica(:tmnrcauL'^^^^^^^^^ ^'^f" ^^"^^°°^ ^""tl* 
 d ^btrange cause for history to treat of!), sufficient 
 
'(*•■ 
 
 l82 
 
 American Notes 
 
 regard has not been had to the existence of the first class of persons; 
 and it has been contended that they are hardly used, in being con- 
 founded with the second. This is, no doubt, the case; noble instances 
 of pecuniary and personal sacrifice have already had their growth 
 among them; and it is much to be regretted that the gulf between 
 them and the advocates of emancipation should have been widened 
 and deepened by any means: the rather, as there are, beyond dispute, 
 among these slave-owners, many kind masters who are tender in the 
 exercise of their unnatural power. Still, it is to be feared that this 
 injustice is inseparable from the state of things with which humanity 
 and truth are called upon to deal. Slavery is not a whit the more 
 endurable because some hearts are to be found which can partially 
 resist its hardening influences; nor can the indignant tide of honest 
 wrath stand still, because in its onward course it overwhelms a few 
 who are comparatively innocent, among a host of guilty. 
 
 The ground most commonly taken by these better men among the 
 advocates of slavery, is this: "It is a bad system; and for myself I 
 would willingly get rid of it. if I could; most willingly. But it is not 
 so bad, as you in England take it to be. You are deceived by the 
 representations of the emancipationists. The greater part of my slaves 
 are much attached to me. You will say that I do not allow them to 
 be severely treated; but I will put it to you whether you believe that 
 it can be a general practice to treat them inhumanly, when it would 
 impair their value, and would be obviously against the interests of 
 their masters." 
 
 Is it the interest of any man to steal, to game, to waste his health 
 and mental faculties by drunkenness, to lie, forswear hinself, indulge 
 hatred, seek desperate revenge, or do murder? No. All these are roads 
 to ruin. And why, then, do men tread them? Because such inclinations 
 are among the vicious qualities of mankind. Blot out, ye friends of 
 slavery, from the catalogue of human passions, brutal lust, cruelty, 
 and the abuse of irresponsible power (of all earthly temptations the 
 most difficult to be resisted), and when ye have done so, and not 
 before, we will inquire whether it be the interest of a master to lash 
 and maim the slaves, over whose lives aijd limbs he has an absolute 
 
 control ! 
 
 But again: this class, together with that last one I have named, the 
 miserable aristocracy spawned of a false repubhc, lift up their voices 
 and exclaim "Public opirion is all-sufficient to prevent such cruelty 
 as you denounce." PuDlic ^pinion! Why, pubhc opinion in the slave 
 States is slavery, is it not? Public opinion, in the slave States, has 
 delivered the slaves over, to the gentle mercies of their masters. 
 Public opinion has made the laws, an J, denied the slaves legislative 
 protection. Publir opi.uon has knotted the lash, heated the brand- 
 ing-iron, loaded the rifle, and shielded the murderer. Public opinion 
 threatens the abolitionist with death, if he venture to the South; and 
 drags him with a rope about his middle, in broad unblushing noon, 
 through the first city in the East. l:^ubiic opinion has, within a few 
 
 years, burn< 
 
 public opini 
 
 able Judge 
 
 derers, that 
 
 being so, mt 
 
 made. Publii 
 
 and set the 
 
 influence, an 
 
 Public opi 
 
 ance over th 
 
 public opinic 
 
 their twelve 
 
 States, with 
 
 and forty-t\\ 
 
 down the mo 
 
 for whose tas 
 
 protestations 
 
 Public opii 
 
 pressed by H 
 
 Washington. 
 
 Carolina, "I ] 
 
 house, and a 
 
 respect prevei 
 
 tion which ha 
 
 district of Co 
 
 South Carolin 
 
 chance shall 1 
 
 felon's death. 
 
 South Carolin; 
 
 can catch him, 
 
 of all the gove 
 
 we will HANG h 
 
 Public opini 
 ington, in that 
 liberty, any jt 
 passing down i 
 black man's pj 
 this man a run; 
 man of law wh 
 papers, warnin 
 to pay the jail 
 owner, it may £ 
 
 IS SOLD TO REC 
 
 ^gain, and agai 
 adviser, messen 
 into his case is i 
 liave served for 
 «o process, for i 
 
American Notes 
 
 years, burned a slave aliv^ nf ^ d ^ • ^3 
 
 public opinion has to this dav m^nT,f ''^'" **"" "^ °' St. Louis; and 
 able Judge who eharged the^r"?;" tann "H !?'' """'='' *"••'' «^t™- 
 derers, that their most horrid deed waf an'ac?nf^''K,*° '"^ ^'' ""'^■ 
 being so, must not be punished bvth^l, .1 "^Pu^hc opinion, and 
 
 ■is:op'in^i:^,tLt-it^^^^^ ""^ " ■"^''' ^" 
 ;=-nrtre',-^^^^^ 
 
 their twelve States one hundred mLl °Tf'- They send from 
 States, with a free populatfon "eariv H. M ^'"1"= ^^^^ '""rteen free 
 and forty-two. Before whom do tw, S' '■'=*"™ >"■* '^ hundred 
 
 down the most humbly Tn whom do th '^T'''^"^''' candidates bow 
 tor whose tastes do thw cater Semo,?-,''"'," *'''=,'"°^"°"dly, and 
 protestations? The slavLwnis a1 "ays ^^'<'"°""y '" t^eir servile 
 
 pre^sL'^b^lti^o™' membe&t"t°hr^°" °' *^ '-■= S-'". - ex- 
 Washington. ■■! have aTSt resDect?-'« "'Representatives at 
 Carolina, "I have a greaf respect for t^e .h''- '=''''"■■ 1"°*'' North 
 house, and a great resnect fS L- "'"'"■ ''= ^n ofTicer of the 
 
 respect prevcnfs me f roTrusWng to^th^eTahr"^' , ".""''"S ""' «>at 
 ■"?.": "^? •;- i-t been prest?fd fofthfat,?."i':^","A!!i^* Peti. 
 
 t'Siared'b:r,a^ !'?'i'i«--t ':: -ya 
 
 district of Columbia, to Dieros " "t x, ^ "- ^"'^ 
 
 South Carolina/'ignorant fnfiiria'i^rl I'^IT'' *^^ abolitionists/' says 
 chance shall throw Tny of ?hem into n'^\"^"i ^' ^^^^ ^'^' ^^at^f 
 felon's death "—"Let nn al i^- ° °"^ ^^"*^s, he may expect a 
 
 South CaroHna," criel a'^hfrd'^^irCa^^^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^-^- of 
 
 can catch him, we will try him ^ndr^^f lul ' colleague; "and if we 
 
 of all the governments SeartinncrdTnlt?"^^^ ^'l^ interference 
 we will HANG him. " ' including the Federal government, 
 
 Public opinion has made this law t+ u j , 
 jngton, in that city vvhich takes its n. ml f^' tu^Y^"^ *^^* ^^ Wash- 
 liberty, any justice of thrp^ace m^ . h T ^>l^?^^ 
 passing down the street and tosThL^f "^'^^ ^^^^^'' ^"^ "^g^o 
 back man's part is necessary SeitTicf.^.^^'^^ «" «^« 
 
 this man a runaway: " and locks him nn P k1^'' • ^. "^^o^"^ *« think 
 man of law when this is done to^dv-^'^ ii ""^^ ""'""P^^""' ^^" 
 papers, warning his owner to ;nm. o f f ^ ^^^ "^^^^ ^^ the news- 
 to pay the jail fees But slpDoL^h^ claim him, or he will be sold 
 owner, it m4 naturally LSme^dthnV'if ^'"^ ^^^"^' ^"^ ^^^ "O 
 
 ^S SOLD TO RECOMPENSE hTjIil^H ?hi. tlT' ^V^^^^^^' ^^^ «^ 
 
 again, and again. He has no means o^nr. ^!^^ f^^e again, and 
 adviser, messenger or asei«f L?. ? proving his freedom; has no 
 into his case is rde^^rqu^r^iS^^^^^^^ ^f '" "° ---tigation' 
 We served for years, and bo,f.ht h" "^^^^^^^^ '"" "'^^' ^^° "^^^ 
 
 no process, for no crime, and on no preteth/ edm^^^^^^^ ^ 
 
 i4 
 
 I PI 
 
 ( ! 
 
 * s 
 
 t 
 
i84 
 
 American Notes 
 
 pay the jail fees. This seems incredible, even of America, but it is the 
 law. 
 
 Public opinion is deferred to, in such cases as the following: which 
 is headed in the newspapers: — 
 
 "Interesting Law-Case. 
 
 "An interesting case is now on trial in the Supreme Court, arising 
 out of the following facts. A gentleman residing in Maryland had 
 allowed an aged pair of his slaves, substantial though not legal 
 freedom for several years. While thus living, a daughter was born to 
 them, who grew up in the same liberty, until she m irried a free negro, 
 and went with him to reside in Pennsylvania. They had several chil- 
 dren, and lived unmolested until the original owner died, when his 
 heir attempted to regain them; but the magistrate before whom they 
 were brought, decided that he had no jurisdiction in the ca.se. The 
 owner seized the woman and her children in the night, and carried them 
 to Maryland." 
 
 "Cash for negroes, "cash for negroes," "cash for negroes," is the 
 heading of advertisements in great capitals down the long columns 
 of the crowded journals. Woodcuts of a runaway negro with manacled 
 hands, crouching beneath a bluff pursuer in top boots, who, having 
 caught him, gra.spshim by the throat, agreeably diversify the pleasant 
 text. The leading article protests against "that abominable and 
 hellish doctrine of abolition, which is repugnant alike to every law 
 of God and nature." The delicate mamma, who smiles her acquies- 
 cence in this sprij^htly writing as she reads the paper in her cool 
 piazza, quiets her youngest child who clings about her skirts, by 
 promising the boy "a whip to beat the little niggers with." — But the 
 negroes, little and big, are protected by public opinion. 
 
 Let us try this public opinion by another test, which is important 
 in three points of view: first, as showing how desperately timid of the 
 public opinion slave-owners are, in their delicate descriptions of 
 fugitive slaves in widely circulated newspapers; secondly, as showing 
 how perfectly contented the slaves are» and how very seldom they 
 run away; thirdly, as exhibiting their entir*^ freedom from scar, 
 or blemish, or any mark of cruel infliction, as their pictures are 
 drawn, not by lying abolitionists, but by their own truthful 
 masters. 
 
 The following are a few specimens of the advertisements in the 
 public papers. It is only four years since the oldest among them 
 appeared; and others of the same nature continue to be published 
 every day, in shoals. 
 
 "Ran away, Negress Caroline. Had on a collar with one prong 
 turned down." 
 
 "Ran away, a black woman, Betsy. Had an iron bar on her right 
 
 leg." 
 
 "Ran away, the negro Manuel. Much marked with irons." 
 

 American Notes 
 
 185 
 
 ne^ away, the negress Fanny, had on an iron band about her 
 
 "Wo,, •' """^'"6 a^ ring and chain on the left Ipw " 
 
 Ran away, a negro bov named TnrT.*»« c; .;!, L ^' 
 
 he left me." ^ "^"^^^ J '^"^es. Said boy was ironed when 
 
 marU.of ..sH.No'ln'd'L'i'rronstSert'^^'''' ''^"- "" ^^^=-' 
 
 she wntTff^'i'b^r^fherwUraZ: '"° ^"''l'''' ^ '^^ "ay. before 
 1 tried to mkketT letter M" "■°"' °" *'"' '*" ^''"^ °' '^<='- '^ce. 
 
 "Ran away, a negro man named Henry his left ev,. o„t . 
 iron, a dark on and under his left arm/an'd micrsell^r^^rSTh: 
 
 old! H^^'JZred°o'nTh^,^;!;,f ^. ^ "^°™ '<="-• »'-P«5'. 40 years 
 
 Committed to jail, a m sro man. Has no toes on the left foot - 
 exce^prtSge%"nT? """^" "^""'^ ^-l^^'- Has".:It"X toes 
 
 an;iJaLTv:?al^Tots^rhts^l'Jra?;\r^^^^^ 
 
 thefeft"^'Lrw''ee';rfl,°e?ho°uld:rand^er^ '"^^T- 'J^^ "^^ =''°* '" 
 the left hand." shoulder and elbow, which has paralysed 
 
 in hfs'baSZfgSm" • " "''"^' '™°"- "^ »- "-n ^"ot badly. 
 
 his tetLtS e\ch'^:rm'S:de^?a"kn"f^^ f »' -''--"le scar across 
 goodness of God." " ^ ''"''*• '°™^ '° ta't much of the 
 
 "Twenty-five dollars reward for my man Isaac H„ h=.<. 
 W "Xi'- """ "^ ^ ^'""^ ^"^ °- orhl:?a^k":,t bTa"h°o? 
 
 eye, atooSnyS Sssta " fhettT' 'I^-^ t '■"="' ^^ -- "- 
 and forehead." m>ssmg, the letter A is branded on her cheek 
 
 andteflTg:^b:rnS"e/?v\dS'r"t^'^^^^ ''-'^•- »- *!>-"> 
 
 ^^"o:j^Ll\^-htiFSF~^^^ 
 
 n^ht cheek, and We:'.^to"t^-Cnrrn^rwifh^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 "Ran away, a negro man named Ned Thrp<- nf hi. « 
 drawn into the palm of his hand bv . r.^H.^l^t?! ^.^""^^^^ '-? 
 bis neck, nearly half round, done by a kli'lfe/' " ^^"' "" '"^ ""^^^ ^* 
 
 
 1 ; 
 
 r,, ,,.,,, 
 
 m 
 

 5U -^^v^N^ 
 
 iMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-3) 
 
 1.0 
 
 I.I 
 
 
 2.5 
 
 1 20 
 
 1.8 
 
 
 1.25 1.4 
 
 III 1-6 
 
 III 
 
 
 < 
 
 6" — 
 
 
 » 
 
 m 
 
 e 
 
 /a 
 
 '> 
 
 a 
 
 wP 
 
 % > 
 
 
 /A 
 
 
 '/ 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. MS80 
 
 (716) S72-4S03 
 

i86 
 
 American Notes 
 
 m 
 
 \M 
 
 Was committed to jail, a negro man. Says his name is Tosiah. 
 His back very much scarred by the whip; and branded on the thieh 
 and hips m thrte or four places, thus (JM). The rim oi his right ear 
 has been bit or cl t o€ . ' ' 
 
 "Fifty dollars reward, for my fellow Edward . He has a scar on the 
 corner of his mouth, two cuts on and under his arm. and the letter 
 E on his arm." 
 
 "Ran away, negro boy EUie. Has a scar on one of his arms from 
 the bite of a dog." 
 
 "Ran away, from the plantation of James Surgette, the following 
 negroes: Randal, has one ear cropped; Bob, has lost one eye- Ken- 
 tucky Tom. has one jaw broken." 
 
 "Ran away. Anthon^r. One of his ears cut off. and his left hand cut 
 with an axe. ' 
 
 "Fifty dollars reward for the negro Jim Blak'j. Has a piece cut out 
 of each ear, and the middle finger of the left hand cut off to the second 
 joint. 
 
 "Ran away, a negro woman named Maria. Has a scar on one side 
 of her cheek, by a cut. Some scars on her back." 
 
 "Ran away, the Mulatto wench Mary, Has a cut on the left arm, 
 a scar on the left shoulder, and two upper teeth missing. ' ' 
 
 I should say. perhaps, in explanation of this latter piece of descrip- 
 tion, that among the other blessings which public opinion secures to 
 the negroes, is the common practice ci violently punching out their 
 teeth. To make them wear iron collars by day and night, and to 
 worry them with dogs, are practices almost too ordinary to deserve 
 mention. 
 
 "Ran away, my man Fountain. Has holes in his ears, a scar on the 
 right side of his forehead, has been shot in the hind parts of his lees 
 and IS marked on the back with the whip." 
 
 "Two hundred and fifty dollars reward for my negro man Jim He 
 IS much marked with shot in his right thigh. The shot entered on the 
 outside, halfway between the hip and knee joints." 
 
 •'Brought to jail, John. Left ear crept." 
 
 "Taken up, a negro man. Is very much scarred about the face and 
 body, and has the left ear bit off . " , 
 
 "Ran away, a black girl, named Mary. Has a scar on her cheek 
 and the end of one of her toes cut off . " 
 
 "Ran away, my Mulatto woman, Judy. She has had her right arm 
 broke." ° 
 
 "Ran away, my negro man, Levi. His left hand has been burnt 
 and I think the end of his forefinger is off. " 
 
 "Ran away, a negro man, named Washington. Has lost a part of 
 his middle finger, and the end of his little finger." 
 
 "Twenty-five dollars reward for my man John. The tip of his nose 
 IS bit off." 
 
 "Twenty-five dollars reward for the negro slave, Sally. Walks as 
 /AoM^A crippled in the back." 
 
American Notes 
 
 187 
 
 ;;Ran away, Joe Dennis. Has a small notch in one of his ears " 
 Ran away, negro boy, Jack. Has a small crop out of his left ear." 
 
 of tfe^ro'/each 0^''"'"' '^'"^' '"°^- "" ^ ^"^" ^^^ ^^ -* 
 While upon the subject of ears. I may observe that a distinguished 
 abolitionist in New York once received a negro's ear. which hS been 
 cut off dose to the head, in a general post letter. It was fomarded by 
 l^t^^^^^^ md.;pendent gentleman who had caused it trbeamp^^ 
 
 I could enlarge this catalogue with broken arms, and broken less 
 and gashed flesh, and missing teeth, and lacerated backs, and bSs 
 ^n h?'.^"?^ ^'^^^' of red-hot irons innumerable: but as iky readers 
 mil be sufficiently sickened and repelled already, I will turn to an- 
 other branch of the subject, tuiiiioan 
 
 These advertisements, of which a similar collection might be made 
 for eyeiy year, and month, and week, and day; and which are cToUy 
 read m families as thmgs of course, and as a part of the current newl 
 and small-talk; will serve to show how very much the slaves pmfit by 
 puWic opinion, and how tender it is in their behalf. But it may be 
 worth while to inquire how the slave-owners, and the class of society 
 to which great numbers of them belong, defer to public opinion S 
 their conduct, not to their slaves but to each other; howThey aJe 
 accustomed to restrain their passions; what their bearing is amo^g 
 
 ^I'^r^:^^: H ^f 1 "' '^"y- ^'' ^^''' °' S^^tl^' ^^^ther their S 
 customs be brutal sangumary. and violent, or bear the impress of 
 civilisation and refinement. xmpresb 01 
 
 That we may have no partial evidence from abolitionists in this 
 inquiry, either. I will once more turn to their own newspapers, and I 
 will confine myself, this time, to a selection- from paragraphs which 
 appeared from day to day. during my visit to Americl. Ld wh ch 
 refer to occurrences happenmg while I was there. The italics in these 
 extracts, as m the foregoing, are my own 
 
 hJl^^^ ""T^ "^'1 "°i t^"^ °''o"''' '* ^i" ^^ ^^^n- in territory actually 
 belon; ,g to legalised Slave ^tates, though most, and those the verV 
 worst among them, did, as ti eir counterparts constantly do but the 
 position of tne scenes of action in reference to places immediately at 
 hand, where slavery is the law; and the strong resemblance between 
 that class of outrages and the rest; lead to the just presumption that 
 the character of the parties concerned was foimed in slave districts, 
 and brutalised by slave customs. =«-^i^i», 
 
 "Horrible Tragedy. 
 
 thl H'on'rhfr?^ l^'^'^'^P^^ Telegraph, Wisconsin, we learn that 
 the Hon. Charles C. P. Amdt. Member of the Council for Brown 
 county w^ shot dead on the floor of the Council chamber, by Tames R 
 Vmyard. Member fron. Grant county. The affair grew out of a nominal 
 
 1 ll 
 
 riii-i 
 
American Notes 
 
 i88 
 
 —L^'bfM/ AmdtTv'^- ^'- ^- S- ^-k- was nominated and 
 wiJ? ? i^L^ . ^*- ^^^^ nomination was opposed bv Vinvard 
 who wanted the appomtment to vest in his own brother In the course 
 of debate the deceased made some statements which Vinvard 
 pronounced alse. and made use of violent and insulth^?langTaJe 
 deahng largely m personalities, to which Mr. A. made no repi v^Af L; 
 to" ^ttcTS f • ^ ^*!PP^^up to Vinyard. and r^quSfed h S 
 to retract which he refused to do, repeating the offensive words 
 
 "The Wisconsin Tragedy. 
 
 r.i'If ""^^f indignation runs high in the territory of Wisconsin in 
 relation to the murder of C. C. P. Arndt, in the Legislative HauS the 
 Territory. Meetings have been held in different counties of V^ consfn 
 denouncing A. practice of secretly bearing arms intheuluSe 
 
 TaTes R t^^'^'^^f^' "^' ^^"^ ^^^" *^^ ^^^^"^^ of thfex^flstn of 
 
 M. A '^! ^1, *^' ^^'^ expulsion by those who saw Vinvard kill 
 
 ^^' .^n" 1 .'S *^' P'"'"^"^ °* ^^^ ^^^^ f^*h^^' who was on a visftTo s^e 
 his son httle dreammg that he was to witness his murder /wS^ 
 Dunn has dtscharged Vinyard on bail The Mraer's Fre? Press' spSs 
 in terms of merited rebuke at the outrage upon the feeW^ !5 ?il 
 people of Wisconsin. Vinyard was withif arn^^s length of M^^^ Arndt 
 when he took such deadly aim at him. that he never spokfviWrd 
 
 c"hot\?k^ilrhr''''^^^^ ^° "^^^' ^^^^ ^^^y wounderh^ra 
 
 "Murder. 
 "By a letter in a St. Louis paper of the 14th, we notice a terriblf^ 
 outrage at Burlington. Iowa. A Mr. Bridgman having had difl^uttv 
 with a citizen of the place. Mr. Ross; a brother-in4aw of the iSter 
 provided himself with one of Colt's revolving pistols mi Mr ^Z 
 the street, and discharged the contents of five ojKebar^eTat fun ea2 
 shot takvng effect. Mr. B.. though horribly wounded ^d dvin/ 
 returned the fire, and killed RosJ on the spot." ^ ^' 
 
 "Terrible Death of Robert Potter. 
 
 A "S^TJ'H® '^f i^° Gazette.' of the 12th inst.. we learn the friehtful 
 death of Colonel Robert Potter. ... He was beset in h^ house bv an 
 enemy, named Rose. He sprang from his couch, seized ht gun, and! 
 
American Notes 
 
 189 
 
 in his night-clothes, rushed from the house. For about two hundred 
 yards his speed seemed to defy his pursuers; but, gpftina pnfan^^lpH 
 m a thicket, he was captured. Rose told him that he intended to acta 
 generous part, and give him a chance for his life. He then told Potter 
 he might run. and he should not be interrupted till he reached a cer- 
 tain distance. Potter started at the word of command, and before a 
 gun was fired he had reached the lake. Kis first impulse was to jump 
 in the water and dive for it. which he did. Rose was close behind him 
 and formed his men on the bank ready to shoot him as he rose In a 
 few seconds he came up to breathe; and scarce had his head reached 
 the surface of the water when it was completely riddled with the shot 
 of their guns, and he sunk, to rise no more !" 
 
 "Murder in Arkansas. 
 "We understand that a severe rencontre came off & few days since in 
 the Seneca Nation, between Mr. Loose, the sub-agent of the mixed 
 band of the Senecas. Quapaw, and Shawnees, and Mr. James Gillespie 
 of the mercantile ' im of Thomas G. Allison and Co., of Maysville' 
 Benton, County Ark. in which the latter was slain with a bowie-knife' 
 Some difficulty had for some time existed between the parties It is 
 said that Major Gillespie brought on the attack with a cane. A severe 
 conflict ensued, during which two pistols were fired by Gillespie and 
 one by Loose. Loose then stabbed Gillespie with one of those never- 
 failmg weapons, a bowie-knife. The death of Major G. is much 
 regretted, as he was a liberal-minded and energetic man. Since the 
 above was in type, we have learned that Major Allison has stated to 
 some of our citizens in town that Mr. Loose gave the first blow. We 
 forbear to give any particulars, as the matter will be the subject of 
 judicial investigation." 
 
 "Foul Deed. 
 
 "The steamer Thames, just from Missouri river, brought us a hand- 
 bill offering a reward of 500 dollars, for the person who assassinated 
 Lilbum W. Baggs, late Governor of this State, at Independence on 
 the night of the 6th inst Governor Baggs. it is stated in a written 
 memorandum, was not dead, but mortally wounded. 
 
 "Since the above was written, we received a note from the clerk of 
 the Thames, giving the f. )llowing particulars. Gov. Baggs was shot 
 by some villain on Friday, 6th inst., in the evening, while sittmg in a 
 room in his own house in Independence. His son, a boy, hearing a 
 report, ran into the room, and found the Governor sitting in his chair 
 with his jaw fallen down, and his head leaning back; on discovering 
 the injury done to his father, he gave the alarm. Foot tracks were 
 found m the garden below the window, and a pistol picked up sup- 
 posed to have been overloaded, and thrown from the hand of the 
 scoundrel who fired it. Tliree buck shots of a heavy load, took effect- 
 
IQO 
 
 American Notes 
 
 one going through his mouth, one into the brain, and another 
 probably in or near the brain; all going into the back part of the neck 
 and head. The Govemox was still alive on the morning of the 7th; 
 but no hopes for his recovery by his friends, and but slight hopes 
 from his physicians. 
 
 "A man was suspected, and the Sheriff most probably has posses- 
 sion of him by this time. 
 
 "The pistol was one of a pair stolen some days previous from a 
 baker in Independence, and the legal authorities have the descrip- 
 tion of the other." ^ 
 
 "Rencontre. 
 
 "An unfortunate affair took place on Friday evening in Chatres 
 Street, in which one of our most respectable citizens received a danger- 
 ous wound, from a poignard, in the abdome;i. From the Bee (New 
 Orleans) of yesterday, we learn the following particulars. It appears 
 that an article was published in the !• rench side of the paper on Mon- 
 day last, containing some strictures on the Artillery Battalion for 
 firing their guns on Sunday morning, in answer to those from the 
 Ontario and Woodbury, and thereby much alarm was caused to the 
 families of those persons who were out all night preserving the peace 
 of the city. Major C. Gaily, Commander of the battalion, resenting 
 this, called at the office and demanded the author's name; that of 
 Mr. P. Arpin was given to him. who was absent at the time. Some 
 angry words then passed with one of the proprietors, and a challenge 
 followed; the friends of both parties tried to arrange the affair, but 
 failed to do so. On Friday evening, about seven o'clock. Major Gaily 
 met Mr. P. Arpin in Chatres Street, and accosted him. 'Are vou 
 Mr. Arpin?' ^ 
 
 '' 'Yes, sir,' 
 
 " 'Then I have to tell you that you are a ' (applving an 
 
 appropriate epithet). 
 
 " 'I shall remind you of your words, sir.' 
 
 .'.' .'"^"^ ^ ^^^^ ^^^'^ ^ would break my cane on your shoulders.' 
 '' 'I know it. but I have not yet received the blow.' 
 "At these words, Major Gaily, having ^ cane in his hands, struck 
 Mr. Arpin across the face, and the latter drew a poignard from his 
 pocket and stabbed Major Gaily in the abdomen. 
 
 "Fears are entertained that the wound will be ir ortal. We under- 
 stand that Mr. Arpin has given security for his appearance at the 
 Criminal Court to answer the charge." 
 
 "On the 27th ult. 
 Mississippi, between 
 
 'Affray in Mississippi. 
 
 m an affray near Carthage, Leake county, 
 
 James Cottingham and John Wilbum, the 
 
 latter was shot by the former, and so horribly wounded, that there 
 
American Notes 
 
 191 
 
 was^no hope of his recovery. On the 2nd instant, there was an affray 
 at ^arthage between A. C. Sharkey and George Goff. in which the 
 latter was shot, and thought mortally wounded. Sharkey delivered 
 himrcU up to the authorities, but changed his mind and escaped!'' 
 
 * 
 
 "Personal Encounter. 
 "An encounter took place in Sparta, a few days since, between the 
 barkeeper of an hotel, and a man named Bury. It appears that Burv 
 had beconie somewhat noisy, and that the barkeeper, determined to 
 preserve order, had threatened to shoot Bury, whereupon Bury drew a 
 pistol and shot the barkeeper down. He was not dead at the last 
 accounts, but slight hopes were entertained of his recovery." 
 
 "Duel. 
 "The clerk of the steamboat Tribune informs us that another duel 
 was fought on Tuesday last, by Mr. Robbins, a bank officer in Vicks- 
 burg, and Mr. Fall, the editor of the Vicksburg Sentinel. According 
 to the arrangement, the parties had six pistols each, which, after the 
 word Fire! they were to discharge as fast as they pleased. Fall fired 
 two pistols without effect. Mr. Robbins' first shot took effect in Fall's 
 thigh, who fell, and was unable to continue the combat." 
 
 "Affray in Clarke County. 
 
 "An unfortimate affray occurred in Clarke County (Mo.), near 
 Waterloo, on Tuesday the 19th ult., which originated in settling the 
 partnership concerns of Messrs. M'Kane and M'/ Ulster who had been 
 engaged m the business of distilling, and resulted in the death of the 
 latter who was shot down by Mr. M'Kane. because of his attempting 
 to take possession of seven barrels of whiskey, the property of 
 M Kane, which had been knocked off to M'AUister at a sheriff's sale 
 at one dollar per barrel. M'Kane immediately fled and at the latest 
 dates had not been taken. 
 
 "This unfortunate affray caused considerable excitement in the 
 neighbourhood, as both the parties were men with large families 
 depending upon them and stood well in the community." 
 
 I will quote but one more paragraph, which, by reason of its 
 monstrous absurdity, may be a relief to these atrocious deeds. 
 
 "Affair of Honour. 
 
 "^^ ?*^y® ^"^* ^^^^^ *^^ particulars of a meeting which took place 
 on bix Mile Island, on Tuesday, between two young bloods of our 
 city: Samuel Thurston, aged fifteen, and William Hine, aged thirteen 
 years. Thev wptp nftPTiri*>/i K,r ,,«„«« «^^4.i _ii ^i.. 
 
 ' ^^^^ j'j'^^r*, a.x.i.Kx YYiiiictm nme, agea mtrteen 
 
 Ihey were attended by young gentlemen of the same age. 
 
192 
 
 American Notes 
 
 I 
 
 The weapons used on the occasion, were a couple of Dickson's best 
 rifles; the distan'^e, thirty yards. They took one fire, without any 
 damage being sustained by either party, except the ball of Thurston's 
 gun passing through the crown of Mine's hat. Through the intercession 
 of the Board of Honour, the challenge was withdrawn, and the differ- 
 ence amicably adjusted." 
 
 If the reader will picture to himself the kind of Board of Honour 
 which amicably adjusted the difference betVveen these two little 
 boys, who in any other part of the world would have been amicably 
 adjusted on two porter's backs and soundly flogged with birchen 
 rods, he will be possessed, no doubt, with as strong a sense of its 
 ludicrous character, as that which sets me laughing whenever its 
 image rises up before me. 
 
 Now, I appeal to every human mind, imbued with the commonest 
 of common sense, and the commonest of common hunanity; to all 
 dispassionate, reasoning creatures, of any shade of opinion; and ask, 
 with these revolting evidences of the state of society which exists in 
 and about the slave districts of America before them, can they have 
 a doubt of the real condition of the slave, or can they for a moment 
 make a compromise between the institution or any of its flagrant, fearful 
 features, and their own just consciences? Will they say of any tale of 
 cruelty and horror, however aggravated in degree, that it is improb- 
 able, when they can turn to the public prints, and, running, read 
 such signs as these, laid before them by the men who rule the slaves: 
 in their own acts and under their own hands? 
 
 Do we not know that the worst deformity and ugliness of slavery are 
 at once the cause and the effect of the reckless license taken by these 
 freeborn outlaws? Do we not know that the man who has been born 
 and bred among its wrongs; who has seen in his childhood husbands 
 obliged at the word of command to flog their wives; wome- inde- 
 cently compelled to hold up their own garments that men might lay 
 the heavier stripes upon their legs, driven and harried by brutal 
 overseers in their time of travail, and becoming mothers on the field 
 of toil, under the very lash itself; who has read in youth, and seen his 
 virgin sisters read, descriptions of runaway men and women, and 
 their disfigured persons, which could not be published elsewhere, of so 
 much stock upon a farm, or at a show of beasts: — do we not know 
 that that man, whenever his wrath is kindled up, will be a brutal 
 savage? Do we not know that as he is a coward in his domestic life, 
 stalking among his shrinking men and women slaves armed with his 
 heavy whip, so he will be a coward out of doors, and carrying 
 cowards' weapons hidden in his breast, will shoot men down and 
 stab them when he quarrels? And if our reason did not teach us this 
 and much beyond; if we were such idiots as to close our eyes to that 
 fine mode of training which rears up such men; should we not know 
 that they who among their equals stab and pistol in the legislative 
 halls, and in the counting-house, and on the market-place, and in all 
 
American Notes 
 
 >n's best 
 out any 
 urston's 
 ircession 
 e differ- 
 
 Honour 
 vo little 
 micably 
 birchen 
 se of its 
 ever its 
 
 imonest 
 y; to all 
 ind ask, 
 3xists in 
 ey have 
 moment 
 t, fearful 
 y tale of 
 improb- 
 ig, read 
 B slaves: 
 
 very are 
 by these 
 sen born 
 usbands 
 V , inde- 
 ight lay 
 y brutal 
 the field 
 seen his 
 ten, and 
 ire, of so 
 Dt know 
 a brutal 
 stic life, 
 with his 
 carrying 
 •wn and 
 1 us this 
 i to that 
 Dt know 
 ^islative 
 ad in all 
 
 193 
 
 the elsewhere peaceful pursuits of life, must be to their dependants, 
 even though they were free servants, so many merciless and unrelent- 
 ing tyrants.? 
 
 What ! shall we declaim against the ignorant peasantry of Ireland, 
 and mince the matter when these American taskmasters are in 
 question? Shall we cry shame on the brutality of those who ham- 
 string cattle: and spare the lights of Freedom upon earth who notch 
 the ears of men and women, cut pleasant posies in the shrinking flesh, 
 learn to write with pens of red-hot iron on the human face, rack their 
 poetic fancies for liveries of mutilation which i heir slaves shall wear 
 for life and carry to the grave, breaking living limbs as did the soldiery 
 who mocked and slew the Saviour of the world, and set defenceless 
 creatures up for targets ! Shall we whimper over legends of the tor- 
 tures practised on each other by the Pagan Indians, and smile upon 
 the cruelties of Christian men ! Shall we, so long as these things last, 
 exult above the scattered remnants of that race, and triumph in the 
 white enjoyment of their possessions? Rather, for me, restore the 
 forest and the Indian village; in lieu of stars and stripes, let some 
 poor feather flutter in the breeze; replace the streets and squares by 
 wigwams; and though the death-song of a hundred haughty warriors 
 fill the air, it will be music to the shriek of one unhappy slave. 
 
 On one theme, which is commonly before our eyes, and in respect 
 of which our national character is changing fast» let the plain Truth be 
 spoken, and let us not, like dastards, beat about the bush by hinting 
 at the Spaniard and the fierce Italian. When knives are drawn by 
 Englishmen in conflict let it be said and known: "We owe this change 
 to Republican Slavery. These are the weapons of Freedom. With 
 sharp points and edges such as these. Liberty in America hews and; 
 hacks her slaves; or, failing that pursuit, her sons devote them to a 
 better use, and turn them on each other.' ' 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 CONCLUDING REMARKS 
 
 There are many passages in this book, where I have been at some 
 pains to resist the temptation of troubling my readers with my own 
 deductions and conclusions: preferring that they should judge for 
 themselves, from such premises as I have laid before them. My only 
 object in the outset, was, to carry them with me faithfully whereso- 
 ever I went: and that task I have discharged. 
 
 But I may be pardoned, if on such a theme as the general character 
 of the American people, and the general character of their social 
 system, as presented to a stranger's eyes, I desire to express my own 
 opinions in a few words, before I bring these volumes to a close. 
 
 325 
 
 ^ ' ! 
 
 ;f 
 
 
 Ij ; ■ t\ 
 
194 
 
 American Notes 
 
 
 They are, by nature, frank, brave, cordial, hospitable, and affec- 
 tionate. Cultivation and refinement seem but to enhance their warmth 
 of heart and ardent enthusiasm; and it is the possession of these latter 
 qualities in a most remarkable degree, which renders an educated 
 American one of the most endearing and most generous of friends. I 
 never was so won upon, as by this class; never yielded up my full 
 confidence and esteem so readily and pleasurably, as to them; never 
 can make again, in half a year, so many friends for whom I seem to 
 entertain the regard of half a life. 
 
 These qualities are natural, I implicitly believe, to the whole 
 people. That they are, however, sadly sapped and blighted in 
 their growth among the mass; and that there are influences at work 
 which endanger them still more, and give but little present pronise 
 of their healthy restoration; is a truth that ought to be told. 
 
 It is an essential part of every national character to pique itself 
 mightily upon its faults, and to deduce tokens of its virtue or its 
 wisdom from their very exaggeration. One great blemish in the 
 popular mind of America, and the prolific parent of an innumerable 
 brood of evils, is Universal Distrust. Yet the American citizen plumes 
 himself upon this spirit, even when he is sufficiently dispassionate 
 to perceive the ruin it works; and will often adduce it, in spite of his 
 own reason, as an instance of the great sagacity and acuteness of 
 the people, and their superior shrewdness and independence. 
 
 "You carry," says the stranger, "this jealousy and distrust into 
 every transaction of public life. By repelling worthy men from your 
 legislative assemblies, it has bred up a class of candidates for the 
 suffrage, who, in their very act, disgrace your Institutions and your 
 people's choice. It has rendered you so fickle, and so given to change 
 that your inconstancy has passed into a proverb; for you no sooner 
 set up an idol firmly, than you are sure to pull it down, and dash it 
 into fragments: and this, because directly you reward a benefactor, 
 or a public servant, you distrust him, merely because he is rewarded; 
 and immediately apply yourself to find out, either that you have been 
 too bountiful in your acknowledgments, or he remiss in his deserts. 
 Any man who attains a high place among you, from the President 
 downwards, may date his downfall f rom^that moment; for any printed 
 lie that any notorious villain pens, although it militate directly 
 against the character and conduct of a life, appeals at once to your 
 distrust, and is believed. You will strain at a gnat in the way of trust- 
 fulness and confidence, however fairly won and well deserved; but 
 you will swallow a whole caravan of camels, if they be laden with un- 
 worthy doubts and mean suspicions. Is this well, think you, or likely 
 toelevate the character of the govemorsor the governed, among you?" 
 
 The answer is invariably the same: "There's freedom of opinion 
 here, you know. Every man thinks for himself, and we are not to be 
 easily overreached. That's how our people come to be suspicious." 
 
 Another prominent feature is the love of "smart" dealing: which 
 gilds over many a swindle and gross breach of trust; many a defal- 
 
American Notes 
 
 id affec- 
 warmth 
 !se latter 
 educated 
 riends. I 
 my full 
 n; never 
 seem to 
 
 le whole 
 ;hted in 
 at work 
 pro)nise 
 
 ue itself 
 le or its 
 1 in the 
 merable 
 L plumes 
 ssionate 
 te of his 
 eness of 
 
 ust into 
 Dm your 
 for the 
 nd your 
 > change 
 sooner 
 dash it 
 lefactor, 
 warded; 
 ive been 
 deserts, 
 resident 
 printed 
 directly 
 to your 
 of trust- 
 eed; but 
 vith un- 
 >r likely 
 igyou?" 
 opinion 
 ot to be 
 ous." 
 ;: which 
 a defal- 
 
 195 
 
 cation, public and private; and enables many a knave to hold his head 
 up with the best, who well deserves a halter; though it has not been 
 without a retributive operation, for this smartness has done more in a 
 few years to impair the public credit, and to crippl.' the public 
 resources, than dull honesty, however rash, could have effected in a 
 century. The merits of a broken speculation, or a bankruptcy, or of a 
 successful scoundrel, are not gauged by its or h's observance of the 
 golden rule, "Do as you would be done by," but are considered with 
 reference to their smartness. I recollect, on both occasions of our pa- - 
 sing that ill-fated Cairo on the Mississippi, remarking on the bad 
 effects such gross deceits must have whf n they exploded, in generating 
 a want of confidence abroad, and diboouraging foreign investment: 
 but I was given to understand that this was a very smart scheme by 
 which a deal of money had been made: and that its smartest feature 
 was, that they forgot these things abroad, in a very short time, and 
 speculated again, as freely as ever. The following dialogue I have held 
 a hundred times: "Is it not a very disgraceful circumstance that such 
 a man as So-and-so should be acquiring a large property by the most 
 infamous and odious means, and notwithstanding all the crimes of 
 which he has been guilty, should be tolerated and abetted by your 
 Citizens? He is a public nuisance, is he not?" "Yes, sir." "A convicted 
 liar?" "Yes, sir." "He has been kicked, and cuffed, and caned?" 
 "Yes, sir." "And he is utterly dishonourable, debased, and profligate?" 
 "Yes, sir." "In the name of wonder, then, what is his merit?" "Well, 
 «ir, he is a smai t man." 
 
 In like manner, all kinds of deficient and impolitic usages are 
 referred to the national love of trade; though, oddly enough, it 
 would be a weighty charge against a foreigner that he regarded the 
 Americans as a tradint' r»- ,oi The love of trade is assigned as a 
 
 ■•tom, so very prevalent in country 
 ! hotels, having no fireside of their 
 • morning until late at night, but 
 ' trade is a reason why the litera- 
 'er unprotected: "For we are a 
 trading people, and don't care iox ^.^etry:" though we do, by the way, 
 profess to be very proud of our poets: while heal; 'if ul amusements] 
 cheerful means of recreation, and wholesome fancies, must fade betoie 
 the stem utilitarian joys of trade. 
 
 These three characteristics are strongly presented at every turn, 
 full in the stranger's view. But. the foul growth of America has a 
 more tangled mot than this; and it strikes its fibres, deep in its 
 licentious Press. 
 
 Schools may be erected. East, West, North, and South; pupils be 
 taught, and masters reared, by scores upon scores of thousands; 
 colleges may thrive, churches may be crammed, temperance may be 
 diffused, and advancing knowledge in all other forms walk through the 
 land with giant strides: but -vhile the newspaper press of America is 
 in, or near, its present abject state, high moral improvement in that 
 
 reason for that comfc 
 towns, of married pers 
 own, and seldom meeti. 
 at the hasty public mea 
 ture of America is to re-.^- 
 
 
mmmmmmnKm 
 
 196 
 
 American Notes 
 
 hi! 
 
 country is hopeless. Year by year, it muj»t and will go back; yeur by 
 year, the tone ot public feeling must 8i» < lower down; year by year, 
 the Congress and the Senate must become of less account before all 
 decent men; and year by year, the memory of the Great Fathers of the 
 Revolution must be outraged more and more, in the bad life of their 
 degenerate chilr!. » 
 
 Among (.he herd of journals which are published in the States, there 
 are some, the reader scarcely need be told, of character and credil . 
 Fron'4 personal intercourse with accompiished gentlemen connected 
 with publications of this class, I have derived both pleasure and 
 profit. But the name of these is Few, and of the others Legion; and 
 the influence of the good, is powerless to counteract the moral poison 
 of the bad, 
 
 Among the gentiy of America; among the well-informed and 
 moderate: in the learned professions; at the bar and on the bench: 
 there is, as there can bo, but one opinion, in reference to the vicious 
 character of these infamous journals. It is dometimei contended— 
 I will not say str&ngely, for it is natural to seek excu 'js for such a 
 disgraco -that their influence is not so great as a visitor would sup- 
 pose. I must be pardoned for saying that there is no wan ^nt for this 
 plea, and that every fact and circumstance tends directly to the 
 opposite conclusion. 
 
 When any man, of any grade of desert in intellect or character, 
 can climb to any pubUc distinction, no matter what, in America, 
 without first grovelling down upon the earth, and benuing the knee 
 before this monster of depravity; when any private excellence is safe 
 from its attacks; when any social confidence is leit unbroken by it, 
 or any tie of -'ociai decency and honour is held in the least regard; 
 when any man in that free country has freedom of opinion, and pre- 
 sumes to think for himself, and speak for himself, without humble 
 reference to a censorship which, for its rampant ignorance and base 
 dishonesty, he utterly loathes and despises in his heart; when those 
 who most acutely feel its infamy and the reproach it casts upon the 
 nation, and who most denounce it to each other, dare to set their 
 heeh upon, and crush it openly, in the sight of all men: then, I will 
 believe that its influence is lessening, apd men are returning to their 
 manly senses. But while that Press has its evil eye in every hous ?, and 
 its black hand in every appointment in the state, from a president to 
 a postman; while, with ribald slander for its only stock in trade, it is 
 the standard literature of an enormous class, who must find their read- 
 ing in a newspaper, or they will not read at aU; so long must its odium 
 be upon the country's head, and so long must the evil it works, be 
 plainly vi'i)le in the Republic. 
 
 To those who are accustomed to the leading English journals, or to 
 the respectable journals of the Continent of Europe; to those who are 
 accustomed to anything else in print and paper; it would be impossible, 
 without an amount of extract for wliich I have neither space nor in- 
 clination, to convey an adequate idea of this frightful engine in 
 
.J 
 
 Aiuciican Notes 
 
 197 
 
 Americft. Bat if any man desire confirnia<'> , i'my statement on 
 thi!» head, let him repair to any place in Via -My of London, wher« 
 scattered numbers of these publications aie to \e found; and there, 
 let him form his own opinion.* 
 
 I*, would be welJ, there can be rio doubt, for the American people 
 as a whole, if they loved the Real less, and the Ideal somewhat more. 
 It would be well, if there were greater encouragement to lighti ^ss of 
 heart and gaiety, and a wider cultivation of what is »>eautiful, without 
 being eminently and directly useful. But here, I think the general 
 remonstrance, "we are new country," which is so often advanced as 
 an excuse for defects which are quite unjustifiable, as l>eing, of right, 
 CMily the slow growth of an old one, may be very reasonably urged: 
 and I yet hope to hear of there being some other national amusement 
 in the United States, besides newspaper politics. 
 
 Thny certainly are not a humorous pc^ople, and *heir temperament 
 always impressed me as being of a dull and gloomy character. In 
 shrewdness of remark, and a certaiii cast-iron quaintness, the Yan- 
 kees, -^r people of New England, unquestionably take the lead; as they 
 do in most other evidences of intelligence. But in travelling about, 
 out of the large cities — as I have re»r ..r'<ed in former parts of these 
 volumes — I was quite oppressed b} '.ic prevailing seriousness and 
 melancholy air of business: which was so general and unvarying, that 
 at every new town I came to, I seemed to meet the very same people 
 whom I had left behind me, at the last. Such defects as are perceptible 
 in the national manners, seem, to me, to be referable, in a great 
 degree, to this en se: which has generated a dull, sullen persistence 
 in coeirse usages, and rejected the graces of life as undeserving of 
 attention. There is no doubt that Washington, who was always 
 most scrupulous and exact on points of ceremony, perceived the 
 tendency towards this mistake, even in his time, and did his utmost 
 to correct it. 
 
 I cannot hold with other writeiS on these subjects that the pre- 
 valence of various forms of dissent in America, is in any way attri- 
 butable to the non-existence there of an established church: indeed, 
 I think the temper of the people, if it admitted of such an Institution 
 being founded amongst them, would lead them to desert it, as a 
 matter of course, merely because it was established. But, supposing 
 it to exist, I doubt its probable efficacy in summoning the wandering 
 sheep to one great fold, simply because of the immense amount of 
 dissent which prevails at home; and because I do not find in America 
 any one form of religion with which we in Europe, or even in England, 
 are unacquainted. Dissenters resort thither in great numbers, as other 
 people do, simply because it is a land of resort, and great settlements 
 
 *NOTE TO TUE Original Edition. — '3r let him refer to c^a able, an J pfcrtertly 
 truthful article, in The Foreign Quarterly Review, published in the present nioiith 
 of October, to which my attention has been attracted, since these sheets have been 
 passing through the press. He will find some specimens there, by no mean.-, remark- 
 able to any man wiio has been in America, but sufficiently striking to one who has 
 not. 
 
 < !il 
 
 
 VfM\i 
 
198 
 
 American Notes 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 of them are founded, because ground can be purchased, and towns and 
 villages reared, where there were none of the human creation before. 
 But even the Shakers emigrated from England; our country is not 
 unknown to Mr. Joseph Smith, the apostle of Mormonism, or to his 
 benighted disciples; I have beheld religious scenes myself in some of 
 our populous towns which can hardly be surpassed by an American 
 camp-meeting; and I am not aware that any instance of superstitious 
 imposture on the one hand, and superstitious credulity on the other, 
 has had its origin in the United States, which we cannot more than 
 parallel by the precedents of Mrs. Southcote, Mary Tofts the rabbit- 
 breeder, or even Mr. Thorn of Canterbury: which latter case arose, 
 some time after the dark ages had passed away. 
 
 The Republican Institutions of America undoubtedly lead the 
 people to assert their self-respect and their equality; but a traveller is 
 bound to bear those Institutions in his mind, and not hastily to resent 
 the near approach of a class of strangers, who, at home, would keep 
 aloof. This characteristic, when it was tinctured with no foolish pride, 
 and stopped short of no honest service, never offended me; and I very 
 seldom, if ever, experienced its rude or unbecoming display. Once or 
 twice it was comically developed, as in the following case; but this was 
 an amusing incident), and not the rule, or near it. 
 
 I wanted a pair of boots at a certain town, for I had none to travel 
 in, but those with the memorable cork soles, which were much too 
 hot for the fiery decks of a steamboat. I therefore sent a message to 
 an artist in boots, importing, with my compliments, that I should be 
 happy to see him, if he would do me the polite favour t*^ call. He very 
 kindly returned for answer, that he would "look round" at six o'clock 
 that evening. 
 
 I was lying on the sofa, with a book and a wine-glass, at about that 
 time, when the door opened, and a gentleman in a stiff cravat, within 
 a year or two on either side of thirty, entered, in his hat and gloves; 
 walked up to the loo:dng-glass; arranged his hair; took off his gloves; 
 slowly produced a measure from the uttermost depths of his coat- 
 pocket and requested me, in a languid tone, to "unfix" my straps. I 
 complied, but looked with some curiosity at his hat, which was still 
 upon his head. It might have been that, or it might have been the 
 heat — but he took it off. Then, he sat himself down on a chair oppo- 
 site to me; rested an arm on each knee; and, leaning forward very 
 much, took from the ground, by a great effort, the specimen of metro- 
 politan workmanship which I had just pulled off: whistling, pleas- 
 antly, as he did so. He turned it over and over; surveyed it with a 
 contempt no language can express; and inquired if I wished him to 
 fix me a boot like that? I courteously replied, that provided the boots 
 were large enough, I would leave the rest to him; that if convenient 
 and practicable, 1 should not object to their bearing some resemblance 
 to the model then before him; but that I would be entirely guided by, 
 and would beg to lea', c the whole subject to, his judgment and dis- 
 cretion. "You an't partickler, about this scoop in the heel, I suppose 
 
)wns and 
 n before. 
 :y is not 
 or to his 
 sonie of 
 Linerican 
 Tstitious 
 lie other, 
 ore than 
 e rabbit- 
 se arose, 
 
 lead the 
 iveller is 
 to resent 
 uld keep 
 sh pride, 
 id I very 
 . Once or 
 ; this was 
 
 to travel 
 nuch too 
 3ssage to 
 hould be 
 He very 
 X o'clock 
 
 )out that 
 ,t, within 
 d gloves; 
 is gloves; 
 his coat- 
 straps. I 
 was still 
 been the 
 lir oppo- 
 ard very 
 3f metro- 
 g, pleas- 
 it with a 
 d him to 
 the boots 
 nvenient 
 jmblance 
 iided by, 
 
 1 ,i:^ 
 
 ixiiu. uis- 
 
 '. suppose 
 
 American Notes 
 
 199 
 
 then?" says he: "we don't foller that, here." I repeated my last 
 observation. He looked at himself in the glass again; went closer to 
 It to dash a grain or two of dust out of the corner of his eye- and 
 settled his cravat. All this tine, my leg and foot were in the air 
 "Nearly ready, sir ?" I inquired. "Well, pretty nigh," he said; "keep 
 steady. I kept as steady as I could, both in foot and face; and having 
 by this time got the dust out, and found his pencil-case, he measured 
 me. and made the necessary notes. When he had finished, he fell into 
 his old attitude, and taking up the boot again, mused for some time. 
 And this." he said, at last, "is an English boot, is it? This is a London 
 boot, eh?" "That, sir." I replied, "is a London boot." He mused over 
 it again, after the manner of Hamlet with Yorick's skull; nodded his 
 head, as who should say. "I pity the Institi *ions that led to the pro- 
 duction of this boot!"; rose; put up his pencil, notes, and paper- 
 glancing at himself in the glass, all the time— put on his hat- drew 
 on his gloves very slowly; and finally walked out. When he had been 
 gone about a minute, the door reopened, and his hat and his head 
 reappeared. He looked round the room, and at the boot again, which 
 was still lying on the floor; appeared thoughtful for a minute- and 
 then said "Well, good artemoon." "Good afternoon, sir," said I: and 
 that was the end of the interview. 
 
 There is but one other head on which I wish to offer a remark; and 
 that has reference to the public health. In so vast a country, where 
 there are thousands of millions of acres of land yet unsettled and 
 uncleared, and on every rood of which, vegetable decomposition is 
 annually taking place; where there are so many great rivers, and such 
 opposite varieties of climate; there cannot fail to be a great amount 
 of sickness at certain seasons. But I may venture to sa5^ after con- 
 versing with many members of the medical profession in America, 
 that I am not singular in the opinion that much of the disease which 
 does prevail, might be avoided, if a few common precautions were 
 observed. Greater means of personal cleanliness, are indispensable 
 to this end; the custom of hastily swallowing large quantities of 
 animal food, three times a-day. and rushing back to sedentary pur- 
 suits after each meal, must be changed; the gentler sex must go more 
 wisely clad, and take more healthful exercise; and in the latter clause, 
 the males must be included also. Above all, in public institutions, and 
 throughout the whole of every town and city, the system of ventila- 
 tion, and drainage, and removal of impurities requires to be 
 thoroughly revised. There is no local Legislature in America which 
 may not study Mr. Chadwick's excellent Report upon the Sanitary 
 Condition of our Labouring Classes, with immense advantage. 
 
 I HAVE now arrived at the close of this book. I have little reason to 
 believe, from certain warnings I have had since I returned to England, 
 that it will be tenderly or favourably received by the American 
 i"-'i'-, a,iia a3 i nave vviiLLcii iiic iruxn m relation to the mass of 
 those who form their judgments and express their opinions, it will 
 
 it] 
 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 \ 
 
 
 i 
 
 1 ; 
 
 , ft 
 
 
 lii 
 
200 American Notes 
 
 be seen that I have no desire to court, by any adventitious means, 
 the popular applause. 
 
 It is enough for me, to know that what I have set down in these 
 pages, cannot cost me a single friend on the other side of the Atlantic, 
 who is, in anything, deserving of the name. For the rest, I put my 
 trust, implicitly, in the spirit in which they have been conceived and 
 penned; and I can bide my time. 
 
 I have made no reference to my reception, nor have I suffered it 
 to influence me in what I have written; for, in either case, I should 
 have offered but a sorry acknowledgment, compared with that I bear 
 within my breast, towards those partial readers of my former books, 
 across the Water, who met me with an open hand, and not with one 
 that closed upon an iron muzzle. 
 
 ^ii t 
 
 THE END 
 
POSTSCRIPT 
 
 ^niL'^^l?^::'Ytrb;ZZn^r:^^''' *^ ^Sthof Apnl. ,868. 
 of the United States of Amer^aT^ac 'ZTS*^*^""^ 2* *« ^'^ 
 among others: ■America, i mac . the followmg observations 
 
 ssi:'m%tnToS;'h:;^b^tre^tS^^^^^ 
 
 ever and wheresoever to exnress mv w7h = !, "'^'^''sion, whatso- 
 second reception in ^rk^i^^^StoVj^XS^t^l-^Z^^' ,7 
 
 rh^ir^^n-rthe^raSht"^:?! i''^°' '""^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 side,-changes morarchaLes Xskal'l!^^^^^^^ '"' °" «"^^ 
 
 land subdued and peopled chM»S in 'tS ^ i" *'' ^'"°'""' «* 
 changes in the growth o?' oSdtie 1^^^^°'/%'' °'^ "*'^^- 
 changes in the graces and ameni?[es of Ufe ^^ "-j' °' 'p^™8"'"°°. 
 out whose advancement no advancement ran fLt i ^"*- ■"'*■ 
 Nor am I. beheve me so aSosantT, tl T ^^^ '^"^ "nywhere. 
 
 twentyyearstherehav;bLt3angesnmeT?thaflH'"/"t.""'^ 
 to learn and no extreme impresS to S-r'r-^t *"^ , ° "^^ 
 first. And this brings me to a tToininn ^..^"Tt , ''™ ' ^^ '^«''« 
 
 landed in the United^ra^eflast'rvlX^'^tservlT^'stri" sir ' 
 though sometimes tempted to brpak if v,, 4. • ^ ^ ^*^^*^^ silence, 
 will, with your good kave take von nV n m reference to which I 
 
 Its mformation to be not strictly acLrate w,fh ri? l''^^'''"''^^ 
 
 ever read m my present state of existence. tCs the Xonr Lh ^^ 
 severance with which I Havp fnr ^r^r^L Z ZT ' vigour and per- 
 
 i:-JJ'.™p-^.'-yo^XTa"'t':Car7o^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 ^o^..^^y,uK:ii. sucn testimony to the gigantic chanapc ir^■^^^•~" '" T^ 
 as I have hinted at to-nigh';. Also, fo^ecord l^af XlveVrhav"^ 
 
 ii 
 
ilu 
 lis 
 
 202 Postscript 
 
 been, in the smallest places equally with the largest, I have been 
 received with unsurpassable politeness, delicacy, sweet temper, 
 hospitality, consideration, and with unsurpassable respect for the 
 privacy daily enforced upon me by the nature of my avocation here 
 and the state of my health. This testimony, so long as I live, and so 
 long as my descendants have any legal right in my books,' I shall 
 cause to be republished, as an appendix to every copy of those two 
 books of mine in which I have referred to America. And this I will do 
 and cause to be done, not in mere love and thankfulness, but because 
 I regard it as an act of plain justice and honour." 
 
 I said these words with the greatest earnestness that I could lay 
 upon them, and I repeat them in print here with equal earnestness. 
 So long as this book shall last, I hope that they will form a part of it! 
 and will be fairly read as inseparable from my experiences and im- 
 pressions of America. 
 
 May, 1868. 
 
 Ch.\rles Dickens. 
 
 ti 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK 
 
 I 
 
J 
 
 I 
 
 a 
 
 it 
 
CHARLES DICKENS: Rorn 1812— Died 1870 
 
 Editor's V^te 
 
 Nothing needs to he added to the account given in the 
 following Life of Dickens, of how, in 1840, Dickens 
 started Master Humphrey's Clock ; and how — although 
 a regular weekly timekeeper — he stopped it in 1841. 
 There does not appear to he any discovery of originals 
 except of those characters which appear also in the 
 Pickwick Papers. Sam Weller's name was suggested 
 hy that of Sam Vale, an actor who, in a farce called 
 The Boarding House, took the part of a comic servant, 
 and who was given to what are now known as Sam- 
 Weller-isms — e.g., " 'most musical, most mollancholy !* 
 — as the cricket said when he heard the tea-kettle." The 
 identification of Tony Weller is disputed. This edition 
 is printed from the one carefully corrected by the author 
 
 in 1867-8. 
 
 si '" 
 
 imi^ ;! 
 
 ' .? 
 
 P*!'k 
 
 
 f: -fin 
 
■i»i w .ilWii mm t u mm 
 
 H 
 
 
 
MASTER 
 HUMPHREY'S CLOCK 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 IlLUSTRATED BY 
 
 H. K. BROWNE (PHIZ) A. 
 GEORGE CATTERMOLE 
 
 ti 
 
 LONDON: 
 HAZELL, WATSON & VINEY, LTD. 
 
 i-i! 
 
MAS 
 
 i 
 
 u 
 
 MAJ 
 
 The rea( 
 true, my 
 but if I s 
 should s] 
 and rega 
 connecte 
 residena 
 possible 
 set, that 
 
 I amn 
 kind are 
 my grea 
 life; — wl 
 matters 
 with me, 
 a time h 
 
 I live 
 bygone < 
 ladies, 1( 
 courtyai 
 that fail 
 that the 
 down. I 
 the echo 
 they we 
 rustling 
 to recog 
 
 Those 
 would d< 
 pie dwe] 
 hold it ii 
 by clun: 
 closets' i 
 ing pass 
 
 n i 
 
 [i i 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK 
 
 > ( 
 
 MASTER HUMPHREY. FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE 
 IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 
 
 The reader must not expect to know where I live. At present, it is 
 true, my abode may be a question of little or no import to anybody; 
 but if I should carry my readers with me, as I hope to do, and there 
 should spring up between them and me feelings of homely aftection 
 and regard attaching something of interest to matters ever so slightly 
 connected with my fortunes or my speculations, even my place of 
 residence might one day ha 'e a kind of charm for them. Bearing this 
 possible contingency in mind, I wish them to understand, in the out- 
 set, that they must never expect to know it. 
 
 I am not a churlish old man. Friendless I can never be, for all man- 
 kind are my kindred, and I am on ill terms with no one member of 
 my great family. But for many years I have led a lonely, solitary 
 life; — what wound I sought to heal, what sorrow to forget, originally, 
 matters not now; it is sufficient that retirement has become a habit 
 with me. and that I am unwilling to break the spell which for so long 
 a time has shed its quiet influence upon m^/ home and heart. 
 
 I live in a venerable suburb of London, in an old house which in 
 bygone days was a famous resort for many roysterers and peerless 
 ladies, long since departed. It is a silent, shady place, with a paved 
 courtyard so full of echoes, that sometimes I am tempted to believe 
 that faint responses to the noises of old times linger there yet, and 
 that these ghosts of sound haunt my footsteps as I pace it up and 
 down. I am the more confirmed in this belief, because, of late years, 
 the echoes that attend my walks have been less loud and marked than 
 they were wont to be; and it is pleasanter to imagine in them the- 
 rustling of silk brocade, and the light step of some lovely girl, than 
 to recognise in their altered note the failing tread of an old man. 
 
 Those who like to read of brilliant rooms and gorgeous furniture 
 would derive but little pleasure from a minute description of roy sim- 
 ple dwelling. It is dear to me for the same reason that they would 
 hold it in slight regard. Its worm-eaten doors, and low ceilings crossed 
 by clumsy beams; its walls of wainscot, dark stairs, and ^.^ing 
 closets; its small chambers, communicating with each other by wind- 
 ing passages or narrow steps; iia many nooks, scarce larger than its 
 
 209 
 
 
 m 
 
 
 ! 11 
 i 1 
 
 
 I 
 
210 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 basks in his long sleep and the "Jhtrr'v'", '" ""^ ''°'"<= ">« one 
 undisturbed. I haveTpleasu-e tZ ^i'^' *"' ''"''' '"<"" =«<="■■« and 
 many butterflies have ^prun. J the fi;«^°" ^ 'T T'"'^ ''"^' "ow 
 ^Whl'^Tr';:^ """ -"er'o/thcs''e"'om wair '"'" "«" ^"" ^- 
 
 nc,^ht"ur?w" e?uri:u^^oTnS^wh:f *■ ^'"rr y-- "«<>• fe 
 why I lived so much abne As tTme we„Tn'„' ""'' *h™« I '^"me. and 
 unsatisfied on these ports' Ih^r^Z^^u °"'/"<l they still remained 
 extending for half a mi"e round a^d in'o^ r' °'^ P°P"'" '<'™'^"t. 
 Various rumours were drSed ?o " "pLjuXri Z" '"" ""''• 
 mfidel, a con urcr, a kidnapper of children a r»f„„^' '^ 'P^'' ='" 
 
 I^was the C^ect o^. suspicffi^^^^^^^^^^ ~ 
 
 coStTlrc/rne^d^ra?^^^^^^^^^^ but. on the 
 
 to relent. I found my footstepTno TonV.r , ^^l!'* "'^P' ^^^X began 
 been before, and obLrved that ?i^^ ^""^^^f ^^ ^^^^ ^ad often 
 retreated, but would stlnd and I'Z T^"" ^"? '*^*^^"^" '^^ I^ng^r 
 I took tnis for a good omen amf w.if ^""^ T ^ P^'^^ ^^eir doors. 
 By degrees I begf n to mTe'fnenr^r^ patiently for better times, 
 chough they werl iust shv of fnl.l ^"^ong these humble folks: and 
 and L pass on In a ittUe t £. fh^' """"J"^ ^'^^ *^""^ "^^^ ^^Y^ 
 would makeTpoTnt of ctminTin fh? Z^''"' ^ *^^^ *^"« ^^^^^ted 
 usual hour, and^rd or courtesl to m!^" kmT ^"^ ^^"^°^« ^^ the 
 within my reach and ran Iwavnn?^!' ^^^^^J^"' too. came timidly 
 
 heads and'^bade them be ?oodl^?L2oo^^^ ^ ?^"^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 more familiar. From excUan^inl ml^f ^ 1'"^^ P^^P^^ ^0°" g^ew 
 neighbours. I graraUy l^caTe^^^^^^^ "^^J^^^-" ^''^ "^^ «' ^^'^ 
 
 ^nT^;s!si^b?h4SS-r^^^^^^ 
 
 pi; e. to acknowledge no other nam^Vh.nW^ 7 ^^""^^ *" *bis 
 detractors. I was Ugly HumDhrev Whi t K^^^'P^^^y- ^'^^ "^Y 
 into friends. I was ^Sr SphrV and O^^^^^^^ 
 length I settled down into plai Ser Humnhr.t ^^rP^'^^' ^""^ 
 stood to be the title most Die- l^t^ Humphrey, which was under- 
 
 matter of course has ?tLoSe?LtsoZ.^.^'' ^"^u'° completely a 
 my morning walk in my S^oirtva^dT^T "^^^"J ^"^ *^^^»g 
 has a profound respeS for me andt^^d n^^^^^ ""^ barber-who 
 
 honours for the world4iow!ng forth on ihl' Ll"" '"f ' ^^"^^" "^> 
 
 touchingthestateof''M^?;rS^uS.v^Hr.,?^^^^^^^ 
 
 1 -~ -_. .^.v.i, »"« v-uiiiiiiumcai- 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 211 
 
 I am a mis-shapen, deformed old man ^ pam— that 
 
 and It was summer weather —I am snr^ of fho^ s^«-"er m a garcien, 
 
 IP. 
 
 ii n 
 
 1.1 . 1 
 
^-f-.-- 
 
 'M 
 
 212 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 Well, well,— all these sorrows are past. My glancing at them mav 
 not be Without its use, for it may help in some meilre to expTaln 
 
 ^^L ^""^^S^^ "Z^ ^^^ ^"" ^"^^^^^ t« the inanimatHwects thS 
 peopl.e my chamber, and how I have come to look upon tSm rather 
 in the hght of old and constant friends, than as mere chTirs a«d 
 tables which a little money could replac^ at will ^ 
 
 compalionabt'o^^^^ ^" **'"'" ^' "^^ Clock,-my old. cheerful, 
 companionable Clock. Ixow can I ever convey to others an idea of f hi 
 
 comfort and consolation that this old Clock h'Ls been for yea^^^^^^^^ 
 
 It IS associated with my earliest recollections. It sto^ upon The 
 staircase at home (I call it home still mechanically), nigh siXvears 
 ago. I iike It for that; but it is not on that account nofbecauL^'tS 
 tST^r^^'^'^'V''. ^^;"g^«''^kencase curiously and ricWy carved 
 that I pnze It as I do. I incline to it as if it were alive and could 
 undertstand and give me back the love I bear it 
 
 And what other thing chat has not life could cheer me as it does? 
 what other thing that has not life (I will not say how few things that 
 have) could have proved the same patient, true. untTrinrfriendP 
 
 I'^Ts cS^Lt^oiL't' V^^-^^"^ ^^^"^^^ ^^^-"^« feelingri Sy 
 f.llltuff'-^^^^ ""^'^'"^ "'y ^yes from my book and looking 
 gratefully towards it. the face reddened by the glow of the shS 
 wl'nH^^! f emed to relax from its staid expression and to regard mf 
 kiad^yl how often in the summer twilight, when my thoughts have 
 r^ltnl''^".^ !? ^ "?^^a"^holy past, have its regularwh^perings 
 recalled them to the calm and peaceful present ! how often in t& dead 
 txanquiUity of night has its bell broken the oppressive si>nce and 
 
 r^ts i7e r/rtcL^^^ ---'^ ^^^"^ mVK^o7ovrer 
 
 arclLd'JnnV?.^'""^.'''''""^''^'"/'^'^^^ ^^*^'^^^ *^^ fi^^side and a low 
 arched door leading to my bedroom Its fame is diffused so exten- 
 sively throng} out th3 neighbourhood, that I have ofien the Satis- 
 faction of hearing the publican, or the baker, and sometimes even 
 the paxish,clerk, petitioning my housekeeper of whom I shall Z Z 
 much to say by and by) to inform him the ixact time by Mast;r 
 Humphrey's c ock. My barber, to whom I have reTerred woufd 
 
 rarac?i^r:d"l\m\" '^" T' """^ ''' ^^^^^ ''' ^^^ clSio'r t 
 ff no+ 3" '1^™ ^^^Py *° ^^y' another, inseparably connecting 
 
 oth^i^^li^ari'sh^aCrar ^^^ -^-^^-^^- -'ththose-of 
 
 anci'^Jn'^fhi^f ^^""^ i""' ^ ^°"^ ^'"^^ ^^*^°"t ^"y friend or acquaint- 
 and se\s^^ TIT, °^ f ^ wanderings by night and day, at all hours 
 
 ana seasons, in citv strppfQ and nnif+ rr^- ■«- ^- -^ ^ - 
 
 ,. a.uj ^uiGi. couiiny piii cs, 1 Came to i^e 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 213 
 
 familiar with certain faces, and to take it to heart as quite a heavy 
 disappointment if they failed to present themselves each at its 
 accustomed spot. But these were the only friends I knew, and bevond 
 them I had none. ^ 
 
 It happened, however, when I had gone on thus for a long time, 
 that I formed an acquaintance with a deaf gentleman, which ripened 
 into intimacy and close companionship. To this hour. I am ignorant 
 of his name. It is his humour to conceal it, or he has a reason and 
 purpose for so doing. In either case, I feel that he has a right to require 
 a return of the trust he has reposed; and as he has never sought to 
 discover my secret, I have never sought to penetrate his. There may 
 have been something in this tacit confidence in each other flattering 
 and pleasant to us both, and it may have imparted in the beginnin'^ 
 an additional zest, perhaps, to our friendship. Be this as it may we 
 have grown to be like brothers, and still I only know him as the deaf 
 gentleman. 
 
 I have said that retirement has become a habit with me. When I 
 add, that the deaf gentleman and I have two friends, I communicate 
 nothing which is inconsistent with that declaration. I spend many 
 hours of every day in solitude and study, have no friends or change 
 of friends but these, only see them at stated periods, and am supposed 
 to be of a retired spirit by the very nature and obj ect of our association 
 
 We are men of secluded habits, with something of a cloud upon our 
 oarly fortunes, whose enthusiasm, nevertheless, has not cooled with 
 age, whose spirit of romance is not yet quenched, who are content to 
 ramble through the world in a pleasant dream, rather than ever 
 waken again to its harsh reahties. We are alchemists who would 
 extract the essence of perpetual youth from diist and ashes, tempt 
 coy Truth in many light and airy forms from the bottom of her well 
 and discover one crumb of comfort or one grain of good in the com- 
 monest and least-regarded matter that passes through our crucible. 
 Spirits of past times, creatures of imagination, and people of to-day 
 are alike the objects of our seeking, and, unlike the objects of search 
 with most philosophers, we can insure their coming at our command 
 
 The deaf gentleman and I first began to beguile our days with 
 these fancies, and our nights in communicating them to each other. 
 We are now four. But in my room there are six old chairs, and we 
 have decided that the two empty seats shaii always be placed at our 
 table when we meet, to remind us that we may yet increase onr 
 company by that number, if we should find two men to our mind. 
 When one among us dies, his chair will always be set in its usual 
 place, but never occupied again; and I have caused my will to be '■ 
 drawn out. that when we are all dead the house shall be shut up, and 
 the vacant chairs still left in tl, - accustomed places. It is pleasant 
 to think that even then our shades may. perhaps, assemble together 
 as of yore we did, and join in ghostly converse. 
 
 — .-5 • • J rrvv^., o-o tiic viut,n. BLiiikcu Lcii, wc meeu xiL tiie 
 
 second stroke of two, I am alone. 
 
 \ \ 
 
 Ir? 
 
214 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 And now shall I tell how that my old servant, besides giving us 
 note of time, and ticking cheerful encouragement of our proceedings, 
 lends its name to our society, which for its punctuality and my love 
 is christened "Master Humphrey's Clock"? Now shall I tell how that 
 in the bottom of the old dark closet, where the steady pendulum 
 throbs and beats with healthy action, though the pulse of him who 
 made it stood still long ago, and never moved again, there are piles 
 of dusty papers constantly placed there by our hands, that we may 
 link our enjoyment with my old friend, and draw means to beguile 
 time from the heart of time itself? Shall I, or can I, tell with what a 
 secret pride I open this repository when we meet at night, and still 
 find new store of pleasure in my dear old Clock? 
 
 Friend and companion of my solitude ! mine is not a selfish love; 
 I would not keep your merits to myself, but disperse something of 
 pleasant association with your image through the whole wide world; 
 I would have men couple with your name cheerful and healthy 
 thoughts; I would have them believe that you keep true and honest 
 time; and how it would gladden me to know that they recognised 
 some hearty English work in Master Humphrey's clock ! 
 
 i 
 
 THE CLOCK-CASE 
 
 It is my irtention constantly to address my readers from the 
 chimney-corner, and I would fain hope that such accounts as I shall 
 give them of our histories and proceedings, our quiet speculations or 
 more busy adventures, will never be unwelcome. Lest, however, I 
 should grow prolix in the outset by lingering too long upon our little 
 association, confounding the enthusiasm with which I regard this 
 chief happiness of my life with that minor degree of interest which 
 those to whom I address myself may be supposed to feel for it, I have 
 deemed it expedient to break off as they have seen. 
 
 But, still clinging to my old friend, ard naturally desirous that all 
 its merits should be known, I am tempted to open (somewhat 
 irregularly and against our laws, I must admit) the clock-case. The 
 first roll of paper on which I lay my hand is in +' e writing of the deaf 
 gentleman. I shall have to speak of him in my next paper; and how 
 can I better approach that welcome task then by prefacing it with a 
 production of his own pen, consigned to the safe keeping of my 
 honest Clock by his own hand? 
 The manuscript runs thus: 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE GIANT CHRONICLES 
 
 Once upon a time, that is to say, in this our time, — the exact year, 
 month, and day are of no matter, — there dwelt in the city of London 
 a substantial citizen, who united in his sinD^Ie nersnn thp dif^nitif^ -'^f 
 wholesale fruiterer, alderman, common-councilman, and member of 
 
[iving us 
 ;eedings, 
 my love 
 low that 
 mdulum 
 lim who 
 are piles 
 we may 
 1 beguile 
 I what a 
 and still 
 
 sh love; 
 thing of 
 e world; 
 healthy 
 i honest 
 ;ognised 
 
 •om the 
 s I shall 
 tions or 
 vever, I 
 ur little 
 ird this 
 t which 
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 that all 
 newhat 
 ,se. The 
 :he deaf 
 nd how 
 t with a 
 of my 
 
 st year, 
 London 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 215 
 
 the worshipful C^^mpany of Patten-makers; who had superadded to 
 these extraordinaiy distinctions the important post and title of 
 Sheriff, and who at length, and to crown all, stood next in rotation 
 for the high and honourable office of Lord Mayor. 
 
 He was a very substantial citizen indeed. His face was like the full 
 moon in a fog, with two little holes punched out for his eyes, a very 
 ripe pear stuck on for his nose, and a wide gash to serve for a mouth. 
 The girth of his waistcoat was hung up and lettered in his tailor's 
 shop as an extraordinary curiosity. He breathed like a heavy snorer, 
 and his voice in speaking came tnickly forth, as if it were oppressed 
 and stifled by feather-beds. He trod the ground like an elephant, and 
 eat and drank like — like nothing but an alderman, as he was. 
 
 This worthy citizen had risen to his great eminence froin small 
 beginnings. He had once been a very lean, weazen little boy, never 
 dreaming of carrying such a weight of flesh upon his bones or of 
 money in his pockets, and glad enough to take his dinner at a baker's 
 door, and his tea at a pump. But he had long ago forgotten all this, 
 as it was proper that a wholesale fruiterer, alderman, common- 
 councilman, member of the worshipful Company of Patten-makers, 
 past sheriff, and, above all, a Lord Mayor that was to be, should; and 
 he never forgot it more completely in all his life than on the eighth 
 of November in the year of his election to the great golden civic chair, 
 which was the day before his grand dinner at Guildhall. 
 
 It happened that as he sat that evening all alone in his counting- 
 house, looking over the bill of fare for next day, and checking off the 
 fat capons in fifties, and the turtle-soup by the hundred quarts, for 
 his private amusement, — it happened that as he sat alone occupied 
 in these pleasant calculations, a strange man came in and asked him 
 how he did, adamg, "If I am half as much changed as you, sir, you 
 have no recollection of me, I am sure." 
 
 The strange man was not over and above well dressed, and was 
 very far from being fat or rich-looking in any sense of the word, yet 
 he spoke with a kind of modest confidence, and assumed an easy, 
 gentlemanly sort of an air, to which nobody but a rich man can law- 
 fully presume. Besides this, he interrupted the good citizen just as 
 he had reckoned three hundred and seventy-two fat capons, and was 
 carrying them over to the next column; and as if that were not aggra- 
 vation enough, the learned recorder for the city of London had only 
 ten minutes previously gone out at that very same door, and had 
 turned round and said, "Good night, my lord." Yes, he had said, 
 "my lord"; — he, a man of birth and education, of che Honourable 
 Society of the Middle Temple, Barrister-at-Law, — he who had an 
 uncle in the House of Commons, and an aunt almost but not quite 
 in the House of 3!.ords (for she had married a feeble peer, and made 
 him vote as she liked), — he, this man, this learned recorder, had said, 
 "my lord." "I'll not wait till to-morrow to give you your title, my 
 Lord Mavor." savs he. with a bow and a smile! "■^'■qu are Lord Mavo? 
 de facto, if not dejure. Good night, my lord." 
 
 I 1 
 
fjlj-. 
 
 21 6 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 The Lord Mayor elect thought of this, and turning to the stranger, 
 and sternly bidding him "go out of his private counting-house," 
 brought forward the three hundred and seventy-two fat capons, and 
 went on with his account. 
 
 "Do you remember," said the other, stepping forward, — "do you 
 remember little Joe Toddyhigh?" 
 
 The port wine fled for a moment from the fruiterer's nose as he 
 muttered, "Joe Toddyhigh ! What about Joe Toddyhigh?" 
 
 "/ am Joe Toddyhigh," cried the visitor. "Look at me, look hard 
 at me, — harder, harder. You know me now? You know little Joe 
 again? What a happiness to us both, to meet the very night before 
 your grandeur! O! give me your hand. Jack,— both hands,— both, 
 for the sake of old times." 
 
 "You pinch me, sir. You're a-hurting of me," said the Lord Mayor 
 elect pettishly. "Don't, — suppose anybody should come, — Mr. Toddy- 
 high, sir." 
 
 "Mr. Toddyhigh!" repeated the other ruefully. 
 
 "O, don't bother," said the Lord Mayor elect, scratching his head. 
 "Dear me ! Why, I thought you was dead. What a fellow you are !" 
 
 Indeed, it was a pretty state of things, and worthy the tone of 
 vexation and disappointment in which the Lord Mayor spoke. Joe 
 Toddyhigh had befen a poor boy with him at Hull, and had often- 
 times divided his last penny and parted his last crust to relieve his 
 wants; for though Joe was a destitute child in those times, he was as 
 faithful and affectionate in his friendship as ever man of might could 
 be. They parted one day to seek their fortunes in different directions. 
 Joe went to sea, and the now wealthy citizen begged his way to 
 London. They separated with many tears, like foolish fellows as they 
 were, and agreed to remain fast friends, and if they lived, soon to 
 communicate again. 
 
 When he was an errand-boy, and even in the early days of his 
 apprenticeship, the citizen had many a time trudged to the Post- 
 office to ask if there were any letter from poor little Joe, and had 
 gone home again with tears in his eyes, when he found no news of his 
 only friend. The world is a wide place, and it was a long time before 
 the letter came; when it did, the writer was forgotten. It turned from 
 white to yellow from lying in the Post-ofhce with nobody to claim it, 
 and in course of time was torn up with five hundred others, and sold 
 lor waste-paper. And now at last, and when it might least have been 
 expected, here was this Joe Toddyhigh turning up and claiming 
 acquaintance with a great public character, who on the morrow 
 would be cracking jokes with the Prime Minister of England, and 
 who had only, at any time during the next twelve months, to say the 
 word, and he could shut up Temple Bar, and make it no thorough- 
 fare for the king himself ! 
 
 "I am sure I don't know what to say, Mr. Toddyhigh," said the 
 Lord Mayor elect; "I really don't. It's very inconvenient^ I'd sooner 
 have given twenty pound, — it's very inconvenient, really." 
 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 217 
 
 A thought had come into his mind, that perhaps his old friend 
 might say somethmg passionate which would give him an excuse for 
 bemg angry himself. No such thing. Joe looked at him steadily, but 
 very mildly, and did not open his lips. 
 
 , '?^f?^^^ ^ ^^^" P^y y°" ^^^* ^ ow« yo"." said the Lord Mayor 
 elect, fidgeting in his chair. "You lent me— I think it was a shilling 
 or some small coin— when we parted company, and that of course I 
 shall pay with good interest. I can pay my way with any man. and 
 always have done. If you look into the Mansion House the day after 
 to-morrow,— some time after dusk.— and ask for my private clerk 
 you'll find he has a draft for you. I haven't got time to say anyth'n 
 more just now. unless."— he hesitated, for. coupled with a strong 
 desire to ghtter for once in all his glory in the eyes of his former com- 
 panion, was a distrust of his appearance, which might be more shabby 
 than he could tell by that feeble light.— "unless you'd like to come 
 to the dmner to-morrow. I don't mind your having this ticket if you 
 like to take it. A great many people would give their ears for it. I can 
 tell you." 
 
 His old friend took the card without speaking a word, and instantly 
 departed. Hissunburnt face and grey hair werepresent to thecitizen's 
 mmd for a loment; but by the time he reached three hundred and 
 eighty-one fat capons, he had quite forgotten him. 
 
 Joe Toddyhigh had nev r been in the capital of Europe before 
 and he wandered up and down the streets that night amaied at the 
 number of churches and other public buildings, the splendour of the 
 shops, the riches that were heaped up on every side, the glare of light 
 m which they were displayed, and the concourse of people who 
 hurried to and fro. indifferent, apparently, to all the wonders that 
 surrounded them. But in all the long streets and broad squares there 
 were none but strangers; it was quite a relief to turn down a by-way 
 and hear his own footsteps on the pavement. He went home to his 
 mn, thought that London was a dreary, desolate place, and x'elt dis- 
 posed to doubt the existence of one true-hearted man in the whole 
 worshipful Company of Patten-makeis. Finally, he went to bed, and 
 dreamed that he and the Lord Mayor elect were boys again. 
 
 He went next day to the dinner; and when in a burst of light and 
 music, and in the midst of splendid decorations and surrounded by 
 brilliant company, his former friend appeared at the head of the 
 Hall, and was hailed with shouts and cheering, he cheered and 
 shouted with the best, and for the moment could have cri( The 
 next moment he cursed his weakness in behalf of a man so changed 
 and selfish, and quite hated a jolly-looking old gentleman opposite 
 for declaring himself in the pride of his heart a Patten-maker. 
 
 As the banquet proceeded, he took more and more to heart the 
 rich citizen's unkindness; and that, not from any envy, but because 
 
 1^^ !!^* ?i^* ^ ^^^.^^ ^^^ ^*^*^ ^"^ fortune could all the better afford 
 to iccogiiisc uii old friend, even if he werxi poor and obscure. The 
 more he thought of this, the more lonely and sad he felt. When the 
 
 l?\ 
 
2l8 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 I I 
 
 company dispersed and adjourned to the ball-room, he paced the 
 hall and passages alone, ruminating in a very melancholy condition 
 upon the disappointment he had experienced. 
 
 It chanced, while he was lounging about in this moody state, that 
 he stumbled upon a flight of stairs, dark, steep, and narrow, which 
 he ascended without any thought about the matter, and so came into 
 a little music-gallery, empty and deserted. From this elevated post, 
 which commanded the whole hall, he amused himself in looking down 
 upon the attendants who were clearing away the fragments of the 
 feast very lazily, and drinking out of all the bottles and glasses with 
 most commendable perseverance. 
 
 His attention gradually relaxed, and he feU fast asleep. 
 
 When he awoke, he thought there must be something the matter 
 with his eyes; but, rubbing them a little, he soon found that the 
 moonlight was really streaming through the east window, that the 
 lamps were all extinguished, and that he was alone. He listened, but 
 no distant murmur in the echoing passages, not even the shutting 
 of a door, broke the deep silence; he groped his way down the stairs, 
 and found that the door at the bottom was locked on the other side. 
 He began now to comprehend that he must have slept a long time, 
 that he had been overlooked, and was shut up there for the night. 
 
 His first sensatioA, perhaps, was not altogether a comfortable one, 
 for it was a dark, chilly, earthy-smelling place, and something too 
 large, for a man so situated, to feel at home in. However, when the 
 momentary consternation of his surprise was over, he made light of 
 the accident, and resolved to feel his way up the stairs again, and 
 make himself as comfortable as he could in the gallery until morning. 
 As he turned to execute this purpose, he heard the clocks strike 
 three. 
 
 Any such invasion of a dead stillness as the striking of distant 
 clocks, causes it to appear the more intense and insupportable when 
 the sound has ceased. He listened with strained attention in the hope 
 that some clock, lagging behind its fellows, had yet to strike, — look- 
 ing all the time into the profound darkness before him, until it seemed 
 to weave itself into a black tissue, patterned with a hundred reflec- 
 tions of his own eyes. But the bells had all pealed out their warning 
 for that once, and the gust of wind that moaned through the place 
 seemed cold anc heavy with their iron breath. 
 
 The time and circumstances were favourable to reflection. He tried 
 to keep his thoughts to the current, unpleasant though it \»ras, in 
 which they had moved all day, and to think with what a romantic 
 feeling he had looked forward to shaking his old friend by the hand 
 before he died, and what a wide and cruel difference there was be- 
 tween the meeting they had had, and that which he had so often and 
 so long anticipated. Still, he was disordered by waking to such sudden 
 loneliness, and could not prevent his mind from running upon odd 
 tales of neonle of undoubted courao^e. who, beincf shut ud b^'' nisfht 
 in vaults or churches, or other dismal places, had scaled great heights 
 
I, i 
 
 '■/■ 
 
 
 ^^ Of id Jficmc^ 
 
 'I 
 
 H'l 
 
 i,Jl 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 221 
 
 to get out, and fled from silence as they had never done froioi danger. 
 This brought to his mind the moonlight through the window, and 
 bethinking himself of it, he groped his way back up the crooked stairs 
 — but very stealthily, as though he were fearful of being overheard. 
 He was very much astonished when he approached the gallery 
 again, to see a light in the building: still more so, on advancing hastily 
 and looking round, to observe no visible Sv^arce from which it could 
 proceed. But how much greater yet was his astonishment at the 
 Spectacle which this light revealed. 
 
 The statues of the twoi giants, Gog and Magog, each above fourteen 
 feet in height, those which* succeeded to still older and more bar- 
 barous figures, after the Great Fire of London, and which stand in 
 the Guildhall to this day, were endowed with life and motioou These 
 guardian genii of the City had quitted their pedestals, and reclined 
 in easy attitudes in the great stained-glass window. Between them 
 was an ancient cask, which seemed to be full of wine; for the younger 
 Giant, clapping his huge hand upon it, and throwing up his mighty 
 leg, burst into an exulting laugh, which reverberated through the 
 hall like thunder. 
 
 Joe Toddyhigh instinctively stooped down, and, more dead than 
 alive, felt his hair stand on end, his knees knock together, and a cold 
 damp break out upon hisforehead. But even at that minute curiosity 
 prevailed over every other feeling, and somewhat reassured by the 
 good-humour of the Giants and their apparent unconsciousness of 
 his presence, he crouched in a corner of the gallery, in as small a space 
 as he could, and, peeping between the rails, observed them closely. 
 
 It was then that the elder Giant, who had a flowing grey beard; 
 raised his thoughtful eyes to his companion's face, and in a grave and 
 solemn voice addressed him thus: 
 
 FIRST NIGHT OF THE GIANT CHRONICLES 
 
 "Magog, does boisterous mirth beseem the Giant Warder of this 
 ancient city? Is this becoming demeanour for a watchful spirit over 
 whose bodiless head so many years have rolled, so many changes 
 swept like empty air— in whose impalpable nostrils the scent of blood 
 and crime, pestilence, cruelty, and horror, has been famu.ar as breath 
 to mortals — in whose sight Time has gathered in the harvest of cen- 
 turies, and garnered so many crops of human pride, affections, hopes^ 
 and sorrows? Bethink you of our compact. The night wanes; feasting, 
 revelry, and music have encroached upon our usual hours of solitude 
 and morning will be here apace. T^re we are stricken mute again, be- 
 think you of our compact." 
 
 Pronouncing these latter woras with more of impatience than 
 quite accorded with his apparent age and gravity, the Giant raised 
 a long pole (which he still bears in his hand) and tapped his brother 
 Giant rather smartly on the head; indeed, the blow was so smartly 
 administered, that the latter quickly withdrew his lips from the cask. 
 
 i;-. 
 
 I r 
 
222 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 
 to which they had been applied, and, catching up his shield and 
 halberd, assumed an attitude of defence. His irritation was but 
 momentary, for he laid these weapons aside as hastily as he had 
 assumed them, and said as he did so: 
 
 •]You know, Gog, old friend, that when we animate these shapes 
 which the Londbners of old assigned (and not unworthily) to the 
 guardian genii of their city, we are susceptible of some of the sensa- 
 tions which belong to human kind. Thus when I taste wine, I feel 
 blows; when I relish the one, I disrelish the other. Therefore, Gog, the 
 more especially as your arm is none of the lightest, keep your good 
 staff by your side, else we may chance to differ. Peace be between us !" 
 
 "Amen I" said the other, leaning his staff in the window-corner. 
 "Why did you laugh just now?" 
 
 "To think," replied the Giant Magog, laying his hand upon the 
 cask, "of him who owned this wine, and kept it in a cellar hoarded 
 from the light of day, for thirty years,— 'till it should be fit to drink,' 
 quoth he. He was twoscore and ten vears old when he buried it be- 
 neath his house, and yet never thouf,nt that he might be scarcely 
 'fit to drink' when the wine became so. I wonder it never occurred to 
 him to make himself unfit to be eaten. There is very little of him left 
 by this time." 
 
 ^The night is wkning," said Gog mournfully. 
 
 "I know it," replied his companion, "and I see you are impatient. 
 But look. Through the eastern window — placed opposite to us, that 
 the first beams of the rising sun may every morning gild our giant 
 faces— the moon-rays fall upon the pavement in a stream of light 
 that to my fancy sinks through the cold stone and gushes into the old 
 crypt below. The night is scarcely past its noon, and our great charge 
 is sleeping heavily." 
 
 They ceased to speak, and looked upward at the moon. The sight 
 of their large, black, rolling eyes filled Joe Toddyhigh with such 
 horror that he could scarcely draw his breath. Still they took no note 
 of him, and appeared to believe themselves quite alone. 
 
 " Our compact," said Magog after a pause, "is, if I understand it, 
 that, instead of watching here in silence through the dreary nights, 
 we entertain each other with stories of our past experience; with tales 
 of the past, the present, and the future; with legends of London and 
 her sturdy citizens from the old simple times. That every night at 
 midnight, when St. Paul's bell tolls out one, and we may move and 
 speak, we thus discourse, nor leave such themes till the first gray 
 gleam of day shall strike us dumb. Is that our bargain, brother?" 
 
 "Yes," said the Giant Gog, "that is the league between us who 
 guard this city, by day in spirit, and by night in body also; and never 
 on ancient holidays have its conduits run wine more merrily than we 
 will pour forth our legendary lore. We are old chroniclers from this 
 time hence. The crumbled wall encircle us once more, the postern- 
 gates are closed, the drawbridge is up. and pent in its narrow den 
 beneath, the water foams and "struggles with the sunken starlings. 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 
 223 
 
 Jerkins and quarter-staves are in the streets again, the nichtlv watch 
 ts set. the rebel, sad and lonely in his Tower dung^n "r^es to 3!^^^ 
 
 f hp Inncf^ flaring fiercely down upon the dreaming city, and vexinK 
 
 the hungry dogs that scent them in ';he air anrl tear the ^mnnri ^ 
 
 neath with dismal howlings. The axe. the'bl^k. tL rLl^n th^; 
 
 dark chambers give signs of recent use. The Thames floaiinVD^t 
 
 "elm S ithtT'"' "",t"f ""'^"^^ ^^"^^ ^ burst of musclnTa 
 stream of light, bears suddenly to the Palace wall the last red stain 
 
 brought on the tide from Traitor's Gate. But your pardon brother 
 The night wears, and I am talking idly." P«iraon. Drother. 
 
 Ihe other Giant appeared to be entirely of this opinion for durini? 
 the foregoing rhapsody of his fellow-sentinel he had been'scratch"nf 
 his head with an air of comical uneasiness, or rather San air that 
 would have been very comical if he had been a dwarf or an ordinarv 
 sized man He winked too. and though it could not be doubted for a 
 moment that he winked to himself, still he certarnly cocked^l^e^^^^ 
 
 waTthTanTrt '"' ^T^ ^^^^ *^^' ^'^^-^ wL conceal d No" 
 was this all for he gaped; and when he gaped. Joe was horriblv re- 
 minded of the popular prejudice on the subject of giants and of the!r 
 fabled power of smelling out Englishmen, however^loseiy conceLe^ 
 His alarm was such that he nearly swooned, and it waLome little 
 time before his power of sight or hearing was restore! 4S he re! 
 covered he found that the elder Giant vvas pressing the younger to 
 commence the Chronicles, and that the latter was IndLCrfng to 
 excuse hiniself. on the ground that the night was fa- spent and i? 
 would be better to wait until the next. Well assured by this that 
 he was certainly about to begin directly, the listener coHected Ms 
 
 t^ttl^tenT^^^^^^^^ ^"' '''''^'''' ^'^'' ^^^°^ expreS^!jS 
 
 In the sixteenth century and in the reien of Oucen Elizahpth nf 
 
 ^onous memory (albeit her golden days are^sadlyrSwUhbl^^^^^ 
 
 malter'slaLhter'^e' ^"''°" ^ "^"'^ ^-^S ■p^entice who loved S 
 masters daughter. There were no doubt within the walls a great 
 
 nTmrw^a^Si^/h^ilarm^'""'"'-- '"' ' ^'^''^ "' ^'^ "-• -' ^^ 
 This Hugh was apprenticed to an honest Bowyer who dwelt in the 
 
 wL au te aT^nf 'n^nr' '^^^^f '" P°^^^^^ ^^-^ wealurRumou? 
 uas quite as infallible in those days as at the present time but it 
 
 happened then as now to be sometimes right by accident It stumbled 
 Z7 l^!^*l"*^' '^^"" ^' ^^^^ ^^'^ «1^ Bowyer a mint of monr hIs 
 r- k!u^^^.^^^" ^ profitable one in the time of King Henry the 
 Eighth, who encouraged English archery to the utmost and he Md 
 been prudent and discreet. Thus it came to pass that Mistress AUce 
 t^::^^^!' :!i!^J^^^ ?eiress i^ an his weaSy ward' 
 

 224 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 If h« could have gained the heart of pretty Mistress Alice by knock- 
 ing this conviction into stubborn people's heads, Hugh would have 
 hii.d no cause to fear. But though the Bowyer's daughter smiled in 
 secret to hear of his doughty deeds for her sake, and though her little 
 waiting-woman reported all her smiles (and many more) to Hugh, and 
 though he was &t a vast expense in kisses and small coin to recom- 
 pense her fidelity, he made no progress in his love. He durst not whis- 
 per it to Mistress Alice save on sure encouragement, and that she 
 never gave him. A glance of her dark eye as she sat at the door on a 
 summer's evening aifter prayer-time, while he and the neighbouring 
 'prentices exercised themselves in the street with blunted sword and 
 buckler, would fire Hugh's blood so that none could stand before him; 
 but then she gbnced at others quite as kindly as on him, and where 
 was the use of cracking crowns if Mistress Alice smiled upon the 
 cracked as well as on the cracker.? 
 
 Still Hugh went on, and loved her more and more. He thought of 
 her all day, and dreamed of her all night long. He treasured up her 
 every word and gesture, and had a palpitation of the heart whenever 
 he heard her footstep on the stairs or her voice in an adjoining room. 
 To him, the old Bowyer's house was haunted by an angel; there was 
 enchantment in the air and space in which she moved. It would have 
 been no miracle to Hugh if flowers had sprung from the rush-strewn 
 floors beneath the tread of lovely Mistress Alice. 
 
 Never did 'prentice long to distinguish himself in the eyes of his 
 lady-love so ardently as Hugh. Sometimes he pictured to himself the 
 house taking fire by night, end he, when all drew back in fear, rushing 
 through flame and smoke, and bearing her from the ruins in his arms. 
 At other times he thought of a rising of fierce rebels, an attack upon 
 the city, a strong assault upon the Bowyer's house in particular, and 
 he falling on the threshold pierced with numberless wounds in defence 
 of Mistress Alice. If he could only enact some prodigy of valour, do 
 some wonderful deed, and let her know that she had inspired it, 
 he thought he could die contented. 
 
 Sometimes the Bowyer and his daughter would go out to supper 
 with a worthy citizen at the fashionable hour of six o'clock, and on 
 such occasions Hugh, wearing his blue /prentice cloak as gallantly as 
 'prentice might, would attend with a lantern and his trusty club to 
 escort them home. These were the brightest moments of his life. To 
 hold the light while Mistress Alice picked her steps, to touch her hand 
 as he helped her over broken ways, to have her leaning on his 
 arm, — it sometimes even came to that, — this was happiness indeed ! 
 
 When the nights were fair, Hugh followed in the rear, his eyes 
 riveted on the graceful figure of the Bowyer's daughter as she and the 
 old man moved on before him. So they threaded the narrow winding 
 streets of the city, now passing beneath the overhanging gables of old 
 wooden houses whence creaking signs projected into the street, and 
 now emerging from some dark and frowning gateway into the clear 
 moonlight. At such times, or when the shouts 01 straggling brawlers 
 
y knock- 
 uld have 
 imiled in 
 her little 
 ugh, and 
 
 recom- 
 lot whis- 
 that she 
 loor on a 
 ibauring 
 ^ord and 
 fore him; 
 id where 
 ipon the 
 
 ought of 
 d up her 
 whenever 
 [ig room, 
 here was 
 uld have 
 ti-strewn 
 
 es of his 
 nself the 
 , rushing 
 lis arms. 
 ,ck upon 
 liar, and 
 
 1 defence 
 ilour, do 
 pired it, 
 
 ) Slipper 
 , and on 
 iantly as 
 ' club to 
 I life. To 
 ler hand 
 J on his 
 
 indeed ! 
 his eyes 
 
 and the 
 winding 
 es of old 
 eet, and 
 :he clear 
 orawleis 
 
 I i n 
 
 ==_ -^TTbTI^ '* 
 
 i I 
 
 
 326 
 
Wmii 
 
 ! 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 227 
 
 met her ear, the Bowyer's daughter would look timidly back at Hugh, 
 beseeching him to draw nearer; and then how he grasped his club and 
 longed to do battle with a dozen rufflers, for the love of Mistress 
 Alice ! 
 
 The old Bowyer was in the habit of lending money on interest to 
 the gallants of the Court, and thus it happened that many a richly- 
 dressed gentleman dismounted at his door. More waving plumes and 
 gallant steeds, indeed, were seen at the Bowyer's house, and more 
 embroidered silks and velvets sparkled in his dark shop and darker 
 private closet, than at any merchant's in the city. In those times 
 no less than in the present it would seem that the richest-looking 
 cavaliers often wanted money the most. 
 
 Of these glittering clients there was one who always came alone. 
 He was nobly mounted, and, having no attendant, gave his horse in 
 charge to Hugh while he and the Bowyer were closeted within. Once 
 as he sprung into the saddle Mistress Alice was seated at an upper 
 window, and before she could withdraw he had doffed his jewelled 
 cap and kissed his hand. Hugh watched him caracoling down the 
 street, and burnt with indignation. But how much deeper was the 
 glow that reddened in his cheeks when, raising his eyes to the case- 
 ment, he saw that Alice watched the stranger too ! 
 
 He came again and often, each time arrayed more gaily than before, 
 and still the little casement showed him Mistress Alice. At length 
 one heavy day, she fled from home. It had cost her a hard struggle, 
 for all her old father's gifts were strewn about her chamber as if she 
 had parted from them one by one, and knew that the time must come 
 when these tokens of his love would wring her heart, — yet she was 
 gone. 
 
 She left a letter commending her poor father to the care of Hugh, 
 and wishing he might be happier than ever he could have been with 
 her, for he deserved the love of a better and a purer heart than she 
 had to bestow. The old man's forgiveness (she said) she had no power 
 to ask, but she prayed God to bless him, — and so ended with a blot 
 upon the paper where her tears had fallen. 
 
 At first the old man's wrath was kindled, and he carried his wrong 
 to the Queen's throne itself; but there was no redress he learnt at 
 Court, for his daughter had been conveyed abroad. This afterwards 
 appeared to be the truth, as there came from France, after an inter- 
 val of several years, a letter in her hand. It was written in trembling 
 characters, and almost illegible. Little could be made out save that 
 she often thought of home and her old dear pleasant room, — and that 
 she had dreamt her father was dead and had not blessed her, — and 
 that her heart was breaking. 
 
 The poor old Bowyer lingered on, never suffering Hugh to quit his 
 sight, for he knew now that he had loved his daughter, and that was 
 the only link that bound him to earth. It broke at length and he died, 
 bequeathing his old prentice his trade and all his wealth, and solemnly 
 charging him with his last breath to revenge his child if ever he who 
 
 '{ <M 
 
 
 I 
 
' }< 'i 
 
 &11 
 
 ! 
 } 
 
 t| II 
 
 Hi^ 
 
 228 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 had worked her misery crossed his path in Hfe again. 
 
 From the time of Alice's flight, the tilting-ground, the fields, the 
 fencing-school, the summer-evening sports, knew Hugh no more. 
 His spirit was dead within him. He rose to great eminence and repute 
 among the citizens, but was seldom seen to smile, and never mingled 
 in their revelries or rejoicings. Brave, humane, and generous, he was 
 beloved by all. He was pitied too by those who knew his story, and 
 these were so many that when he walked along the streets alone at 
 dusk, even the rude common people doffed their caps and mingled a 
 rough air of sympathy with their respect. 
 
 One night in May — it was her birthnight, and twenty years since 
 she had left her home — Hugh Graham sat in the room she had hal- 
 lowed in his boyish days. He was now a grey-haired man, though still 
 in the prime of life. Old thoughts had borne him company for many 
 hours, and the chamber had gradually grown quite dark, when he was 
 roused by a low knocking at the outer door. 
 
 He hastened down, and opening it saw by the light of a lamp which 
 he had seized upon the way, a female figure crouching in the portal. 
 It hurried swiftly past him and glided up the stairs. He looked for 
 pursuers. There were none in sight. No, not one. 
 
 He was inclined to think it a vision of his own brain, when sud- 
 denly a vague suspicion of the truth flashed upon his mind. He barred 
 the door, and hastened wildly back. Yes, there she was, — there, in the 
 chamber he had quitted, — there in her old innocent happy home, so 
 changed txiat none but he could trace one gleam of what she had 
 been, — there upon her knees, — with her hands clasped in agony and 
 shame before her burning face. 
 
 "My God, my God!" she cried, "now strike me dead! Though I 
 have brought death and shame and sorrow on this roof, O, let me die 
 at home in mercy !" 
 
 There was no tear upon her face then, but she trembled and glanced 
 round the chamber. Everything v/as in its old place. Her bed looked 
 as if she had risen from it but that morning. The sight of these fam- 
 iliar objects, marking the dear remembrance in which she had been 
 held, and the blight she had brought upon herself, was more than the 
 woman's better nature that had carried her there could bear. She 
 wept and fell upon the ground. 
 
 A rumour was spread about, in a few days' time, that the Bowyer's 
 cruel daughter had come home, and that Master Graham had given 
 her lodging in his house. It was rumoured too that he had resigned her 
 fortune, in order that she might bestow it in acts of charity, and that 
 he had vowed to guard her in her solitude, but that they were never 
 to see each other more. These rumours greatly incensed all virtuous 
 wives and daughters in the ward, especially when they appeared to 
 receive corroboration from the circumstance of Master Graham taking 
 up his abode in another tenement hard by. The estimation in which he 
 was held, however, forbade any questioning on the subject; and as 
 the Bowyer's house was close shut up, and nobot' y came forth when 
 
 t,} 
 
ields, the 
 no more, 
 nd repute 
 r mingled 
 IS, he was 
 tory, and 
 5 alone at 
 ningled a 
 
 sars since 
 ; had hal- 
 ough still 
 for many 
 en he was 
 
 mp which 
 lie portal, 
 ooked for 
 
 ^hen sud- 
 de barred 
 3re, in the 
 home, so 
 she had 
 ,gony and 
 
 rhough I 
 let me die 
 
 d glanced 
 ed looked 
 lese fam- 
 had been 
 ; than the 
 bear. She 
 
 Bowyer's 
 lad given 
 signed her 
 , and that 
 ere never 
 [ virtuous 
 peared to 
 im taking 
 I which he 
 ;t; and as 
 )rth when 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 229 
 
 public shows and festivities were n progress, or to flaunt in the public 
 walks, or to buy new fashions at the mercer's booths, all the well- 
 conducted females agreed among themselves that there could be no 
 woman there. 
 
 These reports had scarcely died away when the wonder of every good 
 citizen, male and female, was utterly absorbed and swallowed up by a 
 Royal Proclamation, in which her Majesty, strongly censuring the 
 practice of wearing long Spanish rapiers of preposterous length (as 
 being a^ bullying and swaggering custom, tending to bloodshed and 
 public disorder), commanded that on a particular day therein named 
 certain grave citizens should repair to the city gates, and there, in 
 public break all rapiers worn or carried by persons claiming admis- 
 sion, that exceeded, though it were only by a quarter of an inch three 
 standard feet in length. 
 
 Royal Proclamations usually take their course, let the public 
 wonder never so much. On the appointed day two citizens of high 
 repute took up their stations at each of the gates, attended by a party 
 of the city guard, the main body to enforce the Queen's will, and take 
 custody of all such rebels (if any) as might have the temerity to dis- 
 pute it: and a few to bear the standard measures and instrume its for 
 reducing all unlawful sword-blades to the prescribed dime sions 
 In pursuance of these arrangements. Master Graham and another 
 were posted at Lud Gate, on the hill before St. Paul's. 
 
 A pretty numerous company were gathered together at this -.pot- 
 ior, besides the officers in attendance to enforce the proclamation' 
 there was a motley crowd of lookers-on of various degrees who raised 
 from time to time such shouts and cries as the circumstances called 
 lorth. A spruce young courtier was the first who approached: he un- 
 sheathed a weapon of burnished steel that shone and glistened in the 
 sun, and handed it with the newest air to the officer, who, finding it 
 exactly three feet long, returned it with a bow. Thereupon the gallant 
 raised his hat and crying "God save the Queen !" passed on amidst the 
 plaudits of the mob. Then came another— a better courtier still— who 
 wore a blade but two feet long, whereat the people laughed, much to 
 the disparagement of his honour's dignity. Then came a third, a 
 sturdy old officer of the army, girded with a rapier at least a foot and 
 a half beyond her Maj esty 's pleasure; at him they raised a great shout 
 and most of the spectators (but especially those who were armourers 
 or cutlers) laughed very heartily at the breakage which would ensue 
 But they were disappointed; for the old campaigner, coolly unbuck^ 
 hng his sword and bidding his servant carry it home again, passed 
 through unarmed, to the great indignacion of all the beholders They 
 relieved themselves in some degree by hooting a tall blustering fellow 
 with a prodigious weapon, who stopped short on coming in sight of the 
 preparations, and after a little consideration turned back again But 
 - .. .....^ no rcxpiex xiuu uccn oroKen, aitnough it was h; h noon 
 
 and all cavaliers of any quality or appearance were taking their way 
 towards Samt Paul's churchyard. ^ 
 
 ^4 
 

 
 230 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 During these proceedings, Master Graham had stood apart, strictly 
 confining himself to the duty imposed upon him, and taking little 
 heed of anything beyond. He stepped forward now as a richly-dressed 
 gentleman on foot, followed by a single attendant, was seen advancing 
 up the hill. 
 
 As this person drew nearer, the crowd stopped their clamour, and 
 bent forward with eager looks. Master Graham standing alone in 
 the gateway, and the stranger coming slowly towards him, they 
 "seemed, as it were, set face to face. The nobleman (for he looked one) 
 had a haughty and disdainful air, which bespoke the slight esti- 
 mation in which he held the citizen. The citizen, on the other hand, 
 preserved the resolute bearing of one who was not to be frowned 
 down or daunted, and who cared very little for any nobility but that 
 of worth and manhood. It was perhaps some consciousness on the 
 part of each, of these feelings in the other, that infused a more stern 
 expression into their regards as they came closer together. 
 
 "Your rapier, worthy sir!" 
 
 At the instant that he pronounced these words Graham started, 
 and falling back some paces, laid his hand upon the dagger in his 
 belt. 
 
 "You are the man whose horse I used to hold before the Bowyer's 
 door? You are that man? Speak!" 
 
 "Out, you 'prentice hound!" said the other. 
 
 "You are he! I know you well now!" cried Graham. "Let no man 
 step between us two, or I shall be his murderer." With that he drew 
 his dagger, and rushed in upon him. 
 
 The stranger had drawn his weapon from the scabbard ready for 
 the scrutiny, before a word was spoken. He made a thrust at his 
 assailant, but the dagger which Graham clutched in his left hand being 
 the dirk in use at that time for parrying such blows, promptly 
 turned the point aside. They closed. The dagger fell ttling on the 
 ground, and Graham, wrestling his adversary's sword from his grasp, 
 plunged it through his heart. As he drew it out it snapped in two, 
 leaving a fragment in the dead man's body. 
 
 All this passed so swiftly that the bystanders looked on without an 
 effort to interfere; but the man was no sooner down than an uproar 
 broke forth which rent the air. The attendant rushing through the 
 gate proclaimed that his master, a nobleman, had been set upon and 
 slain by a citizen; the word spread quickly from mouth to mouth; 
 Saint Paul's Cathedral, and every book-shop, ordinary, and smoking- 
 house in the churchyard poured out its stream of cavaliers and their 
 followers, who mingling together in a dense tumultuous body, 
 struggled, sword in hand, towards the spot. 
 
 With equal impetuosity, and stimulating each other by loud cries 
 and shouts, the citizens and common people took up the quarrel on 
 their side and encircling Master Graham a hundred deet^^ forced 
 him from the gate. In vain he waved the broken sword above his 
 head, crying that he would die on London's threshold for their 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 231 
 
 sacred homes. They bore him on, and ever keeping him in the midst, 
 so that no man could attack him, fought their way into che city. 
 
 The clash of swords and roar of voices, the dust and heat and 
 pressure, the trampling under foot of men, the distracted looks and 
 shrieks of women at the windows above as they recognised their 
 relatives or lovers in the crowd, the rapid tolling of alarm-bells, the 
 furious rage and passion of the scene, were fearful. Those who, being 
 on the outskirts of each crowd, could use their weapons with effect, 
 fought desperately, while those behind, maddened with baffled rage, 
 struck at each other over the heads of those before them, and crushed 
 their own fellows. Wherever the broken sword was seen above the 
 people's heads, towards that spot the cavaliers made a new rush. 
 Every one of these charges was marked by sudden gaps in the throng 
 where men were trodden down, but as fast as they were made, the 
 tide swept over them, and still the multitude pressed on again, a 
 confused mass of swords, clubs, staves, broken plumes, fragments of 
 rich cloaks and doublets, and angry bleeding faces, all mixed up 
 together in inextricable disorder. 
 
 The design of the people was to force Master Graham to take refuge 
 in his dwelling, and to defend it until the authorities could interfere, 
 or they could gain time for parley. But either from ignorance or in the 
 confusion of the moment they stopped at his old house, which was 
 closely shut. Some time was lost in beating the doors open and passing 
 him to the front. About a score of the boldest of the other party 
 threw themselves into the torrent while this was being done, and 
 reaching the door at the same moment with himself cut him off from 
 his defenders. 
 
 "I will never turn in such a righteous cause, so help me Heaven!" 
 cried Graham, in a voice that at last made itself heard, and con- 
 fronting them as he spoke. "Least of all will I turn upon this thresh- 
 old which owes its desolation to such men as ye. I give no quarter, and 
 I will have none! Strike!" 
 
 For a moment they stood at bay. At that moment a shot from an 
 unseen hand, apparently fired by some person who had gained 
 access to one of the opposite houses, struck Graham in the brain, and 
 he fell dead. A low wail was heard in the air, — many people in the 
 concourse cried that they had seen a spirit glide across the little 
 casement window of the Bowyer's house 
 
 A dead silence succeeded. After a short time some of the flushed 
 and heated throng laid dcwn their arms and softly carried the body 
 within doors. Others fell off or slunk away in knots of two or three, 
 others whispered together in groups, and before a numerous guard 
 which then rode up could muster in the street, it was nearly empty. 
 
 Those who carried Master Graham to the bed up-stairs were 
 shocked to see a woman lying beneath the window with her hands 
 clasped together. After trying to recover her in vain, they laid her 
 near the citizen, who still retained, tightly grasped in his right hand, 
 the first and last sword that was broken that day at Lud Gate. 
 
 nv 1 
 
 1 1] 
 
¥-':.' 
 
 m 
 
 14 V 
 
 II ' 
 
 r^l 
 
 232 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 The Giant uttered these concluding words with sudden precipita- 
 tion; and on the instant the strange light which had filled the hall 
 faded away. Joe Toddyhigh glanced involuntarily at the eastern 
 window, and saw the first pale gleam of morning. He turned his head 
 again towards the Other window in which the Giants had been seated. 
 It was empty. The cask of wine was gone, and he could dimly make 
 out that the two great figures stood mute and motionless upon their 
 
 pedestals. . 
 
 After rubbing his eyes and wondering for full half an hour, durmg 
 which time he observed morning come creeping on apace, he yielded 
 to the drowsiness which overpowered him and fell int freshing 
 
 slumber. When he awoke it was broad day; the buildxng „ ^pen, 
 and workmen were busily engaged in removing the vestiges of last 
 
 night's feast. . ^t. • / 
 
 Stealing gently down the little stairs, and assummg the air of 
 some early lounger who had dropped in from the street, he walked 
 up to the foot of each pedestal in turn, and attentively examined the 
 figure it supported. There could be no doubt about the features of 
 either; he recollected the exact expression they had worn at different 
 passages of their conversation, and recognised in every line and 
 lineament the Giants of the night. Assured that it was no vision, but 
 that he had heard and seen with his own proper senses, he walked 
 forth, determining at all hazards to conceal himself in the Guildhall 
 again that evening. He further resolved to sleep all day, so that he 
 might be very wakeful and vigilant, and above all that he might take 
 notice of the figures at the precise moment of their becoming 
 animated and subsiding into their old state, which he greatly 
 reproached himself for not having done already. 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 TO MASTER HUMPHREY 
 
 Sir, — Before you proceed any further in your account of your 
 friends and what you say ard do when you meet together, excuse me 
 if I proffer my claim to be elected to one of the vacant chairs in that 
 old room of yours. Don't reject me without full consideration; for if 
 you do, you will be sorry for it afterwards — you will, upon my 1^^,. 
 
 I enclose my card, sir, in this letter. I never was ashamed of my 
 name, and I never shall be. I am considered a devilish gentlemanly 
 fellow, and I act up to the character. If you want a reference, ask 
 any of the men of our club. Ask any fellow who goes there to write 
 his letters, what sort of conversation mine is. Ask him if he thinks I 
 have the sort of voice that will suit your deaf friend and make him 
 hear, if he can hear anything at all. Ask the servants what they 
 think of me. There's not a rascal among 'em, sir, but will tremble to 
 
S^ ^iSAa/i^m^2a ^ilow. 
 
 326* 
 
 * !:> 
 
 »ll 
 
 ; ill 
 
 
 I 
 
hear my 
 that hou 
 
 I tell 3 
 you'll ha 
 that'll ra 
 some fin< 
 of thing, 
 affair of 
 private j 
 upon the 
 that tim 
 consider 
 yourself. 
 
 It's an 
 know wl: 
 anxiety i 
 cunning 
 have al\\ 
 him so, ■' 
 
 You n 
 founded 
 paper — j 
 places li] 
 life — dor 
 
 I am a 
 friends li 
 for gran1 
 charming 
 company 
 a great 
 himself; 
 periods i 
 six time 
 besides 1 
 gentlems 
 he is of a 
 
 Mastei 
 both as i 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 235 
 
 hear my name. That reminds me — don't you say too much about 
 that housekeeper of yours; it's a low subject, damned low. 
 
 I tell you what, sir. If you vote me into one of those empty chairs, 
 you'll have among you a man with a fund of gentlemanly information 
 that'll rather astonish you. I can let you into a fe\/ anecdr tes about 
 some fine women of title, that are quite high life, sir — the tiptop sort 
 of thing. I know the name of every man who has been out on an 
 affair of honour within the last five-and-twenty years; I know the 
 private particulars of every cross and squabble that has taken place 
 upon the turf, at the gaming-table, or elsewhere, during the whole of 
 that time. I have been called the gentlemanly chronicle. You may 
 consider yourself a lucky dog; upon my soul, you may congratulate 
 yourself, though I say so. 
 
 It's an uncommon good notion that of yours, not letting anybody 
 know where you live. I have tried it, but there has always been an 
 anxiety respecting me, which has found me out. Your deaf friend is a 
 cunning fellow to keep his name so close. I have tried that too, but 
 have always failed. I shall be proud to make his acquaintance — tell 
 him so, with my compliments. 
 
 You must have been a queer fellow when you were a child, con- 
 founded queer. It's odd, all that about the picture in your first 
 paper — prosy, but told in a devilish gentlemanly sort of way. In 
 places like that I could come in with great effect with a touch of 
 life — don't you feel that? 
 
 I am anxiously waiting for your next paper to know whether your 
 friends live upon the premises, and at your expense, which I take it 
 for granted is the case. If I am right in this impression, I know a 
 charming fellow (an excellent companion and most delightful 
 company) who will be proud to join you. Some years ago he seconded 
 a great many prize-fighters, and once fought an amateur match 
 himself; since then he has driven several mails, broken at different 
 periods all the lamps on the right-hand side of Oxford-street, and 
 six times carried away every bell-handle in Bloomsbury-square, 
 besides turning off the gas in various thoroughfares. In point of 
 gentlemanliness he is unrivalled, and I should say that next to myself 
 he is of all men the best suited to your purpose. 
 
 Expecting your reply, 
 * I am, 
 
 Etc, etc. 
 
 Master Humphrey informs this gentleman that this application, 
 both as it concerns himself and his friend, is rejected. 
 
 ■•".,iii 
 
 I'i i I 
 
 n I 
 
\ li 
 
 f 'I 
 
 236 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 8- 
 
 II 
 
 MASTER HUMPHREY. FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE 
 IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 
 
 My old companion tells me it is midnight. The fire glows brightly 
 cracklmg with a sharp and cheerful sound, as if it loved to burn The 
 merry cricket on the hearth (my constant visitor), this ruddy blaze 
 my clock, and I, seem to share the world among us. and to be the 
 only thmgs awake. The wind, high and boisterous but now has died 
 away and hoarsely mutters in its sleep. I love all times and seasons 
 each m its turn, and am apt. perhaps, to think the present one the 
 best; but past or coming I always love this peaceful time of night 
 when long-buneJ thoughts, favoured by the gloom and silence steai 
 from their graves, and haunt the scenes of faded happiness and hope 
 The popular faith in ghosts has a remarkable affinity with the 
 whole current of our thoughts at such an hour as this, and seems to be 
 their necessary and natural consequence. For who can wonder that 
 man should feel a vague belief in tales of disembodied spirits wander- 
 ing through those places which they once dearly affected when he 
 himself, scarcely less separated from his old world than they is for 
 ever lingering upon past emotions and bygone times, and hovering 
 the ghost of his former self, about the places and people that warmed 
 his heart of old? It is thus that at this quiet hour I haunt the house 
 where I was born, the rooms I used to tread, the scenes of my infancy 
 my boyhood, and my youth; it is thus that I prowl around my 
 buried treasure (though not of gold or silver), and mourn my loss- it 
 IS thus that I revisit the ashes of extinguished fires, and take my 
 silent stand at old bedsides. If my spirit should ever glide back to 
 this chamber when my body is mingled with the dust, it will but 
 follow the course it often took in the old man's lifetime, and add but 
 one more change to the subjects of its contemplation. 
 
 In all my idle speculations I am greatly assisted by various legends 
 connected with my venerable house, which are current in the 
 neighbourhood, and are so numerous that there is scarce a cupboard 
 or corner that has not some dismal story ox its own When I first 
 entertained thoughts of becoming its tenant, I was assured that it 
 was haunted froni roof to cellar, and I believe that the bad opinion 
 m which my neighbours once held me. had its rise in my not being 
 torn to pieces, or at least distracted with terror, on the night I took 
 possession; m either of which cases I should doubtless have arrived 
 by a short cut at the very summit of popularity. 
 
 But traditions and rumours all taken into account, who so ahpf. 
 ^lurZ^^ .'^Ti^ and chimes with my every thought, as my dear 
 deaf friend.? and how often have I cause to bless the day that brought 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 237 
 
 us two together I Of all days in the year I rejoice to think that it 
 should have been Christmas Day, with which from childhood we 
 associate somethmg friendly, hearty, and sincere 
 • I had walked out to cheer myself with the happiness of others, and 
 m the httle tokens of festivity and rejoicing, of which the streets 
 and housej present so many upon that day. had lost some hours 
 Now I stopped to look at a merry party hurrying through the snow 
 on foot to their place of meeting, and now turned back to see a 
 whole coachful of children safely deposited at the welcome house At 
 one time, 1 admired how carefully the working man carried the baby 
 m Its gaudy hat and feathers, and how his wife, trudging patiently 
 on behmd. forgot even her care of her gay clothes, in exchanging 
 greetings with the child as it crowed and laughed over the father's 
 shoulder; at another. I pleased myself with some passing scene of 
 gallantry or courtship, and was glad to believe that for a season half 
 the world of poverty was gay. 
 
 As the day closed in. I still rambled through the streets, feeling a 
 companionship in the bright fires that cast their warm reflection on 
 the windows as I passed, and losing all sense of my own loneliness in 
 imagining the sociality and kind-fellowship that everywhere ^ e- 
 vailed. At length I happened to stop before a Tavern, and. encoun- 
 tering a Bill of Fare in the window, it all at once brought it into my 
 head to wonder what kind of people dined alone in Taverns upon 
 Christmas Day. ^ 
 
 Solitary men are accustomed, I suppose, unconsciously to look 
 upon solitude as their own peculiar property. I had sat alone in my 
 room on many, many anniversaries of this great holiday, and had 
 never regarded it but as one of universal assemblage and rejoicing 
 1 had excepted, and with an aching heart, a crowd of prisoners and 
 beggars; but these were not the men for whom the Tavern doors were 
 open. Had they any customers, or was it a mere form?— a form no 
 doubt. ' 
 
 Trying to feel quite sure of this, I walked away; but before I had 
 gone niany paces. I stopped and looked back. There was a provoking 
 air of business in the lamp above the door which I could not over- 
 come. I began to be afraid there might be many customers— young 
 men. perhaps, struggling with the world, utter strangers in this great 
 place whose friends lived at a long distance off. and whose nfeans 
 were too slender to enable them to make the journey. The supposition 
 gave rise to so many distressing little pictures, that, in preference to 
 carrying them home with me, I determined to encounter the realities 
 So I turned and walked in. 
 
 I was at once glad and sorry to find that there was only one person 
 in the dinmg-room; glad to know that there wer- not more, and sorry 
 that he should be there by himself. He did not look so old as I but 
 
 like me he Viras a.Hvnnrp.r1 in lifo oriH ^'^ 1--J-- ' '' •• 
 
 1 hough I made more noise in entering and seating myself than was 
 quue necessary, with the view of attracting his attention and saluting 
 
 I ! 
 
 .? 
 
 H- 
 
238 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 
 'I 
 
 ::4 
 
 '■■i 
 
 I'l 
 
 him in the good old form of that time of year, he did not raise his 
 head, but sat with it resting on his hand, musing over his half- 
 finished meal, 
 
 I called for something which would give me an excuse for remaining 
 in the room (I had dined early, as my housekeeper was engaged at 
 night to partake of some friend's good cheer), and sat where I could 
 observe without intruding on him. After a time he looked up. He was 
 aware that somebody had entered, but could see very little of me, 
 as I sat in thf^ shade and he in the light. He was sad and thoug'ttful, 
 and I forbore i,o trouble him by speaking. 
 
 Let me believe it was something better than curiosity which 
 riveted my attention and impelled me strongly towards this gentle- 
 man. I never saw so patient and kind a face. He should have been 
 surrounded by friends, and yet here he sat dejected and alone when 
 all men had their friends about them. As often as he roused himsel 
 from his reverie he would fall into it again, and it was plain tha 
 whatever were the subject of his thoughts, they were of a melan- 
 choly kind, and would not be controlled. 
 
 He was not used to solitude. I was sure of that; for I know by 
 myself that if he had been, his manner would have been different, 
 and he would have taken some slight interest in the arrival of 
 another. I could not fail to mark that he had no appetite; that he 
 tried to eat in vain; that time after time the plate was pushed away, 
 and he relapsed into his former posture. 
 
 His mind was wandering among old Christmas days, I thought. 
 Many of them sprung up together, not with a long gap between 
 each, but in unbroken succession like days of the week. It was a great 
 change to find himself for the first time (I quite settled that it was 
 the first) in an empty silent room with no soul to care for. I could 
 not help following him in imagination through crowds of pleasant 
 faces, and then coming back to that dull place with its bough of 
 mistletoe sickening in the gas, and sprigs of holly parched up already 
 by a Simoom of roast and boiled. The very waiter had gone home; 
 and his representative, a poor, lean, hungry man, was keeping 
 Christmas in his jacket. 
 
 I grew still more interested in my friend. Hiis dinner done, a 
 decanter of wine was placed before him. It remained untouched for 
 a long time, but at length with a quivering hand he filled a glass 
 and raised it to his lips. Some tender wish to which he had been 
 accustomed to give utterance on that day, or some beloved name 
 that he had been ' od to pledge, trembled upon them at the momeiit. 
 He put it down ,ry hastily — took it up once more — again put it 
 down — pressed his hand upon his face — yes — and tears stole down 
 his cheeks, I am certain. 
 
 Withou pausing to consider whether I did right or wrong, I 
 stepped at oss the room, and sitting down beside him laid my hand 
 srentlv on nis arm. 
 
 "My friend," I said, "forgive me if I beseech you to take comfort 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 239 
 
 and consolation from the lips of an Oid man. I will not preach to 
 you what I have not practised, indeed. Whatever be your grief, be 
 of a good heart — bo of a good heart, pray I" 
 
 "I see that you speak earnestly," he replied, "and kindly I am 
 very sure, but " 
 
 I nodded my head to shov/ that I understood what he wc did say; 
 for I had already gathered, from a certain fixed expression in his 
 face, and from the attention with which he watched me while I 
 spoke, that his sense of hearing was destroyed. "There should be a 
 freemasonry between us," said I, pointing from himself to me to 
 explain my meaning; "if not in our gray hairs, at least in our mis- 
 fortunes. You see that I am but a poor crippk ' 
 
 I never felt so happy under my affliction sine- the trying moment 
 of my first becoming conscious of it, as when j ; took my hand in 
 his with a smile that has lighted my path in life from that day. and 
 we sat down side by side. 
 
 This was the beginning of my friendship with the deaf gentleman; 
 and when was ever the slight and easy service of a kind word in 
 season repaid by such attachment and devotion as he has shown 
 to me! 
 
 He produced a little set of tablets and a pencil to facilitate our 
 conversation, on that our first acquaintance; and I well remember 
 how awkward and constrained I was in writing down my share of the 
 dialogue, and how easily he guessed my meaning before I had written 
 half of what I had to say. He told me in a faltering voice that he 
 had not been accustomed to be alone on that day — that it had always 
 been a little festival with him; and seeing that I glanced at his dress 
 in the expectation that he wore mourning, he added hastily that it 
 was not that; if it had been he thought he could have borne it better. 
 From that time to the present we have never touched upon this 
 theme. Upon every return of the same day we have been together; 
 and although we make it our annual custom to drink to each oth-r 
 hand in hand after dinner, and to recall with affectionate garrulity 
 every circumstance of our first meeting, we always avoid this one 
 as if by mutual consent. 
 
 Meantime we have gone on strengthening in our friendship and 
 regard, and forming an attachment which, I trust and believe, will 
 only be interrupted b/ death, to be renewed in another existence. I 
 scarcely know how we communicate as we Co; but he has long since 
 ceased to be deaf to me. He is frequemly my companion in my 
 walks, and even in crowded streets replies to my slightest look or 
 gesture, as though he could read my thoughts. From the vast 
 number of objects which pass in rapid succession before our eyes, we 
 frequently select the same for some particular notice or remark; and 
 when one of these little coincidences occurs. I cannot describe the 
 pleasure which animates my friend, or the beaming countenance ho 
 vvili preserve for half-an-hour afterwards at least. 
 He is a great thinker from living so much within himself, and. 
 
 i 1 
 
mi- 
 
 240 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 having a lively imagination, has a facility of conceiving and enlarging 
 upon odd ideas, which renders him invaluable to our little body, and 
 greatly astonishes our two friends. His powers in this respect are 
 touch assisted by a large pipe, which he assures us one 3 belonged to 
 ft German Student. Be this as it may, it has undoubtedly a verj' 
 ancient and mysterious appearance, and is of such capacity that it 
 takes three hours and a half to smoke it out. I have reason to believe 
 that my barber, who is the chief authority of a knot of gossips, who 
 congregate every evening at a small tobacconist's hard by, has related 
 anecdotes of this pipe and the grim figures that are carved upon its 
 bowl, at • hich all the smokers in the neighbourhood have stood 
 aghast; and I know that my houseke'jper, while she holds it in high 
 veneration, has a superstitious feeling connected with it which 
 would render her exceedingly unwilling to be left alone in its com- 
 pany after dark. 
 
 Whatever sorrow my dear friend has known, and whatever grief 
 may linger in some secret corner of his heart, he is now a cheerful, 
 placid, happy creature. Misfortune can never have fallen upon such 
 a man but for some good purpose; and when I see its traces in his 
 gentle nature and his earnest feeling, I am thr less disposed to 
 murmur at such trials as I may have undergone myself. With regard 
 to the pipe, I have a theory of my own; I cannot help thinking that 
 it is in some manner connected with the event that brought us 
 together; for I remember that it was a long time before he even talked 
 about it; that when he did, he grew reserved and melancholy; and 
 that it was a long time yet before ^-^ wrought it forth. I have no 
 curiosity, however, upon thip ubje . * n I know that it promotes 
 his tranquillity and comfort, - eed no other inducement to 
 
 regard it with my utmost favc r. 
 
 Such is the deaf gentleman. 1 c^.i call up his figure now, clad in 
 sober gray, and seated in the chimney-corner. At he puffs out the 
 smoke from his favourite pipe, he casts a look on me brimful of 
 cordiality and friendship, and says all manner of kind and genial 
 things in a cheerful smile; then he raises his eyes to my clock, which 
 is just about to strike, and, glancing^ from it to me and back again, 
 seems to divide his heart between us. For myself, it is not too much 
 to say that I would gladly part with one of my poor limbs, could he 
 but hear the old clock's voice. 
 
 Of our two friends, the first has been all his life one of that easy, 
 wayward, truant class whom the world is accustomed to designate 
 as nobody's enemies but their own. Bred to a profession for which 
 he never qualified himself, and reared in the expectation of a fortune 
 he has never inherited, he has undergone every vicissitude of which 
 such an existence is capable. He and his younger brother, both 
 orphans from their childhood, were educated by a wealthy relative, 
 who taught them to expect an equal division of hir, property; but 
 tfin indfslfint to court, and too honest to flatter, the ^Ider iraduallv 
 pst ground in the affections of a capricious old man, and the younger, 
 
 
 •^ 
 
I enlarging 
 
 body, and 
 
 espect are 
 
 elonged to 
 
 lly a verj' 
 
 ity that it 
 
 to believe 
 
 ssips, who 
 
 las related 
 
 d upon its 
 
 lave stood 
 
 it in high 
 
 it which 
 
 n its com- 
 
 tever grief 
 1 cheerful, 
 upon such 
 ices in his 
 isposed to 
 ith regard 
 iking that 
 rought us 
 ven talked 
 ;holy; and 
 I have no 
 promotes 
 cement to 
 
 w, clad in 
 Is out the 
 brimful of 
 md genial 
 )ck, which 
 ack again, 
 too much 
 ;, could he 
 
 that easy, 
 designate 
 for which 
 I a fortune 
 3 of which 
 ;her, both 
 y relative, 
 3erty; but 
 Taduallv 
 3 younger, 
 
 SSie ^^ ^ti&ncCi, 
 
 IV 1 
 
 
 1 
 
 .Mil. 
 
 1 ^Ki^ 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 ^^H 
 "'^1 
 
 .. i 
 
 1- f- ' 
 
 ^^H 
 
 
 J 
 
 1 H ! 
 
 , . |-- i 
 
 
I 
 
 il 
 
 _-._4l- 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 243 
 
 who did not fail to improve his opportunity, now triumphs in the 
 possession of enormous wealth. His triumph is to hoard it in solitary 
 wretchedness, and probably to feel with the expenditure of every 
 shilling a greater pang than the loss of his whole inheritance ever 
 cost his brother. 
 
 Jack Redburn— he was Jack Redburn at the first little school he 
 went to, where every other child was mastered and surnamed, and 
 he has been Jack Redburn all his life, or he would perhaps have 
 been a richer man by this time — has been an inmate of my house 
 these eight years past. He is my librarian, secretary, steward, and 
 first minister; director of all my affairs, and inspector-general of my 
 household. He is something of a musician, something of an author, 
 something of an actor, something of a painter, very much of a 
 carpenter, and an extraordinary gardener, having had all his life a 
 wonderful aptitude for learning everything that was of no use to 
 him. He is remarkably fond of children, and is the best and kindest 
 nurse in sickness that ever drew the breath of life. He has mixed 
 with every grade of society, and known the utmost distress; but 
 there never was a less selfish, a more tender-hearted, a more enthusi- 
 astic, or a more guileless man; and I dare say, if few have done less 
 good, fewer still have done less harm in the world than he. By what 
 chance Nature forms such whimsical jumbles I don't know; but I do 
 know that she sends them among us very often, and that the king 
 of the whole race is Jack Redburn. 
 
 I should be puzzled to say how old he is. His health is none of the 
 best, and he wears a quantity of iron-gray hair, which shades his face 
 and gives it rather a worn appearance; but we consider him quite a 
 young fellow notwithstanding; and if a youthful spirit, surviving the 
 roughest contact with the world, confers upon its possessor any title 
 to be considered young, then he is a mere child. The only interrup- 
 tions to his careless cheerfulness are on a wet Sunday, when he is apt 
 to be unusually religious and solemn, and sometimes of an evening, 
 when he has been blowing a very slow tune on the flute. On these 
 last-named occasions he is apt to incline towards the mysterious or 
 the terrible. As a specimen of his powers in this mood, I refer my 
 readers to the extract from the clock-case which follows this paper: 
 he brought it to me not long ago at midnight, and informed me that 
 the main incident had been suggested by a dream of the night before. 
 
 His apartments are two cheerful rooms looking towards the 
 garden, and one of his great delights is to arrange and rearrange the 
 furniture in these chambers, and put it in every possible variety of 
 position. During the whole time he has been here, I do not think he 
 has slept for two nights running with the head of his bed in the same 
 place; and every time he moves it, is to be the last. My housekeeper 
 was at first well-nigh distracted by these frequent changes; but she 
 has become quite reconciled to them by degrees, and has so fallen in 
 
 upon the next final alteidtion. Whatever his arrangements are, how- 
 
 ^! 
 
 ! ra 
 
 K ' i> 
 
 
 |-i4?i 
 
I:! .' 
 
 
 244 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 ever, they are always a pattern of neatness; and every one of the 
 manifo^ 1 articles connected with his manifold occupations is to be 
 found in its own particular place. Until within the last two or three 
 years he was subject to an occasional fit (which usually came upon 
 him in very fine weather), under the influence of which he would 
 dress himself with peculiar care, and, going out under pretence of 
 taking a walk, disappeared for several days together. At length, after 
 the interval between each outbreak of this disorder had gradually 
 grown longer and longer, it wholly disappeared; and now he seldom 
 stirs abroad, except to stroll out a little way on a summer's evening. 
 Whether he yet mistrusts his own constancy in this respect, and is 
 therefore afraid to wear a coat, I know not; but we seldom see him 
 in any other upper garment than an old spectral-looking dressing- 
 gown, with very disproportionate pockets, full of a miscellaneous 
 collection of odd matters, which he picks up wherever he can lav 
 hig hands upon them. 
 
 Everything that is a favourite with our friend is a favourite with 
 us; and thus it happens that the fourth among us is Mr. Owen Miles, 
 a most worthy gentleman, who had treated Jack with great kindness 
 before my deaf friend and I encountered him by an accident, to which 
 I may refer on some future occasion. Mr. Miles was once a very rich 
 merchant; but receiving a severe shock in the death of his wife, he 
 retired from business, and devoted himself to a quiet, unostentatious 
 life. He is an excellent man, of thoroughly sterling character: not of 
 quick apprehension, and not .vithout some amusing prejudices, 
 which I shall leave to their own development. He holds us all in pro- 
 found veneration; but Jack Redbum he esteems as a kind of pleasant 
 wonder, that he may venture to approach familiarly. He believes, 
 not only that no man ever lived who could do so many things as 
 Jack, but that no man ever lived who could do anything so well; 
 and he never calls my attention to any of his ingenious proceedings,' 
 but he whispers in my ear, nudging me at the same time with his 
 elbow: "If he had only made it his trade, sir— if he had only made 
 it his trade!" ' 
 
 They are inseparable companions; one would almost suppose that, 
 although Mr. Miles never by any chance does anything in the way 
 of assistance. Jack could do nothing without him. Whether he is 
 reading, writing, painting, r irpentering, gardening, flute-playing, or 
 what not, there is Mr. Miles beside him, buttoned up to the chin in 
 his blue coat, and looking on with a face of incredulous delight, as 
 though he could not credit the testimony of his own senses, and 
 had a misgiving that no man could be so clever but in a dream. 
 These are my friends; I have now introduced myself and them. 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 245 
 
 THE CLOCK-CASE / 
 
 A CONFESSION FOUND IN A PRISON IN THE TIME OF CHARLES THE 
 
 SECOND 
 
 I HELD a lieutenant's commission in his Majesty's army and served 
 abroad in the campaigns of 1677 and 1678. The treaty of Nime^en 
 being concluded. I returned home, and retiring from theTervke 
 withdrew to a small estate lying a few miles east of Sndon wS 
 I had recently acquired in right of my wife ^"uon. wnicn 
 
 This is the last night I have to live, and I will set down the naked 
 truth without disguise. I was never a brave man and h^H .?« 
 been from my childhood of a secret, su^n. disCtful nat^r^'l 
 speak of myself as if I had passed from the world; for while I write 
 
 Tdo^l^^"" "" ^'^''"^' ^^^ °^^ """^^ ^^ ^^**- i- thrblack-book 
 Soon after my return to England, my only brother was seized 
 with mortal illness. This ckcumstance gave me slight or no pain for 
 since we had been men. we had associated but vfry Httfe togSher 
 He was open-hearted and generous, handomer than I more ac 
 comphshed and generally beloved. Those who sought my a^quai^t 
 ance abroad or at home, because they were friends oThisSom 
 attached themselves to me long, and would usually say in our S 
 conversation, that they were surprised to find ^two^rothers so 
 unlike m their manners and appearance. It was my hab?t to lead 
 them on to this avowal; for I knew what comparisons thev must 
 
 We had married two sisters. This additional tie between us as it 
 may appear to some, only estranged us the more. His wife iTe'w me 
 well. I never struggled with any secret jealousy or gall when shJx^s 
 present but that woman knew it as well as I did. I never raised mv 
 eyes at such times but I found hers fixed upon me- 1 never bent f h?r^ 
 on the ground or looked another way but'i felTthat :S over o^^^^^^^ 
 me always It was an mexpressible relief to me when we aurrSled 
 and a greater relief still when I heard abroad that she wS^deadii 
 
 whTtV° r °^^r -^^ ^°^^ ^*^^°^^ ^^d t^^rible foreshadowfng o 
 what has happened since must have hung over us then. I warSfaki 
 of her; she haunted me; her fixed and stiady look comes Mck uoon 
 
 rTn COM. '""^ *^' "'"^^ "' " ^^^^ ^''^^' ^^ -"ki mf bC 
 She died shortly after giving birth to a child— a boy. When mv 
 brother knew that all hope of his own recoverv w.« n/^V ^. ^iS 
 my wiie to his bedside, and ronfided this orphan;a"ci7ld of W 
 years old. to her protection. He bequeathed to him aU the property 
 
 " ) 
 
 wl 
 
246 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 he had. and willed that, in case of his child's death, it should pass 
 to my wife, as the only acknowledgment he could make her for her 
 care and love. He exchanged a few brotherly words with me deplor- 
 ing our long separation; and being exhausted, fell into a slumber 
 from which he never awoke. 
 
 We had no children; and as there had been a strong affection 
 between the sisters, and my wife had almost supplied the place of a 
 mother to this boy. she loved him as if he had been her own The 
 child was ardently attached to her; but he was his mother's image 
 in face and spirit, and always mistrusted me. 
 
 I can scarcely fix the date when the feeling first canle upon me- 
 but I soon began to be uneasy when this child was by. I never roused 
 myself from some moody train of thought but I marked him looking 
 at me; not with mere childish wonder, but with something of the 
 purpose and meaning that I had so often noted in his mother It was 
 no effort of my fancy, founded on close resemblance of feature and 
 expression. I never could look the boy down. He feared me bvt 
 seemed by seme instinct to despise me while he did so- and 'even 
 when he drew back beneath my gaze—as he would when we were 
 alone, to get nearer to the door— he would keep his bright eyes upon 
 
 Perhaps I hide the truth from myself, but I do not think that 
 when this began. I meditated to do him any wrong. I may have 
 thought how serviceable his inheritance would be to us and mav 
 have wished him dead; but I believe I had no thought of compassing 
 his death. Neither did the idea come upon me at once, but by verv 
 slow degrees, presenting itself at first in dim shapes at a very great 
 distance, as men may think of an earthquake or the last day- then 
 drawing nearer and nearer, and losing something of its horror and 
 improbability; then coming to be part and parcel— nay nearly the 
 whole sum and substance— of my daily thoughts, and resolving 
 from thed "^A^^^^^"- °^ ""^^"^^ ^"^^ ^^^^^y- """^ °^ ^oing or abstaining 
 
 While this was going on witiiin me. I never could bear that the 
 child should see me looking at him, and yet I was under a fascination 
 which made it a kmd of business with me to contemplate his slight 
 and fragile figure and think how easily it might be done. Sometimes 
 1 would steal up-stairs and watch him as he slept; but usually I 
 hovered m the garden near the window of the room in which he 
 learnt his little tasks; and there, as he sat upon a low seat beside mv 
 wife, I would peer at him for hours together from behind a tree- 
 ^l^^^^^^J.^^^^ t^e guilty wretch I was, at every rustling of a leaf and 
 still gliding back to look and start again. 
 
 Hard by our cottage, but quite out of sight, and (if there were any 
 wind astir) of hearing too, was a deep sheet of water. I spent days in 
 shapmg with my pocket-knife a rough model of a boat, which I 
 finiSi^evi at ^ast and diOpped in the child's way. Then 1 withdrew to 
 a secret place, which he must pass if he stole away alone to swim 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 247 
 
 this bauble, and lurked there for his coming. He came neither that 
 day nor the next, though I waited from noon till nightfall I was 
 sure that I had him in my net. for I had heard him prattling of the 
 ^l' ?"/,i^^^w t^at in his infant pleasure he kept it by his side in 
 ^u^.^J^^'' weariness or fatigue, but waited patiently, and on the 
 thu-d day he passed me, running joyously along, with his silken hair 
 streaming m the wind, and he singing— God have mercy upon me I 
 — smging a merry ballad.— who could hardly lisp the words 
 
 I stole down after him. creeping under certain shrubs which ctow 
 in that place, and none but devils know with what terror I a strong 
 full-grown man tracked the footsteps of that baby as he approached 
 the water s brink. I was close upon him. had sunk upon my knee and 
 raised my hand to thrust him in, when he saw my shadow in the 
 stream and turned him round. 
 
 His mother's ghost was looking from his eyes. The sun burst forth 
 from behind a cloud; it shone in the bright sky. the glistening earth 
 the clear water, the sparkling drops of rain upon the leave There 
 were eyes in everything. The whole great universe of light as there 
 to see the murder done. I know not what he said; he came of bold 
 and manly blood, and. child as he was. he did not crouch or fawn 
 upon me. I heard him cry that he would try to love me —net that 
 he did.— and then I saw him running back towards the house The 
 next I saw was my own sword naked in my hand, and he Ivine at 
 my feet stark dead.— dabbled here and there with blood, but other- 
 wise no different from what I had seen him in his sleep— in the 
 same attitude too. with his cheek resting upon his little hand 
 
 I took him m my arms and laid him— very gently now that he was 
 dead—m a thicket. My wife was from home that day. and would 
 not return until the next. Our bedroom window, the only sleeping- 
 room on that side of the house, was but a few feet from the ground 
 and I resolved to descend from it at night and bury him in the 
 garden. I had no thought that I had failed in my design, no thought 
 that the water would be dragged and nothing found, tliat the monev 
 must now lie waste, since I must encourage the idea that the child 
 was lost or stolen. AH my thoughts were bound up and knotted 
 together m the one absorbing necessity of hiding what I had done 
 How I felt when they came to tell me that the child was missing 
 when I ordered scouts in all directions, when I gasped and trembled 
 at every one s approach, no tongue can tell or mind of man conceive 
 
 Jh^H w? f^^ 1"^^^' ^^'^^ ^ P^^*^^ *^^ boughs and looked into 
 !^Lf ? *hyket. there was a glow-worm shining like the visible 
 ^irit of God upon the murdered child. I glanced down into his 
 grave when I had placed him there, and still it gleamed upon his 
 
 SL? .\.^f ^^! J^^"*^ ^''^^'''^ ^P *° ^^^^en ^ supplication to the 
 stars that watched me at my work. 
 
 I had to meet my wife, and break the news, and swe her hnn^ that 
 me cniia would soon be found. All this I did.-with some appearance 
 1 suppose, of being sincere, for I was the object of no suspicion This 
 
248 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 done, I sat at the bedroom window all day long, and watched the 
 spot where the dreadful secret lay. 
 
 It was in a piece of ground which had been dug up to be newly 
 turfed, and which I had chosen on that account, as the traces of my 
 spade were less likely to attract attention. The men who laid down 
 the grass must have thought me mad. I called to them continually 
 to expedite their work, ran out and worked beside them, trod down 
 the earth with my feet, and hurried them with frantic eagerness. 
 They had finished then: task before night, and then I thought myself 
 comparatively safe. 
 
 I slept, — not as men do who awake refreshed and cheerful, but I 
 did sleep, passing from vague and shadowy dreams of being hunted 
 down, to visions of the plot of grass, through which now a hand, and 
 now a foot, and now the head itself was starting out. At this point I 
 always woke and stole to the window, to make sure that it was not 
 really so. That done, I crept to bed again; and thus I spent the 
 night in fits and starts, getting up and lying down full twenty times, 
 and dreaming the same dream over and over again, — which was far 
 worse than lying awake, for every dream had a whole night's suffering 
 of its own. Once I thought the child was alive, and that I had never 
 tried to kill him. To wake from that dream was the most dreadful 
 agony of all. 
 
 The next day I sat at the window again, never once taking my 
 eyes from the place, which, although it was covered by the grass, 
 was as plain to me — its shape, its size, its depth, its jagged sides, and 
 all — as if it had u^en open to the light of day. When a servant walked 
 across it, I felt as if he must sink in; when he had passed, I looked 
 to see that his feet had not worn the edges. If a bird lighted there, I 
 was in terror lest by some tremendous interposition it should be 
 instrumental in the discovery; if a breath of air sighed across it, to 
 me it whispered murder. There was not a sight or a sound — how 
 ordinary, mean, or unimportant soever — but was fraught with fear. 
 And in this state of ceaseless watching I spent three days. 
 
 On the fourth there came to the gate one who had served with me 
 abroad, accompanied by a brother officer of his whom I had never 
 seen. I felt that I could not bear to be' out of sight of the place. It 
 was a summer evening, and I bade my people take a table and a 
 flask of wine into the garden. Then I sat down with my chair upon 
 the grave, and being assured that nobody could disturb it now 
 without my knowledge, tried to drink and talk. 
 
 They hoped that my wife was well, — that she was not obliged to 
 keep her chamber, — that they had not frightened her away. What 
 could I do but tell them with a faltering tongue about the child? 
 The officer whom I did not know was a down-looking man, and kept 
 his eyes upon the ground while I was speaking. Even that terrified 
 me. I could not divest myself of the idea that he saw something there 
 
 \x7Viir>li f>aiioorl V«im +^ ot-iot-vrkf.* •♦■l>rv *■■»•■.■. i-V^ T ^r,^~^A U^~ 1 2_Ji l£ I--. 
 
 supposed that— and stopped. "That the child has been murdered?" 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 249 
 
 said he, looking mildly at me: "O no! what could a man gain by 
 murdenng a poor child?" / could have told him what a man gained 
 by such a deed, no one better: but I held my peace and shivered 
 as with an ague. 
 
 Mistaking my emotion, they were endeavouring to cheer me with 
 the hope that the boy would certainly be found,— great cheer that 
 was for me !— when we heard a low deep howl, and presently there 
 sprung over the wall two great dogs, who, bounding into the garden, 
 repeated the baying sound we had heard before. 
 
 "Bloodhounds!" cried my visitors. 
 
 What need to tell me that ! I had never seen one of that kind in all 
 my life, but I knew what they were and for what purpose they had 
 come. I grasped the elbows of my chair, and neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 "They are of the genuine breed," said the man whom I had known 
 abroad, "and being out for exercise have no doubt escaped from 
 their keeper." 
 
 Both he and his friend turned to look at the dogs, who w h their 
 noses to the ground moved restlessly about, running to and fro, 
 and up and down, and across, and round in circles, careering about 
 like wild things, and all this time taking no notice of us, but ever 
 and again repeating the yell we had heard already, then dropping 
 their noses to the ground again and tracking earnestly here and there. 
 They now began to snufE the earth more eagerly than they had done 
 yet, and although they were still very restless, no longer beat about 
 in such wide circuits, but kept near to one spot, and constantly 
 diminished the distance between themselves and me. 
 
 At last they came up close to the great chair on which I sat, and 
 raising their frightful howl once more, tried to tear away the wooden 
 rails that kept them from the ground beneath. I saw how I looked, 
 in the faces of the two who were with me. 
 
 "They scent some prey," said they, both together. 
 
 "They scent no prey!" cried I. 
 ^^ "In Heaven's name, move!" said the one I knew, very earnestly, 
 ' or you will be torn to pieces." 
 
 "Let them tear me from limb to limb, I'll never leave this place!" 
 cried I. "Are dogs to hurry men to shameful deaths ! Hew them down, 
 cut them in pieces." 
 
 "There is some foul mystery here!" said the officer whom I did 
 not know, drawing his sword. "In King Charles's name, assist me 
 to secure this man." 
 
 They both set upon me and forced me away, though I fought 
 and bit and caught at them like a madman. After a struggle, they 
 got me quietly between them; and then, my God ! I saw the angry 
 dogs tearing at the earth and throwing it up into the air like water 
 
 What more have I to tell? That I fell upon my knees, and with 
 chattering teeth confessed the truth, and prayed Lo be forgiven. 
 That 1 had since denied, and now confess to it again. That I have 
 been tried for the crime, found guilty, and sentenced. That I have 
 
 I 
 
 i Hi 
 
 M|il| 
 il 
 
250 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 not the courage to anticipate my doom, or to bear up manfully 
 agamst it. That I have no compassion, no consolation, no hope, no 
 friend. That my wife has happily lost for the time those faculties 
 which would enable her to know my misery or hers. That I am alone 
 m this stone dungeon with my evil spirit, and that I die to-morrow. 
 
 [Old Curiosity Shop begins here.] 
 
 ill 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE 
 Master Humphrey has been favoured with the following letter 
 written on strongly-scented paper, and sealed in light-blue wax with 
 the representation of two very plump doves interchanging beaks. 
 It does not commence with any of the usual forms of address, but 
 begins as is here set forth. 
 
 Bath, Wednesday night. 
 
 Heavens! into what an indiscretion do I sufiEer myself to be 
 betrayed I To address these faltering lines to a total stranger, and 
 that stranger one o^ a conflicting sex!— and yet I am precipitated 
 into the abyss, and have no power of self-snatchation (forgive me if 
 I com that phrase) from the yawning gulf before me. 
 
 Yes, I am writing to a man; but let me not think of that, for 
 madness is in the thought. You will understand my feelings? O yes, 
 I am sure you will; and you will respect them too. and not despise 
 them, — will you? 
 
 Let me be calm. That portrait,— smiling as once he smiled on me; 
 that cane,— dangling as I have seen it dangle from his hand I know 
 not how oft; those legs that have glided through my nightly dreams 
 and never stopped to speak; the perfectly gentlemanly, though false 
 original, — can I be mistaken? O no, no. 
 
 Let me be calmer yet; I would be calm as coffins. You have 
 published a letter from one whose likeness is engraved, but whose 
 name (and wherefore?) is suppressed. Shall / breathe that name! Is 
 it— but why ask when my heart tells riie too truly that it is ! 
 
 I would not upbraid him with his treachery; I would not remind 
 him of those times when he plighted the most eloquent of vows, and 
 procured from me a small pecuniary accommodation; and yet I 
 would see him— see him did I say— Aim— alas ! such is woman's 
 nature. For as the poet beautifully says— but you will akeady have 
 anticipated the sentiment. Is it not sweet? O yes! 
 
 It was in this city (hallowed by the recollection) that I met him 
 first; and assuredly if mortal happiness be recorded anywhere, then 
 those rubbers with their three-and-sixpenny points are scored on 
 tablets of celestial brass. He always held an honour — generally two. 
 On that eventful night we stood at eight. He raised his eyes ^luminous 
 in their seductive sweetness) to my agitated face. "Can you?" said 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 every lineament of his exoressiw' rt^Z ^ ^!i*"' "Sam; and 
 
 "r«jst me?" I murmu^/X."':^,, totT"" "^^"^ *'"' ""''» 
 
 the S:^1-„ThXu7XwttiedTd\^ "''"*"• ^ ^^"^ " «'» 
 little did they Ruess the deJ^ m,l ^ **'' '"*P*'* *-^^ *'•""' ' How 
 
 He called nex^^ Si, g'on hS Ss Tdo n^?""^ "l*""* '"1"'^' 
 actually came in that Sosition to tt!: L S* "T *° ^^^ *»* he 
 down upon those Mnts^'rec^Vth^^^ ^.^T' '"'* *''''* ^e went 
 some ve^s in his w whfrh h- *^?,'«"'^t had retired. He brought 
 
 since found were MiK Js; Lwi::'a ^mI"^"-} ^",? ^ll'-^" ' l^'^^ 
 also a pistol and a sword-stlck^e drew ttl fif^"^*^ laudanum; 
 former, and clicked the tri^..l^ „< ♦•, T , '****'^' ""corked the 
 
 he said, to coCer or to Ife He dw''„'^.''H- *'?;""'• «" ^^^ '=°™. 
 an avowal of n?y love and Lnfffh. •.'*!*• "* "^^^^ '■■°™ me 
 previous to parlJlXX'sJJh? rep'Tst''"'"' °"* "' " """"^ -"""- 
 
 forgive him both ^S'LTth^'S^'r^^^JedSTarhl S"" '5? 
 pay next week I Could I snnm i,i«. a: ^"cre that he promised to 
 
 inWence,.andwrth^'rarmorallTec?rw^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 enchanter still weave hi<! qt^^iio o^^ ""jecti would the blandishing 
 
 all and turn away In coS I da'e not 'tr' f ""^^ ' V"^^* *^^^ 
 the thought. ^oianessi l dare not trust my weakness with 
 
 hisl'odetf iif^^^^e'lco^^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^1^--' ^- occupations. 
 
 You are a humkneTn^Sthm?^^ .T' "^f" ^'^ ^""^^^^ *^«"ghts 
 -all; but espedr^y Keet^^^^^ ^" ^^^ know 
 
 is departing the bellman rinlf ^"^^^er of his lodgings. The post 
 of love and^ho^ to '"^g^.-pray Heaven it be not the knell 
 
 Belinda. 
 
 Adtess^l:? tte'kTofficrxh'e *h^' P*° """^ ^ ^'^'^'^ "-". 
 delay, is ringing Sfu*iyin'^S:e^asSg:: ""'^"^ '""P^"^"* "^^ 
 
 mu"„ot «re^t*?t'tS 'tS *netV''' ^"■»5»-i^ «<>»«. and that you 
 you don't ge?k ^* P°'*' '° '^°"'* be surprised when 
 
 (af::^^sp"ore&^Thra°dy:2oftetft,''*"^^ *" *"™* "'^ 
 he publish^ her letter as ^ p1f^r^iL'a!r;Sl:rth' a^X^^* - 
 
 1 
 
252 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 ' s 
 
 III 
 
 MASTER HUMPHREY'S VISITOR 
 
 When I am in a thoughtful mood, I often succeed in diverting the 
 current of some mournful reflections, by conjuring up a number of 
 fanciful associations with the objects that surround me, and dwelling 
 upon the scenes and characters they suggest. 
 
 I have been led by this habit tc assign to every room in my 
 house and every old staring portrait on its walls a separate interest 
 of its own. Thus, I am persuaded that a stately dame, terrible to 
 behold in her rigid modesty, who hangs above the chimney-piece of 
 my bedroom, is che former lady of the mansion. In the courtyard 
 below is a stone face of surpassing ugliness, which I have somehow 
 — in a kind of jealousy, I am afraid — associated with her husband. 
 Above my study is a little room with ivy peeping through the 
 lattice, from which I bring their daughter, a lovely girl of eighteen 
 or nineteen years of age, and dutiful in all respects save one, that 
 one being her devoted attachment to a young gentleman on the 
 stairs, whose grandmother (degraded to a disused laundry in the 
 garden) piques herself upon an old family quarrel, and is the implac- 
 able enemy of their love. With such materials as these I work out 
 many a little drama, whose chief merit is, that I can bring it to a 
 happy end at will. I have so many of them on hand, that if on my 
 return home one of these evenings I were to find some bluff old 
 wight of two centuries ago comfortably seated in my easy chair, 
 and a lovelorn damsel vainly appealing to his heart, and leaning 
 her white arm upon my clock itself, I verily believe I should only 
 express my surprise that they had kept me waiting so long, and 
 never honoured me with a call before. 
 
 I was in such a mood as this, sitting in my garden yesterday 
 morning under the shade of a favourite tree, revelling in all the 
 bloom and brightness about me, and feeling every sense of hope and 
 enjoyment quickened by this most beautiful season of Spring, when 
 my meditations were interrupted by the unexpected appearance of 
 my barber at the end of the walk, who I immediately saw was 
 coming towards me with a hasty step that betokened something 
 remarkable. 
 
 My barber is at all times a very brisk, bustling, active little man,— 
 for he is, as it were, chubby all over, without being stout or unwieldy, 
 — but yesterday his alacrity was so v^^y uncommon that it quite 
 took me by surprise. For could I fail to observe when he came up to 
 me that his gray eyes were twinkling in a most extraordinary 
 manner, that his little red nose was in an unusual glow, that every 
 line in his round bright face was twisted and curved into an expres- 
 
 ' it* 
 
 ^i 
 
■> i 
 
ii 
 
 ii 
 
 i- .t 
 
 me. 
 
Master Humphrey'-. Clock 
 
 looked over his shoulder for that nurnnQA t^^ia ■ *^^^^® 
 
 "And who is it?" said I. 
 :WelII" said I. -bid theSemTclmete' '" *^ ''"*^"^^- 
 
 smiling ^vith uls^tk^l^to^odXSrTKe wr^r^' ""<* 
 
 be s^d': m^, sirdt:;:i''*^nr„otitir *° ^^<=^'- >>»• -p-y 
 
 insist upon it, really." withX^ewolVpXfcrSvJrr 
 
 I 
 
256 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 had found their way into print. Mr. Pickwick shook his head, and for 
 a moment looked very indignant, but smihng again directly, added 
 that no doubt I was acquainted with Cervantes's introduction to 
 the second part of Don Quixote, and that it fully expressed his senti- 
 ments on the subject. 
 
 "But now," said Mr. Pickwick, "don't you wonder how I found 
 you out?" 
 
 "I shall never wonder, and, with your good leave, never know," 
 said I, smiling in my turn. "It is enough for me that you give me 
 this gratification. I have not the least desire that you should tell me 
 by what means I have obtained it." 
 
 "You are very kind," returned Mr. Pickwick, shaking me by the 
 hand again; "you are so exactly what I expected! But for what 
 particular purpose do you think I have sought you, my dear sir? 
 Now what do you think I have come for?" 
 
 Mr. Pickwick put this question as though he were persuaded that 
 it was morally impossible that I could by any means divine the deep 
 purpose of his visit, and that it must be hidden from all human ken. 
 Therefore, although I was rejoiced to think that I had anticipated 
 his drift, I feigned to be quite ignorant of it, and after a brief con- 
 sideration shook my head despairingly. 
 
 "What should you say," said Mr. Pickwick, laying the forefinger 
 of his left hand upon my coat-sleeve, and looking at me with his 
 head thrown back, and a little on one side, — "what should you say 
 if I confessed that after reading your account of yourself and your 
 little society, I had come here, a humble candidate for one of those 
 empty chairs?" 
 
 "I should say," I returned, "that I know of only one circumstance 
 which could still further endear that little society to me, and that 
 would be the associating with it my old friend, — for you must let me 
 call you so, — my old friend, Mr. Pickwick." 
 
 As I made him this answer every feature of Mr. Pickwick's face 
 fused itself into one all-pervading expression of delight. After shaking 
 me heartily by both hands at once, he patted me gently on the back, 
 and then — I wAl understood why — coloured up to the eyes, and 
 hoped with great earnestness of manner that he had not hurt me. 
 
 If he had, I would have been content that he should have repeated 
 the ofEence a hundred times rather than suppose so; but as he had 
 not, I had no difficulty in changing the subject by making an inquiry 
 which had been upon my lips twenty times already. 
 
 "You have not told me," said I, "anything about Sam Weller." 
 
 "O! Sam," replied Mr. Pickwick, "is the same as ever. The same 
 true, faithful fellow that he ever was. What should I tell you about 
 Sam, my dear sir, except that he is more indispensable to my happi- 
 ness and comfort every day of my life?" 
 
 "And Mr. Weller senior?" said I. 
 
 "Old Mr. Weller," returned Mr. Pickwick, "is in no respect more 
 altered than Sam, unless it be that he is a little more opinionated 
 
 than he 
 spends a 
 so consti 
 permissic 
 (supposir 
 chairs), I 
 
 I very 
 free adm 
 settled, > 
 with as li 
 from our 
 that Mr. ] 
 charactei 
 consent c 
 him thai 
 sanction, 
 to introdi 
 hand) wil 
 
 To this 
 means all 
 formally i 
 think of c 
 him was 
 meeting, 
 ately on 1 
 
 Mr. Pic 
 small roll 
 many qu( 
 Redburn, 
 favour I c 
 him on thi 
 acquainta 
 
 "And t 
 Dear me ! 
 
 I thoug! 
 towards i1 
 and as ms 
 sider it in 
 at the top 
 now surve 
 and now i 
 of the bac 
 dial to see 
 on one sit 
 intervals ( 
 placent gr 
 was not c 
 article in t 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 257 
 
 than he was formerly, and perhaps at times more talkative. He 
 spends a good deal of his time now in our neighbourhood, and has 
 so constituted himself a part of my bodyguard, that when I ask 
 permission for Sam to have a seat in your kitchen on clock nights 
 (supposing your three friends think me worthy to fill one of the 
 chairs), I am afraid I must often include Mr. Weller Loo." 
 
 I very readily pledged myself to give both Sam and his father a 
 free admission to my house at all hours and seasons, and this point 
 settled, we fell into a lengthy conversation which was carried on 
 with as little reserve on both sides as if we had been intimate friends 
 from our youth, and which conveyed to me the comfortable assurance 
 that Mr. Pickwick's buoyancy of spirit, and indeed all his old cheerful 
 characteristics, were wholly unimpaired. As he had spoken of the 
 consent of my friends as being yet in abeyance, I repeatedly assured 
 him that his proposal was certain to receive their most joyful 
 sanction, and several times entreated that he would give me leave 
 to introduce him to Jack Redbum and Mr. Miles (who were near at 
 hand) without further ceremony. 
 
 To this proposal, however, Mr. Pickwick's delicacy would by no 
 means allow him to accede, for he urged that his eligibility must be 
 formally discussed, and that, until this had been done, he could not 
 think of obtruding himself further. The utmost I could obtain from 
 him was a promise that he would attend upon our next night of 
 meeting, that I might have the pleasure of presenting h* • immedi- 
 ately on his election. 
 
 Mr. Pickwick, having with many blushes placed in my hands a 
 small roll of paper, which he termed his "qualification," put a great 
 many questions to me touching my friends, and particularly lack 
 Redburn, whom he repeatedly termed "a fine fellow," and in whose 
 favour I could see he was strongly predisposed. When I had satisfied 
 him on these points, I took him up into my room, that he might make 
 acquaintance with the old chamber which is our place of meeting 
 
 "And this," said Mr. Pickwick, stopping short, "is the clock! 
 Dear me! And this is really the old clock!" 
 
 I thought he would never have come away from it. After advancing 
 towards it softly, and laying Ms hand upon it with as much respect 
 and as many smiling looks as if it were alive, he set himself to con- 
 sider it in every possible direction, now mounting on a chair to look 
 at the top, now going down upon his knees to examine the bottom, 
 now surveying the sides r Hh his spectacles almost touching the casei 
 and now trying to peep oetween it and tb' wall to get a slight view 
 of the back. Then he would retire a pace or two and look up at the 
 dial to see it go, and then draw near again and stand with his head 
 on one side to hear it tick: never failing to glance towards me at 
 intervals of a few seconds each, and nod his head with such com- 
 placent gratification as T am nnifp nnahlf> fr» Hcoot^So Wic. ^^.^;-„x: 
 
 was not confined to the clock either, but extended itself to every 
 article in the room; and really, when he had gone through them every 
 
 327 
 
 I 
 
/ ; 
 
 r. 
 5-' 
 
 ■ ; 
 
 258 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 one, and at last sat himself down in all the six chairs, one after 
 another, to try how they felt, I never saw such a picture of good- 
 humour and happiness as he presented, from the top of his shining 
 head down to the very last button of his gaiters. 
 
 I should have been well pleased, and should have had the utmost 
 enjoyment of his company, if he had remained with me all day, but 
 my favourite, striking the hour, reminded him that he must take 
 his leave. I could not forbear telling him once more how glad he had 
 made me, and we shook hands all the way down-stairs. 
 
 We had no sooner arrived in the Hall than my housekeeper, gliding 
 out of her little room (she had changed her gown and cap, I observed), 
 greeted Mr. Pickwick with her best smile and courtesy; and the 
 barber, feigning to be accidentally passing on his way out, made him 
 a vast number of bows. When the housekeeper courtesied, Mr. Pick- 
 wick bowed with the utmost politeness, and when he bowed, the 
 housekeeper courtesied again; between the housekeeper and the 
 barber, I should say that Mr. Pickwick faced about and bowed with 
 undiminished affability fifty times at least. 
 
 I saw him to the door; an omnibus was at the moment passing the 
 corner of the lane, which Mr. Pickwick hailed and ran after with 
 extracdinary nimbleness. When he had got about half-way, he 
 turned his head, and seeing that 1 was still looking after him, and 
 that I waved my hand, stopped, evidently irresolute whether to 
 come back and shake hands again, or to go on. The man behind the 
 omnibus shouted, and Mr. Pickwick ran a little way towards him: 
 then he looked round at me, and ran a little way back again. Then 
 there was another shout, and he turned round once more and ran 
 the other way. After several of these vibrations, the man settled the 
 question by taking Mr. Pickwick by the arm and putting him into 
 the carriage; but his last action was to let down the window and 
 wave his hat to me as it drove off. 
 
 I lost no time in opening the parcel he had left with me. The 
 following were its contents : — 
 
 MR. Pickwick's tale 
 
 A good many years have passed away since old John Podgers 
 lived in the town of Windsor, where he was born, and where, in 
 course of time, he came to be comfortably and snugly buried. You 
 may be sure that in the time of King James the First, Windsor was 
 a very quaint queer old town, and you may take it upon my authority 
 that John Podgers was a very quaint queer old fellow; consequently 
 he and Windsor fitted each other to a nicety, and seldom parted 
 company even for half a day. 
 
 John Podgers was broad, sturdy, Dutch-built, short, and a very 
 hard eater, as men of his figure often are. Being a hard sleeper like- 
 wise, he divided his time pretty equally between these two recrea- 
 tions, always falling asleep when he had done eating, and always 
 
 i 
 
 taking ar 
 which me 
 his life. I 
 tered up 
 never fail 
 many pe( 
 seen to 1 
 heard, h} 
 sight, an( 
 was upon 
 with the 
 man of si 
 it might 
 solid pari 
 This imp 
 shaking 
 motion t( 
 who, beii 
 set it afii 
 deal of gi 
 men. 
 
 Being 
 a great a; 
 and no ii 
 had no o 
 will read 
 appearan 
 truth is t 
 uneasy ii 
 appreher 
 
 You ki 
 old womi 
 through 1 
 men; stic 
 it, and c; 
 the great 
 much dis 
 home, kr 
 the scrap 
 played a 
 many we 
 that ven] 
 even the 
 have had 
 Gracious 
 most Grs 
 whereof s 
 graciousr 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 259 
 
 Dne after 
 
 of good- 
 
 s shining 
 
 e utmost 
 day, but 
 lust take 
 id he had 
 
 r, gliding 
 bserved), 
 
 and the 
 nade him 
 Mr. Pick- 
 wed, the 
 
 and the 
 wed with 
 
 ssing the 
 fter with 
 -way, he 
 him, and 
 lether to 
 ;hind the 
 irds him: 
 lin. Then 
 and ran 
 jttled the 
 him into 
 dow and 
 
 me. The 
 
 Podgers 
 vhere, in 
 ■ied. You 
 idsor was 
 luthority 
 iequently 
 [n parted 
 
 id a very 
 sper hke- 
 o recrea- 
 d always 
 
 i 
 
 taking another turn at the trencher when he had done sleeping, by 
 which means be grew more corpulent and more drowsy every day of 
 his life. Indeed it used to be currently reported that when he saun- 
 tered up and down the sunny side of the street before dinner (as he 
 never failed to do in fair weather), he enjoyed his soundest nap; but 
 many people held this to be a fiction, as he had several times been 
 seen to look after fat oxen on market-days, and had even been 
 heard, by persons of good credit and reputation, to chuckle at the 
 sight, and say to himself with great glee, "Live beef, live beef!" It 
 was upon this evidence that the wisest people in Windsor (beginning 
 with the local authorities, of course) held that John Podgers was a 
 man of strong, sound sense, not what is called smart, perhaps, and 
 it might be of a rather lazy and apoplectic turn, but still a man of 
 solid parts, and one who meant much more than he cared to show. 
 This impression was confirmed by a very dignified way he had of 
 shaking his head and imparting, at the same time, a pendulous 
 motion to his double chin; in short, he passed for one of those people 
 who, being plunged into the Thames, would make no vain efforts to 
 set it afire, but would straightway flop down to the bottom with a 
 deal of gravity, and be highly respected in consequence by all good 
 men. 
 
 Being well to do in the world, and a peaceful widower, — having 
 a great appetite, which, as he could afford to gratify it, was a luxury 
 and no inconvenience, and a power of going to sleep, which, as he 
 had no occasion to keep awake, was a most enviable faculty, — you 
 will readily suppose that John Podgers was a happy man. But 
 appearances are often deceptive when they least seem so, and the 
 truth is that, notwithstanding his extreme sleekness, he was rendered 
 uneasy in his mind and exceedingly uncomfortable by a constant 
 apprehension that beset him night and day. 
 
 You know very well that in those times there flourished divers evil 
 old women who, under the name of Witches, spread great disorder 
 through the land, and inflicted various dismal tortures upon Christian 
 men; sticking pins and needles into them when they least expected 
 it, and causing them to walk in the air with their feet upwards, to 
 the great terror of their wives and families, who were naturally very 
 much disconcerted when the master of the house unexpectedly came 
 home, knocking at the door with his heels and combing his hair on 
 the scraper. These were their commonest pranks, but they every day 
 played a hundred others, of which none were less objectionable, and 
 many were much more so, being improper besides; the result was 
 that vengeance was denounced against all old women, with whom 
 even the king himself had no sympathy (as he certainly ought to 
 have had), for with his own most Gracious hand he penned a most 
 Gracious consignment of them to everlasting wrath, and devised 
 most Gracious means for their confusion and slaus'h^'er in virtue 
 whereof scarcely a day passed but one witch at the least was most 
 graciously hanged, drowned, or roasted in some part of his dominions. 
 
 ii'. ill 
 
 ^i ! 
 
 i ,u 
 
 1 
 
 ! 
 
 I 
 1 
 
26o 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 still the press teemed with strange and terrible news from the North 
 or the South, or the East or the West, relative to witches and their 
 unhappy victims in some corner of the country, and the Public's 
 hair stood on end to that degree that it lifted its hat off its head, and 
 made its face pale with terror. 
 
 You may believe that the little town of Windsor did not escape 
 the general contagion. The inhabitants boiled a witch on the king's 
 birthday and sent a bottle of the broth to court, with a dutiful 
 address expressive of their loyalty. The king, being rather frightened 
 by the present, piously bestowed it upon the Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury, and returned an answer to the address, wherein he p -we them 
 golden rules for discovering witches, and laid great stress upon cer- 
 tain protecting charms, and especially hors* shoes. Immediately the 
 towns-people went to work nailing up horseshoes over every door, 
 and so many anxious parents apprentice ' their children to farriers 
 to keep them out of harm's way, that it became quite a genteel 
 trade, and flounshed exceedingly. 
 
 In the midst of all this bustle John Podgers ate and slept as usual, 
 but shook his head a great deal oftener than w. his custom, and was 
 observed to look at the oxen less, and at the old women more. He 
 had a little shelf pilt up in his sitting-room, whereon was displayed, 
 in a row which grew longer every week, all the witchcraft literature 
 of the time; he grew learned in charms and exorcisms, hinted at 
 certain questionable females on broomstick whom he had seen from 
 his chamber window, riding in the air at night, and was in constant 
 terror of being bewitched. At length, from perpetually dwelling upon 
 this one idea, which, being alone in his head, had all its own way, the 
 fear of witches became the single passion of his life. He, who up to 
 that time had never known what it was to dream, began to have 
 visions of witches whenever he fell asleep; waking, they were inces- 
 santly present to his imagination likewise; and, sleeping or waking, 
 he had not a moment's peace. He began to set witch-traps in the 
 highway, and was often seen lying in wait round the corner for hours 
 together, to watch their effect. These engines were of simple con- 
 struction, usually consisting of two straws disposed in the form of a 
 cross, or a piece of a Bible cover with a pinch of salt upon it; but they 
 were infallible, and if an old woman chanced to stumble over them 
 (as not unfrequently happened, the chosen spot being a broken and 
 stony place), John started from a doze, pounced out upon her, and 
 hung round her neck till assistance arrived, when she was immedi- 
 ately carried away and drowned. By dint of constantly inveigling old 
 ladies and disposing of them in this summary manner, he acquired 
 the reputation of a great public character; and as he received no harm 
 in these pursuits beyond a scratched face or so, he came, in the course 
 of time, to be considered witch-proof. 
 
 There was but one person who entertained the least doubt of John 
 Podgers's gifts, and that person was his own nephew, a wild, roving 
 young fellow of twenty who had been brought up in his uncle's house 
 
he North 
 
 and their 
 
 Public's 
 
 lead, and 
 
 ot escape 
 he king's 
 a dutiful 
 rightened 
 f Canter- 
 ^ve them 
 ipon cer- 
 ately the 
 ery door, 
 
 farriers 
 
 1 genteel 
 
 as usual, 
 , and was 
 nore. He 
 isplayed, 
 iterature 
 linted at 
 een from 
 constant 
 ing upon 
 way, the 
 ho up to 
 
 to have 
 ;re inces- 
 
 waking, 
 3S in the 
 for hours 
 iple con- 
 brm of a 
 but they 
 rer them 
 )ken and 
 her, and 
 immedi- 
 gling old 
 acquired 
 no harm 
 le course 
 
 of John 
 I, roving 
 s's house 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 261 
 
 and lived there still, — that is to say, when he was at home, which 
 was not as often as it might have been. As he was an apt scholar, it 
 was he who read aloud every fresh piece of strange and terrible 
 intelligence that John Podgers bought; and this he always did of an 
 evening in the little porch in front of the house, round which the 
 neighbours would flock in crowds to hear the direful news, — for 
 people like to be frightened, and when they can be frightened for 
 nothing and at another man's expense, they like it all the better. 
 
 One fine midsummer evening, a group of persons were gathered in 
 this place, listening intently to Will Marks (that was the nephew's 
 name), as with his cap very much on one side, his arm coiled slyly 
 round the waist of a pretty girl who sat beside him, and his face 
 screwed into a comical expression intended t present extreme 
 gravity, he read — with Heaven knows how man^/ embellishments of 
 his own — a dismal account of a gentleman down in Northampton- 
 shire under the influence of witchcraft and taken forcible possession 
 of by the Devil, who was playing his very self with him. John 
 Podgers, in a high sugar-loaf hat and short cloak, filled the opposite 
 seat, and surveyed the auditory with a look of mingled pride and 
 horror very edifying to see; while the hearers, with their heads thrust 
 forward and their mouths open, listened and trembled, and hoped 
 there was a great deal more to come. Sometimes Will stopped for an 
 instant to look round upon his eager audience, and then, with a more 
 comical expression of face than before and a settling of himself 
 comfortably, which included a squeeze of the young lady before 
 mentioned, he launched into some new wonder surpassing all the 
 others. 
 
 The setting sun shed his last golden rays upon this little party, 
 who, absorbed in their present occupation, took no heed of the 
 approach of night, or the glory in which the day went down, when 
 the sound of a horse, approaching at a good round trot, invading the 
 silence of the hour, caused the reader to make a sudden stop, and 
 the listeners to raise their heads in wonder. Nor was their wonder 
 diminished when a horseman dashed up to the porch, and abruptly 
 checking his steed, inquired where one John Podgers dwelt. 
 
 "Here!" cried a dozen voices, while a dozen hands pointed out 
 sturdy John, still basking in the terrors of the pamphlet. 
 
 The rider, giving his bridle to one of those who surrounded him, 
 dismounted, and approached John, hat in hand, but with great 
 haste. 
 
 "Whence come ye?" said John. 
 
 "From Kingston, master." 
 
 "And wherefore?" 
 
 "On most pressing business." 
 
 "Of what nature?" 
 
 "Witchcraft." 
 
 Witchcraft ! Everybody looked aghast at the breathless messenger, 
 and the breathless messenger looked equally aghast at everybody — 
 
 I", 
 
' 
 
 fcJUi 
 
 262 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 except Will Marks who, finding himself unobserved, not only 
 squeezed the young lady again, but kissed her twice. Surely he must 
 have been bewitched himself, or he never could have done it-and 
 the young lady too. or she never would have let him 
 
 vvH,}!^'* "^?J" ^7^^ Will, drowning the sound of his last kiss 
 which was rather a loud one. ' 
 
 The messenger turned towards him. and with a frown repeated 
 the word more solemnly than before; then told his errand, which was 
 in brief, that the people of Kingston had been greatly terrified fo^ 
 some nights past by hideous revels, held by witches beneath the 
 gibbet withm a mile of the town, and related and deposed to by 
 chance wayfarers who had passed within ear-shot of the spot; that 
 the sound of their voices m their wild orgies had been plainly heard 
 by many persons; that three old women laboured under strong sus- 
 picion, and that precedents had been consulted and solemn council 
 had and It was found that to identify the hags some single person 
 must watch apon the spot alone; that no single person ha^d the 
 courage to perform the task; and that he had been despatched express 
 to solicit John Podgers to undertake it that very night, as beFng a 
 
 Tho^y fpdls!"'''"''"; ^''"" ^ '^^''"'^ ^'^'' ^^^ ^^' P^°°^ ^g^i^^t 
 John received this communication with much composure, and 
 r^fj"" %^H X^^.t^^t ^t ^o^ld have afforded him inexpressfble 
 pleasure to do the Kingston people so slight a service, if it were no? 
 for his unfortunate propensity to fall asleep, which no man regretted 
 more than nimself upon the present occasion, but which quite settled 
 the question. Nevertheless he said, there ..as a gentleman present 
 (and here he looked very hard at a tall farrier), who. having been 
 engaged al his life m the manufacture of horseshoes, must be quite 
 invulnerable to the power of witches, and who, he had no d?ubt 
 from his own reputation for bravery and good-nature, would readilv 
 accept the commission The farrier politely thanked him for his good 
 
 Zf '°\r ^''^ 'i ."^TJ^ ^^^^^y' ^^ ^^ ^*"dy to deserve, but added 
 that, with regard to the present little matter, he couldn't think of it 
 on any account as his departing on suQh an errand would certainly 
 occasion the instant death of his wife, to whom, as they all knew he 
 was tenderly attached Now, so far from this circumstance being 
 
 fn fh^i^i^'K-f^^J'''^?' ^t^ suspected the reverse, as the farrier wai 
 in the habit of beating his lady rather more than tender husbands 
 usually do; all the married men present, however, applauded his 
 reso ution with great vehemence, and one and all declared that they 
 would stop at home and die if needful (which happily it was not) in 
 defence of their lawful partners. PP y ^«- was notj in 
 
 This burst of enthusiasm over, they began to look, as by one con- 
 sent, toward Will Marks, who. with his cap more on one side than 
 ever sat watching the proceedings with extraordinary unconcern, 
 ne fta,. never ^.een heaid openly to express his disbelief in witches, 
 but had often cut such jokes at their expense as left it to be inferred; 
 
 h if 
 
not only 
 T he must 
 3 it — and 
 
 last kiss, 
 
 repeated 
 tiich was, 
 rifled for 
 eath the 
 5d to by 
 3ot; that 
 \y heard 
 ong sus- 
 1 council 
 e person 
 had the 
 I express 
 being a 
 \ against 
 
 ire, and 
 )ressible 
 vere not 
 Jgretted 
 3 settled 
 present 
 ng been 
 3e quite 
 doubt, 
 readily 
 lis good 
 t added 
 nk of it 
 jrtainly 
 lew, he 
 5 being 
 ier was 
 isbands 
 led his 
 at they 
 not) in 
 
 le con- 
 !e than 
 )ncern. 
 itches, 
 ferred; 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 263 
 
 nubliclv stating on several occasions that he considered a broomstick 
 ^convenient charger, and one especially unsuited to the digmty 
 o? the female character, and indulging in other free remarks of the 
 ^ame tendency to the great amusement of his wild companions. 
 ^' a: ttySd at wfll they began to f /.^P- -^^^^^^^^^ 
 themselves, and at length one man cried. Why don t you ask wiii 
 
 ^ As this was what everybody had been thinking of, they all took 
 up the w^rd, and cried in concert. "Ah! why don't you ask Will? 
 
 "He don't care," said the famer. 
 
 "Not he." added another voice in the crowd. 
 
 "He dor^'t believe in it, you know," sneered a little man with a 
 yellow face and a taunting nose and chin, which he thrust out from 
 finHpr the arm of a long man before him. 
 
 "Besides.'^said a red-faced gentleman with a gruff voice, "he s a 
 
 ''''"ThS's''the point!" said the farrier; and all the married men 
 murmured, ah! that was it. and they only wished they were single 
 Siei^elves; they would show him what spirit was. very soon. 
 
 xSe messenger looked towards Will Marks beseechingly. 
 
 "it win be a wet night, friend, and my grey nag is tired after 
 yesterday's work " 
 
 PbS •^^rure^wTlo^'.^nTatout him with a smile, "if nobody 
 else^uts inTbrtter claim to go' for the credit of the town I am your 
 man and I would be, if I had to go afoot. In five minutes I shall be 
 S "te sadSi:, unless'l am depriving any ^P^hy g™t eman he^ 
 the honour of the adventure, which I wouldn t do for «ie woria. 
 
 Burhere arose a double difficulty, for not only did John Podgers 
 combat the^°solution with all the words he had. which were not 
 mSiv but the young lady combated it too with all the tears she had 
 Xch were ver^ man^ indeed. Will, however, being inflexible, paxned 
 ^. ?inSe's oWtions with a joke, and coaxed the young lady into 
 a smSe fn thSort whispers. As it was plain that he set his mind 
 ^!I^ff and would go Tohn Podgers offered him a few first-rate 
 Trms out of C^wn pocLt. whil he dutifully declined to accept; 
 and Se young lady gave him a kiss, which he also returned 
 
 "YouCwhat I rnre thing it is to be niamed." «aid Will, and 
 how careful and considerate all these husbands are. There s not a 
 ma^ among them but his heart is leaping to forestall me m this 
 Xnture and :J^t a strong sense of duty keeps him back, fhe hus- 
 bands hi this one little town are a pattern to the world and so must 
 the wives be to^^^ for that matter, or they could never boast half the 
 
 " wXnf f7r noTeply to this sarcasm, he snapped his fingers and 
 wiSdr^^So the. h^Le. and ^^ence^ntoj^^e ^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 S!^s^eS:^i:Si^s^s^^i^ 
 
 F <J| 
 
264 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 I J 
 
 with a good cloak hanging over his arm. a good sword girded bv his 
 ^•Now • ?^i"i?!f ^°°^.^°"« caparisoned for the journey ^ ' 
 Now said Will, leaping into the saddle at a bound ''uo anri 
 away. Upon your mettle, friend, and push on. Good nrght'" ^ 
 
 He kissed his hand to the girl, nodded to his drowsy uncie waved 
 ^n TT^P/^'i^^ rest-and off they flew pell-mell, as if alUhe 'wTtches 
 m England were m their horses' legs.^They were oufof slgM in 1 
 
 st h?deStr r:l' -'^ ^ go^Th'o^r^taTn'bS; s'^fd^ e^t 
 say he denied that: but he was rash, very rash and thei wa^ r.r. Tlu 
 ing what the end of it might be; what dVhe go for tha^wa" X' 
 he wanted to know? He wished the young fellow no harm but whv 
 did he go? Everybody echoed these"^ words, and shookTheS^hJads 
 
 rg-gi^rs^rb^s^^^^ ''-' ^^^^^^ j°^^ ^«^^- ^^o^'r^^"'^^^ 
 
 h^ctS^r^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 where sundry grave functionaries were assembled. anxSusW expect 
 mg the arrival of the renowned Podgers Thev w^e a lifX h?co 
 pointed to find a gay young man in h?s place; ^urheyp^^^^^^^^^ 
 face upon the matter, and gave him full inst;uctions how he was to 
 conceal himself behind the gibbet, and watch and hS^n ^ +1^ 
 witches, and how at a certain fime he was trburst forth and cu? and 
 slash among them vigorously, so that the suspected parties m^^hth. 
 found bleedmg in their beds next day. and tLrougWy SnS?nded 
 They gave him a great quantity of wholesome advice besMes and 
 which was more to the purpose with Will-a gooJsupper aIi the^ 
 things being done, and midnight nearly come thers^Hed forJh fn 
 show him the spot where he was to ke Jp his drea?^ vS ^"^ 
 
 The night was by this time dark and threatening There was a 
 rumbling of distant thunder, and a low sighing of wind aSonTtho 
 trees, which was very dismal. The potentlteslf tlTe tow^eDt so 
 uncomnionly close to Will that they trod u^^on his toe-. oT stum hi p^ 
 
 and besides these annoyances, their teeth chattered so with fear thai 
 Af lf«f.^ ^^ ^S^O"?Panied by a dirge of castanets ' ^' 
 
 At last they made a halt at the opening of a lonely desolate sn^rp 
 
 "Yes," he replied. "What then?" 
 
 Informing him abruptly that it was the gibbet where he was to 
 
 Th i' *^" V^/^ ^""^ ^°°^ "^^^* ^^ ^" extremely friendly manner 
 and ran back as fast as their feet would carry them ^ "tanner. 
 
 ca^irdtt ^^l^^^^^^f^:^?}^^^ When he 
 
 and that nothing dangled from the top brt^mTSon Ss^wS 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 265 
 
 swung mournfully to and fro as they weie moved by the breeze. 
 After a careful survey of every quarter he determined to take his 
 station with his face towards tlie town; both because that would 
 place him with his back to the wind, and because, if any trick or 
 surprise were attempted, it would probably come from that direction 
 in the first instance. Having taken these precautions, he wrapped his 
 cloak about him so that it left the handle of his sword free, and ready 
 to his hand, and leaning against the gallows-tree with his cap net 
 quite so much on one side as it had been before, took up his position 
 for the night. 
 
 * SECOND CHAPTER OF MR. PICKWICK's TALE 
 
 We left Will Marks leaning under the gibbet with his face towards 
 the town, scanning the distance with a keen )ye, which sought to 
 pierce tlie darkness and catch the earliest glimpse of any person or 
 persons that might appro;ich towards him. But all was quiet, and, 
 save the howling of the wind as it swept across the heath in gusts, 
 and the creaking of the chains that dangled above his head, there 
 was no sound to break the sullen stillness of the night. After half an 
 hour or so this monotony became more disconcerting to Will than 
 the most furious uproar would have been, and he heartily wished for 
 some one antagonist with whom he might have a fair stand-up fight, 
 if it were only to warm himself. 
 
 Truth to tell, it was a bitter wind, and seemed to blow to the very 
 heart of a man whose blood, heated but now with rapid riding, was 
 the more sensitive to the chilling blast. Will was a daring fellow and 
 cared not a jot for hard knocks or sharp blades; but he could not 
 persuade himself to move or walk about, having just that vague 
 expectation of a sudden assault which made it a comfortable thing 
 to have something at his back, even though that something were a 
 gallows-tree. He had no great faith in the superstitions of the age, 
 still such of them as occurred to him did not serve to lighten the time, 
 or to render his situation the more endurable. He remembered how 
 witches were said to repair at that ghostly hour to churchyards and 
 gibbets, and such-like dismal spots, to pluck the bleeding mandrake 
 or scrape the flesh from dead men's bones, as choice ingredients for 
 their spells; how, stealing by night to lonely places they dug graves 
 with their finger-nails, or anointed themselves before ndmg in the 
 air with a delicate pomatum made of the fat of infants newly boiled. 
 These and many other fabled practices of a no less agreeable nature, 
 and ail having some reference to the circumstance-, in which he was 
 placed, passed and repassed in quick succession through the mind 
 of Will Marks, and adding a shadowy dread to that distrust ana 
 watchfulness which his situation inspired, rendered it, upon the 
 whole, sufficiently uncomfortable. As he had foreseen too. the ram 
 
 began to descena heavily, aua unving -.-^xv^xv, «.x1^. .,...-.. :~~ 
 
 mist, obscured even those few objects which the darkness of the 
 
 327* 
 
 m 
 
 i 'd 
 
 
266 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 1 ' 
 
 I -i 
 
 ,i 
 
 i L 
 
 ^ 
 
 night had before imperfectly revealed. 
 
 *lx)ok!" shrieked a voice. "Great Heaven, it has fallen down, and 
 stands erect as if It lived!" 
 
 xArTwu^P^^^i""^*^ ?'°^® ^^""^ ^^"^; ^^^ vo^" • ^^^' almost at his ear 
 WiU threw off his cloak, drew his sword, .-n.: .iauing swiftly round 
 seized a woman by the wrist, who, recoi'i: . froi i him with a dreadful 
 shriek, fell strugglmg upon her knees. An* ., 'oman. clad, like her 
 whom he had grasped, in mourning g?nne . ^ stood rooted to the 
 spot on which they were, gazing upon his facf> with wild and glaring 
 eyes that quite appalled him. ^ 
 
 "Say." cried Will, when they had con^ ;...cd each other thus for 
 some time, "what are ye?" 
 
 "Say what are you," returned the woman, "who trouble even this 
 obscene restmg-place of the dead, and strip the gibbet of its honoured 
 burden? Where is the body?" 
 
 He looked in wonder and affright from the woman who questioned 
 nim to the other whose arm he clutched. 
 
 "Where is the body?" repeated his questioner more firmly than 
 before. \ ou wear no livery which marks you for the hireling of the 
 government. You are no friend to us. or I should recognise you. for 
 the friends of such as we are few in number. What are you then and 
 wherefore are you here?" 
 
 "I am no foe to the distressed and helpless." said Will "Are /e 
 among that number? ye should be by your looks." " 
 
 "We are!" was the answer. 
 
 ^^''^^-^tZM'^^.^.^fT,^ ^^^^ wailing and weeping here under cover of 
 the night?" said Will, 
 
 "It is," replied the woman sternly; and pointing, as she spoke, 
 towards her companion, "she mourns a husband, and I a brother 
 tven the bloody law that wreaks its vengeance on the dead does not 
 make that a crime, and if it did 'twould be alike to us who are past 
 its fear or favour." ^ 
 
 Will glanced at the two females, and could barely discern that the 
 one whom he addressed was much the elder, and that the other was 
 young and of a slight figure. Both were {ieadly pale, their garments 
 wet and worn, their hair dishevelled and streaming in the wind 
 themselves bowed down with grief and misery; their whole appear- 
 ance most dejected, wretched, and forlorn. A sight so different from 
 any he had expected to encounter touched him to the quick and all 
 idea of anything but their pitiable condition vanished before it 
 
 I am a rough, blunt yeoman." said Will. "Why I came here is 
 told m a word; you have been overheard at a distance in the silence 
 ot \,he night, and I have undertaken a watch for hags or spirits I 
 can. e here expecting an adventure, and prepared to go through with 
 any .Jf there be aught that I can do to help or aid you, name it, and 
 on the taith of a man who can be secret and trusty, I will stand bv 
 you to the death." a ^ uy 
 
 "How comes this gibbet to be empty?" asked the elder female. 
 
 "I 8we£ 
 
 But this ] 
 
 it is now; 
 
 night, sui 
 
 knowledg 
 
 whether y 
 
 the law li 
 
 removed 
 
 The wc 
 
 they conA 
 
 that they 
 
 little that 
 
 him that '. 
 
 not only 
 
 whither ii 
 
 a long ti 
 
 younger i 
 
 "You 1 
 
 "I hav 
 
 "And g 
 
 "Yes. J 
 
 length." 
 
 "FolloA 
 
 Will, \ 
 
 second bi 
 
 so mu£!le( 
 
 offering a 
 
 way. Thi 
 
 silence a 
 
 suddenly 
 
 shelter, a 
 
 One of tl 
 
 the wom( 
 
 mounted 
 
 leaving tl 
 
 They n 
 
 Putney, j 
 
 they aligl 
 
 passed in 
 
 a small j 
 
 been hen 
 
 entered t 
 
 mask. 
 
 Will St 
 to foot. 1 
 of a firm ; 
 but SO SO] 
 one of th( 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 267 
 
 "I swear to you," replied Will, "that 1 know as little as yourself. 
 But this I know, that when I came here an hour ago or so, it was as 
 it is now; and if, as I gather from your question, it was not so last 
 night, sure I am that it has been secretly disturbed without the 
 knowledge of the folks in yonder town. Bethink you, therefore, 
 whether you have no friends in league with you or with him on whom 
 the law has d( ':o its worst, by whom these sad remains Lave been 
 removed for burial." 
 
 The women spoke together, and Will retired a pace or two while 
 they conversed apa-t. He could hear them sob and moan, and saw 
 that they wrung their hands in fruitless agony. He could make out 
 little that they said, but between whiles he gathered enough to assure 
 him that his suggestion was not very wide of the mark, and that they 
 not only suspected by whom the body had been removed, but also 
 whither it had been conveyed. When they had been in conversation 
 a long time, they turned towards him .jin.e more. This time the 
 younger female spoke. 
 "You have offered us your help?" 
 "I have." 
 
 "And given a pledge that you are still willing to redeem?" 
 "Yes. So far as I may, keeping all plots and conspiracies at arm's 
 length." 
 "Follow us, friend." 
 
 Will, whose self-possession was now quite restored, needed no 
 second bidding, but with his drawn sword in his hand, and his cloak 
 so mufaed over his left arm as to serve for a kind of shield without 
 offering any impediment to its free action, suffered them to lead the 
 way. Through mud and mire, and wind and rain, they walked in 
 silence a full mile. At length they turned into a dark lane, where, 
 suddenly starting out from beneath some trees where he had taken 
 shelter, a man appeared, having in his charge three saddled horses. 
 One of these (his own apparently), in obedience to a whisper from 
 the women, he consigned to Will, who, seeing that they mounted, 
 mounted also. Then, without a word spoken, they rode on together, 
 leaving the attendant behind. 
 
 They made no halt nor slackened their pace until they arrived near 
 Putney. At a large wooden house which stood apart from any other 
 they alighted, and giving their horses to one who was already waiting, 
 passed in by a side door, and so up some narrow creaking stairs into 
 a small panelled chamber, where Will was left alone. He had not 
 been here very long, when the door was softly opened, and there 
 entered to him a cavalier whose face was concealed beneath a black 
 mask. 
 
 Will stood upon his guard, and scrutinised this figure from head 
 to foot. The form was that of a man pretty far advanced in life, but 
 of a firm and stately carriage. His dress was of a rich and costly kind, 
 but so soiled and disordered that it was scarcely to be recognised for 
 one of those gorgeous suits which the expensive taste and fashion of 
 
 It 
 
 e 1 . u- I >.« 
 
 J t 
 
 ' 1 
 
268 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 If i^ 
 
 the time prescribed for men of any rank or station. He was booted 
 and spurred, and bore about him even as many tokens of the state 
 of the roads as Will himself. All this he noted, while the eyes behind 
 the mask regarded him with equal attention. This survey over, the 
 cavalier broke silence. 
 
 "Thou'rt young ^nd bold, and wouidst be richer than thou art?" 
 "The two first I am," returned Will. "The last I have scarcely 
 thought of. But be it so. Say that I would be richer than I am: what 
 then?" 
 
 "The way lies before thee now," replied the Mask. 
 "Show it me." 
 
 "First let me inform thee, that thou wert brought here to-night 
 lest thou shouldst too soon have told thy tale to those who placed 
 thee on the watch." 
 
 "I thought as much when I followed," said Will, "But I am no 
 blab, not .1." 
 
 "Good,'* returned the Mask. "Now listen. He who was to have 
 executed the enterprise of burying that body, which, as thou hast 
 suspected, was taken down to-night, has left us in our need." 
 
 Will nodded, and thought within himself that if the Mask were to 
 attempt to play any tricks, the first eyelet-hole on the left-hand side 
 of his doublet, counting from the buttons up the front, would be a 
 very good place in which to pink him neatly. 
 
 "Thou art here, and the emergency is desperate. I propose his task 
 to thee. Convey the body (now cofl&ned in this house), by means 
 that I shall show, to the Church of St. Dunstan in London to-morrow 
 night, and thy service shall be richly paid Thou'rt about to ask whose 
 corpse it is. Seek not to know. I warn thee, seek not to know. Felons 
 hang in chains on every moor and heath. Believe, as others do, that 
 this was one, and ask no further. The murders of state policy, its 
 victims or avengers, had best r-main unknown to such as thee!" 
 
 "The mystery of this service," said Will, "bespeaks its danger. 
 What is the reward?" 
 
 "One hundred golden unities," replied the cavalier. "The danger 
 to one who cannot be recognised as the-friend of a fallen cause is not 
 great, but there is some hazard to be run. Decide between that and 
 the reward." 
 
 "What if I refuse?" said Will. 
 
 "Depart in peace, in God's name," returned the Mask in a melan- 
 choly tone, "and keep our secret, remembering that those who 
 brought thee here were crushed and stricken women, and that those 
 who bade thee go free could have bad thy life with one word, and 
 no man the wiser." 
 
 Men were readier to undertake desperate adventures in those 
 times than they are now. In this case the temptation was great, and 
 the punishment, even in case of detection, was not likely to be very 
 severe, as Will came of a loyal stock, and his uncle was in good repute, 
 and a passable tale to account for his possession of the body and his 
 
 ignoran* 
 
 Thee 
 the purj 
 should I 
 after th 
 journey' 
 that offi 
 tale thai 
 of t^e pi 
 succeed, 
 by anot! 
 ments tc 
 added h 
 the end, 
 the mar 
 Kingsto] 
 the pros 
 energies 
 
 Thefc 
 old Lon 
 containe 
 disguisec 
 horse's 1 
 that he 
 taking, I 
 
 It was 
 without 
 murder \ 
 were all 
 like so n 
 lurked ir 
 wall, lyi] 
 their un( 
 crossing, 
 quarrel; > 
 low whis 
 scuffling 
 City and 
 
 The st 
 verted tl 
 spouts fr^ 
 houses, s 
 to putrei 
 stench, t< 
 of its owr 
 stories t( 
 more like 
 these, gr 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 269 
 
 ignorance of the identity might be easily devised. 
 
 The cavalier explained that a covered cart had been prepared for 
 the purpose; that the time of departure could be arranged so that he 
 should reach London Bridge at dusk, and proceed through the City 
 after the day had closed in; that people would be ready at his 
 journey's end to place the cofl&n in a vault without a minute's delay; 
 that officious inquirers in the streets would be easily repelk i by the 
 tale that he was carrying for interment the corpse of one who ^ad died 
 of t^e plague; and in short showed him every reason why he should 
 succeed, and none why he should fail. After a time they were joined 
 by another gentleman, masked like the first, who added new argu- 
 ments to those which had been already urged; the wretched wife, too, 
 added her tears and prayers to their calmer representations; and in 
 the end. Will, moved by compassion and good-nature, by a love of 
 the marvellous, by a mischievous anticipation of the terrors of the 
 Kingston people when he should be missing next da-^r, and finally, by 
 the prospect of gain, took upon himself the task, aiid devoted all his 
 energies to its successful execution. 
 
 The following night, when i*, was quite dark, the hollow echoes of 
 old London Bridge responded to the rumbling of the cart which 
 contained the ghastly load, the object of Will Marks' care. Sufficiently 
 disguised to attract no attention by his garb. Will walked at the 
 horse's head, as unconcerned as a man could be who was sensible 
 that he had nov/ arrived at the most dangerous par: of his under- 
 taking, but full of boldness and confidence. 
 
 It was now eight o'clock. After nine, none could walk the streets 
 without danger of their lives, and even at this hour, robberies and 
 murder were of no uncommon occurrence. The shops upon the bridge 
 were all "losed; the low wooden arches thrown across the way were 
 like so many black pits, in every one of which ill-favoured fellows 
 lurked in knots of three or four; some standing upright against the 
 wall, lying in wait; others skulking in gateways, and thrusting out 
 their uncombed heads and scowling eyes: others crossing and re- 
 crossing, and constantly jostling both horse and man to provoke a 
 quarrel; others stealing away and summoning their companions in a 
 low whistle. Once, even in that short passage, there was the noise of 
 scuffling and the clash of swords behind him, but Will, who knew the 
 City and its ways, kept straight on and scarcely turned his head. 
 
 The streett; being unpaved, the rain of the night before had con- 
 verted them into a perfect quagmire, which the splashing water- 
 spouts from the gables, and the filth and offal cast from the different 
 houses, swelled in no small degree. These odious matters being left 
 to putrefy in the close and heavy air, emitted an insupportable 
 stench, to which every court and passage poured forth a contribution 
 of its own. Many parts, even of the main streets, with their projecting 
 stories tottering overhead and nearly shutting out the sky, were 
 more like huge chimneys than open ways. At the corners of some of 
 these, great bonfires were burning to prevent infection from the 
 
 M 
 
 i=: ■ I 
 
 A. . .2 
 
 I 
 
■ 
 
 if z 
 
 270 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 plague, of which it was rumoured that some citizens had lately died; 
 and few, who availing themselves of the light thus afforded paused 
 for a moment lo look around them, would have been disposed to 
 doubt the existencfe of the disease, or wonder at its dreadful visitations. 
 
 But it was not in such scenes as these, or even in the deep and 
 miry road, that Will Marks found the chief obstacles to his progress. 
 There were kites and ravens feeding in the streets (the only scavengers 
 the City kept), who, scenting what he carried, followed the cart or 
 fluttered on its top, and croaked their knowledge of its burden and 
 their ravenous appetite for prey. There were distant fires, where the 
 poor wood and plaster tenements wasted fiercely, and whither crowds 
 made their way, clamouring eagerly for plunder, beating down all 
 who came within their r^.ach, and yelling like devils let loose, There 
 were single-handed men flying from bands of ruffians, who pursued 
 them with naked weapons, and hunted them savagely; there were 
 drunken, desperate robbers issuing from thei^ dens and staggering 
 through the open streets where no man dared molest them; there 
 were vagabond servitors returning from the Bear Garden, where had 
 been good sport that day, dragging after them their torn and 
 bleecjfing dogs, or leaving them to die and rot upon the road. Nothing 
 was abroad but cruelty, violence, and disorder. 
 
 Many were the interruptions which Will Marks encountered from 
 these stragglers, and many the narrow escapes he made. Now some 
 stout bully would take his seat upon the cart, insisting to be driven 
 to his own home, and now two or three men would come down upon 
 him together, and demand that on peril of his life he showed them 
 what he had inside. Then a party of the city watch, upon their rounds, 
 would draw across the road, and not satisfied with his tale, question 
 him closely, and revenge themselves by a little cuffing and hustling 
 for maltreatment sustained at other hands that night. All these 
 assailants had to be rebutted, some by fair words, some by foul, and 
 some by blows. But Will Marks was not the man to be stopped or 
 turned back now he had penetrated so far, and thcugh he got on 
 slowly, still he made his way down ^Flei -street and reached the 
 church at last. 
 
 As he had been forewarned, all vos in readiness. Directly he 
 stopped, the coffin was removed bv l^^ir men, who appeared so 
 suddenly that they seemed ,0 have slartea from the earth. A fifth 
 mounted the cart, and scarcely allowing Will time to snatch from it 
 a little bundle containing su ii <-,'' his ov 1 clothes as he had thrown 
 off on assuming his disguise, dr • briiUly away. Will never saw cart 
 or man again. 
 
 He followed the body into the cbiivch. and it was well he lost no 
 time in doing so, for the door was immediately closed. There was no 
 light in the building save that which . jre from a couple of 'Orches 
 borne by two men in cloaks, who sti^ud upon the brink of a vault. 
 Each supported a female figure, and all observed a profound silence. 
 
 By this dim and solemn glare, which made Will fer' is though 
 
 
(,1 
 
 I 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 371 
 
 light itself were dead, and its tomb the dreary arches that frowned 
 above, they placed the cofhn in the vault, with uncovered heads, and 
 closed it up. One oi the torch-bearers then turned to Will, and 
 stretched forth his hand, in which was a purse of gold. Something 
 told him directly that those were the same eyes which he had seen 
 beneath the mask. 
 
 "Take it," said the cavaliev in a low voice, "and be happy. Though 
 these have been hasty obsequies, and no priest has blessed the work, 
 there will not be the less peace with thee thereafter, for having laid 
 his bones beside those of his little children. Keep thy own counsel, 
 for thy sake no less than ours, and God be with the?!" 
 
 "The blessing of a widowed mother on thy head, good friend!" 
 cried the younger lady ihroufh her tears; "th. blessing of ouo who 
 has now no hope or rest but iu this grave!" 
 
 Will stood with the pu* ^e in his hard, and involui '•arily made a 
 gesture as though he would r< turn it, for though a thouglitless fellow, 
 he was of a frank and generous na/f-iio. But the two gentlemen, 
 extinguishing their torches, cautioned him to be gone, as their 
 common safety would be endangered by a longer delay; and at the 
 same time their retreating footsteps sounded through the church. 
 He turned, therefore, towards the point at which he had entered, 
 and seeing by a faint gleam in the distance that the door was again 
 partially open, groped his way towards it and so passed into the 
 street. 
 
 Meantime the local authorities of Kingston had kept watch and 
 ward all the previous night, fancying every now and ther. that dismal 
 shrieks were borne towards them on the wind, and frequently winking 
 to ea^i other, and drawing closer to the fire as they drank the health 
 of the lonely sentinel, upon whom a clerical gentleman present was 
 especially severe b^ reason of his levity and youthful folly. Two or 
 three of the gravest in company, wno were of a theological turn, 
 propounded to him the question, whether such a character was not 
 but poorly armed for single combat with the Devil, and whether he 
 himself would not have been a stronger opponent; but the clerical 
 gentle nan, sharply reproving them for their presumption in dis- 
 cussing such » iestions, clearly showed that a fitter champion than 
 ^Vill covlC. carcely have beer selected, not only for that being a 
 child of h cti an, he was the less likely to be alarmed by the appearance 
 of hi« own father, but because Satan himself would be at his ease in 
 such company, and would not scruple to kick up his heels to an 
 extent wiikh it was quite certain he would ne\'er v nture before 
 clerical eyes, under whose influence (as was notorious) he became 
 quite a tame and milk-and-water character. 
 
 But when next morning arrived, and with it no Will Marks, and 
 
 V ex J, strong party repairing to the spot, as a strong party ventured 
 
 i uo in broad day, found Will gone and the gibbet empty, matters 
 
 ^.ew serious indeed. The day passing away and no news arriving, and 
 
 th -fight going on also without any intelligenre. the thing grew more 
 
 t, H 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 m- ^ 
 
 272 
 
 tremendous still; in short, the neighbourhood worked itself up to 
 such a comfortable pitch of mystery and horror, that it is a great 
 question whether the general feeling was not one of excessive dis- 
 appointment, when; on the second morning, Will Marks returned. 
 
 However this may be, back Will came in a very cool and collected 
 state, and appearing not to trouble himself much about anybody 
 except old John Podgers, who, having been sent for, was sitting in 
 the Town Hall crying slowly, and dozing between whiles. Having 
 embraced his uncle and assured him of Ms safety. Will mounted on a 
 table and told his story to the crowd. 
 
 And surely they would have been the most unreasonable crowd 
 that ever assembled together, if they had been in the least respect 
 disappointed with the tale he told them; for besides describing the 
 Witches' Dance to the minutest motion of their legs, and performing 
 it in character on the table, with the assistance of a broomstick, he 
 related how they had carried off the body in a copper caldron, and so 
 bewitched him, that he lost his senses until he found himself lying 
 under a hedge at least ten miles off, whence he had straightway 
 returned as they then beheld. The story gained such universal 
 applause that it soon afterwards brought down express from London 
 the great witch-finder of the age, the Heaven-born Hopkins, who 
 havmg examined Will closely on several points, pronounced it the 
 most extraordinary and the best accredited witch-story ever kno^ 
 under w^ich title it was published at the Three Bibles on London 
 Brid^ small quarto, with a view of the caldron from an original 
 
 draw id a portrait of the clerical gentleman as he sat by the fire. 
 
 O. point Will was particularly careful: and that was to 
 
 describe lor the witches he had seen, three impossible old females 
 whose likenesses never were or will be. Thus he saved the lives of the 
 suspected parties, and of all other old women who were dragged 
 before him to be identified. 
 
 This circumstance occasioned John Podgers much grief and sorrow, 
 until happening one day to cast his eyes upon his housekeeper, and 
 observing her to be plainly afflicted with rheumatism, he procured 
 her to be burnt as an undoubted witch. For this service to the state 
 he was immediately knighted, and became from that time Sir Tohn 
 Podgers. 
 
 Will Marks never gained any clue to the mystery in which he had 
 been an actor, nor did any inscripti^- in the church, which he often 
 visited aftenvards, nor any of the Linj^xa inquiries that he dared to 
 make, yield him the least assistance, as he kept his own secret, he 
 was compelled to spend the gold discreetly .,nd sparingly. In the 
 course of time he married the young lady of whom I have already 
 told you, whose maiden name is not recorded, with whom he led a 
 prosperous and happy life. Years and years after this adventure, it 
 was his wont to tell her upon a stormy night that it was a great 
 coiiiiui I. lu i.ixn tw i.i:\us3. LUU3C uuiius, to w^nomsocver tiiey might have 
 once belonged, were not bleaching in the troubled air, but were 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 273 
 
 mouldering away with the dust of their own kith and kindred in a 
 quiet grave. 
 
 FURTHER PARTICULARS OF MASTER HUMPHREY'S VISITOR 
 
 Being very full of Mr. Pickwick's application, and highly pleased 
 with the compliment he had paid me, it will be readily supposed that 
 long before our next night of meeting I communicated it to my three 
 friends, who unanimously voted his admission into our body. We all 
 looked forward with some impatience to the occasion which would 
 enroll him among us, but I am greatly mistaken if Jack Redbum 
 and myself were not by many degrees the most impatient of the 
 party. 
 
 At length the night came, and a few minutes after ten Mr. 
 Pickwick's knock was heard at the street-door. He was shown into a 
 lower room, and I directly took my crooked stick and went to ac- 
 company him up-stairs, in order that he might be presented with all 
 honour and formality. 
 
 "Mr. Pickwick," said I, on entering the room, "I am rejoiced to 
 see you, — rejoiced to believe that this is but the opening of a long 
 series of visits to this house, and but the beginning of a close and 
 lasting friendship." 
 
 That gentleman made a suitable reply with a cordiality and frank- 
 ness peculiarly his own, and glanced with a smile towards two persons 
 behind the door, whom I had not at first observed, and whom I 
 immediately recognised as Mr. Samuel Weller and his father. 
 
 It was a warm evening, but the elder Mr. Weller was attired, 
 notwithstanding, in a most capacious greatcoat, and his chin en- 
 veloped in a large speckled shawl, such as is usually worn by stage 
 coachmen on active service. He looked very rosy and very stout, 
 especially about the legs, which appeared to have been compressed 
 into his top-boots with some difficulty. His broad-brimmed hat he 
 held under his left arm, and with the forefinger of his right hand he 
 touched his forehead a great manj' times in acknowledgment of my 
 presence. 
 
 "I am very glad to see you in such good health, Mr. Weller," said I. 
 
 "Why, thankee, sir," returned Mr. Weller, "the axle an't broke 
 yet. We keeps up a steady pace, — not too sewere, but vith a moder- 
 ate degree o' friction, — and the consekens is that ve're still a runnin' 
 and comes in to the time reg'lar. — My son Samivel, sir, as you may 
 have read on in history," added Mr. Weller, introducing his first- 
 bom. 
 
 I received Sam very graciously, but before he could say a word his 
 father struck in again. 
 
 "Samivel Veller, sir," said the old gentleman, "has conferred ui)on 
 me the ancient title c' grandfather vich had long laid dormouse, and 
 wos s'posed to be nearly hex-tinct in our family. Sammy, relate a 
 anecdote c' \nn o' them boys, — ^that 'ere little anecdote about young 
 Tony sayin' as he vould smoke a pipe unbeknown to his mother." 
 
 
274 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 "Be quiet, can't you?" said Sam; "I never see such a old magpie 
 — ^never! °*^ 
 
 «/J-^^*K^« "^^Py^? the blessedest boy." said Mr. Weller, heedless 
 of this rebuff, the blessedest boy as ever / see in my days! of all the 
 charmm est infants as ever I heerd tell on. includin' them as was 
 kiyered over by the robm-rcdbreasts arter they'd committed sooicide 
 with blackberries, there never wos any like that 'ere little Tonv 
 He s alvays a playin vith a quart pot. that boy isi To see him a 
 settin down on the doorstep pretending to drink out of it. and 
 fetching a long breath artervards. and smoking a bit of firevood 
 and sayin Now I'm grandfather. '-to see him a doin' that at 
 two year old is better than any play as wos ever wrote. 'Now I'm 
 grandfather! He vouldn't take a pint pot if you wos to make him 
 
 %andfTther''l''" ^^ ^^*^ ^'^ '^"^''*' ^""^ ^^^"^ ^® ^^^^' '^"""^ ^'^ 
 
 Mr. Weller was so overpowered by this picture that he straightway 
 fell into a most alarming fit of coughing, which must certainly have 
 been attended with somefatal result but for the dexterity and prompti- 
 tude of Sam. who, taking a firm grasp of the shawl just under his 
 father s chin, shook him to and fro with great violence, at the same 
 time administering some smart blows between his shoulders By this 
 curious mode of treatment Mr. Weller was finally recovered but 
 "^'^.^^.Tf 7 crimson face, and in a state of great exhaustion. 
 
 He 11 do now. Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, who had been in some 
 alarm himself. 
 
 -v""^? ^\^^I-" ^"^^ ^^^' looking reproachfully at his parent. 
 Yes. ^e will do one o' these days.— he'll do for his-self and then 
 he 11 wish he hadn t. Did anybody ever see sich a inconsiderate old 
 me,— laughing into conwulsions afore company, and stampin' on the 
 floor as If he d brought his own carpet vith him and wos under a 
 wager to punch the pattern out in a given time? He'll begin again in a 
 minute. There— he's a goin' off— I said he would!" 
 
 In fact. Mr. Weller. whose mind was still running upon his pre- 
 cocious grandson, was seen to shake his head from side to side, while 
 a laugh, working hke an earthquake, below the surface, produced 
 various extraordinary appearances in his face, chest, and shoulders, 
 —the more alarming because unaccompanied by any noise whatever, 
 ihese emotions, however, gradually subsided, and after three or 
 lour short relapses he wiped his eyes with the cuff of his coat, and 
 looked about him with tolerable composure. 
 
 "Afore the governor vith-draws," said Mr. Weller. "there is a pint, 
 respecting vich Sammy has a qvestion to ask. Vile that qvestion is a 
 perwadm this here conwersation. p'raps the gen'lmen vill permit me 
 tore-tire. *^ 
 
 "Wot are you goin' away for?" demanded Sam, seizing his father 
 by the coat-tail. ^ 
 
 TuJ ^xV^iT^^ ?f^ f'? ^ uudootiful boy as you, Samivel." returned 
 Mr. Weller. Didn t you make a solemn promise, amountin' almost 
 
 H i 
 
!i M 
 
ii 
 
 
 > 1 
 
 if. 
 
 h' ■ 
 
 i, 
 
 I 
 I* 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 277 
 
 You hear she's a 
 
 to a speeches o' wow, that you'd put that 'ere qvestion on my 
 account?" 
 
 "Well, I'm agreeable to do it," said Sam, "but not if you go cuttin' 
 away like that, as the bull turned round and mildly observed to the 
 drover ven they wos a goadin' him into the butcher's door. The fact 
 is, sir," said Sam, addressing me, "that he wants to know some- 
 thin' respectin' that 'ere lady as is housekeeper here." 
 "Ay. What is that?" 
 "Vy, sir," said Sam, grinning still more, "he wishes to know vether 
 
 she " 
 
 "In short," interposed old Mr. Weller decisively, a perspiration 
 breaking out upon his forehead, "vether that 'ere old creetur is or is 
 not a widder." 
 
 Mr. Pickwick laughed heartily, and so did I, as I replied decisively, 
 that "my housekeeper was a spinster." 
 
 "There 1" cried Sam, "now you're satisfied, 
 spinster." 
 
 "A wot?" said his father, with deep scorn. 
 "A spinster," replied Sam. 
 
 Mr. Weller looked very hard at his son for a minute or two, and 
 then said, 
 
 "Never mind vether she makes jokes or not, that's no matter. 
 Wot I say is, is that 'ere female a widder, or is she not?" 
 
 "Wot do you mean by her making jokes?" demanded Sam, quite 
 aghast at the obscurity of his parent's speech. 
 
 "Never you mind, Samivel," returned Mr. Weller gravely; "puns 
 may be wery good things or they may be wery bad 'uns, and a female 
 may be none the better or she may be none the vurse for making of 
 'em; that's got nothin' to do vith widders." 
 
 "Vy now," said Sam, looking round, "would anybody believe as a 
 man at his time o' life could be running his head agin spinsters and 
 punsters being the same thing?" 
 
 "There an't a straw's difference between 'em," said Mr. Weller. 
 "Your father didn't drive a coach for so many years, not to be ekal 
 to his own langvidge as far as that goes, Sammy." 
 
 Avoiding the question of etymology, upon which the old gentle- 
 man's mind was quite made up, he was several times assured that the 
 housekeeper had never been married. He expressed great satisfaction 
 on hearing this, and apologised for the question, remarking that he 
 had been greatly terrified by a widow not long before, and that his 
 natural timidity was increased in consequence. 
 
 "It wos on the rail," said Mr. Weller, with strong emphasis; "I wos 
 a goin' down to Birmingham by the rail, and I wos locked up in a close 
 carriage vith a living widder. Alone ve wos; the widder and me wos 
 alone; and I believe it wos only because ve wos alone and there wos no 
 clergyman in the conwayance, that that 'ere widder didn't marry me 
 
 iiiore vC rCttCXicu the hiili-Wuy statluix. \eii x tuiliiC iiOw Siiu ucga,ii a, 
 
 n\ 
 
 fl 
 
 n 4>i 
 
 I 
 
 screaming as ve wos a goin' under them tunnels in the dark, — ^how 
 
278 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 she kept on a faintin' and ketchin' hold o' me.— and how I tried to 
 bust open the door as was tight-locked and perwented all escape — 
 Ah! It was a awful thing, most awful!" 
 
 Mr. Weller was so very much overcome by this retrospect that he 
 was unable, until he had wiped his brow several times, to return any 
 reply to the question whether he approved of railway communication, 
 notwithstanding that it would appear from the answer which he 
 ultimately gave, that he entertained strong opinions on the subject. 
 
 "I con-sider," said Mr. Weller, "that the rail is unconstitootional 
 and an inwaser o' priwileges, and I should wery much like to know 
 what that 'ere old Carter as once siood up for our liberties and wun 
 'em too, — I should like to know wot he vould say, if he wos alive now, 
 to Englishmen being locked up vith widders, or vith anybody again 
 their wills. Wot a old Carter vould have said, a old Coachman may 
 say, and I as-sert that in that pint o' view alone, the rail is an inwaser. 
 As to the comfort, vere's the comfort o' sittin' in a harm-cheer 
 lookin' at brick walls or heaps o' mud, never coi in' to a public-house, 
 never seein' a glass o' ale, never goin' through o pike, never meetin' a 
 change o' no kind (horses or othervise), but ah ays comin' to a place, 
 ven you come to one at a^, the wery pictur o' the last, vith the same 
 p'leesemen standin' about, the same blessed old bell a ringin', the 
 same unfort'nate people standin' behind the bars, a waitin' to be let 
 in; and everythin' the same except the name, vich is wrote up in the 
 same sized letters as the last name, and vith the same colours. As to 
 the honour and dignity o' travellin', vere can that be vithout a 
 coachman; and wot's the rail to sich coachm< u and guards as is some- 
 times forced to go by it, but a outrage and a insult? As to the pace, 
 wot sort o' pace do you think I, Tony Veller, could have kept a coach 
 gom' at. for five hundred thousand pound a mile, paid in adwance 
 afore the coach was on the road? And as to the ingein, — a nasty, 
 weezin', creakin', gaspin', pufhn', bustin' monster, alvays out o' 
 breath. >vith a shiny green-and-gold back, like a unpleasant beetle in 
 that 'ere gas magnifier. — as to the ingein as is alvays a pourin' out 
 red-hot coals at night, and black smoke in the day, the sensiblest 
 thmg it does, in my opinion, is, ven there's somethin' in the vay, 
 and it sets up that 'ere frightful scream vich seems to say, 'Now 
 here's two hundred and forty passengers in the wery greatest 
 extremity o' danger, and here's their two hundred and forty screams 
 in vun!' " 
 
 By this time I began to fear that my friends would be rendered 
 impatient by my protracted absence. I therefore begged Mr. Pick- 
 wick to accompany me up-stairs, and left the two Mr. Wellers in the 
 care of the housekeeper, laying strict injunctions upon her to treat 
 them with all possible hospitality. 
 
 Si 
 t 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 279 
 
 IV 
 THE CLOCK 
 
 As we were going up-stairs, Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, which 
 he had held in his hand hitherto; arranged his neckerchief, smoothed 
 down his waistcoat, and made many other Uttle preparations of that 
 kind which men are accustomed to be mindful of, when they are going 
 among strangers for the first time, and are anxious to impress them 
 pleasantly. Seeing that I smiled, he smiled too, and said that if it had 
 occurred to him before he left home, he would certainly have pre- 
 sented himself in pumps and silk stockings. 
 
 "I would, indeed, my dear sir," he said very seriously; "I would 
 have shown my respect for the society, by laying aside my gaiters." 
 
 "You may rest assured," said I, "that they would have regretted 
 your doing so very much, for they are quite attached to them." 
 
 "No, really!" cried Mr. Pickwick, with manifest pleasure. "Do you 
 think they care about my gaiters? Do you seriou ly think that they 
 identify me at all with my gaiters?" 
 
 "I am sure they do," I replied. 
 
 "Well, now." said Mr. PicKvvick. "that is one of the most charming 
 and agreeable circumstances that could possibly have occurred to 
 me!" 
 
 I should not have written down this short conversation, but that it 
 developed a slight point in Mr. Pickwick's character, with which 1 
 was not previously acquainted. He has a secret pride in his legs. The 
 manner in which he spoke, and the accompanying glance he bestowed 
 upon his tights, convince me that Mr. Pickwick regards his legs with 
 much innocent vanity. 
 
 "But here are our friends," said I, opening the door and taking his 
 arm in mine; "let them speak for themselves. — Gentlemen, I present 
 to you Mr. Pickwick." 
 
 Mr. Pickwick and I mu . nave been a good contrast just then. I. 
 leaning quietly on my crutch-stick, with something of a care-worn, 
 patient air; he, having hold of my arm, and bowing in every direction 
 with the most elastic politeness, and an expression of face whose 
 sprightly cheerfulness and good-humour knew no bounds. The 
 difference between us must have been more striking yet, as we 
 advanced towards the table, and the amiable gentleman, adapting his 
 jocund step to my poor tread, had his attention divided between 
 treating my infirmities with the utmost consideration, and affecting 
 to be wholly unconscious that I required any. 
 
 I made him personally known to each of my friends in turn. First, 
 to the deaf gentleman, whom he regarded with much interest, and 
 accosted with great frankness ar^d cordiality. He had evidently some 
 
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 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 vague Idea at the moment, that my friend being deaf must be dumb 
 
 ^L 'h ""h u^^I *^^ ^^"^" °P^"^d hi« lips to express the pleasure it 
 aflForded him ^o know a gentleman of whom he had heard so much 
 
 ^e^p^t^Ss r^lTef^^ ^^^'^^"^^^^ ^^^^--*^^' ^^^^ ^ wa^oSigT^o 
 
 P,-^'''T^^'",^7'*^.J^^^ Redburn was quite a treat to see Mr 
 Pickwick smiled, and shook hands, and looked at him through his 
 spectacles and under them, and over them, and nodded Ws head 
 approvmgly. and then nodded to me. as much as to say 'This is iust 
 the man; you were quite right"; and then turned to Jack and sa d a 
 few hearty words and then did and said everything over again w?th 
 unimpaired vivacity. As to Jack himself, he was quite as mucJ 
 delighted with Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pickwick could pSy beTith 
 hmi. Two people never can have met together since the world began 
 who exchanged a warmer or more enthusiastic greeting ^ ' 
 
 and fw ''Tt''^ ^"^ °.^'f ^^ *^^ difference between this encounter 
 
 wasclefrtlat'thMSr^'^' ^^.^'^'^^ ^^- Pickwick and Mr. Mi°es It 
 was clear that the latter gentleman viewed our new member as a kinH 
 of rival m the affections of Jack Redburn. and b^sTde? this he had 
 
 Z'btM'Vr -^i"*'^ '° "^^' ^" ''''''• that ahhough he had no 
 aoubt Mr. Pickwick was a very worthy man. still he did considerthat 
 some of his exploits were unbecoming a gektleman of his vear. «nH 
 
 o'Ss^'tirttt'^^''^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 opinions that the law never can by possibility do anything wrong- 
 he therefore looks upon Mr. Pickwick as one who has fust^^sXred 
 in purse and peace for a breach of his plighted faith to an unprotected 
 female and holds that he is called upon to regard hu^Tths^me 
 suspicion on that account. These causes led to a ratSr cold and 
 formal reception; which Mr. Pickwick acknowledged wYth the same 
 stateliness and intense politeness as was displayed on The other s^?e 
 Indeed, he assumed an air of such majestic defiance that I was fear " 
 fill he might break out into some solemn protest or declaradon and 
 Tht nie'c.^ n?'^ ^^°? i"*° ""'' ^^"^^ ^''^--' ^ moment's de°ay^ 
 took his^seat Iff pfpt? ""^^ ^''^^""^^^ successful. The instant he 
 ^«^il A ' [• ,P^^^^ick surveyed us all with a most benevolent 
 aspect, and was taken with a fit of smiling full five minutes lon-ffis 
 interest m our ceremonies was immense, f hey are not verrnumerous 
 or complicated, and a description of them may be comprLd S ve^ 
 ariircontinu?tJ transactions have already Len. anS must nece^ 
 sariiy continue to be, more or less anticipated by being oresentpH 
 
 Our first proceeding when we are assembled is to shake hands all 
 
 me'mberW fw '"'^ °'^^i,"^^^ ^^-^^^^ -^ pleasant looks R^^^^^ 
 membering that we assemble not only for the promotion of our 
 happmess, but with the view of adding something T^he common 
 stock an air of languor or indifference in any member of our b^dv 
 would be regarded by the others as a kind of tre^sorWeLve never 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 perionned by Master Humpte^y hiSMiJ^reSr«?;h" ' "k*'? 
 may be permitted to assumi the histori^l s^le and fr^lJ f "''• ,1 
 
 ^tra^^»y-'wtnTL-S."riBS^S'- = 
 
 he could improve them Wp nnrHr»« k;^ u- ^ ?' "® thmks 
 
 sideration of his gooTinYentFon^ Ld ^ presumption in con- 
 
 see_med. if possible, to exalt Jack in his good opinion ^ ' ^""^ 
 
 MZterH,^m^hI;^"'^y,^' *^-^ "^P^^^S of the clock-case (of which 
 Master Humphrey has likewise the key), the taking frrvm if o„ 
 
 papers as will furnish forth our evening^ enter?ai^mlnf «nH "^^""^ 
 
 ing m the recess such new contributions a^ have be^^^^^ 
 
 our last meeting. This is alwav<! Hoti^ «^rr i- Provided since 
 
 deafge„tlema/then'"fiI.'s%td!r;h?°SLpiplP^2t"ncr^^^ 
 our seats round the table before mentioned M^SJ^rW ^^^\^^^^ ^ake 
 
 as president,_if we can be saidTo havrany p^^^^^^^ ^f ^^^ 
 
 on the same social footing.-and our fS Jack ^s se^re^^^^^^^ 
 
 prehmmaries being now concluded we fall intrT^n^ff ^^' ^"'' 
 
 ^o^staTsYnThrf^^^^^^^ 
 
 mv> tion which usually pn?s it ^t Mr M^il^? i?'""^ °^^^" °^^ 
 approval notwithstandhil tL deaf gentkmif H °°^' • °"u ^*^ ^^^^ 
 that he can follow the wo'rds on the l^ZontZurH^r^^^^^ '^ 
 hps as he pleases; and Master Humphrey himseW looklnfrT^H ""^t" 
 migl^ty gratification, and glancing Sp .Ll^^'i^^^l^SX rtS 
 
 att^act^lrall'r^^^^^^^^ -^. would have 
 
 motion of his head and forefinger afLT^^ I^- complacent 
 
 rected the air with imaginait^nctuatio^n li^ ^^-i *lu ^' ^"^ ^°^- 
 on his features at every SsrDa^sltl^'nHfi,"''^ I^^* "^^^^^^^ 
 around to observe its Xrf flt^tt ^ ' ""^ *.^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^ stole 
 eyes and hst^n^T^Ll^^t.^ *t s^l"^ Sr^LS :l'^^^ tf 
 changing expression with which be acted theS^gue to S^°eU, ^ 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 282 
 
 agony that Ihe deaf gentleman should know what it was all about, 
 and his extraordinary anxiety to correct the reader when he hesitated 
 at a word in the manuscript, or substituted a wrong one, were alike 
 worthy of remark. And when at last, endeavouring to communicate 
 with the deaf gentleman by means of the finger alphabet, with which 
 he constructed such words as are unknown in any civilised or savage 
 language, he took up a slate and wrote in large text, one word in a 
 line, the question, "How — do— you — like — it?" — when he did this, 
 and handing it over the table awaited the reply, with a countenance 
 cnl^- brightened an improved by hi; great excitement, even Mr. 
 Miles relaxed, and could not forbear looking at him for the moment 
 with interest and favour. 
 
 "It has occurred to me," said the deaf gentleman, who had 
 watched Mr. Pickwick anr'. everybody else with silent satisfaction — 
 "it has occurred to me," said the deaf gentleman, taking his pipe 
 from his lips, "that now is our time for filling our only empty chair." 
 
 As our conversation had naturally turned upon the vacant seat, we 
 lent a willing ear to this remark, and looked at our friend inquiringly. 
 
 "I feel sure," said he, "that Mr. Pickwick must be acquainted with 
 somebody who would be an acquisition to us; that he must know the 
 man we want. Pray let us not lose any time, but set this question at 
 rest. Is it so, Mr. Pickwick?" 
 
 The gentleman addressed was about to return a verba L reply, but 
 remembering our friend's infirmity, he substituted for this kind of 
 answer some fifty nods. Then taking up the slate and printing on 
 it a gigantic " Yes," he handed it across the table, and rubbing his 
 hands as he looked round upon our faces, protested that he and the 
 deaf gentleman quite understood each other, already. 
 
 "The person I have in my mind," said Mr. Pickwick, "and whom I 
 should not have presumed to mention to you until some time hence, 
 but for the opportunity you have given me, is a very strange old 
 man. His name is Bamber." 
 
 "Bamber!" said Jack. "I have certainly heard the name before." 
 
 "I have no doubt, then," returned Mr. Pickwick, "that you remem- 
 ber him in those adventures of mine (the Posthumous Papers of our 
 old club, I mean) , although he is only incidentally mentioned; and, if 
 I remember right, appears but once." 
 
 "That's it," said Jack. "Let me see. He is the person who has a 
 grave interest in old mouldy chambers and the Inns of Q)urt, and 
 who relates some anecdotes having reference to his favourite theme, 
 — and an odd ghost story, — is that the man?" 
 
 "The very same. Now," said Mr. Pickwick, lowering his voice to a 
 mysterious and confidential tone, "he is a very extraordinary and 
 remarkable person; living, and talking, and looking, like some strange 
 spirit, whose delight is to haunt old buildings; and absorbed in that 
 one subject which you have just mentioned, to an extent which is 
 quite wonderful. When I retired into private life, I sought him out, 
 and I do assure you that the more B»see of him, the more strongly I 
 
 am 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 with the strange and dreamy character 
 
 283 
 
 of his 
 
 8 )" 
 
 am impressed 
 mind." 
 
 "Where does he live?" I inquired. 
 
 "He lives," said Mr. Pickwick, " in one of those dull, lonely old 
 places with which his thoughts and stories are all connected- 
 quite alone, and often shut up close for several weeks together. In 
 this dusty solitude he broods upon the fancies ha has so long indulged 
 and when he goes into the world, or anybody from the world without 
 goes to see him, they are still present to his mind and stUl his 
 favourite topic. I may say, I believe, that he has brought himself to 
 entertain a regard for me, and an interest in my visits; feelings which 
 I am certain he would extend to Master Humphrey's Clock if he were 
 once tempted to join us. All I wish you to understand is, that he is a 
 strange secluded visionary, in the world but not of it; and as unlike 
 anybody here as he is unlike anybody elsewhere that I have ever met 
 or known." 
 
 Mr. Miles received this account of our proposed companion with 
 rather a wry faro, and after murmuring that perhaps he was a little 
 mad, inquired li he were rich, 
 
 "I never asked him," said Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 "You might know, sir, for all that," retorted Mr. Miles, sharply 
 ^^ "Perhaps so, sii-," said Mr. Pickwick, no less sharply than the other, 
 ''but I do not. Indeed," he added, relapsing into his usual mildness' 
 "I have no means of judging. He lives poorly, but that would seem to 
 be m keeping with his character. I never heard him allude to his cir- 
 cumstances, and never fell into the society of any man who had the 
 slightest acquaintance with them. I have really told you all I know 
 about him, and it rests with you to say whether you wish to know 
 more, or know quite enough already." 
 
 We were unanimously of opinion that we would seek to know more- 
 and as a sort of compromise with Mr. Miles (who, although he said 
 "Yes— O certainly — he should like to know more about the gentle- 
 man — he had no right to put himself in opposition to the general 
 wish," and so forth, shook his head doubtfully and hemmed several 
 times with peculiar gravity), it was arranged that Mr. Pickwick 
 should carry me with him on an evening visit to the subject of our 
 discussion, for which purpose an early appointment between that 
 gentleman and myself was immediately agreed upon; it being under- 
 stood that I was to act upon my own responsibility, and to invite 
 him to join us or not, as I might think proper. This solemn question 
 determined, we returned to the clock-case (where we have been fore- 
 stalled by the reader), and between its contents, and the conversation 
 they occasioned, the remainder of our time passed very quickly. 
 
 When we broke up, Mr. Pickwick took me aside to tell me that he 
 had spend a most charming and delightful evening. Having made 
 this communication with an air of the strictest secrecy, he took Jack 
 Redburn into another corner to tell him the same, and then retired 
 into another corner with the deaf gentleman and the slate, to repeat 
 
 Ml 
 
 Id t 
 
 i 
 
284 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 the assurance. It was amusing to observe the contest in his mind 
 whether he should extend his confidence to Mr. Miles, or treat him 
 with dignified reserve. Half a dozen times he stepped up behind him 
 with a friendly air, and as often stepped back again without saying a 
 word; at last, when he was close at that gentleman's ear and upon the 
 very point of whispering something conciliating and agreeable, Mr. 
 Miles happened suddenly to turn his head, upon which Mr. Pickwick 
 skipped away, and said with some fierceness, "Good night, sir — I was 
 about to say good night, sii , — nothing more"; and so made a bow and 
 left him. 
 "Now, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, when he had got downstfdrs. 
 "All right, sir," replied Mr. Weller. " Hold hard, sir. Right arm 
 fust — now the left — now one strong conwulsion, and the great- 
 coat's on, sir." 
 
 Mr. Pickwick acted up these directions, and being further assisted 
 by Sam, who pulled at one side of the collar, and Mr. Weller, who 
 pulled hard at the other, was speedily enrobed. Mr. Weller, senior, 
 then produced a full-sized stable lantern, which he had carefully 
 deposited in a remote corner, on his arrival, and inquired whether 
 Mr. Pickwick would have "the lamps alight." 
 "I think not to-night," said Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 "Then if this here lady vill per-mit," rejoined Mr. Weller, "we'll 
 leave it here, ready for next journey. This here lantern, mum," said 
 Mr. Weller, handing it to the housekeeper, " vunce belonged to the 
 celebrated Bill Blinder as is now at grass, as all on us vill be in our 
 turns. Bill, mum, wos the hostler as had charge o' them two veil- 
 known piebald leaders that run in the Bristol fast coach, and vould 
 never go to no other tune but a sutherly vind and a cloudy sky, 
 which wos consekvently played incessant, by the guard, wenever 
 they wos on duty. He wos took wery bad one artemoon, arter 
 having been off his feed, and wery shaky on his legs for some veeks; 
 and he says to his mate, 'Matey,' he says, 'I think I'm a-goin' the 
 wrong side o' the post, and that my foot's wery near the bucket. 
 Don't say I an't,' he says, 'for I know I am, and don't let me be 
 interrupted,' he says, 'for I've saved a little money, and I'm a-goin' 
 into the stable to make my last vill and testy mint.' 'I'll take care as 
 nobody interrupts,' says his mate, 'but you on'y hold up your head, 
 and shake your ears a bit, and you're good for twenty years to come.' 
 Bill Blinder makes him no answer, but he goes avay into the stable, 
 and there he soon artervards lays himself down a'tween the two 
 piebalds, and dies, — previously a writin' outside the corn-chest, 
 'This is the last vill and testymint of Villi im Blinder.' They wos 
 nat'rally wery much amazed at this, and arter looking among the 
 litter, and up in the loft, and vere not, they opens the corn-chest, and 
 finds that he'd been and chalked his vill inside the lid; so the lid was 
 obligated to be took off the hinges, and sent up to Doctor Commons 
 to be proved, and under that 'ere wery instrument this here lantern 
 was passed to Tony Veller; vich circumstarnce, mum, gives it a wally 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 285 
 
 in my eyes, and makes me rekvest, if you vili be so kind, as to take 
 partickler care on it." 
 
 The housekeeper graciously promised to keep the object of Mr. 
 Weller's regard in the safest possible custody, and Mr. Pickwick, 
 with a laughing face, took his leave. The bodyguard followed, side 
 by side; old Mr. Weller buttoned and wrapped up from his boots to 
 his chin; and Sam with his hands in his pockets and his hat half off 
 his head, remonstrating with his father, as he went, on his extreme 
 loquacity. 
 
 1 was not a little surprised, on turning to go up-stairs, to encounter 
 the barber in the passage at that late hour; for his attendance is 
 usually confined to some half -hour in the morning. But Jack Redburn, 
 who finds out (by instinct, I think) everything that happens in the 
 house, informed me with great glee, that a society in imitation of our 
 own had been that night formed in the kitchen, under the title of 
 "Mr. Weller's Watch," of which the barber was a member; and that 
 he could pledge himself to find means of making me acquainted with 
 the whole of its future proceedings, which I begged him, both on my 
 own account and that of my readers, by no means to neglect doing. 
 [Old Curiosity Shop is continued here, completing No. IV. ] 
 
 MR. WELLER'S WATCH 
 
 It seems that the housekeeper and the l 70 Mr. Wellers were no 
 sooner left together on the occasion of their first becoming acquainted 
 than the housekeeper called to her assistance Mr. Slithers the barber, 
 who had been lurking in the kitchen in expectation of her summons; 
 and with many smiles and much sweetness introduced him as one 
 who would assist her in the responsible office of entertaining her 
 distinguished visitors. 
 
 "Indeed," said she, "without Mr. Shthers I should have been 
 placed in quite an awkward situation." 
 
 "There is no call for any hock'erdness, mum," said Mr. Weller 
 with the utmost politeness; "no call wotsumever. A lady," added the 
 old gentleman, looking about him with the air of one who establishes 
 an incontrovertible position,— "a lady can't be hock'erd. Natur' has 
 otherwise purwided." 
 
 The housekeeper inclined her head and smiled yet more sweetly. 
 The barber, who had been fluttering about Mr. Weller and Sam in a 
 state of great anxiety to improve their acquaintance, rubbed his 
 hands and cried, "Hear, hear! Very true, sir"; whereupon Sam 
 turned about and steadily regarded him for some seconds in silence. 
 
 "I never knew," said Sam, fixing his eyes in a ruminative manner 
 
286 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 upon the blushing barber,- "1 never knew but vun o' your trade, 
 but he wos worth a dozen, and wos indeed dewoted to his callin'!" 
 
 "Was he in the easy shaving way, sir," inquired Mr. Slithers, "or 
 in the cutting and curhng line?" 
 
 "Both," replied Sam; "easy shavin' was his natur', and cuttin' 
 and curlin' was his pride and glory. His whole delight wos in his 
 trade. He spent all his money in bears, and run in debt for 'em besides, 
 and there they wos a growling avay down in the front cellar all day 
 long, and ineffectooaliy gnashing their teeth, vile the grease o' their 
 relations and friends wos being re-tailed in gallipots in the shop above, 
 and the first-floor winder wos ornamented vith their heads; not to 
 speak o' the dreadful aggrawation it must have been to 'em to see a 
 man alvays a walkin' up and down the pavement outside, vith the 
 portrait of a bear in his last agonies, and underneath in large letters, 
 'Another fine animal wos slaughtered yesterday at Jinkinson'sl' 
 Hows'ever, there they wos, and there Jinkinson wos, till he wos took 
 wery ill with some inn'ard disorder, lost the use of his legs, and wos 
 confined to his bed, vere he laid a wery long time, but sich wos his 
 pride in his profession, even then, that wenever he wos worse than 
 usual the doctor used to go down-stairs and say, 'Jinkinson's wery 
 low this mornin'; we must give the bears a stir'; and as sure as ever 
 they stirred 'em up a bit and made 'em roar, Jinkinson opens his 
 eyes if he wos ever so bad, calls out, 'There's the bears 1' and rewives 
 agin." 
 
 "Astonishing!" cried the barber. 
 
 "Not a bit," said Sam, "human natur' neat as imported. Vun day 
 the doctor happenin' to say, 'I shall look in as usual to-morrow mom- 
 m',' Jinkinson catches hold of his hand and says, 'Doctor,' he says, 
 will you grant me one favour?' 'I will, Jinkinson,' says the doctor! 
 'Then, doctor,' says Jinkinson, 'vill you come unshaved, and let me 
 shave you?' 'I will,' says the doctor. 'God bless you,' says Jinkuison. 
 Next day the doctor came, and arter he'd been shaved all skilful and 
 reg'lar, he says, 'Jinkinson,' he says, 'it's wery plain this does you 
 good. Now,' he says, 'I've got a coachman as has got a beard that 
 'ud warm your heart to work on, and though the footman,' he says 
 hasn't got much of a beard, still he's a.trying it on vith a pair o' 
 yiskers to that extent that razors is Christian charity. If they take 
 It in turns to mind the carriage when it's a waitin' below,' he says, 
 wot's to hinder you from operatin' on both of 'em ev'ry day as well 
 as upon me? you've got six children,' he says, 'wot's to hinder you 
 from shavm' all their heads and keepin' 'em shaved? you've got two 
 assistants in the shop down-stairs, wot's to hinder you from cuttin' 
 and curlin' them as often as you like? Do this," he says, 'and you're 
 a man agin.' Jinkinson squeedged the doctor's hand and begun that 
 wery day; he kept Lis tools upon the bed, and wenever he felt his- 
 self gettin' worse, he turned to at vun o' the children who wos a 
 runnm' about the house vith heads like clean Dutch cheeses, and 
 shaved him agin. Vun day the lawyer come to make his vill; all the 
 
Master Humphrey's- Clock 
 
 287 
 
 time he wos a takin' it down, Jinkinson was secretly a clippin' avay 
 at his hair vith a large pair of scissors. ' Wot's that ere snippin' noise?' 
 says the lawyer every now and then; 'it's like a man bavin' his hair 
 cut.' I It ts wery like a man havin' his hair cut,' says poor Jinkinson, 
 hidm' the scissors, and lookin' quite innocent. By the time the lawyer 
 found it out, he was wery nearly bald. Jinkinson wos kept alive in 
 this vay for a long time, but at last vun day he has in all the children 
 vun arter another, shaves each on 'em wery clean, and gives him vim 
 kiss on the crown o' his head; then he has in the two assistants, and 
 arter cuttin' and curlin' of 'em in the first style of elegance, says he 
 should like to hear the woice o' the greasiest bear, vich rekvest is 
 imniediately complied with; then he says that he feels wery happy 
 in his mind and vishes to be left alone; and then he dies, previously 
 cuttm' his own hair and makin' one flat curl in the wery middle of 
 his forehead." 
 
 This anecdote produced an extraordinary effect, not only upon 
 Mr. Slithers, but upon the housekeeper also, who evinced so much 
 anxiety to please and be pleased, that Mr. Weller. with a manner 
 betokening some alarm, conveyed a whispered inquiry to his son 
 whether he had gone "too fur." 
 
 ''Wot do you mean by too fur?" demanded Sam. 
 "In that 'ere little compliment respectin' the want of hock'erdness 
 in ladies, Sammy," replied his father. 
 
 "You don't think she's fallen in love with vou in consekens; o' that, 
 do you?" said Sam. 
 
 "More unlikelier things have come to pass, my boy," replied Mr. 
 Weller in a hoarse whisper; "I'm always afeerd of inadwertent capti- 
 wation, Sammy. If I know'd how to make myself ugly or unpleasant, 
 I'd do it, Samivel, rajrther than live in this here state of perpetival 
 terror!" 
 
 Mr. Weller had, at that time, no further opportunity of dwelling 
 upon the apprehensions which beset his mind, for the immediate 
 occasion of his fears proceeded to lead the way down-stairs, apologis- 
 ing as they went for conducting him into the kitchen, which apart- 
 ment, however, she was induced to proffer for his accommodation 
 in preference to her own little room, the rather as it afforded greater 
 facilities for smoking, and was immediately adjoining the ale-cellar. 
 The preparations which were alrsady made sufficiently proved that 
 these were not mere words of course, for on the deal table were a 
 sturdy ale- jug and glasses, flanked with clean pipes and a plentiful 
 supply of tobacco for the old gentleman and his son, while on a dresser 
 hard by was goodly store of cold meat and other eatables. At sight 
 of these arrangements Mr. Weller was at first distracted between his 
 love of joviality and his doubts whether they were not to be con- 
 sidered as so many evidences of captivation having already taken 
 place; but he soon yielded to his natural impulse, and took his seat 
 at the table with a very jolly countenance. 
 
 "As to imbibin' any o' this here flagrant veed, mum, in the pre- 
 
288 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 sence of a lady," said Mr. Weller, taking up a pipe and laying it down 
 again, "it couldn't be. Samivel, total abstinence, H you please." 
 
 "But 1 like it of all things," said the housekeeper. 
 
 "No," rejoined Mr. Weller, shaking his head, — "no." 
 
 "Upon my word I do," said the housekeeper. "Mr. Slithers knows 
 I do." 
 
 Mr. Weller coughed, and notwithstanding the barber's confirma- 
 tion of the statement, said "No" again, but more feebly than before. 
 The housekeeper lighted a piece of paper, and insisted on applying 
 it to the bowl of the pipe with her own fair hands; Mr. Weller resisted; 
 the housekeeper cried that her fingers would be burnt; Mi. Weller 
 gave way. The pipe was ignited, Mr. Weller drew a long puff of smoke, 
 and detecting himself in the very act of smiling on the housekeeper, 
 put a sudden constraint upon his countenance and looked sternly at 
 the candles, with a determination not to captivate, himself, or en- 
 courage thoughts of captivation in others. From this iron frame oi 
 mind he was roused by the voice of his son. 
 
 "I don't think," said Sam, who was smoking with great composure 
 and enjoyment, "that if the lady wos agreeable it 'ud be wery far out 
 o' the vay for us four to make up a club of our own like the governors 
 does up-stairs, and let him," Sam pointed with the stem of his pipe 
 towards his parent, "be the president." 
 
 The housekeeper affably declared that it was the very thing she 
 had been thinking of. The barber said the same. Mr. Weller said no- 
 thing, but he laid down his pipe as if in a fit of inspiration, and per- 
 formed the following manoeuvres. 
 
 Unbuttoning the three lower buttons of his waistcoat and pausing 
 for a moment to enjoy the easy flow of breath consequent upon this 
 process, he laid violent hands upon his watch-chain, and slowly and 
 with extreme difficulty drew from his fob an immense double-cased 
 silver watch, wnich brought the lining of the pocket with it, and was 
 not to be disentangled but by great exertions and an amazing redness 
 of face. Having fairly got it out at last, he detached the outer case 
 and wound it up with a key of corresponding magnitude; then put 
 the case on again, and having applied the watch to his ear to ascer- 
 tain that it was still going, gave it some half-dczen hard knocks on 
 the table to improve its performance. 
 
 "Tljat," said Mr. Weller, laying it on the table with its face up- 
 wards, "is the title and emblem o' this here society. Sammy, reach 
 them two stools this vay for the wacant cheers. Ladies and gen'lmen, 
 Mr. Weller's Watch is vound up and now a-goin'. Order!" 
 
 By way of enforcing this proclamation, Mr. Weller, using the 
 watch after the manner of a president's hammer, and remarking with 
 great pride that nothing hurt it, and that falls and concussions of all 
 kinds materially enhanced the excellence of the works and assisted 
 the regulator, knocked the table a great many times, and declared 
 the association formally constituted. 
 "And don't let's have no grinnin' at the cheer, Samivel," said Mr 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 289 
 
 Weller to his son, "or I shall be committin' you to the cellar, and then 
 p'r'aps we may get into what the 'Merrikins call a fix, and the English 
 a qvestion o' privileges." 
 
 Having uttered this friendly caution, the President settled himself 
 in his chair with great dignity, and requested that Mr Sam^'cl would 
 relate an anecdote. 
 
 "I've told one," said Sam. 
 
 "Wery good, sir; tell another,' returned the chair, 
 
 "We wos a talking jist now, sir," said Sam, turning to Slithers, 
 "about barbers. Pursuing that 'ere fruitful theme, sir, I'll tell you in 
 a wery few words a romantic li^Me story about another barber as 
 p'r'aps you may never have heerd." 
 
 •' Samivel ! " said Mr. Weller, again bringing his watch and the table 
 into smart collision, "address your obserwations to the cheer, sir, and 
 not to priwate indiwiduals!" 
 
 "And if I might rise to order," said the barber in a soft voice, and 
 looking round him with a conciliatory smile as he leant over the table, 
 with the knuckles of his left hand resting upon it, — "if I might rise 
 to order, I would suggest that 'barbers' is not exactly the kind of 
 language which is agreeable and soothing to our feelings. You, sir, 
 will correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe there is such a word in the 
 dictionary as hairdressers." 
 
 "Well, but suppose he wasn't a hairdresser," suggested Sam. 
 
 "Wy then, sir, be parliamentary and call him vun all the more," 
 returaed his father. "In the same vay as ev'ry gen'lman in another 
 place is a honourable, ev'ry barber in this place is a hairdresser. Ven 
 you read the speeches in the papers, and see as vun gen'lman says of 
 another, 'the honourable m-" Tiber, if he vill allow me to call him so,' 
 you will understan ' " -it that means, ' if he vill allow me to keep 
 
 up that 'ere pleas.^ . 'wersal fiction.' " 
 
 It is a common t ■ r.-ned by history and experience, that 
 
 great men rise with -.ances in which they are placed. Mr. 
 
 Weller came out so i. capacity of chairman, that Sam was 
 
 for some time prevente(^ leaking by a grin of surprise, which 
 
 held his faculties enchained, and at last subside'I in a long whistle of 
 a single note. Nay, the old gentleman appeared even to have aston- 
 ished himself, and that to no small extent, as was demonstrated by 
 the vast amount of chuckling in which he indulged, after the utter- 
 ance of these lucid remarks. 
 
 "Here's the story," said Sam. "Vunce upon a time there wos a 
 young hairdresser as opened a wery smart little shop vith four wax 
 dummies in the winder, two gen'lmen and two ladies — the gen'lmen 
 vith blue dots for their beards, wery large viskers, oudacious heads 
 of hair, uncommon clear eyes, and nostrils of amazin' pinkness; the 
 ladies vith their heads o' one side, their right forefingers on their lips, 
 and their forms dewelooed beautiful, in vich last respect they had 
 the adwantage over the gen'lmen, as wasn't allowed but wery little 
 shoulder, and terminated rayther abrupt in fancy drapery. He had 
 328 
 
 ■ M 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 290 
 
 also a many hair-brushes and tooth-brushes bottled up in th» winder 
 neat glass-cases on the counter, a f, jor-clothed cuttin'-room up- 
 ^airs. and a weighin'-macheen in the shop, right opposite the aoor 
 But the great attraction and ornament wos the dummies, which this 
 here young hairdresser wos constantly a runnin' out in the road to 
 look at, and constantly a runnin' in again to touch up and polish- in 
 short, he wos so proud on 'em, that ven Sunday come, he wos always 
 wretched and mis'rable to think they wos behind the shutters and 
 looked anxiously for Monday on that account. Vun o' these dummies 
 wos a fav'nte vith him beyond the others; and ven any of his acquain- 
 tance asked him wy he didn't get married— as the young ladies he 
 know'd, m partickler, often did— he used to say, 'Never I I never vill 
 enter mto the bonds of vedlock,' he says, 'until I meet vith a young 
 ooman as realises my idea o' that 'ere fairest dummy vith the light 
 hair. Then, and not till then.' he says, 'I vill approach the altar ' All 
 the young ladies he kncw'd as had got dark hair told him this wos 
 wery sinful, and that he wos wurshippin' a idle; but them as wos at 
 all n-ar the same shaae as the dummy coloured up ./ery much, and 
 wos coserved to think him a very nice young man." 
 
 "Samivel," said Mr. Weller. gravely, "a member o' this associashun 
 bein one o' that 'ete tender sex which is now immedetly referred to 
 I have to rekvest that you vill make no reflections." 
 
 "I ain't a makin' any. am I?" inquired Sam. 
 
 "Order, sir!" rejoined Mr. Weller, vdth severe digrity. Then sink- 
 ing the chairman in the father, he added, in his usual tone of voice 
 Samivel, drive on ! " 
 
 Sam interchanged a smile with the housekeeper, and proceeded 
 "The young hairdresser hadn't been in the habit o' makin this 
 avowal above six months, ven he en-countered a young lady as wos 
 the wery picter o' the fairest dummy. 'Now,' he says, 'it's all up r 
 am a slave!' The young lady wos not only the picter o' the fairest 
 dummy, but she was wery romantic, as the young hairdresser was 
 too. and he says, 'O!' he says, 'here's a community o' feelin' here's 
 a flow o' soul ! ' 1- 3 says, 'here's a interchange o' sentiment ! ' The young 
 lady didn't say much, o' course, but she expressed herself agreeable 
 and shortly artevards vent to see him Vith a mutual friend, '^he hair- 
 dresser rushes out to meet her. but d'rectly she sees the dummies she 
 changes colour and falls a tremblin' wiolently. 'Look up, my love,' 
 says the hairdresser, 'behold your imige in my winder, but not cor- 
 recter than m my art!' 'My imige!' she says. 'Yourn!' replies the hair- 
 dresser. But whose imige is that?' she says, a pinting at vun o' the 
 gen'lmen. 'No vun's, my love,' he says, 'it is but a idea.' 'A idea'' she 
 cries: 'i. .s a portrait. I feel it is a portrait, and that 'ere noble face 
 must be in the millingtary!' 'Wot do I hear!' says he. a crumplin' his 
 curls. 'ViUiam Gibbs.' she says, quite firm, 'never renoo the subject 
 I respect you as a friend,' she says, 'but ray affections is set upon 
 that manly brow.' 'This,' says the hairdresser, 'is a reg'lar blight 
 and in it I perceive the hand of F?>te. Farevell!' Vith these vords he 
 
Master Humphrey's C1gv\ 291 
 
 rushes into the shop, breaks the dummy' nrjse vith a blow of his 
 curlin'-irons, mel' i him down at the pp.) . Aire, and never smii^is 
 artervards." 
 
 "The young lady, Mr. Weller?" said tiie housekeeper. 
 
 "Why, ma'am," said Sam, "findin' that Fate had a spite agin her, 
 .md everybody she tome into contact vith, she never smiled neither, 
 but road a deal o' poetry and pined avay, — by rayther slow degrees, 
 for she ain't dead yet. It took a deal o' poetry to kill the ha. Jresser, 
 and some people .say arter all that it wos more the gin and water as 
 caused him to be run over; p'r'aps it was a little o' both, and came o' 
 mixing the two." 
 
 The barber declared that Mr. V/eller had related one of the most 
 interesting stories that had ever come within his knowledge, in which 
 opinion the housekeeper entirely concurred. 
 
 "Are you a married man, sir?" inquired Sam. 
 
 The barber replied that he had noi that honour. 
 
 "I s'pose "ou mean to be?" said Sam. 
 
 "Well," replied the barber, rubbing his hands smirkingly, "I 
 don't knov/, I don't think it's very likely." 
 
 "That's a bad sign," said Sam; "if you'd said you meant to be vun 
 o* these days, I should ha' looked .^v n you as bein' safe. You're in 
 a wery precarious state." 
 
 "I am not conscious of any danger, at all events," returned the 
 barber. 
 
 "No more wos I, sir," said the elder Mr. Weller, interposing; "those 
 vere my symptoms, exactly. I've been took that vay twice. Keep your 
 vether eye op>. ., my friend, or you're gone." 
 
 There was something so very solemn about this admonition, both 
 in its matter and manner, and also in the way in which Mr. Weller 
 still kept his eye fixed upon the unsuspecting victim, that nobody cared 
 to speak for some little time, and might not have cared to do so for 
 some time longer, if the housekeeper had not happened to sigh, which 
 called off the old gentleman's attention and gave rise to a gallant 
 inquiry whether "there wos anythin' wery piercin' in that 'ere little 
 heart?" 
 
 "Dear me, Mr. Weller!" said the housekeeper, laughing. 
 
 "No, but is there anything' as agitates it?" pursued the old 
 gentleman. "Has it always been obderrate, always opposed to the 
 happiness o' human creeturs? Eh? Has it?" 
 
 At this critical juncture for her blushes and confusion, the house- 
 keeper discovered that more ale was wanted, and hastily withdrew 
 into the cellar to draw the same, followed by the barber, who 
 insisted on carrying the candle. Having looked after her with a very 
 complacent expression of face, and after him with some disdain, Mr. 
 Weller caused his glance to travel slowly roand iue kitchon, until 
 at length it rested on his son. 
 
 "Sammy," said Mr. Weller, "I mistrust that barber." 
 
 "Wot for?" returned Sam; "wot's he got to do with you? You're a 
 
 I 
 
292 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 nice man. you are. arter pretendin' all kinds o' terror to so a navin' 
 compliments and talkin' about hearts and piercers " ^ ^ ^ 
 
 The imputation of gallantry appeared to afford Mr Weller thp 
 
 Sammy! e'h?" *'""' ^'~"' '"=^"^^ ""<» piercers.-wos I though, 
 "Wos you? of course you wos." 
 "She don't know no becter, Sammy, there ain't no harm in it —no 
 
 d.S'ih.tn"''' "'''\°"'>' * P--^'^^- She seemed pSdthCrh 
 d^dn t^she? O course, she wos pleased, it's nafral she should be we^^ 
 
 ••He"stctraUy wa";;..^'''"*™^" '^™' J°»'"8 » "^^ f-«>er's mirth. 
 
 oom""trck''''thf mn. r"?' ~">P°^"g h« features, "they're 
 comm Dack, — the little heart s a comine' bark Rnf mofi, +i: 
 
 wurds o' mine once more, and remembeT'em ven yo^r ^^'^5 he' 
 said 'em. Samivel. I mistrust that 'ere deceitful barber '' ^ 
 
 [Old Curiosity Shop is continued to the end of the number.] 
 
 
 MASTER HUMPHREY. FROM HIS CLOCF-SIDE 
 
 IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 
 
 Two or three evenings after the institution of Mr. Weller's Watch T 
 
 \!^Zfu \^^^'^- ^l i^^^^'^ ^" *^^ g^^den. the voice of MrWeHer 
 himself at no great distance; and stopping once or twirl +^ n 1 
 
 Z?..''*'''^,^l^; '.'"""^ *^^* theT^rprocee^erfrom^t^ 
 hou^sekeeper's little suting-room. which is at the back of the tose I 
 took no further notice of the circumstance at that time but it 
 formed the subject of a conversation between me anTmy fdend Tack 
 Redburn next mormng. when I found that 7. had not^een deceived 
 m my impression. Jack furnished me with the following pa^^^^^^^ 
 and as he appeared to take extraordinary pleasure in relftW f h!^' 
 I have begged him in future to jot down Ly such d^mSt^^^^^^^ 
 t^olcnn'hff '''^' n^ay please his humour, in order trtthLTa^^^ 
 told m h s own way. I must confess that, as Mr. Pickwick IndhLrP 
 constantly together, I have been influenced, m mak nTthis reque^^^^ 
 by a secret desire to know something of their proceedings ^ ' 
 ^^?h^y''T'''^ '"^ question, the housekeeper's room tas arranged 
 dre se"? T?e^^^^^^^^^^ T ^^^^.^^^^^keeper ferself was ve^ TmaSy 
 dressed^ The preparations, however, were not confined to mere 
 
 l'::rjf!^r.\'t';?:^l'. - _*- -- P-Pa-d for three per:^'^"^ 
 '^'""^ "" Frv:Sux ves aua jams ana sweet cakes, which heralded 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 293 
 
 some uncommon occasion. Miss Benton (my housekeeper bears that 
 
 t^hTfrLTn '" ^ ''^\' f- ^'^' -'^Pectation. too, frequently goTng to 
 the front door and lookmg anxiously down the lane, and more than 
 once observing to the servant-girl that she expected company and 
 hoped no accident had happened to delay them ^°"^P^"y' ^nd 
 
 BentT^hnll'rrf/^.^^l^" ^* ^""^*^ allayed'her fears, and Miss 
 Benton hurrying into her own room and shutting herself up in 
 order that she might preserve that appearance of being taken by 
 surprise which is so essential to the polite reception of vSors 
 awaited theu: coming with a smiling countenance. ' 
 
 Good ev nin', mum," said the older Mr. Weller, looking in at the 
 door after a prefatory tap. "I'm afeere^i we've come in ra/ther arter 
 the time, mum but the young colt being full o' wice, has been a 
 boltin and shym' and gettin' his leg over the traces to ich a exten? 
 that If he an't wery soon broke in, he'll wex me into a broken heart 
 and then he'll never be brought out no more except to learn ^s 
 ^ w'fu'"??' *^^ ^'*^"' °^ ^'^ grandfather's tombstone " 
 nnfTiH? i '^ pathetic words, which were addressed to something 
 outside the door about two feet six from the ground. Mr Welle? 
 introduced a very small boy firmly set upon\ couple of verj 
 
 Be.'id^. hf '""^^ ^°°^"^ as if nothing could ever knock him dow^ 
 Besides haying a very round face strongly resembling Mr. Weller's 
 and a stout htte body of exactly his build, this young gentleman 
 standmg with his little legs very wide apart, as if the top-boots we?e 
 familiar to them, actually winked upon the housekeeLr with Ss 
 infant eye. in imitation of his grandfather ^ 
 
 d^iiJi^^-ll^."^^"^^*^ boy, mum," said Mr. Weller, bursting with 
 delight there's a immoral Tony. Wos there ever a little chap o' four 
 
 As little affected by this observation as by the former aooeal to }ii<! 
 feelings Master Weller elevated in the air^ smalTmSelTa coach 
 whip which he carried in his hand, and addressing the housekeeper 
 Tt which f y^-JiPi"i.^q"i^ed if she was "goinl down the road' ' 
 at which happy adaptation of a lesson he had been taught from 
 infancy. Mr. Weller could restrain his feelings no longe?. but gav^ 
 him twopence on the spot. ^ ^ 
 
 arter W^^nH/?>f^^^ '*' "^^K ^^'^ ^'' ^^"^^' "^^i^ here is a boy 
 arter his grandfather's own heart, and beats out all the boys as ever 
 
 wos or will be. Though at the same time, mum." added Mr Weller 
 
 trying to look gravely down upon his favourite, "it was wery wrong on 
 
 on him to force poor grandfather to lift him cross-legged over every 
 
 Se together/' ^^^^^-^^d-forty on 'em all in a row. and wery 
 
 Here Mr. Weller. whos** f^piip^o xxr^r.^ ,v - ■nc.-rr^-^^^-i "• ^ 
 
 responsibility, and the importance of impressing him with mo^ 
 
 rs 
 
 ■JLSII^Be' 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 H 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 w 
 
 1 
 
 :fca 
 
 1 
 
v.i 
 
 294 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 truths burst into a lit of laughter, and suddenly checking himself 
 remarked in a severe tone that little boys as made their grand- 
 fathers put em over posts never went to heaven at any price 
 
 iiy this time the housekeeper had made tea. and little Tony 
 
 fl^^^^u I "Jf "" ^^^'^^ ^^'"' ^^^^ ^'^ «y^s nearly on a level with the 
 top of the table, was provided with various delicacies which yielded 
 
 .r.J'^/T^ K?f ^"?'^'l*- "^^^ housekeeper (who seemed rather 
 afraid of the child notwithstanding her caresses) then patted him on 
 the head, and declared that he was the finest boy she had ever seen 
 
 .i.i.^'fn' !u'^ ^^- ^^^^^^' "I d°^'* think you'!l see a many 
 sich. and that's the truth. But if my son Samivel vould give me my 
 
 vurd?^"™' ''''^^ dis-pense vith his-might I wenter to say the 
 
 ;;What word. Mr. Weller?" said the housekeeper, blushing slightly, 
 fh. ^! .'' Tu"^' returned that gentleman, laying his hand upon 
 the garments of his grandson. "If m>- son Samivel. mum. vould only 
 dis-pense vith these here, you'd see sich a alteration in his appearance 
 as the imagination can't depicter." 
 
 "But what would you have the child wear instead, Mr. Weller?" 
 said the housekeeper. 
 
 old^^Inf'?f,^?n "^'r'"" ^^"^r^}'. "'""^' ^8^^" ^^d agen." returned the 
 ?wil '^ u i° P^^^ide him at my own cost vith a suit o' 
 clothes as 'ud be the makm' on him. and form his mind in infancy for 
 those pursuits as I hope the family o' the Vellers vill alvays dewote 
 
 ^a^dtth.V°- ^T;.°'y ^°^' *^" '^' ^^^y ^°* *^^^ clothes arias 
 grandfather says, father ought to let you vear " 
 
 .nH^iiif ^! "^^l^^^^^ ^i^d a little sprig weskut and little knee cords 
 and little top-boots and a little green coat with little bright buttons 
 and a httle welwet collar." replied Tony, with great readiLss and no 
 
 "That's the cos-toom. mum," said Mr. Weller. looking proudly at 
 Z h^r XgJP'^^^ "^^^^ ^^^^ ^ -^''' - ^^- - tha^and ?Ju'd^ 
 ^^?J^f'^^ *^^ housekeeper thought that in such a guise young Tony 
 
 Th^f i° ""^'^ l'^' *^" ^"^^^ ^* ^?^^^^°^ than anything else o^ 
 that name, or perhaps she was disconcerted to find her previously- 
 
 fn "f or>f ^^^^^/^«t"^bedf as angels are not commonly represente^d 
 nothSg ° '^"^ waistcoats. She coughed doubtfullyf but aid 
 
 "One brother and no sister at all." replied Tony. "Sam his name 
 IS, and so's my father's. Do you know my father?" 
 
 O yes. I know him." said the housekeeper, graciously. 
 Is my father fond of you ? ' ' pursued Tony. 
 ^I hope so." rejoined the smiling housekeeper, 
 fond" of you?""" ^^ ^ moment, and then said. "Is my grandfather 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 295 
 
 This would seem a very easy question to answer, but instead of 
 replying to it, the housekeeper smiled in great confusion, and said 
 that really children did ask such extraordinary questions that it 
 was the most difficult thing in the world to talk to them. Mr. Weller 
 took upon himself to reply that he was very fond of the lady; but 
 the housekeeper entreating that he would not put such things into 
 the child's head, Mr. Weller shook his own while she looked another 
 way, and seemed to be troubled with a misgiving that captivation 
 was in progress. It was, perhaps, on this account that he changed the 
 subject precipitately. 
 
 "It's wery wrong in little boys to make game o' their grand- 
 fathers, an't it, mum?" said Mr. Welkr, shaking his head waggishly, 
 until Tony looked at him, when he counterfeited the deepest dejection 
 and sorrow. 
 
 "O, very sad!" assented the housekeeper. "But I hope no little 
 boys do that?" 
 
 "There is vun young Turk, mum," said Mr. Weller, "as havin' 
 seen his grandfather a little overcome vith drink on the occasion of a 
 friend's birthday, goes a reelin' and staggerin' about the house, and 
 makin' believe that he's the old gen'lm'n." 
 
 "O, quite shocking!" cried the housekeeper. 
 
 "Yes, mum," said Mr. Weller; "and previously to so doin', this 'ere 
 young traitor that I'm a speakin' of, pinches his little nose to make it 
 red, and then he gives a hiccup and says, 'I'm all right,' he says; 
 'give us another song!' Ha, ha! 'Give us another song,' he says. Ha, 
 ha, ha!" 
 
 In his excessive delight, Mr. Weller was quite unmindful of his 
 moral responsibility, until little Tony kicked up his legs, and laughing 
 immoderately, cried, "That was me, that was"; whereupon the 
 grandfather, by a great effort, became extremely solemn. 
 
 "No, Tony, not you," said Mr. Weller. "I hope it wam't you. 
 Tony. It must ha' been that 'ere naughty little chap as comes some- 
 times out o' the empty watch-box round the corner.— that same 
 httle chap as wos found standin' on the table afore the lookin' -glass, 
 pretending to shave himself vith a oyster-knife." 
 
 ''He didn't hurt himself, I hope?" observed the housekeeper. 
 
 "Not he, mum," said Mr. Weller proudly; "bless your heart, you 
 might trust that 'ere boy vith a steam-engine a'most, he's sich a 
 knowin' young"— but suddenly recollecting himself and observing 
 that Tony perfectly understood and appreciated the compliment, the 
 
 old gentleman groaned and observed that "it wos all wery shockin' 
 
 wery." 
 
 "O, he's a bud 'an," said Mr. Weller, "is that 'ere watch-box boy, 
 makm' sich a noise and litter in the back yard, he does, waterin' 
 wooden horses and feedin' of 'em vith grass, and perpetivally spillin' 
 his little brother out of a veelbarrow and frightenin' his mother out of 
 
 her vits ai" ■fhp \xrpr\r mnmart-i- xTrart oVt^'r. A-u-^rv^^C^i 4.-^ i— i 
 
 • J '••• •••'.■ fT-.sj. axiu; o Cipc^^tlXi fcu HiVilCiiSC IICV 
 
 Stock of happiness vith another play-fellow,— O, he's a bad u'n I He's 
 

 296 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 faXffn^nn'^iff/' K" ^""^ °? ^ ^^^^ °^ P^?''' spectacles as he got his 
 ?..7^>, J^t^^'"-^'."'' ^"""^ ^^-^ "P a"d down the garden vith h s 
 s'cStl^^gro no"l " ^"'*'*"" "' '''"• P-k-ck.--but'Tony donVdo 
 
 "O no!" echoed Tony. 
 
 "He knows better, he does," said Mr. Weller. "He knows that if he 
 wos to come sich games as these nobody vouldn't love S and tha? 
 his grandfather m partickler couldn't abear the sight o^' h?m for 
 vich reasons Tony's alvays good " ' 
 
 toiv^^lFwK ^^ho^d J«ny.- and his grandfather immediately 
 took him on his knee and kissed him, at the same fime with manv 
 
 orl'r%lr.f \''^'^P"'"*'"^ ^' *^^ ^^^^^'« ^^^^d witlTL thumb ^^ 
 order that the housekeeper, otherwise deceived by the admirable 
 
 manner m which he (Mr. Weller) had sustained his ^arLter SLht 
 not suppose that any other young gentleman was referred io and 
 might clearly understand that the boy of the watch-box was but an 
 imagmary creation, and a fetch of Tony himself, invented for h^ 
 improvement and reformation. ^venxea lor nis 
 
 Not confining himself to a mere verbal description of his erand- 
 son s abilities Mr. Weller. when tea was finished, invited h& 
 various gifts of pence and halfpence to smoke imaginary pipes drink 
 visionary beer from real pots, imitate his grfnd^hTwithTut 
 reserve and m particular to go through the dmnken scene wWch 
 threw the old gentleman into ectasies and filled the housekeeperw th 
 wonder. Nor was Mr. Weller's pride satisfied with even thL dispTay 
 for when he took his leave he carried the child, like some rare and 
 astomshmg curiosity, first to the barber's house and afterwards to 
 the tobacconist's, at each of which places he repeated hisTerform- 
 ances with the utmost etlect to applauding and Lighted audfencS 
 
 h m hnt'''P"'*r\°''l°."^ "^^"^^- W^"- ^-« laVseercari^^^^^^^ 
 him home upon his shoulder, and it has been whispered abroad that 
 at that time the infant Tony was rather intoxicated 
 
 \pld Curiosity Shop is continued from here to the end without further break.] 
 
 I was musing the other evening upon the characters and incidents 
 with which I had been so long engaged; wondering how I could ever 
 have looked forward with pleasure to the completion of my tale and 
 reproaching myself for having done so. as if it were a kind of cruelty 
 to those compamons of my solitude whom I had now dismissed and 
 could never agam recall; when my clock struck ten. PunctuaUo the 
 hour my fnends appeared. "^tuai to tne 
 
 On our last night of meeting, we had finished the story which the 
 reader has just concluded. Our conversation took the same cu^ent as 
 the meditations which the entrance of mv friends had inf .rrupt^d -^ -d 
 Tne Uld Curiosity Shop was the staple of our discourse " ^ "" 
 
 WB <| I 
 
 r. 
 
md 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 297 
 
 I may confide to the reader now, that in connection with this little 
 history I had something upon my mind; something to communicate 
 which I had all along with difficulty repressed; something I had deemed 
 It. during the progress of the story, necessary to its interest to dis- 
 
 to dTsdose"^ '""'^ *^^^ '^"^^^ °''^''' ^ '^'^^^'^' ^""^"^^^ yetreluctant. 
 m J° ?''*'^^T^ anything from those to whom I am attached, is not in 
 
 This f.^'.^;r ? n'ir^' ''^"'^ "^y ^^P' ^^^"^ ^ ^^^« °P^"ed my heart. 
 JflniTZL^ the consciousness of having done some violence to 
 ^U^f Jiffl. H •®' ^^'^ ""^ ""^^"^ ^ restraint which I should have had 
 great difficulty m overcoming, but for a timely remark from Mr 
 
 Jibft; tn°H Ti ' ""'T^ ^^ '°"^^^ P"P^^' ^^ ^ gentleman of business 
 "1 rn?,?H ? ^^^^ exactness and propriety in all his transactions. 
 1 could have wished." my fnend objected, "that we had been 
 made acquainted with the single gentleman's name. I don't like hS 
 withholding his name. It made me look upon him at first with sus! 
 picion. and caused me to doubt his moral character. I assure you I a^ 
 fully satisfied by this time of his being a worthy creature; but in thS 
 Sness "^^^^^^y ^°"1^ notappear to have acted at all likeamanof 
 
 f>,3^ friends." said I. drawing to the table, at which they were by 
 this time seated in their usual chairs, "do you remember that th^ 
 story bore another title besides that one we have so often heard of 
 
 Mr. Miles had his pocket-book out in an instant, and referring to an 
 entry therein^ rejoined. "Certainly. Personal AdventuresTf Master 
 Humphrey. Here it is. I made a note of it at the time " 
 
 I was about to resume what I had to tell them, when the same Mr 
 
 Miles again mterrupted me. observing that the narrative orfgTnafed 
 
 n a personal adventure of my own. and that was no doubt the reason 
 
 for Its being thus designated. reason 
 
 This led me to the point at once. 
 
 "You will one and all forgive me." I returned, "if for the ereater 
 convemence of the story, and for its better introduction, that Ven- 
 ture was fictitious. I had my share, indeed.-no light or trivi^ one ~ 
 in the pages we have read, but it was not the share I feigned to have 
 at first. The younger brother, the single gentleman the namelels 
 actor m this little drama, stands before you now'' nameless 
 
 It was easy to see they had not expected this disclosure. 
 , ,/^\ . ^ pursued. "I can look back upon my part in it with a calm 
 half-smiling pity for myself as for some other man. sTt I am h^' 
 indeed; and now the chief sorrows of my life are yours " ' 
 
 ..H i!-^^/°* say what true gratffication I derived from the sympathy 
 and kindness with which this acknowledgement was recefvTd nor 
 how of ten It had nsen to my lips before; no? how difficult I had found 
 it-how impossible, when I came to those passages which touch^H m. 
 aSumPd''T'?';f ""^^'X^oncerned me-to sustain the character l"had 
 assumed. It is enough to say that I replaced in the clock-case the 
 328* 
 
 i 
 
 r 
 
 ■ 
 
 'j 
 
298 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 F i 
 
 :J'i ! 
 
 record of so many triaLs.—sorrowfully. it is true, but with a softened 
 sorrow which was almost pleasure; and folt that in living through the 
 past again; and communicating to others the lesson it had helped to 
 teach me, I had been a happier man. 
 
 We lingered sq long over the leaves from which I had read, that as 
 I consigned them to their former resting-place, the hand of my trusty 
 clock pointed to twelve, and there came towards us upon the wind the 
 deep voice and distant bell of St. Paul's as it struck the hour of mid- 
 nignt. 
 
 "This." said I. returning with a manuscript X had taken at the 
 
 «T.^Tn K Ti*^^u''"'^'''^P?'^*°'^' "*^ ^« °P«"e^ to such music, 
 should be a tale where London's face by night is darkly seen, and 
 where some deed of such a time as this is dimly shadowed out. Which 
 of us here has seen the working of that great machine whose voice has 
 just now ceased? 
 
 Mr Pickwick had, of course, and so had Mr. Miles. Jack and mv 
 deaf friend were in the minority. 
 
 I had seen it but a few days before, and could not help telling them 
 of the fancy 1 had about it. f 5 •- 
 
 I paid my fee of twopence upon entering, to one of the monev- 
 changers who sit within the Temple; and falling, after a few turns up 
 and down, into the quiet train of thought which such a place awakens 
 paced the echoing stones like some old monk whose present world lay 
 all within Its walls As I looked afar up into the lofty dome. I could not 
 
 if/iir"^''""? "^^'tu T'^ ^'^ reflections whos genius reared that 
 mighty pile. when, the last small wedge of timber fixed, the last nail 
 driven into its home for many centuries, the clang of hammers, and 
 the hum of busy voices gone, and the Great Silence whole years of 
 noise had helped to make, reigning undisturbed around, he mused, as 
 ,'i "^1^' "P°" ^^s w«rk. and lost himself amid its vast extent 1 
 could not quite determine whether the contemplation of it would im- 
 press him with a sense of greatness or of insignificance; but when I 
 remembered how long a time it had taken to erect, in how short a 
 space It might be traversed even to its remotest parts, for how brief 
 a term he or any of those who cared to bear his name, would live to 
 see it. or know of its existence. I imagined him far more melancholy 
 than proud, and looking with regret upon his labour done. With these 
 thoughts in my mind. I began to ascend, almost unconsciously, the 
 flight of steps leading to the several wonders of the building, and 
 found myself before a barrier where another money-taker sat who 
 demanded which among them I would choose to see. There were the 
 stone gallery, he said, and the whispering gallery, the geometrical 
 staircase the room of models, the clock-theW^beTng qu^S in my 
 way. I stopped him there, and chose that sight from all the rest 
 
 I groped my way into the Turret which it occupies, and saw before 
 fofHin. do^ T^^^' K^^* '^!™^^ *° ^^ ^ ^'^^^' °^d oaken press with 
 sleeping when 1 came upon him. and looked a drowsy fellow/ as though 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 299 
 
 his close companionship with Time had made him quite indifferent to 
 it), disclosed a complicated crowd of wheels and chains in iron and 
 brass.— great, sturdy, rattling engines,— suggestive of breaking a 
 
 finger put in here or there, and grinding the bone to powder, and 
 
 these were the Clock I Its very pulse, if I may use the word, was like no 
 other clock. It did not mark the flight of every moment with a gentle 
 second stroke, as though it would check old Time, and have him stay 
 his pace in pity, but measured it with one sledge-hammer beat, as if its 
 business were to crush the seconds as they came trooping on, and re- 
 morselessly to clear a path before the Day of Judgment. 
 
 I sat down opposite to it, and hearing its regular and never-chang- 
 ing voice, that one deep constant note, uppermost amongst all the 
 noise and clatter in the streets below, — marking that, let that tumult 
 rise or fall, go on or stop, — let it be night or noon, to-morrow or to- 
 day, this year or next,— it still performed its functions with the same 
 dull constancy, and regulated the progress of the life around, the 
 fancy came upon me that this was London's Heart, and that when it 
 should cease to beat, the City would be no more. 
 
 It is night. Calm and unmoved amidst the scenes that darkness 
 favours, the great heart of London throbs in its Giant breast. Wealth 
 and beggary, vice and virtue, guilt and innocence, repletion and the 
 direst hunger, all treading . »n each other and crowding together, are 
 gathered round it. Draw but a little circle above the clustering house- 
 tops, and you shall have within its space everything, with its opposite 
 extreme and contradiction, close bf>side. Where yonder feeble light is 
 shining, a man is but this moment dead. The taper at a few yards' 
 distance is seen by eyes that have this instant opened on the world. 
 There are two houses separated by an inch or two of wall. In one, 
 there are quiet minds at rest; in the other, a waking conscience that 
 one might think would trouble the very air. In that close corner 
 where the roofs shrink down and cower together as if to hide their 
 secrets from the handsome street hard by, there are such dark crimes, 
 such miseries and horrors, as could be hardly told in whispers. In the 
 handsome street, there are folks asleep who have dwelt there all their 
 lives, and have no more knowledge of these things than if they had 
 
 never been, or were transacted at the remotest limits of the world, 
 
 who, if they were hinted at, would shake their heads, look wise, and 
 frown, and say they were impossible, and out of Nature, — as if all great 
 towns were not. Does not this Heart of London, that nothing moves, 
 nor stops, nor quickens, — that goes on the same let what will be donei 
 — does it not express the City's character well? 
 
 The day begins to break, and soon there is the hum and noise of 
 life. Those who have spent the night on doorsteps and cold stones 
 crawl off to beg; they who have slept in beds come forth to their occu- 
 pation, too, and business is astir. The fog of sleep rolls slowly off and 
 London shines awake. The streets are filled with carriaeres. and nfionle 
 gaily clad. The jails are full, too, to the throat, nor have the^vork- 
 houses or hospitals much room to spare. The courts of law are crowded. 
 
 w 
 
 i 
 
 f m 
 
■ 300 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 Taverns have their regular frequenters by this time, and every mart 
 of traffic has its throng. Each of these places is a world, and has its 
 own inhabitants; each is distinct from, and almost unconscious of the 
 existence of any other. There are some few people well to do, who 
 
 remember to have heard it said, that numbers of men and women 
 
 thousands, they think it was — get up in London every day, unknow- 
 ing where to lay their heads at night; and that there are quarters of 
 the town where misery and famine always are. They don't believe it 
 quite, — there may be some truth in it, but it is exaggerated, of course. 
 So, each of these thousand worlds goes on, intent upon itself, until 
 night comes again,— first with its lights and pleasures, and its cheer- 
 ful streets; then with its guilt and darkness. 
 
 Heart of London, there is a moral in thy every stroke I as I look on 
 at thy indomitable working, which neither death, nor press of life, nor 
 gri^f, nor gladness out of doors will influence one jot, I seem to hear a 
 voice within thee which sinks into my heart, bidding me, as I elbow 
 my way among the crowd, have some thought for the meanest wretch 
 that passes, and. being a man, to turn away with scorn and pride 
 from none that bear the human shape. 
 
 I am by no means sure that I might not have been tempted to en- 
 large upon the subject, had not the papers that lay before me on the 
 table been a silent reproach for even this digression. I took them up 
 again when I had got thus far, and seriously prepared to read. 
 
 The handwriting was strange to me, for the manuscript had been 
 fairly copied. As it is against our rules, in such a case, to inquire into 
 the authorship until the reading is concluded, I could only glance at 
 the different faces round me, in search of some expression which should 
 betray the writer, Whoever he might be, he was prepared for this, and 
 gave no sign for my enlightenment. 
 
 I had the papers in my hand, when my deaf friend interposed with 
 a suggestion. 
 
 "It has occurred to me, ' ' he said, ' ' bearing in mind your sequel to the 
 tale we have finished, that if such of us as have anything to relate of 
 our own lives could interweave it with our contribution to the Clock, 
 it would be well to do so. This need be nb restraint upon us, either as 
 to time, or place, or incident, since any real passage of this kind may 
 be surrounded by fictitious circumstances, and represented by ficti- 
 tious characters. What if we make this an article of agreement among 
 ourselves?" 
 
 The proposition was cordially received, but the difficulty appeared 
 to be that here was a long story written before we had thought of it. 
 
 "Unless," said I, "it should have happened that the writer of this 
 tale — which is not impossible, for men are apt to do so when they 
 write — has actually mingled with it something of his own endurance 
 and experience." 
 
 i-.'jDoa_y ^purvc, udi, A Liiuugut X uctccLCu iii ouG quartcf that this 
 was really the case. 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 301 
 
 Jlu J ^'^'■! r"" assurance to the contrary," I added, therefore, "I 
 shall take it for granted that he has done so. and that even these 
 
 h^FH^?K''?"'^7'*x'" ?"'■ ""^"^ agreement. Everybody beiug mute, we 
 hold that understanding, if you please." ^ ^ & ulc. we 
 
 And here I was about to begin again, when Jack informed us softly 
 that during the progress of our last narrative. Mr. Weller's Watch had 
 adjourned its sitting from the kitchen, and regularly met outside our 
 door, where he had no doubt that august body would be found at the 
 present moment. As this was for the convenience of listening to our 
 stones he submitted that they might be suffered to come in. and 
 hear them more pleasantly. 
 
 To this we one and all yielded a ready assent, and the party being 
 discovered as Jack had supposed, and invited to walk in. entered 
 (though not without great confusion at having been detected) and 
 were accommodated with chairs at a little distance 
 
 laen. the lamp being trimmed, the fire well stirred and burning 
 brightly, the hearth clean swept, the curtains closely drawn the clock 
 wound up. we entered on our new story. 
 
 [This was Barnaby Rudge, continued in vol. xi' of this Edition.] 
 
 fozSj^fh^co'cSn^o?^!'^^^^^^^ °^ ^'^'''^ H«m/>A.^.. Clock. It 
 
 It is again midnight. My fire burns cheerfully; the room is filled 
 with my old friend's sober voice; and I am left to muse upon the storv 
 we have just now finished. ^ 
 
 It makes me smile, at such a time a^ this, to think if there were anv 
 one to see me sitting in my easy-chair, my gray head hanging down, 
 my eyes bent thoughtfully upon the glowing embers, and my crutch- 
 emblem of my helplessness— lying upon the hearth at my feet, how 
 solitary I should seem. Yet though I am the sole tenant of this 
 chimney-corner, though I am childless and old. I have so sense of 
 lonehness at this hour; but am the centre of a silent group whose com- 
 pany I iove. ° ^ 
 
 Thus, even age and weakness have their consolations. If I were a 
 younger man, if I were more active, more strongly bound and tied to 
 Me. tiles'^ visionary friends would shun me, or I should desire to flv 
 from them. Being what I am, I can court their society, and delight in 
 It; and pass whole hours in picturing to myself the shadows that per- 
 chance flock every night into this chamber, and in imagining with 
 pleasure what kind of interest they have in the frail, feeble mortal who 
 IS its sole inhabitant. 
 All the friends I have ever lost I find again among these visitors 
 l^^ 1 • ^"^^ *^^^^ ^P^"*^ hovering about me, feeling still some 
 earthly kindness for their old companion, and watching his decay 
 He 13 weaker, he declines apace, he draws nearer and nearer to us 
 and will soon be conscious of our existence." What is there to alarm 
 me in this ? It is encouragement and hope. 
 These thoughts have never crowded on me half so fast as they have 
 
 I i 
 

 302 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 done to-night. Faces I had long forgotten have become familiar to me 
 once again; traits I had endeavoured to recall for years have come 
 before me in an instant; nothing is changed but me; and even 1 can 
 be my former self at will. 
 
 Raising my eyes but now to the face of my old clock, I remember 
 quite involuntarily, the veneration, not unmixed with a sort of child- 
 ish awe, with which I used to sit and watch it as it ticked, un- 
 heeded in a dark staircase corner. I recollect looking more grave and 
 steady when I met its dusty face, as if, having that strange kind of 
 life within it, and being free from all excesses of vulgar appetite, 
 and warning all the house by night and day, it were a sage. How 
 often I have hstened to it as it told the beads of time, and wondered 
 at its constancy I How often watched it slowly pointing round the 
 dial, and, while I panted for the eagerly expected hour to come, 
 admired, despite myself, its steadiness of purpose and lofty fre edom 
 from all human strife, impatience, and desire. 
 
 I thought it cruel once. It was very hard of heart, to my mind, I 
 remember. It was an old servant even then; and I felt as though it 
 ought to show some sorrow; as though it wanted sympathy with us in 
 our distress, and were a dull, heartless, mercenary creature. Ah! how 
 soon I learnt to know that in its ceaseless going on, and in its being 
 checked or stayed by nothing, lay its greatest kindness, and the only 
 balm for grief and wounded peace of mind. 
 
 To-night, to-night, when this tranquillity and calm are on my 
 spirits, and memory presents so many shifting scenes before me, I 
 take my quiet stand at will by many a fire that has been long ex- 
 tinguished, and mingle with the cheerful group that cluster round it. 
 If I could be sorrowful in such a mood, I should grow sad to think 
 what a poor blot I was upon their youth and beauty once, and now 
 how few remain to put me to the blush; I should grow sad to think 
 that such among them as I sometimes meet with in my daily walks 
 are scarcely less infirm than I; that time brought us to a level; and that 
 all distinctions fade and vanish as we take our trembling steps to- 
 wards the grave. 
 
 But memory was given us for better purposes than this, and mine 
 is not a torment, but a source of pleasure. To muse upon the gaiety 
 and youth I have known suggests to me glad scenes of harmless 
 mirth that may be passing now. From contemplating them apart, I 
 soon become an actor in these little dramas, and humouring my 
 fancy, lose myself among the beings it invokes. 
 
 When my fire is bright and high, and a warm blush mantles in the 
 walls and ceiling of this ancient room; when my clock makes cheerful 
 music, like one of those chirping insects who delight in the warm 
 hearth, and are sometimes, by a good superstition, looked upon as 
 the harbingers of fortune and plenty to that household in whose 
 mercies they put their humble trust; when everything is in a ruddy 
 
 in its flashing light, other smiles and other voices congregate around 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 303 
 
 me. invading, with their pleasant harmony, the silence of the time. 
 
 For then a knot of youthful creatures gather round my fireside, and 
 the room re-echoes to their merry voices. My solitary chair no longer 
 holds its ample place before the fire, but is wheeled into a smaller 
 comer, to leave more room for the broad circle formed about the 
 cheerful hearth. I have sons, and daughters, and grandchildren, and 
 we are assembled on some occasion of rejoicing common to us all. It 
 is a birthday, perhaps, or perhaps it may be Christmas time; but be it 
 what It mr,y, there is rare holiday among us; we are full of glee. 
 
 In the chimney-corner, opposite myself, sits one who has grown old 
 beside me. She is changed, of course; much changed; and yet I 
 recognise the girl even in that gray hair and wrinkled brow. Glancing 
 from the laughing child who half hides in her ample skirts, and half 
 peeps out,— and from her to the little matron of twelve years old, 
 who sits so womanly and so demure at no great distance from me.— and' 
 from her again, to a fair girl in the full bloom of early womanhood, 
 the centre of the group, who has glanced more than once towards the 
 opening door, and by whom the children, whispering and tittering 
 among themselves, ivill leave a vacant chair, although she bids them 
 not,— I see her image thrice repeated, and feel how long it is before 
 one form and set of features wholly pass away, if ever, from among the 
 living. While I am dwelling upon this, and tracing out the gradual 
 change from infancy to youth, from youth to perfect growth, from 
 that to age. and thinking, with an old man's pride, that she is comely 
 yet, I feel a slight thin hand upon my arm, and, looking down, see 
 seated at my feet a crippled boy,— a gentle. ;jatient child,— whose 
 
 aspect I know well. He rests upon a Uttle crutch, — I know it too, 
 
 and leaning on it as he climbs my footstool, whispers, in my ear "I 
 am hardly one of these, dear grandfather, although I love them 
 dearly. They are very kind to me. but you will be kinder still, I 
 know." 
 
 I have my hand upon his neck, and stoop to kiss him, when my 
 clock strikes, my chair is in its old spot, and I am alone. 
 
 What if I be? What if this fireside be tenantless. savft for the 
 presence of one weak old man? From my house-top I can look upon 
 a hundred homes, in every one of which these social companions are 
 matters of reahty. In my daily walks I pass a thousand men whose 
 cares are all forgotten, whose labours are made light, whose dull 
 routine work from day to day is cheered and brightened by their 
 glimpses of domestic joy at home. Amid the struggles of this struggling 
 town what cheerful sacrifices are made; what toil endured with 
 readiness; what patience shown and fortitude displayed for the 
 mere sake of home and its affections ! Let me thank Heaven that I 
 can people my fireside with shadows such as these; with shadows of 
 bright objects that exist in crowds about me; and let m. -y, "I am 
 alone no more." 
 
 to-night. Recollections of the past and visions of the present come 
 
304 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 to bear me company; the meanest man to whom I have ever ff\^,on 
 alms appears, to add lus mite of peace and c^ urt to mv s^^k 
 and whenever the fire withm me shall fn-ni". ^iT f r i . ^ T 
 
 THE DEAF GENTLEMAN FROM HIS OWN APARTMENT 
 
 Our dear friend laid down his pen at the end of the foretrolno 
 paragraph, to take it up no more. I little thought ever to 3ov 
 
 k.l^^^i'^''^ If appear among us at his usual hour next momine we 
 
 opened nd LnTn^^' ^°°'- ""^ ""^"^^ ^^^"« S^^"' '' ^.TsTof tT^ 
 Scl'f "i!; ^; ' IZ °"'' surprise, we saw him seated before the 
 ashes of his fire with a little table I was accustomed to set at his 
 elbow when I left him for the night at a short distance from him as 
 though he had pushed it away with the idea of rising LdretS ?o 
 his bed. His crutch and footstool lay at his feet as ufual and he wis 
 dressed in his chamber-gown, which he had put on beforelleft hTm 
 
 t^wIrlTheTr? 'V"^" '^"'' i" ""l' ^^^^^tom^d posture! with his flTe 
 towards the fire, and seemed absorbed in meditation —indeed at 
 first, we almost hoped he was, ^uiuduon, maeea, at 
 
 ..if 1"^ "P *° ^'"'' T ^^"''^ ^'"^ de^d. I have often, very often 
 
 rcafiTatd "^So'^^f h"'^/ P'"'^'""^' ^"^ ' — sW llm look 
 u^T. u 1 • ^^a^quil- His face wore a serene, benign exoression 
 
 not'tLtt hT''''^H"^f ^''y strongly when we lasf shook hands' 
 not that he had ever had any other look. God knows- but ther- wS 
 somethmg m th s so very spiritual, so strangely and ndefinaWv 
 
 new evTto hi^ ^" ^''^ ""' ^'^^ ""^ ven^^rabTe. that it w^ 
 
 new even to him. It came upon me all at once when on some slight 
 pretence he called me back upon the previous night to take me by the 
 hand agam, and once more say, "God bless you '' ^ 
 
 if tnrl;Tr ^r^ "^'^^^ ^P '^^^^' ^"* ^^ h^d not n^oved towards 
 It. nor had he stirred, we all agreed, except, as I have said to push 
 
 r^^ ^.^s table which he could liave done^and no doubt did wfth a 
 very slight motion of his hand. He had relapsed for a mominTinto 
 ^acV.TadX'd!' meditation, and, with a tho^tful LTrupon M^ 
 
 I had long known it to be i s wish that whenever this event should 
 conie to pass we might be ah assembled in the house I tSore lost 
 no time in sending for Mr. Pickwick and for Mr. Ties, both of who^^ 
 arrived before the messenger's return. 
 
 .m.V^ not my purpose to dilate upon the sorrow and affectionate 
 emotions of which I was at once the witness and the sharer But J 
 S^,f7:.°! the humbler mourners, that his faithful'Lfekeepef was 
 .-.rxjr h.«.«.-uxuiiun. tnar tne poor barber would not be comforted: 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 305 
 
 and that I shall respect the homely truth and warmth of heart of 
 Mr. Weller and his son to the last moment of my life. 
 
 "And the sweet old creetur, lir," said the elder Mr. Weller to me 
 in the afternoon, "has bolted. Him as had no wice, and was so free 
 from temper that a infant might ha' drove him, has been took at la«Jt 
 with that 'ere unawoidable fit o' staggers as we all must come to, and 
 gone ofif his feed for ever! I see him," said the old gentleman, with a 
 moisture in hiseye, whichcould not be mistaken, — "I see him gettin', 
 every jouniey. mere and more groggy; I says to Samivel. 'My boy! 
 the Grey's a-goin' at the knees; and now my predilictions is fatally 
 werified, and nim as I could never do enough to serv«? or show my 
 likin' for, is up the great imiwersal spout o' natur'." 
 
 I was not the less sensible of the old man's attachment because he 
 expressed it in his peculiar manner. Indeed, I can truly assert of 
 both him and his son, that notwithstanding the extraordinary 
 dialogues they held together, and the strange commentaries and 
 corrections with v hich each of them illustrated the other's speech, I 
 do not think it possible to exceed the sincerity of their regret; and 
 that I am sure their thoughtf ulness and anxiety in anticipating the 
 discharge of many little offices of sympathy would have done honour 
 to the most delicate-minded persons. 
 
 Our friend had frequently told us that his will would be found in a 
 box in the Clock-case, the key of which was in his writir lesk. As 
 he had told us also that he desired it to be opened immed ^cely after 
 his death, whenever that should happen, we met together that night 
 for the fulfilment of his request. 
 
 We found it where he had told us, wrapped in a sealed paper, and 
 with it a codicil of recent date, in which he named Mr. Miles and Mr. 
 Pickwick his executors, — as having no need of any greater benefit 
 from his estate than a generous token (which he bequeathed to them) 
 of his friendship and remembrance. 
 
 After pointing out the spot in which he wished his ashes to repose, 
 he gave to "his dear old friends," Jack Redbum and myself, his 
 house, his books, his furniture, — in short, all that his house con- 
 tained; and with this legacy more ample means of maintaining it in 
 its present state than we, with our habits and at our terms of life, c; 1 
 ever exhaust. Besides these gifts, he left to us, in trust, an annual 
 sum of no insignificant amount, to be distributed in charity among 
 his accustomed pensioners — they are a long list — and such other 
 claimants on his bount>' as might, from tit e to time, present them- 
 selves. And as true charity not only covers a multitude of sins, but 
 includes a multitude of virtues, such as forgiveness, liberal con- 
 struction, gentleness and mercy to the faults of otLvrs, and the 
 remembrance of our own imperfections and advantages, he bade us 
 not inquire too closely into the venial errors of the poor, but finding 
 that they were poor, first to relieve and then endeavour — at an 
 advantage— to reclaim them. 
 
 To the housekeeper he left an annuity, sufficient for her comfort- 
 
 ■'I 
 
 i 
 
 II 
 
 ill 
 
 ■ 
 
 »■■ !■" ■"■" ! ^ 
 
 I ^^^S 
 
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 iff 
 
 1 
 
, l. 
 
 
 [i 'i '^ 
 
 ^H 
 
 306 Master Humphrey's Clock 
 
 able maintenance and support through life. For the barber who had 
 attended him many years, he made a similar provision. And I may 
 make two remarks in this particular place: first, that I think this 
 pair are very likely to club their means together and make a match of 
 It; and secondly, that I think my friend had this result in his mind 
 for I have heard him say. more than once, that he could not concur 
 with the generality of mankind in censuring equal marriages made in 
 later life, since there were many cases in which such unions could not 
 fail to be a wise and rational source of happiness to both parties 
 
 The elder Mr. Weller is so far from viewing this prospect with any 
 feelings of jealousy, that he appears to be very much relieved by its 
 contemplation; and his son, if I am not mistaken, participates in this 
 feelmg. We are all of opinion, however, that the old gentleman's 
 danger, even at its crisis, was very slight, and that he merely 
 laboured under one of those transitory weaknesses to which persons 
 of his temperament are now and then liable, and which becomes less 
 and less alarming at every return, until they wholly subside. I have 
 no doubt he will remain a jolly old widower for the rest of his life as 
 he has already inquired of me. with much gravity, whether a writ of 
 habeas corpus would enable him to settle his property upon Tony 
 beyond the possibility of recall; and has. in my presence, conjured 
 his son. with tears m his eyes, that in the event of his ever becoming 
 amorous again, he will put him in a strait-waistcoat until the fit is 
 past, and distinctly inform the lady that his property is "made over " 
 Although I have very little doubt that Sam would dutifully comply 
 with these injunctions in a case of extreme necessity, and that he 
 would do so with perfect composure and coolness, I do not apprehend 
 things will ever come to that pass, as the old gentleman seems 
 perfectly happy in the society of his son, his pretty daughter-in-law 
 and his grandchildren, and has solemnly announced his determina- 
 tion to take arter the old ' un in all respects"; from which I infer that 
 It IS his intention to regulate his conduct by the model of Mr Pick- 
 wick, who will certainly set him the example of a single hfe 
 
 I have diverged for a moment from the subject with which I set 
 out, for I know that my friend was interested in these little matters 
 and I have a j atural tendency to linger upon any topic that occupied 
 his thoughts or gave him pleasure and amusement. His remaining 
 wishes are very briefly told. He desired that we would make him the 
 frequent subject of our conversation; at the same time, that we 
 would never speak of him with an air of gloom or restraint but 
 frankly, and as one whom we still loved and hoped to meet agaiA He 
 trusted that the old house would wear no aspect of mourning but 
 that It would be lively and cheerful; and that we would not remove 
 or cover up his picture, which hangs in our dining-room, but make if 
 our companion as he had been. His own room, our place of meeting' 
 remains at his desire in its accustomed state; our seats are placed 
 
 about the table as of old: his pasv-rhair Kio «^«o1, u;„ J. ft- V. 
 
 r , . , , 1j .- . ' -• ' "*•• '-s^-^D-, ills V/IULtill, ills 
 
 footstool, hold their accustomed places, and the clock stands in its 
 
Master Humphrey's Clock 307 
 
 familiar comer. We go into the chamber at stated times to see that 
 all is as it should be, and to take care that the light and air are not 
 shut out, for on that point he expressed a strong solicitude. But it was 
 his fancy that the apartment should not be inhabited; that it should 
 be religiously preserved in this condition, and that the voice of his 
 old companion should be heard no more. 
 
 My own history may be summed up in a very few words; and even 
 those I should have spared the reader but for my friend's allusion to 
 me some time since. I have no deeper sorrow than the loss of a 
 child, — an only daughter, who is living, and who fled from her 
 father's house but a few weeks before our friend and I first met. I had 
 never spoken of this even to him, because I have always loved her, 
 and I could not bear to tell him of her error until I could tell him also 
 of her sorrow and regret. Happily I was enabled to do so some time 
 ago. And it will not be long, with Heaven's leave, before she is 
 restored to me; before I find in her and her husband the support of 
 my declining years. 
 
 For my pipe, it is an old relic of home, a thing of no great worth, a 
 poor trifle, but sacred to me for her sake. 
 
 Thus, since the death of our venerable friend. Jack Redbum and I 
 have been the sole tenants of the old house; and, day by day, have 
 lounged together in his favourite walks. Mindful of his injunctions, 
 we have long been able to speak of him with ease and cheerfulness, 
 and to remember him as he would be remembered. From certain 
 allusions which Jack has dropped, to his having been deserted and 
 cast off in early life, I am inclined to believe that some passages of 
 his youth may possibly be shadowed out in the history of Mr. Chester 
 and his son, but seeing that he avoids the subject, I have not pursued 
 it. 
 
 My task is done. The chamber in which we have whiled away so 
 many hours, not, I hope, without some pleasure and some profit, is 
 deserted; our happy hour of meeting strikes no more; the chimney- 
 corner has grown cold; and Master Humphrey's Clock has stopped 
 for ever. 
 
 fl 
 
 m 
 
ii iili< 
 
THE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 
 
CHARLES DICKENS: Born i8i2-Died 1870 
 
 Editor's Note 
 
 "He's sick a harbitrary gent!" Thus, according to tradition, 
 was John Forster summed up by a cabman he patronised and 
 with whom he had some words about his fare. The phrase 
 would have delighted Dickens. It is a thumbnail portrait of 
 the man who wrote the famous Life of our author, and who. 
 as mentioned in the Editorial Note to Our Mutual Friend', 
 had the sweep of the arm and the domineering way of Mr, 
 Podsnap. John Forster was a heavyweight man of literature, 
 who combined keen business ability with— on the whole-^ 
 good literary judgment. Dickens, needing such a man, appre- 
 ciated his qualities, and made him his confidant; and their 
 friendship found a lasting memorial in the Life of Dickens. 
 As Lockhart was to Sir Walter Scott, so, in many ways, was 
 Forster to Dickens ; although Forster' s work has hardly the 
 dramatic qualities and wide interest of Lockhart' s. Only these 
 two biographers could command the unique material used in 
 the Lives they wrote ; and both men succeed in bringing their 
 great subjects into the presence of the reader—without intruding 
 their own personalities, as many modern biographers do. 
 Lockhart and Forster also have the same faults : both were 
 guilty of tampering with correspondence in a way then general 
 but nowadays barred. Also, both' men were extremely reticent 
 about certain aspects in the domestic lives of their subjects : 
 a franker attitude would have avoided^ much misunderstanding 
 and suspicion-breeding mystery, but it must be said in their 
 excuse that they were hampered by consideration for people 
 then still living. Notwithstanding these faults, Lockhart's 
 Life of Scott and Forster' s Life of Dickens are with Boswell's 
 Johnson in the front rank of English biography. This abridg- 
 ment of Forster's work aims to preserve its intimate study 
 and the most essential of its illustrative materials in anecdote, 
 
 letters- etc* 
 
.V 
 
( 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 (Drawing from the Tortrait by Harry Fumiss) 
 
THE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN FORSTER 
 
 t • 
 
 LONDON J 
 HAZELL, WATSON & VINEY, LTD. 
 
I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 V. 
 
 BOOK FIRST 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 
 
 1812-36. JET. 1-24 
 
 Earliest Years. 
 Hard Experiences in Boyhood. 
 School Days and Start in Life. 
 Newspaper Reporting and Writing. 
 First Book, and Origin of "Pickwick." 
 
 wu 
 
 
 iM 
 
 :- i 
 
 rj 
 
 11 
 
 1^ 
 
 315 
 

 ti 
 
 i 
 
 J, 
 
THE LIFE OF 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 EARLIEST YEARS 
 I812-22 
 
 Charles Dickens, the most popular novelist of the century, and one 
 of the greatest liumorists that England has produced, was born at 
 Landport, in Portsea, on Friday, the seventh of February, 181 2. 
 
 His father, John Dickens, a clerk in the navy pay-office, was at 
 this time stationed in the Portsmouth Dockyard. He had made 
 acquaintance with the lady, Elizabeth Barrow, who became after- 
 wards his wife, through her elder brother, Thomas Barrow also 
 engaged on the establishment at Somerset House; and she bore him 
 m all a family 01 eight children, of whom two died in infancy The 
 eldest, Fanny (bom 1810), was followed by Charles (entered in the 
 baptismal register of Portsea as Charles John Huffham, though on the 
 very rare occasions when he subscribed that name he wrote Huff am)- 
 by another son, named Alfred, who died in childhood; by Letitia 
 (born 1816); by another daughter, Harriet, a\ ho died also in childhood- 
 by Frederick (born 1820); by Alfred Lamert (bom 1822); and bv 
 Augustus (born 1827). 
 
 Walter Scott tell us, in his fragment of autobiography, speaking 
 of the strange remedies applied to his lameness, that he remembered 
 lying on the floor in the parlour of his grandfather's farmhouse 
 swathed up in a sheepskin warm from the body of the sheep being 
 then not three years old. David Copperfield's memory goes beyond 
 this. He represents himself seeing so far back into the blank of his 
 infancy as to discem therein his mother and her servant, dwarfed to 
 his sight by stooping down or kneeling on the floor, and himself going 
 unsteadily from the one to the other. He admits this may be fancy 
 though he believes the power of observation in numbers of very 
 young children to be quite wonderful for its closeness and accuracy, 
 and thinks that the recollection of most of us can go farther back 
 
 into such times than vnc^rwr n-f ijc cni->-r>rAOQ "Rnf .«rU^4- i>« „jj _ -._ 
 
 tamly not fancy. "If it should appear from anything I may set down 
 in this narrative that I was a child of close observation, or that as a 
 
 31/ 
 
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 H 
 
 
 
 iifl 
 
 '^^^^^^^B 
 
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3i8 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 tri 
 
 
 man I have a strong memory of my childhood, I undoubtedly lay 
 cKvim to both of these characteristics." Applicable as it might be to 
 David Copperfield, this was unaffectedly true of Charles Dickens. 
 
 He has often told me that he remembered the small front garden 
 to the house at Portsea, from which he was taken away when he was 
 two years old, and where, watched by a nurse through a low kitchen 
 window almost level with the gravel walk, he trotted about with 
 something to eat, and his little elder sister with him. He was carried 
 from the garden one day to see the soldiers exercise; and I perfectly 
 recollect that, on our being at Portsmouth together while he was 
 writing Nickleby, he recognised the exact shape of the military parade 
 seen by him as a very infant, on the same spot, a quarter of a 
 century before. 
 
 When his father was again brought up by his duties to London 
 from Portsmouth, they went into lodgings in Norfolk Street, Middle- 
 sex Hospital; and it lived also in the child's memory that they had 
 come away from Portsea in the snow. Their home, shortly after, was 
 again changed, the elder Dickens being placed upon duty in Chatham 
 Dockyard; and the house where he lived in Chatham, which had a 
 plain-looking whitewashed plaster front and a small garden before 
 and behind, was in St. Mary's Place, otherwise called the Brook, and 
 next door to a Baptist meeting-house called Providence Chapel, of 
 which a Mr. Giles he presently mentioned vas minister. Charles at 
 this time was between four and five years old; and here he stayed till 
 he was nine. Here the most durable of his early impressions were 
 received; and the associations that were around him when he died 
 were those which at the outset of his life had affected him most 
 strongly. 
 
 The house called Gadshill Place stands on the strip of highest 
 ground in the main road between Rochester and Gravesend, Very 
 often had we travelled past it together, many years before it became 
 his home ; and never without some allusion to what he told me when first 
 I saw it in his company, that amid the recollections connected with his 
 childhood it held always a prominent place, for, upon first seeing it 
 as he came from Chatham with his fatl;er, and looking up at it with 
 much admiration, he had been promised that he might himself live 
 in it or in some such house when he came to be a man, if he would 
 only work hard enough. Which for a long time was his ambition. . . . 
 
 He was a very little and a very sickly boy. He was subject to 
 attacks of violent spasms which disabled him for any active exertion. 
 He was never a good little cricket-player; he was never a first-rate 
 hand at marbles, or peg-top, or prisoner's base; but he had great 
 pleasure in watching the other boys, officers' sons for the most part, 
 at these games, reading while they played; and he had always the 
 belief that this early sickness had brought to himself one inestimable 
 advantage, in the circumstances of his weak health having strongly 
 inclined him to reading. It will not appear, as my narrative moves 
 on, that he owed much to his parents, or was other than in his first 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 91 
 
 319 
 
 letter to Washington Irving he described himself to have been, a 
 very snmli and not-over-particularly-taken-care-of boy"; but he 
 has frequently been heard to say that his first desire for knowledge, 
 and his earliest passion for reading, were awakened by his mother, 
 fiom whom he learnt the rudiments, not only of English, but also, a 
 little later, of Latin. She taught him regularly every day for a long 
 time, and taught him, he was convinced, thoroughly well. I once put 
 to him a question in connection with this to which he replied in 
 almost exactly the words he placed five years later in the mouth of 
 David Copperfield; "I faintlyremember her teachingme the alphabet; 
 and when I look upon the fat black letters in the primer, the puzzling 
 novelty of their shapes, the easy good nature of O and S always seem 
 to present themselves before me as they used to do." 
 
 One of the many passages in Copperfield which are literally true, 
 has its proper place here. "My father had left a small collection of 
 books m a little room upstairs to which I had access (for it adjoined 
 my own), and which nobody ?lse in our house ever troubled. From 
 that blessed little room, Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey 
 Clinker, Tom Jones, The Vicar of Wakefield, Don Quixote, Gil Bias 
 and Robinson Crusoe came out, a glorious host, to keep me company. 
 They kept alive my fancy, and my hope of something beyond that 
 place and time— they, and the Arabian Nights, and the Tales of the 
 Genii— and did me no harm; for, whatever harm was in some of them, 
 was not there for me; I knew nothing of it. It is astonishing to me 
 now, how I found time, in the midst of my porings and blunderings 
 over heavier themes, to read those books as I did. It is curious to me 
 how I could ever have consoled myself under my small troubles 
 (which were great troubles to me), by impersonating my favourite 
 characters in them. ... I have been Tom Jones (a child's Tom 
 Jones, a harmless creature) for a week together. I have sustained my 
 own idea of Roderick Random for a month at a stretch, I verily 
 beheve. I h?,d a greedy relish for a few volumes of voyages and 
 travels— I forget what, now — that were on those shelves; and for 
 days and days I can remember to have gone about my region of our 
 house, armed with the centre-piece out of an old set of boot-trees the 
 perfect realisation of Captain Somebody, of the Royal British Navy, 
 in danger of being beset by savages, and resolved to sell his life at a 
 great price. . . . When I think of it, the picture always rises in my 
 mind, of a summer evening, the boys at play in the churchyard, and 
 I sitting on my bed reading as if for life. Every barn in the neighbour- 
 hood, every stone in the church, and every foot of the churchyard, 
 had some association of its own, in my mind, connected with these 
 books, and stood for some locality made famous in them. I have seen 
 Tom Pipes go climbing up the church steeple; I have watched Strap, 
 with the knapsack on his back, stopping to rest himself upon the 
 wic^et-gate; and I know that Commodore Trunnion held that club 
 with Mr. Pickle in the parlour of our little village alehouse." Every 
 word of this personal recollection had been written down as fact, 
 
 '. i 
 
 m 
 
320 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 .u 
 
 i- ; 
 
 k f 
 
 ■ 
 
 ± 
 
 
 some years before it found its way into David Copperfield; the only 
 change in the fiction being his omission of the name of a cheap series 
 of novehsts then in course of pubUcation, by means of which his 
 f atht . had become happily the owner of so large a lump of literary 
 treasure in his small collection of books. 
 
 The usual result followed. The child took to writing himself; and 
 became famous in his childish circle, for having written a tragedy 
 called Misnar, the Sultan of India, founded (and very literally 
 founded, no doubt) on one of the Tales of the Genii. Nor was this his 
 only distinction. He told a story offhand so well, and sang small 
 comic songs so especially well, that he used to be elevated on chairs 
 and tables, both at home and abroad, for more effective display of 
 these talents; and when he first told me of this, at one of the Twelfth- 
 night parties on his eldest son's birthday, he said he never recalled it 
 that his own shrill little voice of childhood did not again tingle in his 
 ears, and he blushed to think what a horrible little nuisance he must 
 have been to many unoffending grown-up people who were called 
 upon to admire him. 
 
 His chief ally and encourager in such displays was a youth of some 
 ability, much older than himself, named James Lamert, stepson to 
 his mother's sister, and therefore a sort of cousin, who was his great 
 patron and friend in his childish days. Mary, the eldest daughter of 
 Charles Barrow, himself a lieutenant in the navy, had for her first 
 husband a commander in the navy called Allen, on whose death by 
 drowning at Rio Janeiro she had joined her sister, the navy pay- 
 clerk's wife, at Chatham; in which place she subsequently took for 
 her second husband Doctor Lamert, an army surgeon, whose son 
 James, even after he had been sent to Sandhurst for his education, 
 continued still to visit Chatham from time to time. He had a turn for 
 private theatricals; and as his father's quarters were in the ordnance 
 hospital there, a great rambling place otherwise at that time almost 
 uninhabited, he had plenty of room in which to get up his entertain- 
 ments. The staff-doctor himself played his part, and his portiait will 
 be found in Pickwick. 
 
 By Lamert, I have often heard him say, he was first taken to the 
 theatre at the very tenderest age. He could hardly, however, have 
 been younger than Charles Lamb, whose first experience was of 
 having seen Artaxevxes when six years old; and certainly not younger 
 than Walter Scott, who was only four when he saw As You Like It on 
 the Bath stage, and remembered having screamed out, "Ain't they 
 brother s?'' when scandalised by Orlando and Oliver beginning to 
 fight. But he was a;, any rate old enough to recollect how his young 
 heart leapt with terror as the wicked King Richard, struggling for 
 life against the virtuous Richmond, backed up and bumped against 
 the box in which he was; and subsequent visits to the same sanctuary, 
 as he tells us, revealed to him man"^'^ wondrous secrets, "nf which nnt 
 the least terrific were, that the witches in Macbeth hore an awful 
 resemblance to the thanes and other proper inhabitants of Scotland; 
 
the only 
 2ap series 
 vhich his 
 £ literary 
 
 iself; and 
 I tragedy 
 literally 
 ,s this his 
 ing small 
 on chairs 
 iisplay of 
 Twelfth- 
 ecalled it 
 gle in his 
 3 he must 
 sre called 
 
 1 of some 
 tepson to 
 his great 
 lighter of 
 her first 
 death by 
 ivy pay- 
 took for 
 hose son 
 iucation, 
 L turn for 
 Drdnance 
 le almost 
 ntertain- 
 tidit will 
 
 2n to the 
 ^er, have 
 3 was of 
 younger 
 Ake It on 
 Hn't they 
 nning to 
 lis young 
 gling for 
 1 against 
 ,nctuary, 
 rhich not 
 an awful 
 Scotland; 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 321 
 
 and that the good King Duncan couldn't rest in his grave, but was 
 constantly coming out of it, and calling himself somebody else." 
 
 During the last two years of Charles's residence at Chatham, he was 
 sent to a school kept in Clover Lane by the young Baptist minister 
 already named, Mr. William Giles. I have the picture of him here 
 very strongly in my mind as a sensitive, thoughtful, feeble-bodied 
 little boy, with an amount of exper'ence as well as fancy unusual in 
 such a child, and with a dangerous kmd of wandering intelligence that 
 a teacher might turn to good or evil, happiness or misery, as he 
 directed it. Nor does the influence of Mr. Giles, such as it was, seem 
 to have been other than favourable. Charles had himself a not 
 ungrateful sense in after years that this first of his masters, in his 
 little-cared-for childhood, had pronounced him to be a boy of 
 capacity; and when, about half-way through the publication of 
 Pickwick, his old teacher sent a silver snuff-box with admiring in- 
 scription to "the inimitable Boz," it reminded him of praise far more 
 precious obtained by him at his first year's examination in the 
 Clover Lane academy, when his recitation of a piece out of the 
 Humorist'' s Miscellany about Doctor Bolus had received, unless his 
 youthful vanity bewildered him, a double encore. A habit, the only 
 bad one taught him by Mr. Giles, of taking for a time, in very 
 moderate quantities, the snuff called Irish Blackguard, was the 
 result of this gift from his old master ; but he abandoned it after 
 some few years, and it was never resumed. 
 
 It was in the boys' playing-ground near Clover Lane in which the 
 school stood that, according to one of his youthful memories, he had 
 been, in the hay-making time, delivered from the dungeons of 
 Seringapatam, an immense pile ("of haycock"), by his countrymen 
 the victorious British ("boy next door and his two cousins"), and 
 had been recognised with ecstasy by his affianced one ("Miss Green"), 
 who had come all the way from England ("second house in the 
 terrace"), to ransom and marry him. It was in this playing-field, too, 
 as he has himself recorded, he first heard in confidence from one 
 whose father was greatly connected, "being under Government," of 
 the existence of a terrible banditti called the radicals, whose principles 
 were that the prince regent wore stays; that nobody had a right to 
 any salary; and that the army and navy ought to be put down; 
 horrors at which he trembled in his bed, after supplicating that the 
 radicals might be speedily taken and hanged. Nor was it the least of 
 the disappointments in his visit of after life to the scenes of his 
 boyhood to have found this play-field swallowed up by a railway 
 station. It was gone, with its two beautiful trees of hawthorn; and 
 where the hedge, the turf and all the buttercups and daisies had been, 
 there was nothing but the stoniest of jolting roads. 
 
 He was not much over nine years old when his father was recalled 
 from Chatham to Somerset House, and he had to leave this good 
 master, and the old place endeared to him by recoMections that 
 clung to him afterwards all his life long. It was here he had made the 
 
 329 
 
 i'm 
 
 xma^'*^ 
 
322 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 K-' 
 
 n 
 
 acquaintance not only of the famous books that David Copperfield 
 specially names, . . , but also of the Tatler, The Spectator, The 
 Idler, the Citizen of the World, and Mrs. Inchbald's Collection of 
 Farces. These latter had been, as well, in the little library to which 
 access was open to him; and of all of them his earliest remembrance 
 was the having read them over and over at Chatham, not for the 
 first, the second, or the third time. They were a host of friends when 
 he had no single friend; and, in leaving the place, he has been often 
 heard to say he seemed to be leaving them too. and everything that 
 had given his ailing little life its picturesqueness or sunshine. It was 
 the birthplace of his fancy; and he hardly knew what store he had 
 set by its busy varieties of change and scene, until he saw the falling 
 cloud that was to hide its pictures from him for ever. The gay, 
 bright regiments always going and coming, the continual paradings 
 and firings, the successions of sham-sieges and sham-defences, the 
 plays got up by his cousin in the hospital, the navy pay-yacht in 
 which he had sailed to Sheerness with his father, and the ships 
 floating out in the Medway, with their far visions of sea — he was to 
 lose them all. He was never to watch the boys at their games any 
 more, or see them sham over again the sham-sieges and defences. He 
 was to be taken away to London inside the stage-coach Commodore; 
 and Kentish woods and fields, Cobham park and hall, Rochester 
 cathedral and castle, and all the wonderful romance together, 
 including a red-cheeked baby he had been wildly in love with, were to 
 vanish like a dream. "On the night before we came away," he told 
 me, "my good master came flitting in among the packing-cases to 
 give me Goldsmith's Bee as a keepsake. Which I kept for his sake, and 
 its own, a long time afterwards." A longer time afterwards he recol- 
 lected the stage-coach journey, and in one of his published papers 
 said that never had he forgotten, through all the intervening years, 
 the smell of the damp straw in which he was packed and forwarded, 
 like game, carriage paid. "There was no other inside passenger, and I 
 consumed my sandwiches in solitude and dreariness, and it rained 
 hard all the way, and I thought life sloppier than I expected to find 
 
 it." 
 
 The earliest impressions received*^ and retained by him in London 
 were of his father's money involvements; and how 4fst he heard 
 mentioned "the deed," representing in fact that crisis of his father's 
 affairs which is ascribed in fiction to Mr. Micawber's. He knew it in 
 later days to have been a composition with creditors; though at this 
 earlier date he was conscious of having confounded it with parch- 
 ments of a much more demoniacal description. One result from the 
 awful document soon showed itself in enforced retrenchment. The 
 family had to take up its abode in a house in Bayham Street, Camden 
 Town. 
 
 Bayham Street was about the poorest part of the London suburbs 
 then and the house was a mean small tenement; with a ■wretched 
 little back-garden abutting on a squalid court. Here was no place for 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 323 
 
 new acquaintances to hiiu: not a boy was near with whom he might 
 hope to become in any way familiar. A washerwoman Hved next door, 
 and a Bow Street officer lived over the way. Many, many times has he 
 spoken to me of this, and how he seemed at once to fall into a solitary 
 condition apart from all other boys of his own age, and to sink into a 
 neglected state at home which had always been quite unaccountable 
 to him. "As I thought," he said on one occasion very bitterly, "in 
 the little back garret in Bayham Street, of all I had lost in losing 
 Chatham, what would I have given, if I had had anything to give, to 
 have been sent back to any other school, to have been taught 
 something anywhere!" He was at another school already, not 
 knowing it. The self-education forced upon him was teaching, all 
 unconsciously as yet, what, for the future that awaited him, it most 
 behoved him to know. 
 
 That he took, froni the very beginning of this Bayham Street life, 
 his first impression of that struggling poverty which is nowhere more 
 vividly shown than in the commoner streets of the ordinary London 
 suburb, and which enriched his earliest writings with a freshness of 
 original humour and quite unstudied pathos that gave them much 
 of their sudden popularity, there cannot be a doubt "I certainly 
 understood it," he has often said to me, "quite as wel then as I do 
 now." But he was not conscious yet that he did so understand it, or of 
 the influence it was exerting on his life even then. It seems almost 
 too much to assert of a child, say at nine or ten years old, that his 
 observation of everything was as close and good, or that be had as 
 much intuitive understanding of the character and weaknesses of the 
 grown-up people around him, as when the same keen and wonderful 
 faculty had made him famous among men. But my experience of him 
 led me to put implicit faith in the assertion he unvaryingly himself 
 made, that he had never seen any cause to correct or change what 
 in his boyhood was his own secret impression of anybody, whom he 
 had, as a grown man, the opportunity of testing in later years. 
 
 How it came that, being what he was, he should now have fallen 
 into the misery and neglect of the time about to be described, was a 
 subject on which thoughts were frequently interchan,^ed between us; 
 and on one i)Ccasion he gave me a sketch of the character of his 
 father which, as I can here repeat it in the exact words employed by 
 him, will be til e best preface I can make to what I feel that I have no 
 alternative but to tell. "I know my father to be as kindhearted and 
 generous a man as ever lived in the world. Everything that I can 
 remember of his conduct to his wife, or children, or friends, in sick- 
 ness or affliction, is beyond ah praise. By me, as a sick child, he has 
 watched night and day, unweariedly and patiently, many nights and 
 days. He never undertook any business, charge or trust that he did 
 not zealously, conscientiously, punctually, honourably discharge, 
 Kis industry has ahvays been untiring. He was p'-^^ud of me, in his 
 way, and had a great admiration of the comic singing. But, in the 
 ease of his temper, and the straitness of his means, he appeared to 
 
 f i 
 
fir 
 
 1^ 
 
 i I 
 
 
 324 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ill' ^ 
 
 have utterly lost at this time the idea of educating me at all, and to 
 have utterly put from him the notion that I had any claim upon him, 
 in that regard, whatever. So I degenerated into cleaning his boots of 
 a morning, and. my own; and making myself useful in the work of the 
 little house; and looking after my younger brothers and sisters (we 
 were now six in all); and going on such poor errands as arose out of 
 our poor way of living." , t t x. 
 
 The cousin by marriage of whom I have spoken, James i^amert, 
 who had lately completed his education at Sandhurst, and was wait- 
 ing in hopes of a commission, lived now with the family m Bayham 
 Street and had not lost his taste for the stage, or his ingenuities m 
 connection with it. Taking pity on the solitary lad, he made and 
 painted a little theatre for him. It was the only fanciful reality of his 
 present life; but it could not supply what he missed most sorely, the 
 companionship of boys of his own age. with whom he might share in 
 the advantages of school, and contend for its prizes. His sister Fanny 
 was at about this time elected as a pupil to the Royal Academy of Music; 
 and he has told me what a stab to his heart it was, thinking of his 
 own disregarded condition, to see her go away to begin her education, 
 amid the tearful; good wishes of everybody in the house. 
 
 Nevertheless, as time went on, his own education still uncon- 
 sciously went on as well, under the sternest and most potent of 
 teachers; and, neglected and miserable as he was, he managed 
 gradually to transfer to London all the dreaminess and all the 
 romance with which he had invested Chatham. There were then at 
 the top of Bayham Street some almshouses, and were still when he 
 revisited it with me nearly twenty-seven years ago; and to go to this 
 spot, he told me, and look from it over the dust-heaps and dock- 
 leaves and fields (no longer there when we saw it together) at the 
 cupola of St. Paul's looming through the smokr was a treat that 
 served him for hours of vague reflection afterwaro^. To be taken out 
 for a walk into the real town, especially if it were anywhere about 
 Covent Garden or the Strand, perfectly entranced him with pleasure. 
 But most of all, he had a profound attraction of repulsion to St. 
 Giles's. If he could only induce v^homsoever took him out to take 
 him through Seven Dials, he was supremely happy. "Good Heaven !" 
 he would exclaim, "what wild visions of prodigies o! wickedness, 
 want, and beggary, arose in my mind out of that place!" He was all 
 this time, the reader will remember, still subject to continual attacks 
 of illness! and, by reason of them, a very small boy even for his age. 
 
 That part of his boyhood is now very near of which, when the days 
 of fame and prosperity came to him, he felt the weight upon his 
 memory as a painful burthen until he could lighten it by sharing it 
 with a friend; and an accident I will presently mention led him first 
 to reveal it. There is, however, an interval of some months still to be 
 described, of which, from conversations or letters that passed 
 between us, after or because of this confidence, and that already have 
 yielded fruit to these pages, I can supply some vague and desultory 
 
 V 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 325 
 
 11, and to 
 pon him, 
 ; boots of 
 )rk of the 
 sters (we 
 >se out of 
 
 I Lamert, 
 was wait- 
 
 Bayham 
 nuities in 
 tiade and 
 lity of his 
 Drely, the 
 t share in 
 ;er Fanny 
 
 of Music; 
 ing of his 
 ducation, 
 
 II uncon- 
 potent of 
 
 managed 
 d all the 
 e then at 
 I when he 
 go to this 
 md dock- 
 er) at the 
 creat that 
 taken out 
 ere about 
 
 I pleasure, 
 ion to St. 
 it to take 
 Heaven!" 
 ickedness, 
 ^e was all 
 al attacks 
 JT his age. 
 
 II the days 
 upon his 
 
 sharing it 
 1 him first 
 
 still to be 
 at pas.sed 
 eady have 
 
 desultory 
 
 i 
 
 notices. The use thus made of them, it is due to myself to remark, 
 was contemplated then; for though, long before his death, I had ceased 
 to believe it likely that I should survive to write about him, he had 
 never withdrawn the wish at this early time strongly expressed, or 
 the confidences, not only then, but to the very eve of his death 
 reposed in me, that were to enable me to fulfil it. The fulfilment 
 indeed he had himself rendered more easy by partially uplifting the 
 veil in David Copperfield. 
 
 The visits made from Bayham Street were chiefly to two con- 
 nections of the family, his mother's elder brother and his godfather. 
 The latter, who was a rigger, and mast, oar and block maker, lived 
 at Limehouse in a substantial handsome sort of way, and was kind 
 to his godchild. It was alv/ays a great treat to him to go to Mr. Hufi- 
 ham's; and the London night-sights as he returned were a perpetual 
 joy and marvel. Here, too, the comic-singing accomplishment was 
 brought into play so greatly to the admiration of one of the god- 
 father's guests, an honest boat-builder, that he pronounced the little 
 lad to be a "progidy." The visits to the uncle, who was at this time 
 fellow-clerk with his father in Somerset House, were nearer home. 
 Mr. Thomas Barrow, the eldest of his mother's family, had broken his 
 leg in a fall; and, while laid up with this illness, his lodging was in 
 Gerrard Street, Soho, in the upper part of the house of a worthy 
 gentleman then recently deceased, a bookseller named Manson, 
 father to the partner in the celebrated firm of Christie and Mason, 
 whose widow at the time carried on the business. Attracted by the 
 look of the lad as he went upstairs, these good people lent him books 
 to amuse him; among them Miss Porter's Scottish Chiefs, Holbein's 
 Dance of Death, and George Colman's Broad Grins. The latter seized 
 his fancy very much; and he was so impressed by its description of 
 Covent Garden, in the piece called the "Elder Brother," that he stole 
 down to the market by himself to compare it with the book. He 
 remembered, as he said in telling me this, snufiing up the flavour of 
 the faded cabbage-leaves as if it were the very breath of comic fiction. 
 Nor was he far wrong, as comic fiction then, and for some time after, 
 was. It was reserved for himself to give sweeter and fresher breath to 
 it. Many years were to pass first, but he was beginning already to 
 make the trial. 
 
 His uncle was shave d by a very odd old barber out of Dean Street, 
 Soho, who was never tired of reviewing the events of the last war, 
 and especially of detecting Napoleon's mistakes, and rearranging his 
 whole life for him on a plan of his own. The boy wrote a description 
 of this old barber, but never had courage to show it. At about the 
 same time, taking for his model the description of the canon's 
 housekeeper in Gil Bias, he sketched a deaf old woman who waited 
 on them in Bayham Street, and who made delicate hashes with 
 walnut ketchup. As little did he dare to show this, either; though he 
 thought it, himself, extremely clever. 
 
 In Bayham Street, meanwhile, affairs were going on badly; the 
 
 I 
 
326 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 J I- 
 
 poor boy's visits to his uncle, while the latter was still kept a prisoner 
 bv his accident, were interrupted by another attack of fever; and 
 on his recovery the mysterious "deed" had again come uppermost. 
 His father's resources were so low, and all his expedients so thoroughly 
 exhausted, that trial was to be made whether his mother might not 
 come to the rescue. The time was arrived for her to exert herself 
 she said; and she "must do something." The godfather down at 
 Limehouse was reported to have an Indian connection. People in the 
 East Indies always sent their children home to be educated She 
 would set up a school. They woul.l all grow rich I " it And then, 
 thought the sick boy. "perhaps even I might go t .. 7^1 ' 
 
 A house was soon found at number four. Gower SUce. iSorth, a 
 large brass plate on the door announced Mrs. Dickens s Establish- 
 ment; and the result I can give in the exact words of the then small 
 actor in the comedy, whose hopes it had raised so high. I left, at a 
 great many other doors, a great many circulars calling attention to 
 the merits of the establishment. Yet nobody ever came to school, 
 nor do I recollect that anybody ever proposed to come, or that the 
 least preparation was made to receive anybody. But I know that we 
 got on very badly with the butcher and baker; that very often we 
 had not too much for dinner; and that at last my father was 
 arrested " The interval between the sponging-house and the prison 
 was passed by the sorrowful lad in running errands and carrying 
 messages for the prisoner, delivered with swollen eyes and through 
 shinini tears; and the last words said to him by his^father before he 
 was finally carried to the Marshalsea. were to the effect that the sun 
 was set upon him for ever. "I really believed at the time." said 
 Dickens to me, "that they had broken my heart.; He took after- 
 wards ample revenge for this false alarm by makmg all the world 
 laugh Sit them in David Copperfield. -A^^f^r-.^- 
 
 The readers of Mr. :Micawber's history who remember David s first 
 visit to the Marshalsea prison, and how upon seeing the turnkey he 
 recalled the turnkey in the blanket in Roderick Random, will read with 
 curious interest what follows, written as a personal experience of 
 fact two or three years before the.fiction had even entered into his 
 
 *^"Mv*father was waiting for me in the lodge, and we went up to 
 his room (on the top story but one), and cried very much. And he 
 told me. I remember, to take warning by the Marshalsea. and to 
 observe that if a man had twenty pounds a year and sper -meteen 
 pounds nineteen shillings and sixpence, he would be happy; but that 
 a shilling spent the other way would make him wretched. I see the 
 fire we sat before now; with two bricks inside the rusted grate, one on 
 each side, to prevent its burning too many coals. Some other debtor 
 shared the room with him. who came in by and by; and as the dinner 
 ,..„. . ;«i«f_cforir rpna«t- T was sent up to 'Captain Porter m the ^^ 
 room^oVerhead. with"M"r. Dickens's compliments, and 1 was his son, 
 and could he, Captain P., lend me a knife and fork? 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 327 
 
 "Captain Porter lent the knife and fork, with his compliments in 
 return. There was a very dirty lady in his little room; and two wan 
 girls, his daughters, with shock heads of hair. I thought I should not 
 have liked to borrow Captain Porter's comb. The Captain himself 
 was m the last extremity of shabbiness; and if I could draw at all, 
 I would draw an accurate portrait of the old, old brown great-coat 
 he wore, with no other coat below it. His whiskers were large. I saw 
 his bed rolled up in a corner; and what plates and dishes and pots he 
 had, on a shelf; and I knew (God knows how) that the two girls with 
 the shock heads were Captain Porter's natural children, and that the 
 dirty lady was not married to Captain P. My timid, wondering station 
 on his threshold was not occupied more than a couple of minutes, 
 I dare say; but I came down again to the room below with all this as 
 surely in my knowledge, as the knife and fork were in my hand." 
 
 How there was something agreeable and gipsy-like in the dinner 
 
 after all, and how he took back the Captain's knife and fork early 
 
 in the afternoon, and how he went hom.e to comfort his mother with 
 
 an account of his visit, David Copperiield has also accurately told. 
 
 TLen, at home, came many miserable daily struggles that seemed to 
 
 last an immense time, yet did not perhaps cover many weeks. 
 
 Almost everything by degrees was sold or pawned, little Charles 
 
 being the principal agent in those sorrowful transactions. Such of 
 
 the books as had been brought from Chatham, Peregrine Pickle, 
 
 Roderick Random, Tom Jones, Humphrey Clinker, and all the rest' 
 
 went first. They were carried off from the little chiffonier, which his 
 
 father called the library, to a bookseller in the Hampstead Road, the 
 
 same that David Copperiield describes as in the City Road; and the 
 
 account of the sales, as they actually occurred and were told to me 
 
 long before David was born, was reproduced word for word in his 
 
 imaginary narrative. "The keeper of this bookstall, who lived in a 
 
 little house behind it, used to get tipsy everj- night, and to be 
 
 violently scolded by his wife every morning. More than once, when I 
 
 went there early, I had audience of him in a turn-up bedstead, with 
 
 a cut in his forehead or a black eye, bearing witness to his excesses 
 
 over night (I am afraid he was quarrelsome in his drink); and he, 
 
 with a shaking hand, endeavouring to find the needful shillings in 
 
 one or other of the pockets of his clothes, which lay upon the floor, 
 
 while his wife, with a baby in her arms and her shoes down at heel, 
 
 never left off rating him. Sometimes he had lost his money, and then 
 
 he would ask me to call again; but his wife had always got some (had 
 
 taken his, I dare say, while he was drunk), and secretly completed 
 
 the bargain on the stairs, as we went down together." 
 
 The same pawnbroker's shop, too, which was so well known to 
 David, became not less familiar to Charles; and a good deal of notice 
 was here taken of him by the pawnbroker, or by his principal clerk 
 who officiated behind the counter, and who, while making' out the 
 duplicate, liked of all things to hear the lad conjugate a Latin verb, 
 and translate or decline his musa and dominus. Everything to this 
 
 m 
 
 , 1 
 
 m 
 
 iv 
 
328 
 
 The L'fe of Charles Dickens 
 
 accompaniment went gradually; until at last, even of the furniture 
 of Gower Street number four, there was nothing left except a few 
 chairs, a kitchen table and some beds. Then they encamped, as it 
 were, in the two parlours of the emptied house, and lived there night 
 and day. 
 
 All which is but the prelude to what remains to be described. 
 
 II 
 
 
 I* 1' 
 
 I' 
 
 HARD EXPERIENCES IN BOYHOOD 
 1822-4 
 
 The incidents to be told now would probab' - never have been known 
 to me, or indeed any of the occurrences ol ^as childhood and youth, 
 but for the accident of a question which I put to him one day in the 
 March or April of 1847. 
 
 I asked if he remembered ever having seen in his boyhood our 
 friend the elder Mr. Dilke, his father's acquaintance and contem- 
 porary, who had been a clerk in the same office in Somerset House 
 to which Mr. John Dickens belonged. Yes, he said, he recollected 
 seeing him at a house in Gerrard Street, whei his uncle Barrow 
 lodged during an illness, and Mr. Dilke had visited him. Never at 
 any other time. Upon which I told him that someone else had been 
 intended in the mention made to me, for that the reference implied 
 not merely his being met accidentally, but his having had some juvenile 
 employment in a warehouse near the Strand; at which place Mr. 
 Dilke, being with the elder Dickens one day, had noticed him, and 
 received, in return for the gift of a half-crown, a very low bow. He 
 was silent for several minutes; I felt that I had unintentionally 
 touched a painful place in his memory; and to Mr. Dilke I never spoke 
 of the subject again. It was not, however, then, but some weeks 
 later, that Dickens made further allusion to my thus having struck 
 unconsciously upon a time of which he never could lose the remem- 
 brance while he remembered anything, and the recollection of which, 
 at intervals, haunted him and made him miserable, even to that 
 hour. 
 
 Very shortly afterwards, I learnt in all their detail the incidents 
 that had been so painful to him, and what then was said to me or 
 written respecting them revealed the story of his boyhood. The idea 
 of David Copperfield, which was to take all the world into his con- 
 fidence, had not at this time occurred to him; but what it had so 
 startled me to know, his readers were afterwards told with only 
 such change or addition as for the time might sufficiently disguise 
 himself under cover of his hero. For, the poor little lad, with good 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 329 
 
 ability and a most sensitive nature, turned at the age of ten into a 
 "labouring hind" in the service of "Murdstone and Grinby." and 
 conscious already of what made it seem very strange to him that ho 
 could so easily have been thrown away at such an age, was indeed 
 himself. His was the secret agony of soul at findiig himself "com- 
 panion to Mick Walker and Mealy Potatoes," and his the tears that 
 mingled with the water in which he and they rinsed and washed out 
 bottles. It had all been written, as fact, before he thought of any other 
 use for it; and it was not until several months later, when the fancy 
 of David Copperfield. itself suggested by what he had so written of 
 his early troubles, began to take shape in his mind, that he abandoned 
 his first intention of writing his own life. Those warehouse experiences 
 fell then so aptly into the subject he had chosen, that he could not 
 resist the temptation of immediately using them; and the manu- 
 script recording them, which was but the first portion of what he had 
 designed to write, was embodied in the substance of the eleventh 
 and earlier chapters of his novel. What already had been sent to me. 
 however, and proof-sheets of the novel interlined at the time, enable 
 me now to separate the fact from the fiction; and to supply to the 
 story of the author's childhood those passages, omitted from the 
 book, which, apart from their illustration of the growth of his charac- 
 ter, present to us a picture of tragical suffering, and of tender as well 
 as humorous fancy, unsurpassed in even the wonders of his published 
 writings. 
 
 The person indirectly responsible for the scenes to be described 
 was the young relative James Lamert, the cousin by his aunt's 
 marriage of whom I have made frequent mention, who got up the 
 plays at Chatham, and after passing at Sandhurst had been living 
 with the family in Bayham Street in the hope of obtaining a com- 
 mission in the army. This did not come until long afterwards, when, 
 in consideration of his father's services, he received it, and relin- 
 quished it then in favour of a younger brother; but he had mean- 
 while, before the family removed from Camden Town, ceased to live 
 with them. The husband of a sister of his (of the same name as him- 
 self, being indeed his cousin, George Lamert), a man of some pro- 
 perty, had recently embarked in an odd sort of commercial specula- 
 tion; and had taken him into his office, and his house, to assist in it. 
 I give now the fragment of the autobiography of Dickens. 
 
 "This speculation was a rivalry of ' Warren's Blacking, 30, Strand,* 
 —at that time very famous. One Jonathan Warren (the famous one 
 was Robert), living at 30, Hungerford Stairs, or Market, Strand (for 
 I forget which it was called then), claimed to have been the original 
 inventor or proprietor of the blacking recipe, and to have been 
 deposed and ill-used by his renowned relation. At last he put himself 
 in the way of selling his recipe, and his name, and his 30, Hungerford 
 Stairs, Strand (30, Strand, very large, and the intermediate direction 
 very small), for an annuity; and he set forth by his agents that a 
 liltle capital would make a great business of it. The r n of sojtis 
 329* 
 
 .11 
 
 I. : [ 
 
330 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 If 
 
 '& 
 1 
 
 property was found in George Lamert, the cousin and brother-in- 
 law of James. He bought this right and title, and went into the 
 blacking business and the blacking premises. 
 
 " — In an evil hour for me, as I often bitterly thought. Its chief 
 manager, James Lamert, the relative who had lived with us in 
 Bayhani Street, seeing how I was employed from day to day, and 
 knowing what our domestic circumstances then were, proposed that 
 I should go into the blacking warehouse, to be as useful as I could, 
 at a salary, I think, of six shillings a week. I am not clear whether it 
 was six or seven. I am inclined to believe, from my uncertainty on 
 this head, that it was six at first, and seven afterwards. At any rate, 
 the offer was accepted very willingly by my father and mother, and 
 on a Monday morning I went down to the blacking warehouse to 
 begin my business life. 
 
 "It is wonderful to me how I could have been so easily cast away 
 at such an age. It is wonderful to me that, even after my descent into 
 the poor little drudge I had been since we came to London, no one 
 had compassion enough on me — a child of singular abilities: quick, 
 eager, delicate, and soon hurt, bodily or mentally — to suggest that 
 something might have been spared, as certainly it might have been, 
 to place me at any common school. Our friends, I take it, were tired 
 out. No one made any sign. My father and mother were quite satisfied. 
 They could hardly have been more so, if I had been twenty years of 
 age, distinguished at a grammar-school, and going to Cambridge. 
 
 "The blacking warehouse was the last house on the left-hand side 
 of the way, at old Hungerford Stairs. It was a crazy, tumble-down old 
 house, abutting of course on the river, and literally overrun with 
 rats. Its wainscotted rooms and its rotten floors and staircase, and 
 the old grey rats swarming down in the cellars, and the sound of their 
 squeaking and scuffling coming up the stairs at all times, and the dirt 
 and decay of the place, rise up visibly before me, as if I were there 
 again. The counting-house was on the first floor, looking over the 
 coal-barges and the river. There was a recess in it, in which I was to 
 sit and work. My work was tc cover the pots of paste-blacking: first 
 with a piece of oil-paper, and then with a piece of blue paper; to tie 
 them round with a string; and theij to clip the paper close and neat 
 all roimd, until it looked as smart as a pot of ointment from an 
 apothecary's shop. When a certain number of grosses of pots had 
 attained this pitch of perfection, I was to paste on each a printed 
 label; and then go on again with more pots. Two or three other boys 
 were kept at similar duty downstairs on similar wages. One of them 
 came up, in a ragged apron and a paper cap, on the first Monday 
 morning, to show me the trick of using the string and tying the knot. 
 His name was Bob Fagin; and I took the liberty of using his name, 
 long afterwards, in Oliver Twist. 
 
 "Our relative had kindly arranged to teach me something in the 
 dinner-hour; from twelve to one, I think it was; every day. But an 
 arrangement so incompatible with counting-house business soon died 
 
 it.' 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 331 
 
 away, from no fault of his or mine; and for the same reason, my small 
 work-table, and my grosses of pots, my papers, string, scissors, paste- 
 pot and labels, by little and little, vanished out of the recess in the 
 countmg-house, and kept company with the other small work-tables 
 grosses of pots, papers, string, scissors and paste-pots downstairs It 
 wap not long before Bob Fagin and I, and another boy whose name 
 was Paul Green, but who was currently believed to have been 
 christened Poll (a belief which I transferred, long afterwards, again 
 to Mr. Sweedlepipe, in Martin Chuzzlewit), worked generally, 3ide by 
 side. Bob Fagin was an orphan, and lived with his brother-in-law 
 a waterman. Poll Green's father had the additional distinction of 
 bemg a fireman, and was employed at Drury Lane theatre- where 
 another relation of Poll's. I think his little sister, did imps' in the 
 pantomimes. 
 
 "No words can express the secret agony of my soul as I sunk into 
 this companionship; compared these everyday associates with those 
 of my happier childhood; and felt my early hopes of growing up to be 
 a learned and distinguished man crushed in my breast. The deep 
 remembrance of the sense T had of being utterly neglected and hope- 
 less; of the shame I felt in my position; of the misery it ^'a.s to my 
 young heart to believe that, day by day. what I had learned, and 
 thought, and delighted in. and raised my fancy and my emulation up 
 by. was passing away from me. never to be brought back any more; 
 cannot be written. My whole nature was so penetrated with the 
 grief and humiliation of such considerations, that even now. famous 
 and caressed and happy, I often forget in my dreams that I have a 
 dear wife and children; even that I am a man; and wander desolately 
 back to that time of my life. 
 
 '"'Ty mother and my brothers and sisters (excepting Fanny in the 
 Royal Academy of Music) were still encamped, with a young servant- 
 girl from Chatham Workhouse, in the two parlours in the emptied 
 house in Gower Street North. It was a long way to go and return with- 
 in the dinner-hour, and, usually, I either carried my dinner with me, 
 or went and bought it at some neighbouring shop. In the latter case! 
 it was commonly a saveloy and a penny loaf; sometimes, a four- 
 penny plate of beef from a cook's shop; sometimes, a plate of bread 
 and cheese, and a glass of beer, from a miserable old public-house 
 over the way; the Swan, if I remember right, or the Swan and some- 
 thing else that I have forgotten. Once, I remember tucking my own 
 bread (which I had brought from home in the morning) under my 
 arm, wrapped up in a piece of paper like a book, and going into the 
 best dining-room in Johnson's alamode beef-house in Clare Court, 
 Drury Lane, and magnificently ordering a small plate of alamode 
 beef to eat with it. What the waiter thought of such a strange little 
 apparition, coming in all alone, I don't .mow; but I can see him now, 
 staring at me as I ate my dinner, and bringing up the other waiter to 
 look. I gave him a halfpenny, and I wish, now, that he hadn't taken 
 It." 
 
 f . 
 
 . i :A 
 
 m 
 
V 
 
 it' 
 
 ll 
 
 
 332 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 I lose here for a little while the fragment of direct narrative but I 
 perfectly recollect that he used to describe Saturday night as his creat 
 treat. It was a grand thing to walk home with six shillin-s in his 
 pocket and to look in at the shop windows, and think what 'it would 
 buy. Hunt s roasted corn, as a British and patriotic substitute for 
 coffee, was m great vogue just then; and the little fellow used to buv 
 It and roast it on the Sunday. There was a cheap periodical of 
 selected pieces called the Portfolio which he had also a great fancv for 
 taking h me with him. The new proposed "deed." mean vshile, had 
 failed to propitiate his father's creditors; all hope of arrangement 
 passed away; and the end was that his mother and her encampment in 
 Gower Street North broke up and went to live in the Marshalsea. I 
 am able at this point to resume his own account. 
 
 ' 71^^ ^^yP^ *^^ house was sent back to the landlord, who was -rv 
 glad to get It; and I (small Cain that I was. except that I had i 
 done harm to anyone) was handed over as a lodger to a reduce^ d 
 lady, long known to our family, in Little College Street. Camuen 
 Town who took children m to board, and had once done so at 
 Brighton; and who. with a few alterations and embellishments un- 
 ^^ciously began to sit for Mrs. Pipchin in Dombey. when she took 
 
 •■She had a little brother and sister under her care then; some- 
 body s natural children, who were very irregularly paid for- and a 
 widow s little son. The two boys and I slept in the same room. My own 
 exclusive breakfast, of a penny cottage loaf and a pennyworth of 
 milk, I provided for myself. I kept another small loaf, and a quarter 
 of a pound of cheese, on a particular shelf of a particular cupboard- to 
 make my supper on when I came back at night. They made a hole in 
 the six or seven shillings. I know well; and I was out at the blacking 
 warehouse all day, and had to support myself upon that money all 
 the week I suppose my lodging was paid for. by my father I cer- 
 tamly did not pay it myself; and I certainly had no other assistance 
 whatever (the making of my clothes. I think, excepted), from Monday 
 morning until Saturday night. No advice, no counsel, no encourage- 
 ment, no consolation, no support, from anyone that I can call to 
 mmd, so help me God. 
 
 in T^nflTt^^^^^.^S'^ ^ P^^'o^ ^" *^^ P"'°"- ^ ^^« at the academy 
 m Tenterden Street, Hanover Square, at nins o'clock in the morning 
 to fetch her; and we walked back there together at night 
 
 "I was so young and childish, and so little qualified—how roulH I 
 be otherwise -to undertake the whole charge of my own existence 
 that, in gom^ .0 Hungerford Stairs of a morning, I could not resist the 
 staJe pastry put out at half-price on trays at the confectioners' doors 
 in Tottenham Court Road; and I often spent in that the money I 
 should have kept for my dinner. Then I went without my dinner or 
 bougid a roll or a slice of pudding. There were two i-udding shops 
 between which I was divided, according tn mv finano^c o„^ .Z^^ :J^ 
 court close to St. Martin's Church (at the back of the church)" which 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 333 
 
 is now removed altogether. Tb ; pudding at that shop was made with 
 currants, and was rather a special pudding, but was dear: two 
 penn'orth not being larger than a penn'orth of more ordinary pud- 
 ding. A good shop for the latter was in the Strand, somewhere near 
 where the Lowther Arcade is now. It was a stout, hfle pudding, heavy 
 and flabby; with great raisins in it, stuck in whole, 'c great distances 
 apart. It came up hot, at about Uv^on every day; and many and many 
 a day did I dine off it. 
 
 "We had half an hour, I think, f .>r tea. When I had money eno jgh, 
 I used to go to a coffee-shop, and have half a pint of coffee, and a 
 slice of bread and butter. When I had no money, I took a turn in 
 Covent Garden Market, and stared at t>e pineapples. The coffee-shops 
 to which I most resorted were, one ii Vlaiden Lane; one in a court 
 (non-existent now) close to Hungeri ♦•d Market; and one in St. 
 Martin's Lane, of which I only recollect that it stood near the church, 
 and that in the door there was an oval glass plate, with coffee-room 
 painted on it, addressed towards the street. If I ever find myself in a 
 very different kind of coffee-room now, but v/here there is such an 
 inscription on glass, and read it backward on the wrong side moor- 
 EEFFOC (as I often used to do then, in a dismal reverie), a shock goes 
 through my blood. 
 
 "I know I do not exaggerate, unconsciously and unintentionally, 
 the scantiness of my resources and the difftculties of my life. I know 
 that if a shilling or so were given me by anyone, I spent it in a dinner 
 or a tea. I know that I worked, from morning to night, with common 
 men and boys, a sliabby child. I know that I tried, but ineffectually, 
 not to anticipate my money, and to make it last the week through by 
 putting it away in a drawer I had in the counting-house, wrapped 
 into six little parcels, each parcel containing the same amount, and 
 labelled with a different day. I know that I have lounged about the 
 streets, insufficiently and unsatisfactorily fed. I know that, but for 
 the mercy of God, I might easily have been, for any care that was 
 taken of me, a little robber or a little vagabond. 
 
 "But I held some station at the blacking warehouse too. Besides 
 that my relative at the counting-house did what a man so occupied, 
 and dealing with a thing so anomalous, could, to treat me as one 
 upon a different footing from the rest, I never said, to man or boy, 
 how it was that I came to be there, or gave the least indication of 
 being sorry that I was there. 'J'hat I suffered in secret, and that I 
 suffered exquisitely, no one ever knew but I. How much I suffered, 
 it is, as I have said already, utterly beyond my power to tell. No 
 man's imagination can overstep the reality. But I kept my own coun- 
 sel, and I did my work. I knew from the first that, if I could not do my 
 work as well as any of the rest, I could not hold myself above a slight 
 and contempt. I soon became at least as expeditious and as skilful 
 with my hands as either of the other boys. Though perfectly familiar 
 with them, my conduct and manners were different eiiougli from 
 theirs to place a space between us. They, and the men, always spoke 
 
 fi 
 
 Kl 
 
334 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 HI: 
 
 ■ 
 
 of me as 'the young gentleman.' A certain man (a soldier once) 
 named Thomas, who was the foreman, and another named Harry, 
 who was the carman and wore a red jacket, used to call me 'Charles' 
 sometimes, in speaking to me; but I think it was mostly when we were 
 very confidential, and when I had made some efforts to entertain 
 them over our work with the results of some of the old readings, 
 which were fast perishing out of my mind. Poll Green uprose onre, 
 and rebelled against the 'young-gentleman ' usage; but Bob Fagin 
 settled him speedily. 
 
 "My rescue from this kind of existence I considered quite hopeless, 
 and abandoned as such, altogether; though I am solemnly convinced 
 that 1 never, for one hour, was reconciled to it, or was otherwise than 
 miserably unhappy. I felt keenly, however, the being so cut off from 
 my parents, my brothers, and sisters; and. when my day's work was 
 done, going home to such a miserable blank; and that. I thought, 
 might be corrected. One Sunday night I remonstrated with my 
 father on this head, so pathetically and with so many tears, that his 
 kind nature gave way. He began to think that it was not quite right. 
 I do believe he had never thought so before, or thought about it. It was 
 the first remonstrance I had ever made about my lot, and perhaps it 
 opened up a little more than I intended. A back-attic was found for 
 me at the house of an insolvent court agent, who lived in Lant Street 
 in the Borough, where Bob Sawyer lodged many years afterwards. 
 A bed and bedding were sent over for me, and made up on the floor. 
 The little window had a pleasant prospect of a timber-yard; and 
 when I took possession of my nev: abode, I thought it was a 
 Paradise." 
 
 There is here another bl ^>k, -w > . It is, however, not difficult to 
 supply from letters and re . .die s of my own. What was to him 
 of course the great pleasure «-- .-j paradise of a lodging was its 
 bringing him again, though alter a fashion sorrv v^nough, within the 
 circle of home. From this time he used to breakfast "at home," in 
 other words in the Marshalsea; going to it as early as the gates were 
 open, and for the most part much earlier. They had no want of bodily 
 comforts there. His father's income, still going on, was amply suffi- 
 cient for that; and in every respect, indeed but elbow-room, I have 
 heard him say the family lived more comfortably in prison than they 
 had done for a long time oat of it. They were waited on still by the 
 maid-of-all-work from Bayham Street, the orphan girl of the 
 Chatham Workhouse, from whose sharp little worldly and also kindly 
 ways he took his first impression of the marchioness in the Old Curi- 
 osity Shop. She too had a lodging in the neighbourhood that she might 
 be early on the scene of her duties; and when Charles met her, as he 
 would do occasionally, in his lounging-place by London Bridge, he 
 would occupy the time before the gates opened by telling her quite 
 astonishing fictions about the wharves and the tower. "But I hope I 
 believed them myself," he would say. Besides breakfast, he had 
 supper also in the prison; and got to' his lodgino' , generally at nine 
 
 
er once) 
 1 Harry, 
 Charles' 
 we were 
 ntertain 
 eadings, 
 >se onre, 
 b Fagin 
 
 lopeless, 
 >nvinced 
 'ise than 
 off from 
 '^ork was 
 :hought, 
 nth my 
 that his 
 te right, 
 t. It was 
 rhaps it 
 )und for 
 it Street 
 ;rwards. 
 he floor, 
 xd; and 
 ; was a 
 
 ficult to 
 I to him 
 was its 
 thin the 
 me," in 
 tes were 
 f bodily 
 ly suffi- 
 
 I have 
 an they 
 [ by the 
 
 of the 
 ) kindly 
 Id Curi- 
 e might 
 r, as he 
 dgc, he 
 jr quite 
 
 hope I 
 he had 
 at nine 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 335 
 
 
 o'clock. The gatco closed always at ten. 
 
 I must not omit what he told me of the landlord of this little lodg- 
 ing. He was a fat, good-natured, kind old gentleman. He was lame, 
 and had a quiet old wife; and he had a very innocent grown-up son, 
 who was lame, too. They were all very kind to the boy. He was taken 
 with one of his old attacks of spasm one night, and the whole three 
 of them were about his bed lintil morning. They were all dead when 
 he told me this, but in another form they live still very pleasantly as 
 the Garland family in the Old Curiosity Shop. 
 
 He had a similar illness one day in the warehouse, which I can 
 describe in his own words, "Bob Fagin was very good to me on the 
 occasion of a bad attack of my old disorder. I suffered such excrucia- 
 ting pain that time, that they made a temporary bed of straw in my 
 old recess in the counting-house, and I rolled about on the floor, and 
 Bob filled empty blacking-bottles with hot water, and applied relays 
 of them to my side, half the day. I got better, and quite easy towards 
 evening; but Bob (who was much bigger and older than I) did not 
 like the idea of my going home alone, and took me under his protec- 
 tion. I was too proud to let him know about the prison; and after 
 making several efforts to get rid of him, to all of which Bob Fagin 
 n his goodness was deaf, shook hands with him on the steps of a 
 house near Southwark Bridge on the Surrey side, making believe that 
 I lived there. As a finishing piece of reality in case of his looking back, 
 I knocked at the door, I recollect, and asked, when the woman opened 
 it, if that was Mr. Robert Fagin's house." 
 
 The Saturday nights continued, as before, to be precious to him. 
 "My usual way home was over Blackfriars Bridge, and down that 
 turning in the Blackfriars Road which has Rowland Hill's chapel on 
 one side, and the likeness of a golden dog licking a golden pot over a 
 shop door on the other. There are a good many little low-browed old 
 shops in that street, of a wretched kind; and some are unchanged 
 now. I looked into one a few weeks ago, where I used to buy boot- 
 laces on Saturday nights, and saw the corner where I once sat down 
 on a stool to have a pair of ready-made half -boots fitted on. I have 
 been seduced more than once, in that street on a Saturday night, by 
 a sho^;^'-van at a corner; and have gone in, with a very motley 
 assemblage, to see the Fat Pig, the Wild Indian, and the Little 
 Lady, There were two or three hat-manufactories there, then (I 
 think they are there still); and among the things which, encountered 
 anywhere, or under any circumstances, will instantly recall that time, 
 is the smell of hat-making." 
 
 His father's attempts to avoid going through the court having 
 failed, all needful ceremonies had to be undertaken to obtain the 
 benefit of the Insolvent Debtors' Act; and in one of these little Charles 
 had his part to play. One condition o." the statute was that the 
 
 Wftarinp' annnrpl pnrl -nfrGnnnl ma+'-*>rc rofoirior! %trafo. nn*- 4-^ ^^^^^j 
 
 twenty pounds sterling in value. "It was necessary, as a matter of 
 form, that the clothes I wore should be seen by the official appraiser. 
 
 iJi 
 
 «..; 
 
336 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 V i. 
 
 1 
 
 I had a half-holiday to enable me to call upon him, at his own time 
 at a house somewhere beyond the Obelisk. I recollect his coming out 
 to look at me with his mouth full, and a strong smell of beer upon him 
 and saymg good-naturedly that 'that would do.' and 'it was all right.' 
 Certainly the hardest creditor would not have been disposed (even 
 if he had been legally entitled) to avail himself of my poor white hat 
 httle jacket, or corduroy trowsers. But I had a fat old silver watch in 
 my pocket, which had been given me by my grandmother before the 
 blackmg days, and I had entertained my doubts as I went along 
 whether that valuable possession might not bring me over the 
 twenty pounds. So I was greatly relieved, and made him a bow of 
 acknowledgment as I went out." 
 
 Still the want felt most by him was the companionship of ooys of 
 his own age. He had no such acquaintance. Sometimes, he remembered 
 to have played on the coal-barges at dinner-time with Poll Green and 
 Bob Fagm; but those were rare occasions. He generally strolled alone 
 about the back streets of the Adelphi; or explored the Adelphi 
 Arches. One of his favourite localities was a little public-house by 
 the water-side called the "Fox-under-the-HiU," approached by an 
 underground passage which we once missed in looking for it together- 
 and he had a vision which he has mentioned in Copperfield of sitting 
 eating something on a bench outside, one fine evening, and looking 
 at some coal-heavers dancing before the house. "I wonder what they 
 thought of me." says David. He had himself already said the same in 
 his fragment of autobiography. 
 
 Another characteristic little incident he made afterwards one of 
 David's experiences, but I am able to give it here without the 
 disguises that adapt it to the fiction. "I was such a little fellow with 
 my poor white hat. little jacket, and corduroy trowsers,' that 
 frequently, when I went into the bar of a strange public-house for a 
 glass of ale or porter to wash down the saveloy and the loaf I had 
 eaten m the street, they didn't like to give it me. I remember one 
 evening (I had been somewhere for my father, and was going back 
 to the Borough over Westminster Bridge), that I went into a public- 
 house m Parhameiit Street, which is still there though altered at the 
 corner of the short street leading into Cannon Row, and said to the 
 landlord behind the bar, 'What is your very best— the very best— 
 a.e, a glass?' For. the occasion was a festive one. for some reason- 
 I forget why. It may have been my birthday, or somebody else's 
 Twopence,' says he. 'Then,' says I, 'just draw me a glass of that if 
 you please, with a good head to it.' The landlord looked at me in 
 return, over the bar. from head to foot, with a strange smile on 'his 
 face; and instead of drawing the beer, looked round the screen and 
 said something to his wife, who came out from behind it, with her 
 work m her hand, and joined him in surveying me. Here we stand 
 all three, before me now, in my study in Devonshire Terrace. The 
 ianaiora, m nis shirt-sleeves, leaning against the bar window-frame- 
 bis wife, looking over the little half-door; and I, in some confusion' 
 
wn time, 
 ming out 
 pon him, 
 dl right.' 
 ed (even 
 hite hat, 
 watch in 
 sfore the 
 nt along 
 )ver the 
 I bow of 
 
 • Doys of 
 embered 
 reen and 
 ;d alone, 
 Adelphi 
 ouse by 
 d by an 
 ogether; 
 f sitting 
 looking 
 lat they 
 same in 
 
 J one of 
 out the 
 •w, with 
 :s, that 
 ise for a 
 if I had 
 Der, one 
 ig back 
 
 public- 
 i, at the 
 1 to the 
 { best — 
 reason: 
 ' else's, 
 that, if 
 
 me, in 
 > on his 
 en and 
 ith her 
 
 stand, 
 :e. The 
 -frame; 
 [fusion, 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 337 
 
 looking up at them from outside the partition. They asked me a good 
 many questions, as what my name was, how old I was, where I lived, 
 how I was employed, etc. To all of which, that I might commit no- 
 body, I invented appropriate answers. They served me with the ale, 
 though I suspect it was not the strongest on the premises; and the 
 landlord's wife, opening the little half-door and bending down, gave 
 me a kiss that was half-admiring and half-compassionate, but all 
 womanly and good, I am sure." 
 
 A later, and not less characteristic, occurrence of the true story of 
 this time found also a place, three or four years after it was written, 
 in his now famous fiction. It preceded but by a short term the dis- 
 charge, from the Marshalsea, of the elder Dickens; to whom a rather 
 considerable legacy from a relative had accrued not long before 
 ("sonie hundreds," I understood), and had been paid into court 
 during his imprisonment. The scene to be described arose on the 
 occasion of a petition drawn up by him before he left, praying, not 
 for the abolition of imprisonment for debt, as David Copperfield 
 relates, but for the less dignified but more accessible boon of a 
 bounty to the prisoners to drink His Majesty's health on His Majesty's 
 forthcoming birthday. 
 
 ' ' I mention the circumstance because it illustrates, to me, my early 
 interest in observing people. When I went to the Marshalsea of a 
 night, I was always delighted to hear from my mother what she knew 
 about the histories of the different debtors in the prison; and when I 
 heard of this approaching ceremony, I was so anxious to see them all 
 come in, one after another (though I knew the greater part of them 
 already, to speak to, and they me), that I got leave of absence on 
 purpose, and established myself in a corner, near the petition. It 
 was stretched out, I recollect, on a great ironing-board, under the 
 window, which in another part of the room made a bedstead at night. 
 The internal regulations of the place, for cleanliness and order, and 
 for the government of a common room in the ale-house, where hot 
 water and some means of cooking, and a good fire, were provided for 
 all who paid a very small subscription, were excellently administered 
 by a governing committee of debtors, of which my father was chair- 
 man for the time being. As many of the principal officers of this body 
 as could be got into the small room without filling it up supported 
 him, in front of the petition; and my old friend Captain Porter (who 
 had washed himself, to do honour to so solemn an occasion) stationed 
 himself close to it, to read it to all who were unacquainted with its 
 contents. The door was then thrown open, and they began to come 
 in, in a long file; several waiting on the landing outside, while one 
 entered, affixed his signature, and went out. To everybody in succes- 
 sion Captain Porter said, 'Would you like to hear it read?' If he 
 weakly showed the least disposition to hear it, Captain Porter, in a 
 
 1„ ^1 :__ 1 • __ 1 r ■ , -r . . . 
 
 
 tit ill. vvvaV rr \j± 
 
 ■iU Kjl iL. i iCiliCiiiUCl U. UCl lUill 
 
 luscious roll he gave to such words as 'Majesty — gracious Majesty 
 
 your gracious Majesty's unfortunate subjects — your Majesty's well- 
 
 
 * Ji 
 
m 
 
 ^ 
 
 1! 
 
 If! 
 
 3?k 
 
 ; 5 
 
 \ . 1 
 
 It • 
 
 ft^ 
 
 338 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 known munificence'— as if the words were something real in his 
 n uth, and delicious to taste: my poor father meanwhile listening 
 with a httle of an author's vanity, and contemplating (not severelyT 
 the spikes on the opposite wall. Whatever was comical in this scene 
 and whatever was pathetic, I sincerely believe I perceived in my 
 corner, whether I demonstrated or not, quite as well as I should 
 perceive it now. I made out my own little character and story for 
 every man who put his name to the sheet of paper. I might be able 
 to do that now. more truly: not more earnestly, or with a closer 
 interest. Their different peculiarities of dress, of face, of gait, of 
 manner, were written indelibly upon my memory. I would rather 
 have seen it than the best play ever played; and I thought about it 
 afterwards, over the pots of paste-blacking, often and often. When 
 I looked, with my mind's eye, into the Fleet Prison during Mr 
 Pickwick's incarceration, I wonder whether half a dozen men were 
 wanting from the Marshalsea crowd that came filing in again to the 
 sound of Captain Porter's voice ! " 
 
 When the family left the Marshalsea they all went to lodge with 
 the lady in Little College Street, a Mrs. Roylance, who has obtained 
 unexpected immortality as Mrs. Pipchin; and they afterwards 
 occupied a small house in Somers Town. But, before this time Charles 
 was present with some of them in Tenterden Street to see his sister 
 Fanny receive one of the prizes given to the pupils of the Royal 
 Academy of Music. "I could not bear to think of myself— beyona the 
 reach of all such honourable emulation and success. The tears ran 
 down my face. I felt as if my heart were rent. I prayed, when I went 
 to bed that night, to be lifted out of the humiliation and neglect in 
 which I was. I never had suffered so much before. There was no envy 
 in this." There was little need that he should say so. Extreme enjoy- 
 ment in witnessing the exercise of her talents, the utmost pride m 
 every success obtained by them, he manifested always to a degree 
 otherwise quite unusual with him; and on the day of her funeral 
 which we passed together, I had most affecting proof of his tender 
 and grateful memory of her in these childish days. A few more 
 sentences, certainly not less touching than any that have gone before 
 will bring the story of them to its close. They stand here exactly as 
 written by him. ^ 
 
 "I am not sure that it was before this time, or after it, that the 
 blacking warehouse was removed to Chandos Street, Covent Garden 
 It IS no matter. Next to the shop at the corner of Bedford Street 
 in Chandos Street, are two rather old-fashioned houses and shops 
 adjoining one another. They were one then, or thrown into one for 
 the blacking business; and had been a butter shop. Opposite to them 
 was, and is, a public-house, where I got my ale, under these new 
 circumstances. The stones in the street may be smoothed by my small 
 feet going across to it at dinner-time, and back acain. THr PstabH«h- 
 ment was larger now, and we had one or two new boys. Bob Fagin 
 and I had attained to great dexterity in tying up the pots. I forget 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 339 
 
 how many we could do in five minutes. We worked, for the light's 
 sake, near the second window as you come from Bedford Street; and 
 we were so brisk at it, that the people used to stop and look in. 
 Sometimes there would be quite a little crowd there. I saw my 
 father coming in at the door one day when we were very busy, and 
 I wondered how he could bear it. 
 
 "Now, I generally had my dinner in the warehouse. Sometimes I 
 brought it from home, so I was better off. I see myself coming across 
 Russell Square from Somers Town, one morning, with some cold 
 hotch-potch in a small basin tied up in a handkerchief. I had the 
 same wanderings about the streets as I used to have, and was just 
 as solitary and self-dependent as before; but I had not the same 
 difficulty in merely living. I never, however, heard a word of being 
 taken away, or of being otherwise than quite provided for. 
 
 "At last, one day, my father and the relative so often mentioned 
 quarrelled; quarrelled by letter, for I took the letter from my father 
 to him which caused the explosion, but quarrelled very fiercely. It 
 was about me. It may have had some backward reference, in part, 
 for anything I know, to my employment at the window. All I am 
 certain of is that, soon after I had given him the letter, my cousin 
 (he was a sort of cousin, by marriage) told me he was very much 
 insulted about me; and that it was impossible to keep me, after that. 
 I cried very much, partly because it was so sudden, and partly 
 because in his anger he was violent about my father, though gentle 
 to me. Thomas, the old soldier, comforted me, and said he was sure 
 it was for the best. With a relief so strange that it was like oppression, 
 I went home. 
 
 "My mother set herself to accommodate the quarrel, and did so 
 next day. She brought home a request for me to return next morning, 
 and a high character of me, which I am very sure I deserved. My 
 father said I should go back no more, and should go to school. I do 
 not write resentfully or angrily: for I know how all these things have 
 worked together to make me what I am: but I never afterwards 
 forgot, I never shall forget, I never can forget, that my mother was 
 warm for my being sent back. 
 
 "From that hour until this at which I write, no word of that part 
 of my childhood which I have now gladly brought to a close, has 
 passed my lips to any human being. I have no idea how long it lasted; 
 whether for a year, or much more, or less. From that hour, until 
 this, my father and my mother have been stricken dumb upon it. 
 I have never heard the least allusion to it, however far off and 
 remote, from either of them. I have never, until I now impart it to 
 this paper, in any burst of confidence with anyone, my own wife not 
 excepted, raised the curtain I then dropped, thank God. 
 
 "Until old Hungerford Market was pulled down, until old Hunger- 
 ford Stairs were destroyed, and the very nature of the ground changed, 
 I never had the courage to go back to the place where my servitude 
 began. I never saw it. 7 could not endure to go near it. For many 
 
 I III 
 5 ; III 
 
340 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 f 
 
 
 years, when I came near to Robert Warrens' in the Strand, I crossed 
 over to the opposite side of the way, to avoid a certain smell of the 
 cement they put upon the blacking-corks, which reminded me of what 
 I was once. It was a very long time before I liked to go up Chandos 
 Street. My old way home by the Borough made me cry, after my 
 eldest child rould speak. 
 
 "In my walks at night I have walked there often, since then, and 
 by degrees I have come to write this. It does not seem a tithe of 
 what I might have written, or of what I meant to write." 
 
 The substance of some after-talk explanatory of points in the 
 narrative, of which a note was made at the time, may be briefly 
 added. He could hardly have been more than twelve years old when 
 he left the place, and was still unusually small for his age; much 
 smaller, though two years older, than his own eldest son was at the 
 time of these confidences. His mother had been in the blacking 
 warehouse many times; his father not more than once or twice. 
 The rivalry of Robert Warren by Jonathan's representatives, the 
 cousins George and James, was carried to wonderful extremes in the 
 way of advertisement; and they were all very proud, he told me, of 
 the cat scratching the boot, which was their house's device. The poets 
 in the house's regular employ he remembered, too, and made his 
 first study from ohe of them for the poet of Mrs Jarley's waxwork. 
 The whole enterprise, however, had the usual end of such things. 
 The younger cousin tired of the concern; and a Mr. Wood, the pro- 
 prietor who took James's share and became George's partner, sold 
 it ultimately to Robert Warren. It continued to be his at the time 
 Dickens and myself last spoke of it together, and he had made an 
 excellent bargain of it. 
 
 si 
 
 
 -^ 
 
 r ? f 
 lift 
 
 liii 
 
 III 
 
 SCHOOL-DAYS AND START IN LIFE 
 1824-30 
 
 In what way those strange experiences of his boyhood affected him 
 afterwards, the narrative of his life must show: but there were 
 influences that made themselves felt even on his way to manhood. 
 What at once he brought out of the humiliation that had impressed 
 him so deeply, though scarcely as yet quite consciously, was a natural 
 dread of the hardships that might still be in store for him, sharpened 
 by what he had gone through; and this, though in its effect for the 
 present imperfectly understood, became by degrees a passiOx...te 
 
 circumstances were conspiring to make him. All that was involved in 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ,te 
 
 341 
 
 what he had suffered and sunk into could not have been known to 
 him at the time; but it was plain enough later, as we see; and in 
 conversation with me after the revelation was made, he used to find, 
 at extreme points in his life, the explanation of himself in those early- 
 trials. He had derived great good from them, but not without alloy. 
 The fixed and eager determination, the restless and resistless energy, 
 which opened to him opportunities of escape from many mean 
 environments, not by turning off from any path of duty, but by 
 resolutely rising to such excellence or distinction as might be attain- 
 able in it, brought with it some disadvantage among many noble 
 advantages. Of this he was himself av/2re, but not to the full extent. 
 What it was that in society made him often uneasy, shrinking, and 
 over-sensitive, he knew; but all the danger he ran in bearing down 
 and over-mastering the feeling, he did not know. A too great con- 
 fidence in himself, a sense that everything was possible to the will 
 that would make it so, laid occasionally upon him self-imposed 
 burdens greater than might be borne by anyone with sp 'cty. In that 
 direction there was in him, at such times, something . en hard and 
 aggressive; in his determinations a something that had almost the 
 tone of fierceness; something in his nature that made his resolves 
 insuperable, however hasty the opinions on which the^-- had been 
 formed. So rare were these manifestations, however, and so little did 
 they prejudice a character as entirely open and generous as it was at 
 all times ardent and impetuous, that only very infrequently, towards 
 the close of the middle term of a friendship which lasted without the 
 interruption of a day for more than three and thirty years, were they 
 ever unfavourably presented to me. But there they were; and v.'hen 
 I have seen strangely present, at such chance intervals, a stern and 
 even cold isolation of self-reliance side by side with a susceptivity 
 almost feminine and the most eager craving for sympathy, it has 
 seemed to me as though his habitual impulses for everything kind 
 and gentle had sunk, for the time, under a sudden hard and inexorable 
 sense of what Fate had dealt to him in those early years. On more 
 than one occasion indeed I had confirmation of this. "I must entreat 
 you," he wrote to me in June 1862, "to pause for an instant, and go 
 back to what you know of my childish days, and to ask yourself 
 whether it is natural that something of the character formed in me 
 then, and lost under happier circumstances, should have reappeared 
 in the last five years. The never-to-be-forgotten misery of that old 
 time bred a certain shrinking sensitiveness in a certain ill-clad, ill-fed 
 child, that I have found come back in the never-to-be-forgotten 
 misery of this later time." 
 
 One good there was, however, altogether without drawback, and 
 which claims simply to be mentioned before my narrative is resumed. 
 The story of his childish misery has itself sufficiently shown that he 
 
 never throuofhout it lost his 
 
 ■nrooirvnc 
 
 gift of animal spirits, or 
 
 1113 
 
 native capacity for humorous enjoyment; and there were positive 
 gains to him from what he underwent which were also rich and last- 
 
342 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 
 I 
 
 ;r 
 
 ing. To what in the outset of his difficulties and trials gave the 
 decisive bent to his genius. I have already made special reference; 
 and we are to observe, of what followed, that with the very poor and 
 unprosperous. out of whose sufferings and strugglings, and the 
 virtues as well as vices born of them, his not least splendid successes 
 were wrought, his childish experiences had made him actually one. 
 They were not his clients whose cause he pleaded with such pathos 
 and humour, and on whose side he got the laughter and tears of all 
 the world, but in some sort his very self. Nor was it a small part of 
 this manifest advantage that he should have obtained his experience 
 as a child and not as a man; that only the good part, the flower and 
 fruit of it, was plucked by him; and that nothing of the evil part, 
 none of the earth in which the seed was planted, remained to soil 
 him. 
 
 His next move in life can also be given in his own language. 
 "There was a school in the Hampstead Road kept by Mr. Jones, a 
 Welshman, to which my father dispatched me to ask for a card of 
 terms. The boys were at dinner, and Mr. Jones was carving for them, 
 with a pair of holland sleeves on, when I acquitted myself of this 
 commission. He came out, and gave me what I wanted; and hoped 
 I should become a, pupil. I did. At seven o'clock one morning, very 
 soon afterwards, I went as day scholar to Mr. Jones's establishment, 
 which was in Momington Place, and had its school-room sliced away 
 by the Birmingham Railway, when that change came about. The 
 school-room however was not threatened by directors or civil engin- 
 eers then, aii^ there was a board over the door graced with the words 
 Wellington House Academy." 
 
 At Wellington House Academy he remained nearly two years, 
 being a little over fourteen years of age when he quitted it. In his 
 minor writings, as well as in Copperfield, will be found general 
 allusions to it, and there is a paper among his pieces reprinted from 
 Household Words which purports specifically to describe it. To the 
 account therein given of himself when he went to the school, as 
 advanced enough, so safely had his memory retained its poor frag- 
 ments of early schooling, to be put into Virgil, as getting sundry 
 prizes, and as attaining to the eminent position of its first boy, one 
 of his two schoolfellows with whom I have had communication, 
 makes objection; but both admit that the general features of the 
 place are reproduced with wonderful accuracy, and more especially 
 m those points for which the school appears to have been much more 
 notable than for anything connected with the scholarship of its 
 pupils. 
 
 In the reprinted piece Dickens describes it as remarkable for white 
 mice. He says that red-polls, linnets, and even canaries, were kept by 
 the boys m desks, drawers, hat-boxes, and other strange refuges for 
 birds; but that white mice were the favourite stock, and that the 
 Doys trained the mice much better than the master trained the boys. 
 He recalled in particular one white mouse who lived in the cover of 
 
 ill 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 343 
 
 a Latm dictionary, ran up ladders, drew Roman chariots, shouldered 
 muskets, turned wheels, and even made a very creditable appearance 
 on the stage as the Dog of Montargis, who might have achieved 
 greater things but for having had the misfortune to mistake his way 
 in a triumphal procession to the Capitol, when he fell into a deep 
 inkstand, and was dyed black and drowned. 
 
 Nevertheless, he mentions the school as one also of some celebrity 
 m Its neighbourhood, though nobody could have said why; and adds 
 that among the boys the master was supposed to know nothing, and 
 one of the ushers was supposed to know everything. "We are still 
 inclined to think the first named supposition perfectly correct We 
 went to look at the place only this last midsummer, and found that 
 the railway had cut it up, root and branch. A great trunk line had 
 a swallowed the playground, sliced away the school-room, and pared 
 I off the corner of the house. Which, thus curtailed of its proportions 
 presented itself in a green stage of stucco, profile-wise towards 
 the road, like a forlorn fiat-iron without a handle standing on 
 end." ° 
 
 One who knew him in those early days, Mr. Owen P Thomas 
 thus writes to me (February 1871): "I had the honour of being 
 Mr. Dickens's schoolfellow for about two years (1824-6). both being 
 day-scholars at Mr. Jones's 'Classical and Commercial Academy ' 
 I as then inscribed in front of the house. ... My recollection of 
 Dickens whilst at school is that of a healthy-looking boy, small but 
 well-built, with a more than usual flow of spirits, inducing to harmless 
 fun, seldom or ever I think to mischief, to which so many lads at 
 that age are prone. I cannot recall anything that then indicated he 
 would hereafter become a literary celebrity; but perhaps he was too 
 young then. He usually held his head more erect than lads ordinarily 
 do, and there was a general smartness about him. His week-day dress 
 of jacket and trousers, I can clearly remember, was what is called 
 pepper-and-salt; and instead of the frill that most boys cf his age 
 wore then, he had a turn-down collar, so that he looked less youthful 
 in consequence. He invented what we termed a ' lingo,' produced by 
 the addition of a few letters of the same sound to every word- and 
 It was our ambition, walking and talking thus along the street, to be 
 considered foreigners. As an alternate amusement, the present writer 
 well remembers extemporising tales of some sort, and reciting them 
 offhand, with Dickens and Danson or Tobin walking on either side 
 of him. ..." 
 
 To Mr. Thomas's letter the reader will thank me for adding one 
 not less interesting, with which Dr. Henry Danson has favoured me. 
 We have here, with the same fun and animal spirits, a little of the 
 proneness to mischief which his other schoolfellow says he was 
 free from; but the mischief is all of the harmless kind, and might 
 perhaps have been better described as but part of an irrepressible 
 
 vi\ 
 
 'My impression is that I was a schoolfellow of Dickens for nearly 
 
 Is 
 
 ; S 
 
 — 
 
 
 * 
 
 : 
 
344 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 II 
 
 f 
 
 two years: he left before me, I think at about fifteen years of age. 
 Mr. Jones's school, called the Wellington Academy, was in the 
 Hampstead Road, at the north-east corner of Granby Street, The 
 school-home was afterwards removed for the London and North- 
 western Railway. It was considered at the time a very superior sort 
 of school, one of the best, indeed, in that part of London; but it was 
 most shamefully mismanaged, and the boys made but very little 
 progress. The proprietor, Mr. Jones, was a Welshman; a most 
 ignorant fellow, and a mere tyrant; whose chief employment was to 
 scourge the boys. Dickens has given a very lively account of this 
 place in his paper entitled 'Our School,' but it is very mythical in 
 many respects, and more especially in the compliment he pays in it 
 to himself. I do not remember that Dickens distinguished himself in 
 any way, or carried off any prizes. My belief is that he did not learn 
 Greek or Latin there, and you will remember there is no allusion to 
 the classics in any of his writings. He was a handsome, curly-headed 
 lad, full of animation and animal spirits, and probably was connected 
 with every mischievous prank in the school. I do not think he came 
 in for any of Mr. Jones's scourging propensity; in fact, together with 
 myself, he was only a day-pupil, and with these there was a whole- 
 some fear of tales being carried home to the parents. His personal 
 appearance at that time is vividly brought home to me in the 
 portrait of him taken a few years later by Mr. Lawrence. He resided 
 with his friends in a very small house in a street leading out of 
 Seymour Street, n(?rth of Mr. Judkin's chapel. 
 
 "Depend on it he was quite a self-made man, and his wonderful 
 knowledge and command of the English language must have been 
 acquured by long and patient study after lea ing his last school. 
 
 "I have no recollection of the boy you name. His chief associates 
 were, I think, Tobin. Mr. Thomas Bray, and myself. The first-named 
 was his chief ally, and his acquaintance with him appears to have 
 continued many years afterwards. At about that time penny and 
 Saturday magazines were published vveekly, and were greedily read 
 by us. We kept bees, white mice, and other living things clandestinely 
 in our desks; and the mechanical arts were a good deal cultivated, 
 in the shape of coach-building, and making pumps and boats, the 
 motive power of which was the white mice. 
 
 "I think at that time Dickens took to writing small tales, and we 
 had a sort of club for lending and circulating them. Dickens was also 
 very strong in using a sort of lingo, which made us quite unintelligible 
 to bystanders. We were very strong, too, in theatricals. We mounted 
 small theatres, and got up very gorgeous scenery to illustrate the 
 Miller and his Men and Cherry and Fair Star. I remember the present 
 Mr. Beverley, the scene-painter, assisted us in this. Dickens was 
 always a leader at these plays, which were occasionally presented 
 with much solemnity before an audience of boys, and in the presence 
 of the ushers. My brother, assisted by Dickens, got up the Miller 
 and his Men, in a very gorgeous form. Master Beverley constructed 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 345 
 
 the mill for us in such a way that it could tumble to pieces with the 
 assistance of crackers. At one representation the fireworks in the last 
 scene, ending with the destruction of the mill, were so very real that 
 the police interfered, and knocked violently at the doors. Dickens's 
 after-taste for theatricals might have had its origin in these small 
 affairs. 
 
 ' ' I quite remember Dickens on one occasion heading us in Drum- 
 mond Street in pretending to be poor boys, and asking the passers-by 
 for charity — especially old ladies; one of whom told us she 'had no 
 money for beggar boys.' On these adventures, when the old ladies 
 were quite staggered by the impudence of the demand, Dickens 
 would explode with laughter and take to his heels. 
 
 ' ' I met him one Sunday morning shortly after he left the school, 
 and we very piously attended the morning service at Seymour Street 
 chapel. I am sorry to say Master Dickens did not attend in the 
 slightest degree to the service, but incited me to laughter by declaring 
 his dinner was ready and the potatoes would be spoiled, and in fact 
 behaved in such a manner that it was lucky for us we were not 
 ejected from the chapel. 
 
 "I heard of him some time after from Tobin, whom 1 met carrying 
 a foaming pot of London particular in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and I 
 then understood that Dickens was in the same or some neighbouring 
 office. . . ." 
 
 Dickens had not quitted school many months before his father had 
 made sufficient interest with an attorney of Gray's Inn, Mr. Edward 
 Blackmore, to obtain him regular employment in his office. In this 
 capacity of clerk, our only trustworthy glimpse of him we owe to 
 the last-named gentleman, who has described briefly, and I do not 
 doubt authentically, the services so rendered by him to the law. It 
 cannot be said that they were noteworthy, though it might be difficult 
 to find a more distinguished person who has borne the title, unless 
 we make exception for the very father of literature himself, whom 
 Chaucer, with amusing illustration of the way in which words change 
 their meanings, calls "that conceited clerke Homdre." 
 
 "I was well acquainted," writes Mr. Edward Blackmore of Aires- 
 ford, "with his parents, and, being then in practice in Gray's Inn, 
 they asked me if I could find employment for him. He was a bright, 
 clever-looking youth, and I took him as a clerk. He came to me in 
 May 1827, and left in November 1828; and I have now an account- 
 book which he used to keep of petty disbursements in the office, in 
 which he charged himself with the modest salary first of thirteen 
 shillings and sixpence, and afterwards of fifteen shillings a week. 
 Several incidents took place in the office of which he must have been 
 a keen observer, as I recognised some of them in his Pickwick and 
 Nickleby; and I am much mistaken if some of his characters had not 
 their ori"ir..^.lfi in 'oersons I well remember. His taste for theatricals 
 was much promoted by a feliow-clerk named Potter, since dead, 
 with whom he chiefly associated. They took every opportunity, 
 
 I f 11 
 
 
 ( >s 
 
346 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 then unknown to me. of going together to a minor theatre, where (I 
 afterwards heard) they not unfrequently engaged in parts. After he 
 left me I saw him at times in the lord chancellor's court, taking notes 
 of cases as a reporter. I then lost sight of him until his Pickwick 
 made its appearance." This letter indicates the position he held at 
 Mr. Blackmore's; and we have but to turn to the passage in Pickwick 
 which describes the several grades of attorney's clerk, to understand 
 It more clearly. He was very far below the articled clerk, who has 
 paid a premium and is attorney in perspective. He w£.s not so high as 
 the salaried clerk, with nearly the whole of his weekly thirty shillings 
 spent on his personal pleasures. He was not even on a level with the 
 middle-aged copying clerk, always needy and uniformly shabby. He 
 was simply among, however his own nature may have lifted him 
 above, the "office-lads in their first surtouts. who feel a befitting con- 
 tempt for boys at day-schools, club as they go home at night for 
 saveloys and porter, and think there's nothing like life." Thus far 
 not more or less, had he now reached. He was one of the office-lads' 
 and probably in his first surtout. 
 
 But. even thus, the process of education went on, defying what 
 seemed to interrupt it; and in the amount of his present equipment 
 for his needs of life, what he brought from the Wellington House 
 Academy can have borne but the smallest proportion to his acquire- 
 ment at Mr. Blackmore's. Yet to seek to identify, without help from 
 himself, any passages in his books with those boyish law-experiences 
 would be idle and hopeless enough. In the earliest of his writings' 
 and down to the very latest, he worked exhaustively the field which 
 is opened by an attorney's office to a student of life and manners- but 
 we have not now to deal with his numerous varieties of the genus 
 clerk drawn thus for the amusement of others, but with the acquisi- 
 tions which at present he was storing up for himself from the oppor- 
 tunities such offices opened to him. Nor would it be possible to have 
 better illustrative comment on all these years than is furnished by 
 his father's reply to a friend it was now hoped to interest on his 
 behalf, which more than once I have heard him whimsically but 
 good-humouredly imitate. "Pray. Mr. Dickens, where was your son 
 educated.?" "Why, indeed. Sir— haf ha!— he may be said to have 
 educated himself!" Of the two kinds of education which Gibbon says 
 that all men who rise above the common level receive: the first that 
 of his teachers, and the second, more personal and more important 
 his own- he had the advantage only of the last. It nevertheless 
 sufficed for him. 
 
 Very nearly another v,ighteen months were now to be spent mainly 
 m practical preparation for what he was, at this time, led finally to 
 choose as an employment from which a fair income was certain with 
 such talents as he possessed; his father already having taken to it 
 m these latter years, in aid of the family resources. In his father's 
 huuoc, which was at Hampstead through the first portion of the 
 Momington Street school-time, then in the house ont of Seymour 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 347 
 
 Street mentioned by Mr. Danson, and afterwards, upon the elder 
 Dickens going into the gallery as a reporter for the Morning Herald, 
 in Bentinck Street, Manchester Square, CharLj had continued to 
 live: and, influenced doubtless by the example before him, he took 
 sudden determination to qualify himself thoroughly for what his 
 father was lately become, a newspaper parliamentary reporter. He 
 set resolutely therefore to the study of shorthand; and, for the addi- 
 tional help of such general information about books as a fairly 
 educated youth might be expected to have, as well as to satisfy 
 some higher personal cravings, he became an assiduous attendant in 
 the British Museum reading-room. He would frequently refer to 
 these days as decidedly the usefullest to himself he had ever passed; 
 and judging from the results they must have been so. No man who 
 knew him in later years, and talked to him familiarly of books and 
 things, would have suspected his education in boyhood, almost 
 entirely self-acquired as it was, to have been so rambling or hap- 
 hazard as I have here described i<;. The secret consisted in this, thai 
 whatever for the lime he had to do, he lifted himself, there and then , 
 to the level of, and at no time disregarded the rules that guided the 
 hero of his novel: "Whatever I have tr'^^d to do in life, I have tried 
 with all my heart to do well. What I iiaVv' devoted myself to, I have 
 devoted myself to complo^ely. Never t' put one hand to anything 
 on which I could throw ^ y whole self, aud never to affect deprecia- 
 tion of my work, whatever it w^as, I find now to have been my golden 
 rules." 
 
 Of the difficulties that beset his shorthand studies, as well as of 
 what first turned his mind to them, he has told also something in 
 Copperfield. He had heard that many men distinguished in variou'^. 
 pursuits had begun life by reporting the debates in parliamer-^ and 
 he was not deterred by a friend's w^arning that the mere mec^.aaical 
 accompl'«>>ment for excellence in it might take a 'ew y^ars to master 
 thoroughly: "a perfect and entire command of the m>sl' ry of short- 
 hand writing and reading being about equal in difficulty to the 
 mastery of six languages." Undaunted, he plunged into it. ^.elf- 
 teaching in this as in graver things; and, having bought Mr. Gurney's 
 half-guinea book, worked steadily his way through its distractions. 
 "The changes that were rung upon dots, which in such a position 
 meant such a thing, and in such another position something else 
 entirely different; the wonderful vagaries that were played by circles: 
 the unaccountable consequences that resulted from marks like flies' 
 legs; the tremendous effects of a curve in a wrong place, not only 
 troubled my waking hours, but reappeared before me in my sleep. 
 When I had groped my way, blindly, through these difficulties, and 
 had mastered the alphabet, there then appeared a procession of new 
 horrors, called arbitrary characters; the most despotic characters I 
 have ever known; who insistea, for instance, that a thing like the 
 
 \ rfl 
 
 "cgii 
 
 g ui .3. -cuuvvcL? iiicuiii. c;ipci;uiuuii, una lli'dX a p^n-ana-iuK 
 
 sky-rocket stood for 'disadvantageous.' When I had fixed these 
 
 'i^^-i 
 
348 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ft 
 
 f "1 
 
 ■ ^ 
 
 wretches in my mind, I found that they had driven everything else 
 out of It; then, beginning again, I forgot them; while I was picking 
 them up, I dropped the other fragments of the system- in short it 
 was almost heart-breaking." 
 
 What it was that made it not quite heart-breaking to the hero of 
 the fiction, its readers know; and something of the same kind was 
 now to enter into the actual experience of its writer. First let me sav 
 however, that after subduing to his wants in marvellously quick 
 time this unruly and unaccommodating servant of stenograpbv 
 what he most desired was still not open to him. "There never was 
 such a shorthand- writer," has been often said to me by Mr Beard 
 the friend he first made in that line when he entered the gallerv and 
 with whom to the close of his life he maintained the friendliest'inter- 
 course. But there was no opening for him in the gallery yet He hat 
 to pass nearly two years as a reporter for one of the ofnces in Doctors' 
 Commons, having made attempt even in the direction of the stac- to 
 escape such drudgery, before he became a sharer in parliamentary 
 toils and triumphs; and what sustained his young hero throutjh 
 something of the same sort of trial was also his own support He too 
 had his Dora, at apparently the same hopeless elevation- striven for 
 as the one only thing to be attained, and even more unattainable for 
 neither did he succeed nor happily did she die; but the one idol 'like 
 the other, supplying a motive to exertion for the time, and otherwise 
 opening out to the idolater, both in fact and fiction, a highly unsub- 
 stantial, happy, foolish time. I used to laugh and tell him I had no 
 belief m any but the book Dora, until the incident of a sudden re- 
 appearance of the real one in his life, nearly six years after Copperfield 
 was written, convinced me there had been a more actual foundation 
 for thos'^ chapters of his book than I was ready to suppose Still I 
 would hardly admit it; and, that the matter could possibly affect him 
 then persisted in a stout refusal to believe. His reply (1855) throws 
 a little light on this juvenile part of his career, and I therefore venture 
 to preserve it. 
 
 "I don't quite apprehend what you mean by my over-rating the 
 
 strength of the feeling of five-and-twenty years ago. If you mean of 
 
 my own feeling, and will only think what the desperate intensity of 
 
 my nature is. and that this began when I was Charley's age- that it 
 
 excluded every other idea froai my mind for four years, at a time of 
 
 life when four years are equal to four times four; and that I went at 
 
 It with a determination to overcome all the ditficulties, which fairly 
 
 lifted me up into that newspaper life, and floated me away over a 
 
 hundred mens heads: then you are wrong, because nothing can 
 
 exaggerate that. I have positively stood amazed at myself ever 
 
 since!— And so I suffered, and so worked, and so beat and hammered 
 
 away at the maddest romances that ever got .xto any boy's head 
 
 and stayed there, that to see the mere cause of it all, nowf loosens 
 
 my hold upon myself. Without for a moment sincerely believing th«t 
 
 it wouia nave been better if we had never got separated, I cannot 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 349 
 
 see the occasion of so much emotion as I should see anyone else No 
 one can imagme in the most distant degree what pain the recollection 
 gave me m Copperfield. And, just as I can never open that book as I 
 open any other book, I cannot see the face (even at four-and-forty) 
 or hear the voice, without going wandering away over the ashes of 
 a 1 tha. youth and hope in the wildest manner." More and more 
 p ainly seen, however, in the light of four-and-forty. the romance 
 glided visibly away, its work being fairly done; and. at the close of 
 the month following that in which this letter was written, during 
 "^ ?u. f i^^ ""^'"y quietly made a formal call with his wife at his 
 youthful Dora's house, and contemplated with a calm equanimity 
 in the hall, her stuffed favourite Jip, he began the Tction in which 
 there was a Flora to set against its predecessor's Dora, both derived 
 from the same original. The fancy had a comic humour in it he found 
 f !";^P?sf ble to resist, but it was kindly and pleasant to the last- and 
 If the later picture showed him plenty to laugh at in this retrospect 
 of his youth, there was nothing he thought of more tenderly than 
 tne earlier, a^. long as he was conscious of anything. 
 
 IV 
 
 NEWSPAPER REPORTING AND WRITING 
 
 I 83 1-5 
 
 Dickens was nineteen years old when at last he entered the gallery 
 His father, with whom he still lived in Bentinck Street, had already 
 as we have seen, joined the gallery as a reporter for one of the 
 morning papers, and was now in the more comfortable circumstances 
 derived from the addition to his official pension which this praise- 
 worthy labour ensured; but his own engagement on the Chronicle 
 dates somewhat later. His first parliamentary service was given to 
 tlie i rue Sun, a journal which had on its editorial staff some dear 
 friends of mine, through whom I became myself a contributor to it 
 and afterwards, in common with all concerned, whether in its 
 writing, reporting, printing or publishing, a sharer in its difficulties 
 Ihe most formidable of ,hese arrived one day in a general strike of 
 the reporters; and I well remember noticing at this dread time on 
 tlie staircase of the magnificent mansion we were lodged in a young 
 man of my own age whose keen animation of look would have 
 arrested attention anywhere, and whose name, upon inquiry I then 
 lor the first time heard. It was coupled with the fact w.uch gave it 
 interest even then, that "young Dickens" had been spokesman for 
 the recalcitrant reporters, and conducted their case triumphantly. 
 
-.Hi 
 
 350 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 He was afterwards during two sessions engaged for the Mirror of 
 Parliament, which one of his uncles by the mother's side originated 
 and conducted; and finally, in his twenty-third year, he became a 
 reporter for the Morning Chronicle. 
 
 His attempt, to get upon the stage dates immediately before these 
 newspaper engagements. His Doctors' Commons reportership was a 
 hvmg so wearily uncertain, that a possibility of the other calling had 
 occurred to him in quite a businesslike way. He went to theatres 
 almost every night for a long time; studied and practised himself in 
 parts; was so much attracted by the "At Homes" of the elder 
 Mathews, that he resolved to make his first plunge in a similar 
 direction;^ and finally wrote to make offer of himself to Covent 
 Garden. "I wrote to Bartley, who was stage-manager, and told him 
 how young I was, and exactly what I thought I could do; and that I 
 believed I had a strong perception of character and oddity, and a 
 natural power of reproducing in my own person what I observed in 
 others. This was at the time when I was at Doctors' Commons as a 
 shorthand writer for the proctors. And I recollect I wrote the letter 
 from a little office I had there, where the answer came also. There 
 must have been something in my letter that struck the authorities, 
 for Bartley wrot^ to me almost immediately to say that they were 
 busy getting up the Hunchback (so they were), but that they would 
 communicate with me again, in a fortnight. Punctual to the time 
 another letter came, with an appointment to do anything of Mathews's 
 I pleased before him and Charles Kemble, on a certain day at the 
 theatre. My sister Fanny was in the secret, and was to go with me 
 to play the songs. I was laid up when the day came, with a terrible 
 bad cold and an inflammation of the face; the beginning, by the by 
 of that annoyance in one ear to which I am subject to this day. I 
 wrote to say so, and added that I would resume my application next 
 season. I made a great splash in the gallery soon afterwards- the 
 Chronicle o^emA to me; I had a ^distinction in the little world of the 
 newspaper, which made one like it; began to write; didn't want 
 money; had never thought of the stage but as a means of getting it- 
 gradually lef: off turning my thoughts that way, and never resumed 
 the idea. I never told you this, did I? See how near I may have been 
 to another sort of life." The letter in which he gave me this interesting 
 detail belongs to another place; but the anticipation of so much of it 
 here is required to complete his boyish history. 
 
 The beginning to write was a thing far more momentous to him 
 (though then he did not know it) than his "great splash" in the gallery 
 In the December number for 1833 of what then was called the Old 
 Monthly Magazine, his first published piece of writing had seen the 
 light. He has described himself dropping this paper ("Mr. Minns and 
 his cousin," as he afterwards entitled it, but which appeared in the 
 magazine as "A Dinner at Poplar Walk") stealthily one evenine at 
 twilififht. with fear and tremblin" * ' - - - - o 
 
 „ — 1. ._^.. 
 
 uox in a aarK 
 
 i'-t 
 
 office up a dark court in Fleet Street; and he has told his agitation 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 351 
 
 '^^'fif i^/PP^^'^^lJ" ^".*^^ S^°^y °^ P""*- "On which occasion I 
 walked down to Westminster Hall, and turned into it for half an 
 hour because my eyes were so dimmed with joy and pride that they 
 could not bear the street, and were not fit to be seen there " He had 
 purchased the magazine at a shop in the Ltrand; and exactly two 
 years afterwards, in the younger member of a publishing firm who 
 had called at his chambers in Furnival's Inn. ::o which he had moved 
 ^P^'l^fV ''^- ^^\S^^^^^, with the proposal that originated 
 fnH K ' t ^^^g^^sed the person he had bought that magazine from, 
 and whom before or since he had never seen. 
 
 This interval of two years more than comprised what remained of 
 his career m the gallery and the engagements connected with if but 
 that this occupation was of the utmost importance in its influence on 
 tiis lite, m the discipline of his powers as well as of his character there 
 can be no doubt whatever. "To the wholesome training of severe 
 newspaper-work, when I was a very young man. I constantly refer 
 my first successes, he said to the New York editors when he last took 
 leave of them. It opened to him a wide and varied range of experience 
 which his wonderful observation, exact as it was humorous, made 
 entirely his own. He saw the last of the old coaching days, and of the 
 old mns that were a part of them; but it will be long before the 
 readers of his hving page see the last of the life of either "There 
 never was." he once wrote to me (in 1845). "anybody connected 
 with newspapers who. in the same space of time, had so much 
 express and post-chaise experience as I. And wh *: gentlemen thev 
 were to serve, in such things, at the old Morning ^hroniclel Great or 
 small. It did not matter. I have had to charge for half a dozen break- 
 downs in half a dozen times as many miles. I have had to charge for 
 the damage of a great-coat from the drippings of a blazing wax- 
 candle, m writing through the smallest hours of the night in a swift- 
 flying carriage and pair. I have had to charge for all sorts of breakages 
 htty times m a journey without question, such being the ordinary 
 results of the pace which we went at. I have charged for broken hats 
 broken luggage, broken chaises, broken harness -everything but a 
 broken head, which is the only thing they would have grumbled to 
 pay for." ^ 
 
 Something to the sp.me effect he said publicly twenty years later 
 on the occasion of his presiding, in May 1865, at the second annuai 
 dinner of the Newspaper Press Fund, when he condensed within the 
 compass of his speech a summary of the whole of his reporting life 
 I am not here.' he said, "advocating the case of a mere ordinary 
 client of whom I nave little or no k"owIedge. I hold a brief to-night 
 tor my brothers. I went into the gallery of the House of Comrnons as 
 a parliamentary reporter when I was a boy. and I left vc—I can 
 hardly believe the inexorable truth— nigh thirty years ago. I have 
 pursued the calling of a reporter under circumstances of which many 
 ot my brethren here can form no adequate conception. T havp o^+^n 
 transcribed for the printer, from mV shorthand notes, important 
 
 •f\i 
 
352 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ill 
 
 WW ; 
 
 public speeches in which the strictest accuracy was required, and a 
 mistake in which would have been to a young man severely com- 
 promising, writing on the palm of my hand, by the light of a dark 
 lantexTi, in a post-chaise and four, galloping through a wild country, 
 and through the dead of the night, at the then surprising rate of 
 fifteen miles an hour. The very last time I was at Exeter, I strolled 
 into the castle-yard there to identify, for the amusement of a friend, 
 the spot on which I once 'took,' as we used to call it, an election 
 speech of Lord John Russell at the Devon contest, in the midst of a 
 lively fight maintained by all the vagabonds in that division of the 
 county, and under such a pelting rain, that I remember two good- 
 natured colleagues who chanced to be at leisure held a pocket- 
 handkerchief over my note-book, after the manner of a state canopy 
 in an ecclesiastical procession. I have worn my knees by writing on 
 them on the old back-row of the old gallery of the old House of 
 Commons; and I have worn my feet by standing to write in a pre- 
 posterous pen in the old House of Lords, where we used to be huddled 
 together like so many sheep — kept in waiting, say, until the Woolsack 
 might want re-stuffing. Returning home from exciting political 
 meetings in the country to the waiting press in London, I do verily 
 believe I have been upset in almost every description of vehicle 
 known in this country. I have been, in my time, belated on miry by- 
 roads, towards the small hours, forty or fifty miles from London, in a 
 wheelless carriage, with exhausted horses and drunken post-boys, and 
 have got back in time for publication, to be received with never- 
 forgotten compliments by the late Mr. Black, coming in the broadest 
 of Scotch from the broadest of hearts I ever knew. These trivial 
 things I mention as an assurance to you that I never have forgotten 
 the fascination of that old pursuit The pleasure that I used to feel 
 in the rapidity and dexterity of its exercise has never faded out of my 
 breast. Whatever little cunning of hand or head I took to it, or 
 acquired in it, I have so retained that I fully believe I could resume it 
 to-morrow, very little the worse from long disuse. To this present 
 year of my life, when I sit in this hall, or where not, hearing a dull 
 speech (the phenomenon does occur), I sometimes beguile the tedium 
 of the moment by mentally following the speaker in the old, old way; 
 and sometimes, if you can believe me, I even find my hand going on 
 the tablecloth, taking an imaginary note of it all." The latter I have 
 known him do frequently. It was indeed a quite ordinary habit with 
 him. 
 
 Mr. James Grant, a writer who was himself in the gallery with 
 Dickens, and who states that among its eighty or ninety reporters he 
 occupied the very highest rank, not merely for accuracy in reporting, 
 but for marvellous quickness in transcribing, has lately also told us 
 that while there he was exceedingly reserved in his manners, and 
 that, though showing the usual courtesies to all he was concerned with 
 in his duties, the only personal intimacy he formed was with Mr. 
 Thomas Beard, then too reporting for the Morning Chfonicle. I have 
 
td, and a 
 ely com- 
 »f a dark 
 country, 
 \ rate of 
 '. strolled 
 a friend, 
 
 election 
 idst of a 
 m of the 
 vo good- 
 
 pocket- 
 i canopy 
 riting on 
 louse of 
 n a pre- 
 huddled 
 Woolsack 
 political 
 lo verily 
 
 vehicle 
 niry by- 
 ion, in a 
 oys, and 
 1 never- 
 Droadest 
 3 trivial 
 )rgotten 
 i to feel 
 it of my 
 ;o it, or 
 isume it 
 present 
 g a dull 
 : tedium 
 )ld way; 
 ;oing on 
 r I have 
 bit with 
 
 Ty with 
 rters he 
 porting, 
 told us 
 srs, and 
 led with 
 ith Mr. 
 , I have 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 353 
 
 already mentioned the friendly and familiar relations maintained 
 with this gentleman to the close of his life; and. in confirmation of 
 Mr G, . nt s statement. I can further say that the only other associate 
 of these early reporting days to whom I ever heard him refer with 
 
 of^RWz'^?Y "^^l?^ l^^^ ^- ^^""^°* ^o^\in^, many years editor 
 inw ^^f ' ^^th whom he did not continue much personal 
 intercourse, but of whose character as well as talents he had formed 
 
 l^I^ W T""'"''-/^'' i' ^^^""^ anything to add to the notice of this 
 time which the reader's fancy may not easily supply. A letter has 
 been kept as written by him while engaged on one of his "expresses"- 
 but It IS less for its saying anything new. than for its confirming with 
 a pleasant vividness what has been said akeady, that its contents will 
 justify mention here. 
 
 Jr^^Z■^l^^' S^ ^ "Tuesday morning" in May 1835. from the Bush 
 Inn Bristol; the occasion that has taken him to the west, connected 
 with a reporting party, being Lord John Russell's Devonshire contest 
 above-named and his associate-chief being Mr. Beard, entrusted 
 with command for the Chronicle in this particular express. He expects 
 to forward the conclusion of Russell's dinner" by Cooper's com- 
 pany s coach leaving the Bush at half-past six neit morning; and 
 
 rJnnJ; o/lh^S'.K^^i^^ °" Thursday morning he will foi-waJd the 
 report of the Bath dmner, endorsing the parcel for immediate 
 delivery, with extra rewards for the porter. Beard is to go^ver to 
 Bath next morning. He is himself to come back by the mail from 
 Marlborough; he has no doubt, if Lord John makes a speech of any 
 ZtT7 .?^"yf f "«• .it can be done by the time Marlborough is 
 reached; and takmg into consideration the immense importance of 
 5o,Tf^ the addition of saddle-horses from thence, it is, beyond al 
 doubt, worth an effort . . I need not say." he continues. ''that i^ 
 will be sharp work and will require two of us; for we shall both be up 
 the whole ^f the previous night, and shall have to sit up all night 
 agam to get it off in time." He adds that as soon as they have had a 
 httle sleep they will return to town as quickly as they cL; but thev 
 have. If the express succeeds, to stop at sundry places along the road 
 to pay money and notify satisfaction. And so. for himself and Beard 
 he IS his editor's very sincerely. ... ^eara. 
 
 The °ierition of his career in the gallery may close with the 
 comment that his observation while there had not led him to form 
 any high opinion of the House of Commons or its heroes; and that Tf 
 the Pickwickian sense which so often takes the place of common 
 sense m our legislature, he omitted no opportunity of declaring h^ 
 contempt at every part of his life. ueciarmg ms 
 
 The other occupation had meanwhile not been lost sight of and 
 
 t^eMi::n^V ^° ^^'^ ^ ^^**^^- ^^"^^ *^^ fi^^t sketch appeared^n 
 the MontJdy Magazine, nine others have enlivened the pages of later 
 
 ;;ri^^l°Ll^^^.^"!? ^^^^-^^. the last in February iS.f. and that 
 t"u^e of B'nr''^" '"^ ""^l preceumg August having tirst had the signa: 
 tureotBoz. . . . The magazine was owned as well as conducted at 
 330 
 
 
354 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 11 !' 
 
 
 this time by a Mr. Holland, who had come back from * bolivar's South 
 American campaigns with the rank of captain, and had hoped to 
 make it a popular mouthpiece for his ardent liberalism. But this 
 hope, as well as his own health, quite failed; and he havl sorrowfully 
 to decline receiving any more of the sketches when they had to cease 
 as voluntary offerings. I do not think that eithe he ux the magazine 
 lived many weeks after an evening I passed with him in Doughty 
 Street, in 1837, when he spoke in a very touching way of the failure of 
 this and other enterprises of his life, and of the help that Dickens had 
 been to him. 
 
 Nothing being forthcoming from the Monthly, it was of course but 
 natural that the sketches too should cease to be forthcoming; and, 
 even before the above-named Fe^ ruary number appeared, a new 
 opening had been found for them. An evening oflE-shoot to the 
 Morning Chronicle had been lately in hand; and to a countryman of 
 Black's engaged in the preparations lor it, Mr. George Hogarth, 
 Dickens was communicating from h^ s rooms in Furnival's Inn, on the 
 evening of Tuesday the 20th of January, 1835, certain hopes and 
 fancies he had formed. This was at the beginning of his knowledge of 
 an accomplished and kindly man, with whose family his relations 
 were soon to become so intimate as to have an influence on all his 
 future career. Mr. Hogarth had asked him, as a favour to himself, to 
 write an original sketch for the first number of the enterprise, and in 
 writing back to say with what readiness he should comply, and how 
 anxiously he should desire to do his best for the person who had 
 made the request, he mentioned what had arisen in his mind. It had 
 occurred to him that he might not be unreasonably or improperly 
 trespassing farther on Mr. Hogarth if, trusting to his kindness to 
 refer the application to the proper quarter, he begged to ask whether 
 it was probable, if he commenced a regular series of articles under 
 some attractive title for the Evening Chronicle, its conductors would 
 think he had any claim to some additional remuneration (of course, of 
 no great amount) for doing so. In short, he wished to put it to the 
 proprietors — first, whether a continuation of some chapters of light 
 papers in the style of his street-sketches would be considered of use 
 to the new journal; and secondly, if so, whether they would not think 
 it fair and reasonable that, taking his share of the ordinary reporting 
 business of the Chronicle besides, he should receive something for the 
 papers beyond his ordinary salary as a reporter? The request was 
 thought fair, he began the sketches, and his salary was raised from 
 five to seven guineas a week. 
 
 They went on, with undiminished spirit and freshness, throughout 
 the year; and much as they were talked of outside as well as in the 
 world of newspapers, nothing in connection with them delighted the 
 writer half so much as the hearty praise of his own editor. Mr. Black 
 is one of the men who have passed without recognition out of a world 
 their labours largely benefited, but with those who knew hirn no xnan 
 was so popular, as well for his broad, kindly humour, as for his honest 
 
The life of Charles Dickens 355 
 
 great-hearted enjoyment of whatever was excellent in others 
 Dickens to the last remembered, that it was most of all the cordial 
 help of this good old mirth-loving man, which had started him ioy- 
 fully on his career of letters. It was John Black that flung the 
 slipper after me, he would often say, "Dear old Black i mv first 
 hearty out-and-out appreciator," is an expression in one of his 
 letters written to me m the year he died. 
 
 FIRST BOOK, AND ORIGIN OF "picKWICK" 
 
 1836 
 
 The opening of 1836 found him collecting into two volumes the first 
 series of Sketches by Boz. of which he had sold the copvrieht for a 
 conditional payment of (I think) a hundred and fitftV pounds to a 
 young publisher named Macrone, whose acquaintance he had made 
 through Mr Amsworth a few weeks before. At this time also, we are 
 told m a letter before quoted, the editorship of the Monthly Magazine 
 having come into Mr. James Grant's hands, this gentleman, applying 
 to him through Its previous editor to know if he would again con- 
 tribute to It. learnt two things: the first that he was going to be 
 married, and the second that, having entered into an arrangement to 
 write a monthly serial, his duties in future would leave him small 
 spare time. Both pieces of news were soon confirmed. The Times of 
 26 March. 1836. gave notice that on the 31st would be published the 
 first shilhng number of the Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club 
 edited by Boz: and the same journal of a few days later announced 
 that on 2 April Mr. Charles Dickens had married Catherine the 
 eldest daughter of Mr. George Hogarth, whom already we have met 
 as his fellow-worker on the Chronicle. The honeymoon was passed in 
 the neighbourhood to which at all times of interest in his life he 
 turned with a strange recurring fondness; and while the young couple 
 are at the quiet little village of Chalk, on the road between Grivesend 
 
 Mr Pkkwfcr ^ ^''^''^^^ *^^ °"^" ""^ *^^ ever-memorable 
 
 A new publishing house had started recently, among other enter- 
 prises ingenious rather than important, a Library of Fiction; among 
 
 t,^ n^'^MY^^ T^^^J° ^""^'^^ ^^ '* ^^^ *^^ ^"te^ of the sketche! 
 m the Monthly: and. to the extent of one paper during the past vear 
 
 they had effected this through their editor Mr r\.J\^. wu;^.C-i' 
 
 a very ingenious and a very unfortunate man. "I was not'aw^^r^' 
 
 wrote the elder member of the firm to Dickens, thirteen years later 
 
 ;u 
 
 I 
 
356 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 i! i; 
 
 If 
 
 in a letter to which reference was made^ in the preface to Pickwick in 
 one of his later editions, "that you were writing in the Chronicle, or 
 what your name was; but Whitehead, who was an old Monthly man. 
 recollected it, and got you to write 'The Tuggs's at Ramsgate.' " 
 
 And now comes another person on the scene. "In November 1835 " 
 continues Mr. Chapman, "we published a little book called the 
 Squib Annual, with plates by Seymour; and it was during my visit to 
 him, to see after them, that he said he should like to do a series of 
 cockney sporting-plates of a superior sort to those he had already 
 published. I said I thought they might do, if accompanied by letter- 
 press and published in monthly parts; and this being agreed to, we 
 wrote to the author of Three Courses and a Dessert and proposed it- 
 but receiving no answer, the scheme dropped for some months, tili 
 Seymour said he wished us to decide, as another job had offered 
 which would fully occupy his time; and it was on this we decided to 
 ask you to do it. Having opened already a connection with you for 
 our Library of Fiction, we naturally applied to you to do the Pickwick; 
 but I do not think we even mentioned our intention to Mr. Seymour, 
 and I am quite sure that from the beginning to the end nobody but 
 yourself had anything whatever to do with it. Our prospectus was out 
 at the end of February, and it had all been arranged before that 
 date." 
 
 The member of the firm who carried the application to him in 
 Furnival's Inn was not the writer of this letter, but Mr. Hall, who 
 had sold him two years before, not knowing that he was the pur- 
 chaser, the magazine in which his first effusion was printed; and he 
 has himself described what passed at the interview. "The idea 
 propounded to me was that the monthly something should be a 
 vehicle for certain plates to be executed by Mr. Seymour; and there 
 was a notion, either on the part of that admirable humorous artist, 
 or of my visitor, that a Nimrod Club, the members of which were 
 to go out shooting, fishing, and so forth, and getting themselves into 
 difficulties through their want of dexterity, would be the best means 
 of introducing these. I objected, on consideration, that although born 
 and partly bred in the country I was no great sportsman, except in 
 regard to all kinds of locomotion; tliat the idea was not novel, and 
 had already been much used; that it would be infinitely better for 
 the plates to arise naturally out of the text; and that I would like to 
 take my own way, with a freer range of English scenes and people, 
 and was afraid I should ultimately do so in any case, whatever 
 course I might prescribe to myself at starting. My views being 
 
 1 Not quoted in detail, on that or any other occasion; though referred to It 
 was, however, placed in my hands, for use if occasion should arise, when Dickens 
 went to America in 1867. The letter bears date 7 July, 1849, and was Mr. Chap- 
 man s answer to the question Dickens had asked him, whether the account of the 
 origin of Ptckwtck which he had given in the preface to the cheap edition in iS^y 
 was not strictly correct. "It is so correctly described." was Mr. Chanrnan'c «r,»«5^« 
 remark, "that I can throw but little additional light on it." The name"of"his hero 
 I may add, Dickens took from that of a celebrated coach-proprietor of Bath ' 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 357 
 
 deferred to, I thought of Mr. Pickwick, and wrote the first number; 
 from the proof-sheets of which Mr. Seymour made his drawing of the 
 club and his happy portrait of its founder. I connected Mr. Pick.vick 
 with a club, because of the original suggestion; and I put in Mr. 
 Windle expressly for the use of Mr. Seymour." 
 
 Mr. Hall was dead when this statement was first made, in the 
 preface to the cheap edition in 1847; but Mr. Chapman clearly recol- 
 lected his partner's account of the interview, and confirmed every 
 part of it, in his letter of 1849, with one exception. In giving Mr. 
 Seymour credit for the figure by which all the habitable globe knows 
 Mr. Pickwick, and which certainly at the outset helped to make him 
 a reality, it had given the artist too much. The reader will hardly be 
 so startled as I was on coming to the closing line of Mr. Chapman's 
 confirmatory letter. "As this letter is to be historical, I may as well 
 claim what little belongs to me in the matter, and that is the figure 
 of Pickwick. Seymour's first sketch was of a long, thin man. The 
 present immortal one he made from my description of a friend of 
 mine at Richmond, a fat old beau who would wear, in spite of the 
 ladies' protests, drab tights and black gaiters. His name was John 
 Foster." ... "* 
 
 The first number had not yet appeared when his Sketches by Boz, 
 Illustrative of Every -day Life and Every-day People, came forth in two 
 duodecimos with some capital cuts by Cruikshank, and with a preface 
 in which he spoke of the nervousness he should have had in venturing 
 alone before the public, and of his delight in getting the help of 
 Cruikshank, who had frequently contributed to the success, though 
 his well-earned reputation rendered it impossible for him ever to have 
 shared the hazard, of similar undertakings. It very soon became 
 apparent that there was no hazard here. The Sketches were much 
 more talked about than the first two or three numbers of Pickwick, 
 and I remember still with what hearty praise the book was first 
 named to me by my dear friend Albany Fonblanque, as keen and 
 clear a judge as ever lived either of books or men. Richly did it merit 
 all the praise it had, and more, I will add, than he was ever disposed 
 to give to it himself. He decidedly underrated it. He gave, in sub- 
 sequent writings, so much more perfect form and fullness to every- 
 thing It contained, that he did not care to credit himself with the 
 marvel of having yet so early anticipated so much. But the first 
 sprightly runnings of his genius are undoubtedly here. Mr. Bumble 
 IS m the parish sketches, and Mr. Dawkins the dodger in the Old 
 Bailey scenes. There is laughter and fun to excess, never misapplied; 
 there are the minute points and shades of character, with all the 
 discrimination and nicety of detail afterwards so famous; there is 
 everywhere the most perfect ease and skill of handling. The observa- 
 tion shown throughout is nothing short of wonderful. Things are 
 painted literally as they are; and, whatever the picture, whether of 
 every-day vulgar, shabby ^.^nteel, or downright* low, with neither 
 the condescending air which is affectation, nor the too familiar one 
 
 
358 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 which is slang. The book altogether is a perfectly unaffected, un- 
 pretentious, honest performance. Under its manly, sensible straight- 
 forward vein of talk there is running at the same time a natural flow 
 of sentiment never sentimental, of humour always easy and un- 
 forced, and of pathos for the most part dramatic or picturesque, 
 under which lay the germ of what his mature genius took afterwards 
 most delight in. Of course there are inequalities in it, and some things 
 that would have been better away: but it is a book that might have 
 stood its ground, even if it had stood alone, as containing usually 
 truthful observation of a sort of life between the middle class and the 
 low, which, having few attractions for bookish observers, was quite 
 unhackneyed ground. It had otherwise also the very special merit 
 of being in no respect bookish oi commonplace in its descriptions of 
 the old city with which its writer was so familiar. It was a picture of 
 everyday London at its best and worst, in its humours and enjoy- 
 ments as well as its sufferings and sins, pervaded everywhere not 
 only with the absolute reality of the things depicted, but also with that 
 subtle sense and mastery of feeling wliich gives to the reader's 
 sympathies invariably right direction, and awakens consideration, 
 tenderness and kindness precisely for those who most need such 
 help. 
 
 Between the first and the second numbers of Pickwick, the artist, 
 Mr. Seymour, died by his own hand; and the number came out with 
 three instead of four illustrations. Dickens had seen the unhappy 
 man only once, forty-eight hours before his death; when he went to 
 Furnival's Inn with an etching for the "stroller's-tale" in that 
 number, which, altered at Dickens's suggestion, he brought away 
 again for the few further touches that occupied him to a late hour of 
 the night before he destroyed himself. A notice attached to the 
 number informed the public of this latter fact. There was at first a 
 little difficulty in replacing him, and for a single number Mr. Buss 
 was interposed. But before the fourth number a choice had been 
 made, which as time went on was so thoroughly justified that, through 
 the greater part of the wonderful career which was then beginning, 
 the connection was kept up, and Mr. Hablot Browne's name is not 
 unworthily associated with the mt "erpieces of Dickens's genius. 
 An incident which I heard related by Mr. Thackeray at one of the 
 Royal Academy dinners belongs to this time. "I can remember when 
 Mr. Dickens was a very young man, and had commenced delighting 
 the world with some charming humorous works in covers which were 
 coloured light green and came out once a month, that this young 
 man wanted an artist to illustrate his writings; and I recollect walking 
 up to his chambers in Furnival's Inn, with two or three drawings in 
 my hand which, strange to say, he did not find suitable." Dickens 
 has himself described another change now made in the publication. 
 "We started with a number of twenty-four pages and four illustra- 
 tions. Mr. Sevmour's sudden and lamented death before the second 
 number was published brought about a quick decision upon a point 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 359 
 
 already in agitation; the number became one of thirty-two pages 
 wth only two illustrations, and remained so to the end." 
 
 The Session of 1836 terminated his connection with the gallery 
 and some fruits of his increased leisure showed themselves before the 
 close of the year. His eldest sister's musical attainments and connec- 
 tions had mtroduced him to many cultivators and professors of that 
 art; he was led to take much interest in Mr. Braham's enter-^rise at 
 the St. James's Theatre; and in aid of it he wrote a farce for Mr. 
 Harley, founded upon one of his sketches, and the story and songs for 
 an opera composed by his friend Mr. Hullah. Both the Strange 
 Gentleman, acted in September, and the Village Coquettes, produced 
 m December 1836, had a good success; and the last is memorable to 
 me for having brought me first into personal communication with 
 Dickens. 
 
 m 
 
I] 
 II] 
 
 IV 
 
 \ 
 
 V] 
 
 VIJ 
 
 VIII 
 
 IX 
 
 X 
 
 XI 
 
 XII 
 
BOOK SECOND 
 FIRST FIVE YEARS OF FAME 
 
 1836-41. MT. 24-9 
 
 I. Writing the "Pickwick Papers." 
 II. Between "Pickwick" and "Nicklebv " 
 
 III. "Oliver Twist." 
 
 IV. "Nicholas Nickleby." 
 
 V. During and After "Nicklv.by." 
 VI. New Literary Project. 
 VII. "Old Curiosity Shop." 
 VIII. Devonshire Terrace and Broadstairs. 
 IX. "Barnaby Rudge." 
 X. In Edinburgh, 
 XI. In the Highlands. 
 XII. Again at Broadstairs. 
 
 fc"l 
 
 330^ 
 
 361 
 
h i> 
 
 'i' 
 
 , , 'i 
 
 1 i 
 
WRITING THE " PICKWICK PAPERS 
 
 1837 
 
 The first letter I had from him was at the close of 1836 from Furni- 
 val's Inn, when he sent me the book of his opera of the Villaee 
 Coquettes, which ha1 been published by Mr. Bentley; and this was 
 followed, tv/o months later, by his collected Sketches, both first and 
 second series; which he desired me to receive "as a very small testi- 
 mony of the donor's regard and obligations, as well as of his desire to 
 cultivate and avail himself of a friendship which has been so pleas- 
 antly thrown m his way. ... In short, if you will receive them for 
 my sake and not for the"r own, you will greatly oblige me." I had met 
 him m the interval at the house of our common friend Mr. Ainsworth 
 and I remember vividly the impression then made upon me. 
 
 Very different was his face in those days from that which photo- 
 graphy has made familiar to the present generation. A look of youth- 
 fulness first attracted you, and then a candour and openness of ex- 
 pression which made you sure of the qualities within. The features 
 were very good. He had a capital forehead, a firm nose with full wide 
 nostrils, eyes wonderfully beaming with intellect and running over 
 with humour and cheerfulness, and a rather prominent mouth stronglv 
 m.'^rked with sensibility. The head was altogether well formed and 
 symmetrical, and the air and carriage of it were extremely spirited 
 The hair so scant and grizzled in later days was then of a rich brown 
 and most luxuriant abundance, and the bearded face of his last two 
 decades had hardly a vestige of hair or whiskers; but tnere was that in 
 the face as I first recollect it which no time could change and which 
 remained implanted on it unalterably to the last. This was the 
 quickness, keenness, and practical power, the eager, restless, energetic 
 outlook on each several feature, that seemed to tell so little of a stu- 
 dent or writer of books, and so much of a man of action and business 
 in the world. Light and motion flashed from every part of it. "It was 
 as if made of steel," was said of h. four or five years after the time to 
 which I am referring, by a most original and delicate observer the 
 late Mrs. Carlyle. "What a face is his to meet in a drawing-room;" 
 wrote Leigh Hunt to me. the morning after I made them known to 
 each other. "It has the life and soul in it of fifty human beings " In 
 such sayings are expressed not alone the restless and resistless 
 vivacity and force of which I have spoken, but that also whirh loy 
 beneath them of steadiness and hard endurance. ... * 
 
 363 
 
 iiil 
 
 
! !l 
 
 I!*; 
 
 'i^ i! 
 
 
 64 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 It was not until the fourth or fifth number of Pickwick (in the latter 
 Sam Weller made his first appearance) that its importance began to 
 be understood by "the trade," and on the eve of the issue of its sixth 
 number, 22 August, 1836, he had signed an agreement with Mr. 
 Bentley to undertake the editorship of a monthly magazine to be 
 started the following January, to which he was to supply a serial 
 story; and soon afterwards he had agreed with the same publisher to 
 write two other tales, the first at a specified early date; the expressed 
 remuneration in each case being certainly inadequate to the claims of 
 a writer of any marked popularity. Under these Bentley agreements 
 he was now writing, month by month, the first half of Oliver Twist, 
 and, under his Chapman and Hall agreement, the last half of Pickwick, 
 not even by a week in advance of the printer with either, when a 
 circumstance became xcnown to him of which he thus wrote to me. 
 
 "I heard half an hour ago, on authority which leaves me in no 
 doubt about the matter (from the binder of Pickwick in fact), that 
 Macrone intends publishing a new issue of my Sketches in monthly 
 parts of nearly the same size and in just the same form as the Pick- 
 wick Papers. I need not tell you that this is calculated to injure me 
 most seriously, or that I have a very natural and most decided 
 objection to being supposed to presume upon the success of the 
 Pickwick, and thus foist this old work upon the public in its new dress 
 for the mere purpose of putting money in my own pocket. Neither 
 need I say that the fact of my name being before the town, attached 
 to three publications at the same time, must prove seriously prejudi- 
 cial to my reputation. As you are acquainted with the circumstances 
 under which these copyrights were disposed of, and as I know I may 
 rely on your kind help, may I beg you to see Macrone, and to state in 
 the strongest and most emphatic manner my feeling on this point. 
 I wish him to be reminded of the sums he paid for those books; of the 
 sale he has ha d for them; of the extent to which he has already pushed 
 them; and of the very great profits he must necessarily have acquired 
 from them. I wish him also to be reminded that no intention of 
 publishing them in this form was in the remotest manner hinted to 
 me, by him or on his behalf, when he c '"ttained possession of the copy- 
 right. I then wish you to put it tc his feelings of common honesty and 
 fair-dealing whether after this communication he will persevere in 
 his intention." What else the Ic.trT contained need not be quoted, 
 but it strongly moved i.ie to do my b<^3t. 
 
 I found Mr. Macrone ir > xessible to all arguments of persuasion, 
 however. That he had br. ig'7.1: the book for a small sum at a time when 
 the smallest was not uniiri; • Lant to the writer, shortly before hh 
 marriage, and that he ha' ■ lace i; tade very considerable profits by it, 
 in no way disturbed his position ' hat he had a right to make as much 
 as he could of what was his, without regard to how it had become so. 
 There was nothing for it but to chr-^ge front, and, admitting it might 
 be a less evil to the unkc?:y author to repurchase tnaiT to let the 
 iiiorithiy issue proceed, to ask what fvather gain was looked for: but 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 365 
 
 so wide a mouth was opened at this that I would have no part in the 
 costly process of filling it. I told Dickens so. and strongly counselled 
 him to keep quiet for a time. 
 
 But the worry and vexation were too great with all the work he 
 had m hand, and I was hardly surprised next day to receive the letter 
 sent me; which yet should be prefaced with the remark that suspense 
 of any kmd was at all times intolerable to the writer. The interval 
 between the accomplishment of anything, and "its first motion " 
 Dickens never could endure, and he was too ready to make aiiv 
 sacrifice to abridge or end it. This did not belong to the strong side of 
 his character, and advantage was frequently taken of the fact "I 
 sent down just now to know whether you were at home (two o'clock) 
 as Chapman and Hall were with me, and, the case btin^ urgent I 
 wished to have the furth. r benefit of your kind advice and*assistance 
 Macrone and his friend (arcades ambo) waited on +hem this morning' 
 and after a long disc ission peremptorily refused t take one farthing 
 less than two thousand pounds. The friend repeated the statement 
 of figures which he made to you >\33terday, and put it to Hall whether 
 he could say fium his kr:owledge of such matters that the estimate of 
 probable profit was exorbitant. Hall, whose judgment may be relied 
 on in such matters, could not dispute the justice of the calculation 
 And so the matter stood. In this dilemma it occurred to them (mv 
 Pickwick men), whether, if the Sketches must appear in monthly 
 numbers, it would not be better for them to appear for their benefit 
 and mine conjointly, than for Macrone's sole use and behoof; whether 
 they, having all the Pickwick machinery in full operation, could not 
 obtain for them a much larger sale than Macrone . juld ever get" and 
 whether, even at this large price of two thousand pounds, we might 
 not. besides retaining the copyright, reasonably hope for a good 
 profit on the outlay. These suggestions having presented themselves 
 ;:bey cane straight to me (having obtained a few hours' respite) and 
 proposed that we should purchase the copyrights between us for the 
 two thous' id pounds, and publish them in monthly parts. I need not 
 say that no other form of publication would repay the expenditure- 
 and they v ish me to explain by an address that they, who may be 
 fairly put forward as the parties, have been driven into that mode of 
 puWicati' 1. or the copyrigh. would have been lost. I considered the 
 mat . "n every possible way. I sent for you. but you were out I 
 th.^ught of" (what, need not be repeated, now that all is past and 
 gone) "and consented. Vvas I right? I think you will say yes " I 
 could not say no. though I was glad to have been ro party to a price 
 so exorbitant; which yet profited extremely little the person who 
 r-ceived it. He died in hardly more than tw . years; and if Dickens 
 had enjoyed the most liberal treatment at his hands, he could not 
 have exertf d himself more generously for the widow and children. 
 
 His new story was now beginning largely to share attention with 
 JUS Pickwick Papers, and it was delightful to see how real all its 
 people became to him. What I had most indeed to notice in him at 
 
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366 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 the very outset of his career, was his indifference to any praise of his 
 performances on the merely literary side, compared with the higher 
 recognition of them as bits of actual life, with the meaning and pur- 
 pose on their part, and the responsibility on his. of realities rather 
 than creatures of fancy. The exception that might be drawn from 
 Pickwick is rather in seeming than substance. A first book has its 
 immunities, and the distinction of this from the rest of the writings 
 appears in what has been said of its origin. The plan of it was simply 
 to amuse. It was to string together whimsical sketches of the pencil 
 by entertaining sketches of the pen; and. at its beginning, where or 
 how It was to end as little known to himself as to any of its readers. 
 But genius is a master as well as a servant, and when the laughter and 
 fun were at their highest something graver made its appearance 
 He had to defend himself for this; and he said that, though the mere 
 oddity of a new acquaintance was apt to impress one at first, the 
 more serious qualities were discovered when we became friends with 
 the man. In other words, he might have said that the change was 
 become necessary for his own satisfaction. The book itself, in teach- 
 ing him what his power was, had made him more conscious of what 
 would be expected from its use; and this never afterwards quitted 
 him. In what he was to do hereafter, as in all he was doing now with 
 Ptckwtck still to finish and Oliver only beginning, it constantly 
 attenaed him. Nor could it well be otherwise, with all those fanciful 
 creations so real, to a nature in itself so practical and earnest and in 
 this spirit I had well understood the letter accompanying what had 
 be- published of Oliver since its commencement the preceding 
 T . jT .ry, which reached me the day after I visited him. Something 
 t '!. effect of what has just been said, I had remarked publicly of 
 tisc , ortion of the story sent to me; and his instant warm-hearted 
 acknowledgment, of which I permit myself to quote a line or two 
 showed me in what perfect agreement we were. "How can I thank 
 you? Can I do better than by saying that the sense of poor Oliver's 
 reality, which I know you have had from the first, has been the hicrhest 
 of all praise to me. None that has been lavished upon me have I felt 
 half so much as that appreciation of my intent and meaning You 
 know I have ever done so, for it was your feeling for me and mine 
 for you that first brought us together, and I hope will keep us so till 
 death do us part. Your notices make me grateful but very proud- so 
 have a care of them." 
 
 There was nothing written by him after this date which I did not 
 see before the world did, eit< ar in manuscript or proofs- and in 
 connection with the latter I si. .tly began to give him the help 
 which he publicly mentioned twenty yt -s later in dedicating his 
 collected writings to me. One of his letters reminds me when these 
 corrections began, and they were continued very nearly to the last 
 They lightened for him a labour of which he had more 'than enough 
 imposed upon him at this time by others, and they were never any- 
 thing but an enjoyment to me. "I have," he wrote, "so mnnv Bhe«<-° 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 367 
 
 of the Miscellany to correct before I can begin Oliver, that I fear I 
 shall not be able to leave home this morning. I therefore send your 
 revise of the Pickwick by Fred, who is on his way with it to the prin- 
 ters. You will see that my alterations are very slight, but I think for 
 the better." This was the fourteenth number of the Pickwick Papers. 
 Fred was his next younger brother, who lived with him at the time. 
 
 The number following this was the famous one in which the hero 
 finds himself in the Fleet, and another of his letters will show what 
 enjoyment the writing of it had given to himself. I had sent to ask 
 him where we were to meet for a proposed ride that day. "Here," 
 was his reply. "I am slippered and jacketted, and, like that same 
 starling who is so very seldom quoted, can't get out. I am getting on, 
 thank Heaven, 'like a house o' fire,' and think the next Pickwick will 
 bang all the others. 1 shall expect you at one, and we will walk to the 
 stable together. If you know anybody at Saint Paul's, I wish you'd 
 send round and ask them not to ring the bell so. I can hardly hear my 
 own ideas as they come into my head, and say what they mean." 
 
 The exulting tone of confidence in what he had thus been writing 
 was indeed well justified. He had as yet done nothing so remarkable, 
 in blending humour with tragedy, as his picture of what the poor side 
 of a debtor's prison was in the days of which we have seen that he had 
 himself had bitter experience; and we have but to recall, as it rises 
 sharply to the memory, what is contained in this portion of a work 
 that was not only among his earliest but his least considered as to 
 plan, to understand what it was that not alone had given him his 
 fame so early, but which in itself held the germ of the future that 
 awaited him. Every point was a telling one, and the truthfulness of 
 the whole unerring. The dreadful restlessness of the place, undefined 
 yet unceasing, unsatisfying and terrible, was pictured throughout 
 with Defoe's minute reality; while points of character were handled 
 in that greater style which connects with the richest oddities of 
 humour an insight into principles of character universal as nature 
 itself. When he resolved that Sam Weller should be occupant of the 
 prison with ^JLr. Pickwick, he was perhaps thinking of his favourite 
 Smollett, and how, when Peregrine Pickle was inmate of the Fleet, 
 Hatchway and Pipes refused to leave him; but Fielding himself might 
 have envied his way of setting about it. . . . 
 
 Of what the reception of the book had been up to this time, and of 
 the popularity Dickens had won as its author, this also will be the 
 proper place to speak. For its kind, its extent, and the absence of 
 everything unreal or factitious in the causes that contributed to it, 
 it is unexampled in literature. Here was a series of sketches, without 
 the pretence to such interest as attends a well-constructed story; put 
 forth in a form apparently ephemeral as its purpose; having none 
 that seemed higher than to exhibit some studies of cockney manners 
 with help from a comic artist; and after four or five parts had appeared 
 without newspaper notice or puffing, and itself not subserving in the 
 
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 368 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 each part carried higher and higher, until people at this trme talked 
 of nothing else, tradesmen recommended their goods by usmg its 
 name, and its sale, outstripping at a bound that of all the most famous 
 books of the century, had reached to an almost fabulous number. Of 
 part one. the binder prepared four hundred; and of part fifteen, his 
 order was for more than forty thousand. Every class, the high equally 
 with the low. were atcracted to it. The charm of its gaiety and good 
 humour, its inexhaustible fun. its riotous overflow of animal spirits, 
 its brightness and keenness of observation, and, above all. the incom- 
 parable ease of its many varieties of enjoyment, fascmated everybody. 
 Judges on the bench and boys in the street, gravity and folly, the 
 young and the old, those who were entering life and those who were 
 quitting it. alike found it to be irresistible. "An archdeacon, wrote 
 Mr. Carlyle afterAvards to me. "with his own venerab e lips, repeated 
 to me, the other night, a strange profane story: of a solemn clergyman 
 who had been administering ghostly consolation to a sick person; 
 having finished, satisfactorily as he thought, and got out of the room 
 he heard the sick person ejaculate: 'Well, thank God. Pickwick will be 
 out in ten days anyway!'— This is dreadful." • • • . , ^, „. ,., 
 I do not. for reasons to be hereafter stated, think the Pickwick 
 Papers comparable to the later books; but, apart from the new vem 
 of humour it opened, its wonderful freshness and its unflagging 
 animal spirits, it has two characters that will probably contmue to 
 attract to it an unfading popularity. Its pre-eminent achievement is 
 of course Sam Weller; one of those people that take their place among 
 the supreme successes of fiction, as one that nobody ever saw but 
 everybody recognises, at once perfectly natural and intensely original. 
 Who is there that has ever thought him tedious? Who is so familiar 
 with him as not still to be finding something new in him? Who is so 
 amazed by his inexhaustible resources, or so amused by his inextin- 
 guishable laughter, as to doubt of his being as ordmary and perfect a 
 reality, nevertheless, as anything in the London streets? When indeed 
 the relish has been dulled that makes such humour natural and appre- 
 ciable, and not his native fun only, his ready and rich illustration, his 
 imperturbable self-possession, but his devotion to his master his 
 chivalry and his gallantry, are no longer discovered or believed no 
 longer to exist, in the ranks of life to which he belongs it will be 
 worse for all of us than for the fame of his creator. Nor. when faith is 
 lost in that possible combination of eccentricities and benevolences, 
 shrewdness and simplicity, good sense and folly aP that suggests the 
 ludicrous and nothing that suggests contempt for it, which form the 
 delightful oddity of Pickwick, will the mistake committed be one 
 rrerelv of critical misjudgment. But of this there is small fear 
 Sam Weller and Mr. Pickwick are the Sancho and the Quixote of 
 Londoners, and as little likely to pass away as the old city itself . 
 
 Dickens was very fond of riding in these early years, and there was 
 no recreation he so much indulged, or with such profit to himself, 
 the intervals of his hatdest work. I was his cuiixpanion ottener vhan 
 
 m 
 
 
talked 
 5ing its 
 famous 
 ber. Of 
 3en, his 
 equally 
 id good 
 spirits, 
 incom- 
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 illy, the 
 ho were 
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 rgyman 
 person; 
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 k will be 
 
 ^ickwick 
 lew vein 
 flagging 
 tinue to 
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 e among 
 saw but 
 original, 
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 inextin- 
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 /olences, 
 gests the 
 form the 
 1 be one 
 lall fear, 
 lixote of 
 ielf. 
 
 here was 
 
 himself, 
 
 ;'tier than 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 369 
 
 I could well afford the time for, the distances being great and nothing 
 else to be done for the day; but when a note would unexpectedly 
 arrive while I knew him to be hunted hard by one of his printers, 
 telling me he had been sticking to work so closely that he must have 
 rest, and, by way of getting it, proposing we should start together 
 that morning at eleven o'clock for "a fifteen mile ride out, ditto in, and 
 a lunch on the road," with a wind up of six o'clock dinner in Doughty 
 Street, I could not resist the good fellowship. His notion of finding 
 rest from mental exertion in as much bodily exertion of equal severity 
 continued with him to the last; taking in the later years what I 
 always thought the too great strain of as many miles in walking as he 
 now took in the saddle, and too often indulging it at night: for, 
 though he was always passionately fond of walking, he observed as 
 yet a moderation in it, even accepting as sufficient my seven or eight 
 miles' companionship. "What a brilliant morning for a country walk!" 
 he would write, with not another word in his dispatch. Or, "Is it 
 possible that you can't, oughtn't, shouldn't, mustn't, won't be tempted, 
 this gorgeous day!" Or, "I start precisely— precisely mind— at half- 
 past one. Come, come, come, and walk in the green lane. You will 
 work the better for it all the week. Come! I shall expect you." Or, 
 "You don't feel dispop^d, do you, to mutfie yourself up, and start off 
 with me for a good brisk walk, over Hampstead Heath? I know a 
 good 'ouse there where we can have a red-hot chop for dinner, and a 
 glass of good wine": which led to our first experience of Jack Straw's 
 Castle, memorable for many happy meetings in coming years. But 
 the rides were most popular and frequent. "I think," he would write, 
 "Richmond and Twickenhi^m, thro' the park, out at Knightsbridge, 
 and over Barnes Common — would make a beautiful ride." Or, "Do 
 you know, I shouldn't object to an early chop at some village inn?" 
 Or, "Not knowing whether my head was off or on, it became so addled 
 with work, I have gone riding the old road, and should be trul>- de- 
 lighted to meet or be overtaken by you." Or, "V/here shall it be — oh 
 where — Hampstead, Greenwich, Windsor? where? ? ? ? ? ? while the 
 day is bright, not when it has dwindled away to nothing! For who 
 can be of any use whatsomdever such a day as this, excepting out of 
 doors?" Or it might be interrogatory summons to "A hard trot of 
 three hours?" or intimation as laconic "To be heard of at Eel Pie 
 House, Twickenham i" When first I knew him, I may add, his carriage 
 for his wife's use was a small chaise with a smaller pair of ponies, which 
 having a habit of making sudden rushes up by-streets in the day and 
 peremptory standstills in ditches by night, were changed in the fol- 
 lowing year for a more su ttable equipage. 
 
 To this mention of his habits while at work when our friendship 
 began, I have to add what will complete the relation already given, 
 in connection with his Sketches, of the uneasy sense accompanying 
 his labour that it was yielding insufiicient for himself while it enriched 
 others, which is a needful part of his story at this time. At Midsummer 
 X837, rcplyiiig to some inquiries, and sending his agreement witi^ 
 
 
 
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 i If 
 
 ■I 
 
 w 
 
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 I I $ 
 
 370 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 Mr. Bentley for the Miscellany under which he was writing Oliver, he 
 went on: "It is a very extraordinary fact (I forgot it on Sunday) that 
 I have NEVER had from him a copy of the agreement respecting the 
 novel, which I never saw before or since I signed it at his house one 
 morning long ago. Shall I ask him for a copy, or no? I have looked at 
 some memoranda I made at the time, and I fear he has my second 
 novel on the same terms, under the same agreement. This is a bad 
 look-out, but we must try and mend it. You will tell me you are very 
 surprised at my doing business in this way. So am I, for in most 
 matters of labour and application I am punctuality itself. The truth 
 is (though you do not need I should explain the matter to you, my 
 dear fellow) that, if I had allowed myself to be worried by these things, 
 I could never have done as much as I have. But I much fear, in my 
 desire to avoid present vexations, I have laid up a bitter store for the 
 future." The second novel, which he had promised in a complete form 
 for a very early date, and had already selected subject and title for, 
 was published four years later as Barnaby Rudge; but of the third he at 
 present knew nothing but that he was expected to begin it, if not in 
 the magazine, somewhere or other independently within a specified 
 time. 
 
 The first appeal made, in taking action upon his letter, had refer- 
 ence to the immediate pressure of the Barnaby novel; but it also 
 opened up the question of the great change of circumstances since 
 these various agreements had been precipitately signed by him, the 
 very different situation brought about by the extraordinary increase 
 in the popularity of his writings, and the advantage it would be, to 
 both Mr. Bentley and himself, to make more equitable adjustment of 
 their relations. Some misunderstandings followed, but were closed 
 by a compromise in September 1837; by which the third novel was 
 abandoned ^ on certain conditions, and Barnaby was undertaken to be 
 finished by November 1838. This involved a completion of the new 
 story during the progress of Oliver, whatever might be required to 
 follow on the close of Pickwick; and I doubted its wisdom. But it was 
 accepted for the time. 
 
 He had meanwhile taken his wife abroad for a ten days' summer 
 holiday, accompanied by the shrewd observant young artist Mr. 
 Hablot Browne, whose admirable illustrations to Pickwick had more 
 than supplied Mr. Seymour's loss; and I had a letter from him on their 
 landing at Calais on 2 July. 
 
 "We have arranged for a post-coach tc ^?ke us to Ghent, Brussels, 
 Antwerp, and a hundred other places, that i cannot recollect now and 
 couldn't spell if I did. We went this afternoon in a barouche to some 
 gardens where the people dance, and where they were footing it most 
 heartily— especially the women, who in their short petticoats and 
 
 1 I have a memorandum in Dickens's wrjlmg that £500 was to have been given 
 for it, and an additional £250 on its sale reaching 3000 copies: but he had no 
 ground of objection to the terms that accompanied its suirender, which were 
 favourable. 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 371 
 
 light caps look uncommonly agreeable. A gentleman in a blue sur- 
 tout and silken berlins accompanied us from the hotel, and acted as 
 curator. He even waltzed with a very smart lady (just to show us 
 condescendmgly. how it ought to be done), and waltzed elegantly' 
 too. We rang for slippers after we came back, and it turned out that 
 this gentleman was the Boots." 
 
 His later seaside holiday was passed at Brcadstairs. as were those 
 of many subsequent years, and the little watering-place has been 
 made memorable by his pleasant sketch of it. From his letters to my- 
 self a few Imes may be given of his first doings and impressions there. 
 Writmg on 3 September, he reports himself just risen from an 
 attack of illness. "I am much better, and hope to begin Pickwick No 
 18 to-morrow. You will imagine how queer I must have been when I 
 tell you that I have been compelled for four-and-twenty mortal hours 
 to abstain from porter or other malt liquor! ! ! I done it though— 
 really. ... I have discovered that the landlord of the Albion has 
 delicious hollands (but what is that to you, for you cannot sympa- 
 thise with my feelings), and that a cobbler who lives opposite to my 
 bedroom window is a Roman Catholic, and gives an hour and a half 
 to his devotions every morning behind his counter. I have walked 
 upon the sands at low-water from this place to Ramsgate, and sat 
 upon the same at high-ditto till I have been flayed with the cold. I 
 have seen ladies and gentlemn walking upon the earth in slippers of 
 buff, and pickling themselves in the sea in complete suits of the same 
 I have seen stout gentlemen looking at nothing through powerful 
 telescopes for hours, and, when at last they saw a cloud of smoke 
 fancying a steamer behind it. and going home comfortable and happy' 
 I have found out that our next neighbour has a wife and something 
 else under the same roof with the rest of his furniture— the wife deaf 
 and blind, and the something else given to drinking. And if you ever 
 get to txie end of this letter you will find out that I subscribe myself on 
 paper as on everything else (some atonement perhaps for its length 
 and absurdity)," etc. 
 
 In his next letter (from 12 High Street, Broadstairs, on the 7th) 
 there is allusion to one of the many piracies of Pickwick, which had 
 distinguished itself beyond the rest by a preface abusive of the 
 writer plundered. "I recollect this 'member of the dramatic-authors'- 
 society' bringing an action once against Chapman, who rented the 
 City Theatre, in which it was proved that he had undertaken to 
 write under special agreement seven melodramas for five pounds, to 
 enable him to do which a room had been hired in a gin-shop close by. 
 The defendant's plea was that the plaintiff was always drunk, and had 
 not fulfilled his contract. We"; if the Pickwick has been the means of 
 putting a few shillings in the vermin-eaten pockets of so miserable a 
 creature, and has saved him from a workhouse or a jail, let him 
 empty out his little pot of filth and welcome. I am quite content 
 to Jiave been the means of relieving him. Besides, he seems to have 
 suffered by agreements!" . . . 
 
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 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
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 BETWEEN "PICKWICK" AND "NICKLEBY" 
 
 1837 and 1838 
 
 One result of his more satisfactory relations with Mr. Bentley led to a 
 promise to edit for him a Life of the celebrated clown, Grimaldi. 
 The manuscript had been prepared from autobiographical notes b\' a 
 Mr. Egerton Wilk , and contained one or two stories told so ba( .y, 
 and so well worth better telling, that the hope of enlivening their 
 dullness at the cost of very little labour constituted a sort of attrac- 
 tion for him. Except the preface, he did not write a line of this bio- 
 graphy, such modifications or additions as he made having been dic- 
 tated by him to his father; whom I fo nd often in exalted enjoyment 
 of the office of amanuensis. He had also a most indifferent opinion of 
 the mass of material which Mr. Wilks had raked together, describing 
 it as "twaddle"; and his own mod st estimate of the book, on its 
 completion, may be guessed from the number of notes of admiration 
 (no less than thirty) which accompanied his written mention to me of 
 the sale with which it started in the first week of its publication. 
 "Seventeen hundred Grimaldis have already been sold, and the 
 demand increases daily! ! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" 
 
 It was not to have all its own wav, however. A great many critical 
 faults were found; and one point in particular was urged against his 
 handling such a subject, that he could never himself even have seen 
 Grimaldi. To this last objection he was moved to reply, and had pre- 
 pared a letter for the Miscellany, "from editor to sub-editor," which 
 it was thought best to suppress, but of which the opening remark may 
 now be not unamusing. "1 understand that a gentleman unknown is 
 going about this town privately informing all ladies and gentlemen of 
 discontented natures that, on a comparison of dates and putting 
 together of many little circumstances Which occur to his great sagacity, 
 he has made the profound discovery that I can never have seen 
 Grimaldi, whose Life I have edited, and that the book must therefore 
 of necessity be bad. Now, sir, although I was brought up from remote 
 country parts in the d?rk ages of 18 19 and 1820 to behold the splen- 
 dour of Christmas pantomimes and the humour of Joe, in whose hon- 
 our I am informed I clapped my hands with great precocity, and 
 although I even saw him act in the remote times of 1823; yet, as I 
 had not then aspired to the dignity of a tail-coat, though forced by a 
 relentless parent into my first pair of boots, I am willing, with the 
 view of saving this honest gentleman further time and trouble, to 
 concede that I had not arrived at man's estate when Grimaldi left the 
 stage, and that my recollections of his acting are, to mv loss but 
 
The Life of Cliaiies Dickens 
 
 373 
 
 shadowy and imperfect. Which confession I now make publicly, and 
 without mental qualification or reserve, to all whom it may concern. 
 But the deduction of this pleasant gentleman that therefore the 
 Grimaldi book must be bad, 1 must take leave to doubt. 1 don't think 
 that to edit a man's biography from his own notes it is essential you 
 should have known him, and I don't believe that Lord Braybrooke 
 had more than the very slightest acquaintance with Mr. Pepys, whose 
 memoirs he edited two centuries after he died." 
 
 Enormous meanwhile, and without objection audible on any side, 
 had been the succoss of the completed Pickwick, which we celebrated 
 by a dinner, with himself in the chair and Talfourd in the vice-chair, 
 everybody in hearty good humour with every other body; and a copy 
 of which I received from him on 1 1 December in the most luxurious of 
 Mayday's bindings, with a note worth preserving for its closing 
 allusion. The passage referred to in it was a comment, in delicately 
 chosen words, that Leigh Hunt had made on the inscription at the 
 grave in Kensal Green. "Chapman and Hall have just sent me, with a 
 copy of our deed, three 'extra-super' bound copies of Pickwick, as per 
 specimen enclosed. The first I forward to you, the second I have pre- 
 sented to our good friend Ainsworth, and the third Kate 'las retained 
 for herself." . . . 
 
 The "deed" mentioned was one executed in the previous month to 
 restore to him a third ownership in the book which had thus far en- 
 riched all concerned b"t himself. The original understanding respect- 
 ing it Mr. Edwin Chapman thus describes for me. "There was no agree- 
 ment about Pickwick except a verbal one. Each number was to con- 
 sist of a sheet and a half, for which we were to pay fifteen guineas; 
 and we paid him for the first two numbers at once, as he required the 
 money to go and get married with. We were also to pay more accord- 
 ing to the sale, and I think Pickwick altogether cost us three thousand 
 pounds." Adjustment to the sale would have cost four times as much, 
 and of the actual payments I have myself no note; but, as far ad my 
 memory serves, they are overstated by Mr. Chapman, My impression 
 is that, above and beyond the first sum due for each of the twenty 
 numbers (making no allowance for their extension after the first to 
 thirty-two pages), sn-' jssive cheques were given, as the work went 
 steadily on to the c .r.^rmous sale it reached, which brought up the 
 entire sum received to two thousand five hundred pounds. I had, 
 however, always pressed so strongly the importance to him of some 
 share in the copyright, that this at last was conceded in the deed 
 above-mentioned, though five years were to elapse before the right 
 should accrue; and it was only yielded as part consideration for a 
 further agreement entered into at the same date (19 November, 1837) 
 whereby Dickens engaged to "write a new work the title whereof 
 shall be determined by him, of a similar character and of the same 
 extent as the Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club," the first 
 number of which was to be delivered on the fifteenth of the following 
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 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 cessive nineteen months; which was also to be the date of the payment 
 to him, by Messrs, Chapman and Hall, of twenty several sums of one 
 hundred and fifty pound* each for vve years' use of the copjrright, 
 the entire ownership in which was then to revert to Dickens. The 
 name of this new book, as all the world knows, was The Life 
 and Adventures of Nicholas Nicklehy; and between April 1838 and 
 October 1839 it was begun and finished accordingly. 
 
 All through the interval of these arrangements Oliver Twist had 
 been steadily continued. Month by month, for many months, it had 
 run its opening course with the close of Pickwick, as we shall see it 
 close with the opening of Nicklehy, and the expectations of those who 
 had built most confidently on the young novelist were more than 
 COP firmed. Here was the interest of a story simply but well constructed ; 
 and characters with the same impress of reality upon them, but more 
 carefully and skilfully drawn. Nothing could be meaner than the sub- 
 ject, the progress of a parish or workhouse boy, nothing less so than 
 its treatment. As each number appeared, his readers generally be- 
 came more and more conscious of v/hat already, as we have seen, had 
 revealed itself and even the riotous fun of Pickwick, that the purpose 
 was not solely to amuse; and, far more decisively than its predecessor, 
 the new story further showed what were the not least potent elements 
 in the still-increasing popularity that was gathering around the writer. 
 His qualities could be appreciated as well as felt in an almost equal 
 degree by all classes of his various readers. Thousands were attracted 
 to him, because he placed them in the midst of scenes and characters 
 with which they were already themselves acquainted; and thousands 
 were reading him with no less avidity because he introduced them to 
 passages of nature and life of which they before knew nothing, but of 
 the truth of which their own habits and senses sufficed to assure them. 
 
 With such work as this in hand, it will liardly seem surprising that, 
 as the time for beginning Nicklehy came on, and as he thought of his 
 promise for November, he should have the sense of "something 
 hanging over him like a hideous nightmare." He felt that he could not 
 complete the Barnahy Rudge novel by the November of that year as 
 promised, and that the engagement he would have to break was un- 
 fitting him for engagements he might otherwise fulfil. He had under- 
 taken what in truth was impossible. The labour of at once editing the 
 Miscellany, and supplying it with monthly portions of Oliver, more 
 than occupied all the time left him by other labours absolutely neces- 
 sary. "I no sooner get myself up," he wrote, "high and dry, to 
 attack Oliver manfully, than up come the waves of each month's 
 work, and drive me back again into a sea of manuscript." There was 
 nothing for it but that he should make further appeal to Mr. Bentley. 
 "I have recently," he wrote to him on 11 February, 1838, "been think- 
 in pj a great deal about Barnahy Rudge. Grimaldi has occupied so much 
 of the short interval I had between the completion of the Pickwick 
 and the commencement of the new work, that I see it will be v.'holly 
 impossible for me to produce it by the time I had hoped with justice 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
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 375 
 
 to myself or profit to you. What I wish you to consider is this: would 
 it not be far more to your interest, as well as within the scope of my 
 ability, if Barnaby Rudge began in the Miscellany immediately on the 
 conclusion of Oliver Twist, and were continued there for the same time, 
 and then published in three volumes.? Take these simple facts into 
 consideration. If the Miscellany is to keep its ground, it must have 
 some continuous tale from me when Oliver stops. If I sat down to 
 Barnaby Rudge, writing a little of it when I could (and with all my 
 other engagements it would necessarily be a very long time before I 
 could hope to finish it that way), it would be clearly impossible for 
 me to begin a new series of papers in the Miscellany. The conduct of 
 three different stories at the same time, and the production of a large 
 portion of each, every month, would have been beyond Scott himself. 
 Whereas, having Barnaby for the Miscellany, we could at once supply 
 the gap which the cessation of Oliver must create, ard you would have 
 all the advantage of that prestige in favour of the work which :s 
 certain to enhance the value of OHver Twist considerably. Just think 
 of this at your leisure. I am really anxious to do the best I can for you 
 as well as for myself, and in this case the pecuniary advantage must 
 be all on your side." This letter nevertheless, which had also re- 
 quested an overdue account of the sales of the Miscellany, led to 
 differences which were only adjusted after six months' wrangling; 
 and I was party to the understanding then arrived at by which, among 
 other things, Barnaby was placed upon the footing desired, and was 
 to begm when Oliver closed. . . . 
 
 On the 13th, after describing himself "sitting patiently at home 
 waiting for Oliver Twist, who has not yet arrived," which was his 
 agreeable form of saying that his fancy had fallen into sluggishness 
 that morning, he made remark in as pleasant phrase on some piece of 
 painful news I had sent him, now forgotten. "I have not yet seen the 
 paper, and you throw me into a fever. The comfort is, that all the 
 strange and terrible things come uppermost, and that the good and 
 pleasant things are mixed up with every moment of our existence so 
 plentifully that we scarcelvheed them." At the close of the month Mrs. 
 Dickens was well enough o accompany him to Richmond, for now 
 the time was come to start Nickleby, and having . een away from town 
 when Pickwick's first number came out, he made it a superstition to 
 be absent at many future similar times. The magazine day of that 
 April month, I remember, fell upon a Saturday, and the previous 
 evening had brought me a peremptory summons: "Meet me at the 
 Shakespeare on Saturday night at eight; order your horse at midnight, 
 and ride back with me": which was duly complied with. The smallest 
 hour was sounding into the night from St. Paul's before we started, 
 and the night was none of the pleasantest; but we carried news that 
 lightened every part of the road, for the sale of Nickleby had reached 
 that day the astonishing number of nearly fifty thousand ! I left him 
 working with unusual cheerfulness at Oliver Twist when I quitted the 
 "Star and Garter" on the next day but one, after celebrating with 
 
 
 
 i 
 ' ■ ! 
 
376 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 both friends on the previous evening an anniversary which con- 
 cerned us all (their second and my twenty-sixth); and which we kept 
 always in future at the same place, except when they were living out 
 of England, for twenty successive years. It was a part of his love 
 of regularity and order, as well as of his kindliness of nature, to 
 place such friendly meetings as these under rules of habits and con- 
 tinuance. 
 
 Ill 
 
 r 
 
 "OLIVER twist" 
 
 1838 
 
 The whole of his time not occupied with Nickleby was now given to 
 Oliver, and as the story shaped itself to its close it took extraordinary 
 hold of him. I never knew him work so frequently after dinner, or to 
 such late hours (a practice he afterwards abhorred), as during the 
 final months of this task; which it was now his hope to complete 
 before October, though its close in the magazine would not be due 
 until the following March. "I worked pretty well last night," he 
 writes, referring to it in May, "verj" well indeed; but although I did 
 eleven close slips before half-past twelve I have four to write to close 
 the chapter; and, as I foolishly left them till this morning, havcj the 
 steam to get up afresh." A month later he writes: "I got to the six- 
 teenth slip last night, and shall try hard to get to the thirtieth before 
 I go to bed." Then, on a "Tuesday night" at the opening of August, 
 he wrote: "Hard at work still. Nancy is no more. I showed what I have 
 done to Kate last night, who was in an unspeakable 'state'; from which 
 and my own impression I auger well. When I have sent Sikes to the 
 devil, I must have yours." "No, no." he wrote, in the following 
 month: "don't, don't let us ride till to-morrow, not having yet disposed 
 of the Jew, who is such an out and outer, that I don't know what to 
 make of him." No small difficulty to an inventor, where the creatures 
 of his invention are found to be as real as himself; but this also was 
 mastered; and then there remained but the closing quiet chapter to 
 tell the fortunes of those who had figured in the tale. To this he sum- 
 moned me in the first week of September, replying to a request of 
 mine that he'd give me a call that day. "Come and give me a call, and 
 let us have 'a bit o' talk' before we have a bit o' som'at else. My 
 missis is going out to dinner, and I ought to go, but I have got a bad 
 cold. So do you come, and sit here, and read, or work, or do something, 
 while I write the last chapter of Oliver, which will be arter a lamb 
 chop." How well I remember that evening! and our talk of what 
 should be the fate of Charley Bates, on behalf of whom (as indeed for 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 Lch con- 
 we kept 
 ving out 
 his love 
 iture, to 
 md con- 
 
 given to 
 ordinary 
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 complete 
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 377 
 
 the Dodger, too) Talfourd had pleaded as earnestly in mitigation of 
 judgment as ever at the bar for any client he most respected. 
 
 The publication had been announced for Octobei, but the third 
 yolumeillustrationsintercepteditalittle. . . . The completed niver 
 Twist found a circle of admirers, not so wide in its range as those of 
 others of his books, but of a character and mark that made their 
 honest liking for it, and steady advocacy of it, important to his 
 fame; and the story has held its ground in the first class of his 
 writings. It deserves that place. ... At the time of which I am 
 speaking, the debtors' prisons described in Pickwick, the parochial 
 management denounced in Oliver, and the Yorkshire schools exposed 
 in Nickleby, were all actual existences; which now have no vivider 
 existence than in the forms he thus gave to them. With wiser 
 purposes, he superseded the old petrifying process of the magician 
 in the Arabian tale, and struck the prisons and parish practices of 
 his country, and its schools of neglect and crime, into palpable life 
 for ever. A portion of the truth of the past, of the character and 
 very history of the moral abuses of his time, will thus remain al- 
 ways in his writings; and it will be rciiiembered that with only the 
 light arms of humour and laughter, and the gentle ones of pathos 
 and sadness, he carried cleansing and reform into those Augean 
 :; ibles. . . . 
 
 And now, while Oliver was running a great career of popularity and 
 success, the shadow of the tale of Bamahy Rudge, which he was to 
 write on similar terms and to begin in the Miscellany when the other 
 should have ended, began to darken everything around him. We had 
 much discussion respecting it, and I had no small difficulty in re- 
 straining him from throwing up the agreement altogether; but the 
 real hardship of his position, and the considerate construction to be 
 placed on every effort made by him to escape from obligations in- 
 curred in ignorance of the sacrifices implied by them, will be best 
 understood from his own frank statement. On 21 January, 1839, 
 enclosing me the copy of a letter which he proposed to send to Mr! 
 Bentley the following morning, he thus %vrote: "From what I have 
 already said to you, you will have been led to expect that I enter- 
 tained some such intention. I know you will not endeavour to dis- 
 suade me from sending it. Go it must. It is no fiction to say that at 
 present I cannot write this tale. The immense profits which Oliver 
 has realised to its publisher, and is still realisinqf, the paltry, wretched, 
 miserable sum it brought to me (not equal to what is every day paid 
 for a novel that sells fifteen hundred copies at most); the recollection 
 of this, and the consciousness that I have still the slavery and drud- 
 gery of another work on the same journeyman-terms; the conscious- 
 ness that my books are enriching everybody connected with them but 
 myself, and that I, with such a popularity as I have acquired, am 
 struggling in old toils, and wasting my energies in the very height and 
 freshness of my fame, and the best part of my life, to fill the pockets 
 of others, while for those who are nearest and dearest to me I can 
 
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 378 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 realise little more than a genteel subsistence: all this puts me out of 
 heart and spirits: and I cannot— cannot and will not — under such 
 circumstances that keep me down with an iron hand, distress myself 
 by beginning this tale until I have had time to breathe; and until the 
 intervention, shall have restored me to a more genial and composed 
 state of feeling. There — for six months Batnaby Rudge stands ovfer. 
 And but for you, it should stand over altogether. For I do most 
 solemnly declare that morally, before God and man, I hold myself 
 released from such hard bargains as these, after I have done so much 
 for those who drove them. This net that has been wound about me so 
 chafes me, so exasperates and irritates my mind, that to break it at 
 whatever cost — that I should care nothing for — is my constant im- 
 pulse. But I have not yielded to it. I merely declare that I must have 
 a postponement very common in all literary agreements; and for the 
 time I have mentioned — six months from the conclusion of Oliver 
 in the Miscellany — I wash my hands of any fresh accumulation of 
 labour, and resolve to proceed as cheerfully as I can with that which 
 already presses upon me." 
 
 To describe what followed upon this is not necessary. It will 
 suffice to state the results. Upon the appearance in the Miscellany, in 
 the early months of i8 19, of the last portion of Oliver Twist, its author, 
 having been relieved altogether from his engagement to the mag- 
 azine, handed over, in a familiar epistle from a parent to his child, 
 the editorship to Mr. Ainsworth; and the still subsisting agreement 
 to write Barnaby Rudge was, upon the overture of Mr. Bentley 
 himself, in June of the following year, 1840, also put an end to, on 
 payment by Dickens, for the copyright of Oliver Twist and such 
 printed stock as remained of the edition then on hand, of two 
 thousand two hundred and fifty pounds. What was further incident 
 to this transaction will be told hereafter; and a few words may mean- 
 while be taken, not without significance in regard to it, from the 
 parent's familiar epistle. It describes the child as aged two years and 
 two months (so :>ng had he watched over it); gives sundry pieces 
 of advice conceniing its circulation, and the importance thereto of 
 light and pleasant articles of food; and concludes, after some general 
 moralising on the shiftings and changes of this world having taken 
 so wonderful a turn that mail-coach guards were become no longer 
 judges of horse-flesh: "I reap no gain or profit by parting from you, 
 nor will any conveyance of your property be required, for in this 
 respect you have always been literally Bentley's Miscellany and 
 never mine," 
 
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 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 IV 
 
 "NICHOLAS NICKLEBY'* 
 
 1838 and 1839 
 
 I WELL recollect the doubt there was, mixed with the eager expec- 
 tation which the announcement of his second serial story had 
 awakened, whether the event would justify all that interest; and if 
 indeed it were possible that the young writer could continue to walk 
 steadily under the burthen of tne popularity laid upon him. The first 
 number dispersed this cloud of a question in a burst of sunshine; and 
 as much of the gaiety of nations as had been eclipsed by old Mr 
 Pickwick's voluntary exile to Dulwich was restored by the cheerful 
 confidence with which young Mr. Nicholas Nickleby stepped into his 
 shoes. Everything that had given charm to the first book was here, 
 with more attention to the important requisite of a story, and more 
 wealth as well as truth of character. . . . 
 
 Who that recoll^^cts the numbers of Nickleby as they appeared can 
 have forgotten how each number added to the general enjoyment? 
 All that had given Pickwick its vast popularity, the overflowing 
 mirth, hearty exuberance of humour, and genial kindliness of satire 
 had here the advantage of a better-laid design, more connected 
 incidents, and greater precision of character. Everybody seemed 
 immediately to know the Nickleby family as well as his own Dothe- 
 boys, with all that rendered it, like a piece by Hogarth, both luc 
 crous and terrible, became a household word. Successive groups of 
 Mantalinis, Kenwigses, Crummleses, introduced each to its little 
 world of reality, lighted up everywhere with truth and life, with 
 capital observation, the quaintest drollery, and quite boundless 
 mirth and fun. The brothers Cheeryble brought with them all the 
 charities. With Smike came the first of those pathetic pictures that 
 filled the world with pity for what cruelty, ignorance or neglect may 
 inflict upon the young. And Newman Noggs ushered in that class of 
 the creatures of his fancy in which he took himself perhaps the most 
 delight, and which the oftener he dealt with the more he seemed to 
 know how to vary and render attractive;, gentlemen by nature 
 however shocking bad their hats or ungenteel their dialects; philoso- 
 phers of modest endurance, and needy but most respectable coats- 
 a sort of humble angels of sympathy and self-denial, though without 
 a particle of splendour or even good looks about them, except what 
 an eye as fine as their own feelings might discern. "My friends " 
 wrote Sydney Smith, describing to Dickens the anxiety of some 
 ladies of his acquaintance to meet him at dinner, "have not the 
 smallest objection to be put into a number, but on the contrary 
 
38o 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 m 
 
 would be proud of the distinction; and Lady Char lotte, in particular, 
 you may marry to Newman Noggs." Lady Charlotte was not a more 
 real person to Sydney than Newman Noggs; and all the world whom 
 Dickens attracted to his books could draw from them the same 
 advantage as the man of wit and genius. It has been lately objected 
 that humanity is not seen in them in its highest or noblest types, and 
 the assertion may hereafter be worth considering; bat what is very 
 certain, is that they have inculcated humanity in familiar and 
 engaging forms to thousands and tens of thousands of their readers, 
 who can hardly have failed each to make his little world around 
 him somewhat the better for their teaching. From first to last they 
 were never for a moment alien to either the sympathies or the under- 
 standings of any class; and there were crowds of people at this time 
 that could have not told you what imagination meant, who were 
 adding month by month to their limited stores the boundless gains of 
 imagination, . . . 
 
 Of such notices as his letters give of his progress with Nickleby, 
 which occupied him from February 1838 to October 1839, something 
 may now be said. Soon after the agreement for it was signed, before 
 the Christmas of 1837 was over, he went down into Yorkshire with 
 Mr. Hablot Browne to look up the Cheap Schools in that county to 
 which public attention had been painfully drawn by a law case in the 
 previous year; which had before been notorious for cruelties com- 
 mitted in them, whereof he had heard as early as in his childish 
 days; and which he was bent upon destroying if he could. I soon 
 heard the result of his journey; and the substance of that letter, 
 returned to him for the purpose, is in his preface to the story written 
 for the collected edition. He came back confirmed in his design, and 
 in February set to work upon his first chapter. On his birthday he 
 wrote to me. "I have begun 1 I wrote four slips last night, so you see 
 the beginning is made. And what is more, I can go on: so I hope the 
 book is in training at last." "The first chapter of Nicholas is done," 
 he wrote two days later. "It took time, but I think answers the 
 purpose as well as it could." Then, after a dozen days more: "I wrote 
 twenty slips of Nicholas yesterday, left only four to do this morning 
 (up at 8 o'clock, too!), and have ordered my horse at one." I joined 
 him as he expected, and we read together at dinner that day the 
 first number of Nicholas Nickleby. 
 
 In the following number there was a difficulty which it was 
 marvellous should not have occurred to him in this form of publica- 
 tion. "I could not write a line till three o'clock," he says, describing 
 the close of that number, "and have yet five slips to finish, and don't 
 know what to put in them, for I have reached the point I meant to 
 leave off with." He found easy remedy for such a miscalculation at 
 his outset, and it was nearly his last as well as first misadventure of 
 the kind: his constant difficulty in Pickwick, as he said repeatedly, 
 having been not the running short but the running over: not the 
 whip but the drag that v/as wanted. Sufflaminandus erat, as Ben 
 
irticular, 
 )t a more 
 Id whom 
 he same 
 objected 
 -^pes, and 
 t is very- 
 liar and 
 readers, 
 I around 
 ast they 
 le under- 
 ;his time 
 ho were 
 gains of 
 
 Sfickkby, 
 mething 
 3, before 
 lire with 
 junty to 
 se in the 
 ies com- 
 childish 
 . I soon 
 ,t letter, 
 • written 
 ign, and 
 hday he 
 you see 
 lope the 
 3 done," 
 vers the 
 'I wrote 
 morning 
 I joined 
 day the 
 
 it was 
 publica- 
 scribing 
 id don't 
 leant to 
 ation at 
 nture of 
 eatedly, 
 not the 
 as Ben 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 Jonson said of Shakespeare. And in future works, with such 
 marvellous nicety could he do always what he had planned, strictly 
 within the space available, that I can only remember two other 
 similar instances. The third number introduced the school; and "I 
 remain dissatisfied until you have seen and read number three," was 
 his way of announcing to me his o'-n satisfaction with that first 
 handling of Dotheboys Hall. Nor had it the least part in my admira- 
 tion of his powers at this time, that he never wrote without the 
 printer at his heels; that, always in his latest works two or three 
 numbers in advance, he was never a single number in advance with 
 this story; that the more urgent the call upon him the more readily 
 he rose to it; and that his astonishing animal spirits never failed him. 
 As late as the 20th in the November month of 1838, he thus wrote to 
 me: "I have just begun my second chapter; cannot go out to-night; 
 must get on; think there will be a Nickleby at the end of this month 
 now (I doubted it before); and want to make a start towards it if I 
 possibly can." That was on Tuesday; and on Friday morning in the 
 same week, explaining the sudden failure of something that had been 
 promised the previous day, he says: "I was writing incessantly until 
 it was time to dress; and have not yet got the subject of my last 
 chapter, which must be finished to-night." 
 
 But this was not all. Between that Tuesday and Friday an 
 indecent assault had been committed on his book by a theatrical 
 adapter named Stirling, who seized upon it without leave while yet 
 only a third of it was written; hacked, cut and garbled its dialogue to 
 the shape of one or two favourite actors; invented for it a plot and an 
 ending of his own, and produced it at the Adelphi; where the outraged 
 author, hard pressed as he was with an unfinished number, had seen 
 it in the interval between the two letters I have quoted. He would 
 not have run such a risk in later years, but he threw ofi lightly at 
 present even such offences to his art; and though I was with him at a 
 representation of his Oliver Twist the following month at the Surrey 
 Theatre, when in the middle of the first scene he laid himself down 
 upon the floor in a corner of the box and never rose from it until the 
 drop-scene fell, he had been able to sit through Nickleby, and to see 
 a merit in parts of the representation. Mr. Yates had a sufficiently 
 humorous meaning in his wildest extravagance, and Mr. O. Smith 
 could put into his queer angular oddities enough of a han! dry pathos 
 to conjure up shadows at least of Mantalini and Newman Noggs; of 
 Ralph Nickleby there was only a wig, a spencer and a pair of boots, 
 but a quaint actor named Wilkinson proved equal to the drollery^ 
 though not to the fierce brutality of Squeers; and even Dickens, in 
 the letter that amazed me by telling me of his visit to the theatre, 
 was able to praise "the skilful management and dressing of the boys] 
 the capital manner and speech of Fanny Squeers, the dramatic 
 representation of her card-party in Squeers's parlour, the careful 
 making-up of all the people, and the exceedingly good tableaux 
 formed from Brovme's sketches. . . . Mrs. Keeley's first appearance 
 
 Ml 
 
 :^ m 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 

 j 
 
 382 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 beside the fire (see woUum), and all the rest of Smike, was excellent; 
 bating sundry choice sentiments and rubbish regarding the little 
 rol'ns in the fields which have been put in the boy's mouth by Mr. 
 Sti. .ng the adapter." His toleration could hardly be extended to the 
 robins, and their author he properly punished by introducing and 
 denouncing him at Mr. Crummles's farewell sapper. . . . 
 
 The close of the story was written at Broadstairs, from which (he 
 had taken a house "two doors from the Albion Hotel, where we had 
 that merry night two years ago") he wrote to me on 9 September, 
 1839. "I am hard at it, but these windings-up wind slowly, and I 
 shall think I have done great things if I have entirely finished by the 
 2oth. Chapman and Hall came down yesterday with Browne's 
 sketches, and dined here. They imparted their intentions as to a 
 Nicklebeian fdte which will make you laugh heartily — so I reserve 
 them till you come. It has been blowing great guns for the last three 
 days, and last night (I wish you could have seen it !) there was such a 
 sea! I staggered down to the pier and, creeping under the lee of a 
 large boat which was high and dry, watched it breaking for nearly an 
 hour. Of course I came back wet through." On the afternoon of 
 Wednesday the i8th he wrote again. "I shall not finish entirely 
 before Friday, sending Hicks the last twenty pages of manuscript by 
 the night coach. I have had pretty stiff work as you may suppose, and 
 I have taken ,great pains. The discovery is made, Ralph is dead, the 
 loves have come all right, Tim Linkinwater has proposed, and I have 
 now only to break up Dotheboys and the book together. I am very 
 anxious that you should see this conclusion before it leaves my hands, 
 and I plainly see therefore that I must come to town myself on 
 Saturday if I would not endanger the appearance of the number. So I 
 have written to Hicks to send proofs to your chambers as soon as 
 he can that evening; and if you doi:'t object I will dine with you any 
 time after five, and we will devote the night to a careful reading. I 
 have not written to Macready, for they have not yet sent me the 
 title-page of dedication, which is merely To W. C. Macready Esq. the 
 following pages are inscribed, as a slight token of admiration and 
 regard, by his friend the Author.' Meanwhile will you let him know 
 that I have fixed the Nickleby dinner 'for Saturday, the 5th of 
 October. Place, the Albion in Aldersgate Street. Time, six for half- 
 past exactly. ... I shall be more glad than I can tell you to see 
 you again, and I look forward to Saturday, and the evenings that 
 are to follow it, with the most joyful anticipation. I have had a good 
 notion for Barnaby, of which more anon." 
 
 The shadow from the old quarter, we see, the unwritten Barnaby 
 tale, intrudes itself still; though hardly, as of old, making other 
 pleasanter anticipations less joyful. Such indeed at this time was his 
 buoyancy of spirit that it cost him little, compared with the suffering 
 it gave him at subsequent similar times, to separate from the people 
 who for twenty months had been a part of himself, . . . 
 
excellent; 
 the little 
 th by Mr. 
 led to the 
 icing and 
 
 which (he 
 re we had 
 jptembcr, 
 ly, and I 
 ed by the 
 Browne's 
 s as to a 
 
 I reserve 
 last three 
 ^as such a 
 e lee of a 
 nearly an 
 ;moon of 
 1 entirely 
 iscript by 
 pose, and 
 dead, the 
 nd I have 
 
 am very 
 ny hands, 
 nyself on 
 [iber. So I 
 s soon as 
 1 you any 
 eading. I 
 it me the 
 T Esq. the 
 ition and 
 dm know 
 le 5th of 
 
 for half- 
 ou to see 
 ings that 
 id a good 
 
 Barnahy 
 ing other 
 le was his 
 
 suffering 
 he people 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 DURING AND AFTER "nICKLEBY 
 
 1838 and 1839 
 
 The name of his old gallery companion may carry me back from the 
 days to which .he close of Nichleby had led me, to those \ aen it was 
 only beginning. "This snow will take away the cold weather " he had 
 written, in that birthday-letter of 1838 already quoted, "and then 
 for Twickenham." Here a cottage was taken, nearly all the summer 
 was passed, and a familiar face there was Mr. Beard's. There too. with 
 Talfourd and with Thackeray and Jerrold, we had many friendly 
 days; and the social charm of Maclise was seldom wanting. Nor was 
 there anything that exercised a greater fascination over Dickens than 
 the grand enjoyment of idleness, the ready self-abandonment to the 
 luxury of laziness, which we both so laughed at in Maclise, under 
 whose easy swing of indifference, always the most amusing at the 
 most aggravating events and times, we knew that there was 
 artist-work as eager, energy as unwearying, and observation almost 
 as penetrating as Dickens's own. A greater enjoyment than the 
 fellowship of Maclise at this period it would indeed be difficult to 
 imagine. Dickens hardly saw more than he did, while yet he seemed 
 to be seeing nothing; and the small esteem in which this rare 
 faculty was held by himself, a quaint odditv thr 
 shrewdness itself an air of Irish simplicity 
 for literature, and a varied knowledge of bt 
 with such intense love and such unweariv 
 and absorbing art, combined to render him . 
 common. His fine genius and his handsomv 
 
 which at any time he seemed himself to be in tuu -..„ .. ^^^.^^ 
 
 conscious, completed the charm. Edwin Landseer, all the world's 
 favourite, and the excellent Stanfield, came a few months later, in 
 the Devonshire Terrace days; but another painter-friend was George 
 Cattermole, who had then enough and to spare of fun as well as 
 fancy to supply ordinary artists and humorists by the dozen, and 
 wanted only a little more ballast a^d steadiness to possess all that 
 could give attraction to good-fellowship. A friend now especially 
 welcome, also, was the novelist, Mr. Ainsworth. who shared with us 
 incessantly for the three following years in the companionship which 
 began at his house; with whom we visited, during two of those years, 
 friends of art and letters in his native Manchester, from among 
 whom Dickens brought away his Brothers Chee^yble. and to whose 
 sympathy in tastes and pursuits, accomplishments in literature, 
 open-hearted generous wa^s, and cordial hospitality, many of cba 
 
 in him gave to 
 
 uestionable turn 
 
 •ays connected 
 
 * one special 
 
 beyond the 
 
 f neither of 
 
 -xjjiitest degree 
 
384 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 Sfter nfit ''Jlf^' ^'^'f T'.^. ^"*'- Pred^"ck Dickens, to whom soon 
 after tins a treasury-clerkship was handsomely giver, r: Dickens's 
 
 tFFlTT-^^ ^'- ^^"'^y "^ ^"'^^^'^y- J^""^" •" and before those 
 Manchester days, was for the present again living with his father but 
 
 passed much time in his brother's home; and anothci Smillr f^ce 
 was that of Mr. Thomas Mitton. who had known him when himself a 
 IZ'rlT.^- *" ^T^°i":« I""' through whom there was introduction of 
 
 ^nL.rf!r%K^v ^7^u^ ^"^ P^^'"^^' ^'- Smithson. the gentleman 
 connected with YorkGhire. mentioned in his preface to Nickleby who 
 became very mtimate in his house. These, his father and mother anS 
 their two younger sons, with members of his wife's family, and his 
 married sisters and their husbands. Mr. and Mrs. Burnett and Mr 
 ?nfi ";>, .k'*T' ""'^/tS^'^^ that all associate themselves promin^ 
 har^i^anH P^' ^u^' °* ^^"^^^^ ^^'''^ ^"^ *^« ^«ttages of Twicken- 
 and 183^ ^*''"^™ ^' remembered by me in the summers of 1838 
 
 In the former of these years the spoi ts were necessarily quieter than 
 nih w " ' J^.^^""*" r*^"'^^^ garden-grounds admitted of much 
 ainir f ^^'fPt^t^^"'. f^-" the more difficult forms of which I in 
 general modestly retired, but where Dickens for the most part held 
 R^rrS^^'f * ^"'^^ such accomplished athleties as Maclise and Mr. 
 ±ieard Bar-leaping, bowling and quoits were among the games 
 carried on with th. greatest ardour; and in custaineJenfrgy^^^^^ 
 IS called keeping it up. Dickens certainly distanced every competitor 
 Even the lighter recreations of battledore and bagatelle were pursued 
 
 ratslnU're^;'^"^*^^^^ ^? ^ ^^^ amusements as the Pefersham 
 whn!'/i? ^ ! ?r '"^^^^'^ celebrated, and which he visited daily 
 
 horses dfd^ ' ^"""^""^ '^'"'^ ^^'^'^ ^^™^"^^ *^^^ the running 
 
 What else his letters of these years enable me to recall that could 
 
 possess any mterest now rnay be told in a dozen sentences. He wrote 
 
 a farce by way of helping the Covent Garden manager which the 
 
 ttoZV.Z^?^'?^'lr^r'' ^"^ ^^^^^ ^' *"^"^d aftfrwaTds' nto a 
 ?£T.^ ^ ^^' /-.am/,/^^;,/,^. He re-^.d the piece at the theatre, before 
 
 H^lrtT ^*';i?^-"^a?agt^ to whom he had written to request a very 
 different audience in the same green-room a few years before- and 
 Dickens could not but fancy that into Mr. Bartley's face as he 
 listened to the humorous reading, there crept some strTnge^wildered 
 half-consciousness that in the famous writer he saw agahi S^youth 
 
 nr ofTe'Midd I't"' T'ti'^ ^^\^""^^ ^"^^^^ ^^^ Ldents^t the 
 mL^ Middle Temple, though he did not eat dinners there until 
 many years later. We made together a circuit of nearly all the London 
 prisons; and m coming to ae prisoners under remLd while going 
 w7re ^iTJuA'"'''''''^^.^!'^'^ ^y Macready and Mr. Hablot Browne 
 
 wXh?f^Tnl7 K rvf"^^"" ?^P^ ""^y ^^ "My <^°^' there's Wrine^ 
 Tni hL the shabby-genteel creature, with sandy distorted hair 
 
 SIre^t^,r."n^S'n ' T^° -^^ ^^"'^^ ^"^"^^y ^^^^d ^ith a defiant 
 stare ut our entrance, looKmg at once mean and fierce, and quite 
 
 k 
 
whom soon 
 on Dickens's 
 before those 
 is father, but 
 familiar lace 
 fien himself a 
 troduction of 
 kc gentleman 
 Hckleby, who 
 
 1 mother and 
 nily, and his 
 lett and Mr. 
 Ives promin- 
 
 of Twicken- 
 ners of 1838 
 
 quieter than 
 ted of much 
 ' which I in 
 >st part held 
 :lise and Mr. 
 the games 
 rgy, or what 
 competitor. 
 reie pursued 
 ; Petersham 
 'Isited daily 
 the running 
 
 1 that could 
 !S. He wrote 
 r which the 
 vards into a 
 atre, before 
 uest a very 
 before; and 
 face, as he 
 i bewildered 
 
 the youth- 
 lents at the 
 
 there until 
 the London 
 while going 
 ot Browne, 
 e's Wt ine- 
 torted hair 
 h a defiant 
 
 and quite 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 36«; 
 
 capable of the cowardly murders he had committed, Macready ;. 
 been horri^ed to recognise a man familiarly known to him in fr mer 
 years, and at whose table he haJ dined. . . . The closhig months 
 of this year o* 1839 had special interest for him. At the end of 
 October another daught-jr was born to him. who bears the name of 
 that dear friend of hi3 and mine, Macready, whom he asked to be her 
 godfather; and before the close of the year he had moved out of 
 Doughty Street into Devonshire Terrace, a liandsome house with a 
 garden of considerable size, shut out from the New Road by a high 
 bnck-wall facing the York gate into Regent's Park. These various 
 matters, and his attempts at the Barnaby novel on the conclusion of 
 Nicklehy. are the subj'-cts of his letters between October and Decem- 
 ber. 
 
 "Thank God. all goes famously. I have worked at Barnaby all day. 
 and moreover seen a beautiful (and reasonable) house in Kent 
 Terrace, where Macready once lived, but larger than his." Aga>u 
 (this having gone off): "Barnaby has suffered 30 much from the 
 house-hunting, that I mus*-n't chop to-day." Then (for the matter of 
 vhe Middle Temple) "I return the form. It's the right Temple. I take 
 for granted. Barnaby mov^s, not at race-horse speed, but -..': as fast 
 (I think) as under these unsettled circumstances could ( :,3ibly be 
 expected." Or again: 'All well. Barnaby has reached his tenth page. 
 I have just turned lazy, and have passed into Christabel. and thence 
 to Wallens/em:' At last the choice was made. "A house of great 
 proiiiise (and great premium), 'undeniable' situation and excessive 
 splendour, is in view. Mitton is in tre- y, and I am in ecstatic rest- 
 lessness. Kate wants to know whether you have any books to send 
 her, so please to shoot here any literary rubbish on hand." To these I 
 will only add a couple of extracts from his letters while in Exeter 
 arranging his father's and mother's new home. They are pleasantly 
 written; and the vividness with which everything, once seen, was 
 photographed in his mind and memory, is humoroubly shown in 
 them. 
 
 "I took a little house for them this morning "(5 March, 1839: from 
 the New London Inn), "and if they are not pleased with it I shall be 
 grievcisly disappointed. Exactly a mile beyond the city on the 
 Plymouth road there are two white cottages: one is theirs and the 
 other belongs to their landlady. I almost forget the number of rooms; 
 but there is jan excellent parlour with two other rooms on the ground 
 floor, there is really a beautiful little room over the parlour which I 
 ani furnishing as a drawing-room, and there is a splendid garden. The 
 paint and paper throughout are new and fresh and cheerful-looking, 
 the place is clean beyond all description, and the neighbourhood 
 I suppose the most beautiful in this most beautiful of English 
 counties. Of the landlady, a Devonshire widow with whom I had the 
 honour of taking lunch to-day, I must make most especial mention. 
 She is a fat, infirm, splendidly fresh-faced country dame, rising 
 sixty and recovering from an attack 'on the nerves' — I thought they 
 
 331 
 
 1^1 
 
 P, m 
 
 Yt' 
 
386 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 never went off the stones, but I find they try country air with the 
 best of us. In the event of my mother's being ill at any time, I really 
 think the vicinity of this good dame, the very picture of respectability 
 and good humour, will be the greatest possible comfort. Her furniture 
 and do:-.estic arrangements are a capital picture, but that I reserve 
 till I see you, when I anticipate a hearty laugh. She bears the highest 
 character with the bankers and the clergyman (who formerly lived 
 in my cottage himself), and is a kind-hearted worthy capital specimen 
 of the sort of life, or I have no eye for the real and no idea of finding it 
 out. 
 
 "This good lady's brother and his wife live in the next nearest cot- 
 tage, and the brother transacts the good lady's business, the nerves not 
 admitting of her transacting it herself, although they leave her in her 
 debilitated state something sharper than the finest lancet. Now the 
 brother, having coughed all night till he coughed himself into such a 
 perspiration that you might have 'wringed his hair,' according to the 
 asseveration of eye-witnesses, his wife was sent for to negotiate with 
 me; and if you could have seen me sitting in the kitchen with the two 
 old women, endeavouring to make them comprehend that I had no 
 evil intentions or covert designs, and that I had come down all that way 
 to take some cottage and had happened to walk down that road and 
 see that particular one, you would never have forgotten it. Then, to 
 see the servant-girl run backwards anji forwards to the sick man, 
 and when the sick man had signed one agreement which I drew up 
 and the old woman in^itantly put away in a disused tea-caddy, to see 
 the trouble and the number of messages it took before the sick man 
 could be brought to sign another (a duplicate) that we might have 
 one apiece, was one of the richest scraps of genuine drollery I ever 
 saw in all my days. How, when the business was over, we became 
 conversational: how I was facetious, and at the same time virtuous 
 and domestic; how I drank toasts in the beer, and stated on interro- 
 gatory that I was a married man and the f.-.ther of two blessed infants; 
 how the ladies marvelled thereat; how one of the ladies, having been 
 in London, inquired where I lived, and, being told, remembered that 
 Doughty Street and the Foundling Hospital were in the Old Kent 
 Road, which I didn't contradict—all this and a great deal more must 
 make us laugh when I return, as it makes me laugh now to think of. 
 Of my subsequent visit to the upholsterer recommended by the land- 
 lady; of the absence of the upholsterer's wife, and the timidity of the 
 upholsterer fearful of acting in her absence; of my sitting behind a 
 high desk in a little dark shop, calling over the articles in requisition 
 and checking off the prices as the upholsterer exhibited the goods and 
 called them out; of my coming over the upholsterer's daughter, with 
 many virtuous endearments, to propitiate the establishment and 
 reduce the bill; of these matters I say nothing, either, for the same 
 reason as that just r^entioned. The discovery of the cottage I seriously 
 regard as a blessing (not to speak it profanely) upon our efforts in this 
 cause. I had heard nothing from the bank, and walked straight there. 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 387 
 
 by some strange impulse, directly after breakfast. I am sure thev 
 may be happy there; for if I were older, and my course of activity were 
 run. I am sure / could, with God's blessing, for many and many a 
 year. ... •' 
 
 "The theatre is open here, and Charles Kean is to-night playing for 
 hi. last mght. If It had been the 'rig'lar' drama I should have gJne^but 
 I was afraid Sir Giles Overreach might upset me. so I stay! d away 
 My quarters are excellent and the head waiter is such\ waiter' 
 Knowles (not Sheridan Knowles. but Knowles of the Cheetham 
 Hill Road) is an ass to him. This sounds bold, but truth is stranger 
 than fiction. By the by. not the least comical thing that has occurred 
 was the visit ot the upholsterer (with some further calculations) 
 smce I began this letter. I think they took me here at the Iscw- 
 i;?H rf "i°'' the Wonderful Being I am; they were amazingly sedulous; 
 and no doubt they looked for my being visited by the nobility and 
 gentry of the neighbourhood. My first and only visitor came to-nirht- 
 A ruddy-faced man m faded black, with extracts from a feather-bed 
 all over him; an extraordinary and quite miraculously dkty face- a 
 thick stick; and the personal appearance altogether of an amiable 
 baihflE m a green old age. I have not seen the proper waiter since, and 
 more than suspect I shall not recover this blow. He was announced 
 [hy the waiter) as a person.' I expect my bill every minute. 
 .V,- ^^!^^'?*^/^ 1? laughing outside the door with another wkiter— 
 this IS the latest intelligence of my condition." 
 
 VI 
 
 NEW LITERARY PROJECT 
 1839 
 
 The time was now come for him seriously to busy himself with a 
 successor to Pickwick and Nicklehy, which he had not. however 
 v^ /A ' long before turning over thoroughly in his mind! 
 ^licklebys success had so far outgone even the expectation raised by 
 P^ckwtcks that, without some handsome practical admission of this 
 fact at the close, its publishers could hardly hope to retain him. This 
 had been frequently discussed by us. and was well understood But 
 
 2f ?Tu* Sr!*'""^ ?* ''^^ resuming with them at all. he had 
 persuaded himself it might be unsafe to resume in the old way 
 believing the public likely to tire of the same twenty numbers over 
 again Ihere was also another and more sufficient reason for change 
 
 which naturally had ereat wpi^hf wifh )iir«. ^^a 4.1,: xi. _ , ^ ' 
 
 that, by invention of a new mode as well as kind of serial publication 
 he might be able for a time to discontinue the writing of a long story 
 
 .! ■ll 
 
 S i 
 
588 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 with all its strain on his fancy, or in any case to shorten and vary the 
 length of the stories written by himself, and perhaps ultimately to 
 retain all the profits of a continuous publication, without necessarily 
 himself contributing every line that was to be written for it. These 
 considerations had been discussed still more anxiously; and for several 
 months some such project had been taking form in his thoughts. 
 
 While he was at Petersham (July 1839) he thus wrote to me: "I 
 have been thinking that subject over. Indeed I have been doing so to 
 the great stoppage of Nickleby and the great worrying and fidgetting 
 of myself. I have been thinking that if Chapman and Hall were to 
 admit you into their confidence with respect to what they mean to do 
 at the conclusion of Nickleby, without admitting me, it would help 
 us very much. You know that I am well-disposed towards them, and 
 that if they do something handsome, even handsomer perhaps than 
 they dreamt of doing, they will find it their interest, and will find me 
 tractable. You know also that I have had straightforward offers from 
 responsible men to publish anything for me at a percentage on the 
 profits, and take all the risk, but that I am unwilling to leave them, 
 and have declared to you th^t if they behave with liberality to me I 
 will not on any consideration, although to a certain extent I certainly 
 and surely must gain by it. Knowing all this, I feel sure that if you 
 were to put before them the glories of our new project, and, reminding 
 them that when Barnaby is published I am clear of all engagements, 
 were to tell them that, if they wish to secure me and perpetuate our 
 connection, now is the time for them to step gallantly forward and 
 make such proposals as will produce that result — I feel quite sure 
 that if this should be done by you, as you only can do it, the result will 
 be of the most vital importance to me and mine, and that a great deal 
 may be effected, thus, to recompense your friend for very, small 
 profits and very large work as yet. I shall see you, please God, on 
 Tuesday night; and if they wait upon you on Wednesday, I shall re- 
 main in town until that evening." 
 
 They came; and the tenor of the interview was so favourable that I 
 wished him to put in writing what from time to time had been discussed 
 in connection with the new project. This led to the very interesting 
 letter I shall now quote, written also in the same month from Peter- 
 sham. I did not remember, until I lately read it, that the notion of a 
 possible visit to America had been in his thoughts so early. 
 
 "1 should be willing to commence on the thirty-first of March, 
 1 840, a new publication consisting entirely of original matter, of which 
 one number price threepence should be published every week, and of 
 which a certain amount of numbers should form a volume, to be 
 published at regular intervals. The best general idea of the plan of the 
 work might be given perhaps by reference to The Taller, The Spectator, 
 and Goldsmith's Bee, but it would be far more popular both in the 
 subjects of which it treats and its mode of treating them. 
 
 "I should propose to start, as The Spectator does, with some pleas- 
 antfiction relative to theorigin of the publication; to introduce sJitXle 
 
id vary the 
 timately to 
 necessarily 
 )r it. These 
 [ for several 
 ughts. 
 ! to me: "I 
 doing so to 
 1 fidgetting 
 all were to 
 mean to do 
 »vould help 
 
 them, and 
 rhaps than 
 v^ill find me 
 offers from 
 :age on the 
 save them, 
 ity to me I 
 I certainly 
 that if you 
 
 reminding 
 jagements, 
 )etuate our 
 •rward and 
 
 quite sure 
 ; result will 
 L great deal 
 v^ery. small 
 se God, on 
 
 I shall re- 
 able that I 
 n discussed 
 interesting 
 rom Peter- 
 notion of a 
 
 of March, 
 jr, of which 
 sek, and of 
 ime, to be 
 plan of the 
 e Spectator, 
 ►oth in the 
 
 lome pleas- 
 iuceeJittle 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 389 
 
 dub or knot of characters and to carry their personal histories and 
 proceedings through the work; to introduce fresh characters con- 
 stantly; to reintroduce Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, the latter of 
 whom might furnish an occasional communication with great effect- 
 to write amusmg essays on the various foibles of the day as thev arise- 
 to take advantage of all passing events; and to vary the form of the 
 papers by throwmg them into sketches, essays, tales, adventures 
 letters froni imaginary correspondents and so forth, so as to diversify 
 the contents as much as possible. vcxsiiy 
 
 ' In addition to this general design, I may add that under part ular 
 heads I should strive to establish certain features in the work which 
 the whole ^"^ ""^"^ ''^'"^ "^^ interest and amusement running through 
 "The heads of th« terms upon which I should be prepared co go 
 mto the underirakinf, ould be-That I be made a proprietor in the 
 work and a sharer m the profits. That when I bind myself to write 
 a certain portion of every number, I am ensured, for that writing in 
 every number a certain sum of money. That those who assist me and 
 contribute the remainder of every number, shall be paid by the oub- 
 hshers immediately after its appearance, according to a scale to be 
 calculated and agreed upon, on presenting my order for the amount to 
 •li?. i!^ ""^^ ^1 respectively entitled. Or, if the publishers prefer 
 It, that they agree to pay me a certain sum for the whole of every num- 
 ber, and leave me to make such arrangements for that part which I 
 may not write, as I think best. Of course I should require that for 
 these payments, or any other outlay connected with the vvork I am not 
 held accountable in any way; and that no portion of them is to be 
 considered as received by me on account of the profits. I need not add 
 that some arrangement would have to be made, if I undertake my 
 1 ravels, relative to the expenses of travelling. ^ 
 
 **Now I want our publishing friends to take these things into con- 
 sideration, and to give me the views and proposals they would be dis- 
 posed to entertain when they have maturely considered the matter " 
 
 An on/r "" ,''i..*^^'^''''"i'^f ^^^^'^ "^^^ °^ *^^ ^hole satisfactory. 
 An additional fifteen hundred pounds was to be paid at the close oi 
 h.ickxby, the new adventure was to be undertaken, and Cattermole 
 was to be joined with Browne as its illustrator. Nor was its plan much 
 modified be. ore starting, though itwas felt byus all that,for the ooen- 
 ing nunibers at least, Dickens would have to be sole contributor- 
 n?i ^ ; '^^^*^^^^ otherwise might be its attraction, or the success 
 ot the detached papers proposed by nim, some reinforcement of them 
 from time to time, by means of a story with his name continued 
 at reasonable if not regular intervals, would be found absolutely 
 
 Six weeks before signature of the agreement, while a title was still 
 undetcrmmed, I had this letter from him. -T will dine with you I 
 intended to spend the evening in strict meditation (as I did last nightV 
 but perhaps I had better go out, lest all work and no play should make 
 
 m 
 
 v 
 
 1 
 
 ^ ) \ 
 
 : 
 
 s f 
 

 390 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 me a dull boy. / have a list of titles too, but the final title I have de- 
 termined on — or something very near it. I have a notion of this old 
 file in the queer house, opening the book by an account of himself, and, 
 among other peculiarities, of his affection for an old quaint queer- 
 cased clock; showing how that when they have sat alone together in 
 the long evenings, he has got accustomed to its voice, and come to 
 consider it as the voice of a friend; how its striking, in the night, 
 has seemed like an assurance to him that it was still a cheerful watcher 
 at his chamber-door; and how its very face has seemed to have some- 
 thing of welcome in its dusty features, and to relax from its grimness 
 when he has looked at it from his chimney-corner. Then I mean to tell 
 how that he has kept odd manuscripts in the old, deep, dark, silent 
 closet where the weights are; and taken them from thence to read 
 (mixing up his enjoyments with some notion of his clock); and how, 
 when the club came to be formed, they, by reason of their punctuality 
 and his regard for his dumb servant, took their name from it. And 
 thus I shall call the book either Old Humphrey's Clock; or Master 
 Humphrey's Clock; beginning with a woodcut of old Humphrey and 
 his clock, and explaining the why and wherefore. All Humphrey's 
 own papers will then be dated From my clockside, and I have divers 
 thoughts about the best means of introducing the others. I thought 
 about this all day yesterday and all last night till I went to bed. I am 
 sure I can make a good thing of this opening, which I have thoroughly 
 warmed up to in consequence . " 
 
 A few days later: "I incline more to Master Humphrey's Clock than 
 Old Humphrey's — if so be that there is no danger of the Pensive con- 
 founding master with a boy." After twodavs more: "I was thinking 
 all yesterday, and have begun at Master Humphrey to-day." Then, 
 a week later: "I have finished the first number, but have not been 
 able to do more in the space than lead up to the Giants, who are just 
 on the scene." 
 
 VII 
 
 "old curiosity shop'* 
 
 1840 and 1841 
 
 A DAY or two after the date of the last letter quoted, Dickens and his 
 wife, with Maclise and myself, visited Landor in Bath, and it was 
 during three happy days passed together there that the fancy which 
 was shortly to take the form of little Nell first occurred to its author. 
 But as yet with the intention only of making out of it a tale of a few 
 chapters. On i March we returned from Bath; and on the 4th I had 
 this letter: "If you can manage to give me a call in the course of the 
 
 
 i !,•- 
 
ave some- 
 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 391 
 
 day or evening, 1 wish you would. I am laboriously turning over in my 
 mmd how I can best effect the improvement we spoke of last night 
 which I will certainly make by hook or by crook, and which I would 
 like you to see before it goes finally to the printer's. I have determined 
 not to put that witch-story into number 3. for I am by no means 
 satisfied of the effect of its contrast with Humphrey. I think of 
 lengthening Humphrey, finishing the description of the society and 
 closing with the little child-story, which is sure to be effective 
 especially after the old man's quiet way." Then there came hard 
 upon this: "What do you think of the following double title for the 
 beginning of that little tale? 'Personal Adventures of Master 
 Humphrey: The Old Curiosity Shop: I have thought of Master 
 Humphrey's Tale, Master Humphrey's Narrative, A Passage in Master 
 Humphrey's Life—hut I don't think any does as well as this. I have 
 also thought of The Old Curiosity Dealer and the Child instead of 
 I he Old Curiosity Shop. Perpend. Topping waits."— And thus was 
 taking gradual form, with less direct consciousness of design on his 
 own part than I can remember in any other instance throughout his 
 career, a story which was to add largely to his popularity, more than 
 any other of his works to make the bond between himself and his 
 readers one of personal attachment, and very widely to increase the 
 sense of personal attachment, and very widely to increase the sense 
 entertained of his powers as a pathetic as well as humorous writer 
 
 He had not written more than two or three chapters, when the 
 capability of the subject for more extended treatment than he 
 had at first proposed to give to it pressed itself upon him and he 
 resolved to throw everything else aside, devoting himself to the one 
 story only. There were other strong reasons for this. Of the first 
 number of the Clock nearly seventy thousand were sold; but with the 
 discovery that there was no continuous tale the orders at once dim- 
 inished, and a change must have been made even if the material and 
 means for it had not been ready. There had been an interval of three 
 numbers between the first and second chapters, which the society 
 .. A . ^"^^^^^ ^^^ *^® *^° Wellers made pleasant enough; but 
 alter the introduction of Dick Swiveller there were three consecutive 
 chapters; and in the continued progress of -.he tale to its close there 
 were only two more breaks, one between the fourth and fifth chap- 
 ters and one between the eight and ninth, pardonable and enjoyable 
 now for the sake of Sam and his father. The re-introduction of those 
 old favourites, it will have been seen, formed part of his original plan- 
 of his abandonment of which his own description may be added from 
 his preface to the collected edition. "The first chapter of this tale 
 appeared m the fourth number of Master Humphrey's Clock, when I 
 had already been made uneasy by the desultory character' of that 
 work, and when, I believe, my readers had thoroughly participated 
 
 .........g. xxiv, -vjiiiiiiciiuciiiciii, VI a acory was a great satisfaction 
 
 to nie, and I had reason to believe that my readers participated in 
 this feeling too. Hence, being pledged to some interruptions and some 
 
 1 1 ; 
 
 ^ f 
 
 i [ 
 
 I 
 
 
 if. 
 
 (i 
 
 d 
 
392 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 pursuit of the original design, I set cheerfully about disentangling 
 myself from those impediments as fast as I could; and, thi« done, 
 from that time until its completion The Old Curiosity Shop was 
 written and published from week to week, in weekly parts." 
 
 He had very early himself become greatly taken with it. ' ' I am yery 
 glad indeed," he wrote to me after the first half-dozen chapters, "that 
 you think so well of the Curiosity Shop, and especially that what may 
 be got out of Dick strikes you. I mean to make much of him. I feel 
 the story extremely myself, which I take to be a good sign; and am 
 already warmly interested in it. I shall run it on now for four whole 
 numbers together, to give it a fair chance." Every step lightened the 
 road, as it became more and more real with each character that 
 appeared in it; and I still recall the glee with which he told me what 
 he intended to do not only with Dick Swiveller, but with Septinius 
 Brass, changed afterwards to Sampson. Undoubtedly, however, Dick 
 was his favourite. "Dick's behaviour in the matter of Miss Wackles 
 will, I hope, give you satisfaction," is the remark of another of his 
 letters. "1 cannot yet discover that his aunt has any belief in him, 
 or is in the least degree likely to send him a remittance, so that he 
 will probably continue to be the sport of destiny." His difficulties were 
 the quickly recurring times of publication, the confined space in each 
 number that yet had to contribute its individual effect, and (from 
 the suddenness with which he had begun) the impossibility of getting 
 in advance. "I was obliged to cramp most dreadfully what I thought 
 a pretty idea in the last chapter. I hadn't room to turn": to this oi 
 a similar effect his complaints are frequent, and of the vexations 
 named it was by far the worst. But he steadily bore up against all, 
 and made a triumph of the little story. 
 
 To help his work he went twice to Broadstairs, in June and in 
 September; and at his first visit (17 June) thus wrote: "It's now four 
 o'clock and I have been at work since half-past eight. I have really 
 dried myself up into a condition which would almost justify me in 
 pitching off tne cliff, head first — but I must get richer before I indulge 
 in a crowning luxury. . . . "At the opening of September he was again 
 at the little v/atering place. The residence he most desired there. Fort 
 House, stood prominently at the top of" a breezy hill on the road to 
 Kingsgate, with a cornfield between it and the sea, and this in many 
 subsequent years he always occupied; but he was fain to be content, 
 as yet, with Law House, a smaller villa between the hill and the corn- 
 field, from which he now wrote of his attentions to Mr. Sampson 
 Brass's sister. "I have been at work of course" (2 September) "and 
 have just finished a number, I have effected a reform by virtue of 
 which we breakfast at a quarter before eight, so that I get to work 
 as half-past, and am commonly free by one o'clock or so, which is a 
 great happiness. Dick is now Sampson's clerk, and I have touched 
 Miss Brass in Number 25, lightly, but effectively I hope." . . . 
 
 At the opening of November, there seems to have been a wish on 
 Maclise's part to try his hand at an illustration for the story; but I do 
 
jentangling 
 thin done, 
 
 Shop was 
 
 >> 
 
 "I am very 
 )ters, "that 
 t what may 
 him. I feel 
 ^n; and am 
 
 four whole 
 (htened the 
 racter that 
 Id me what 
 li Septimus 
 vever, Dick 
 ss Wackles 
 )ther of his 
 lief in him, 
 
 so that he 
 :ulties were 
 »ace in each 
 
 and (from 
 Y of getting 
 1 1 thought 
 : to this 01 
 3 vexations 
 against all, 
 
 une and in 
 's now four 
 have really 
 stify me in 
 re I indulge 
 e was again 
 there, Fort 
 the road to 
 lis in many 
 be content, 
 id the corn- 
 r, Sampson 
 nber) "and 
 y virtue of 
 ;et to work 
 . which is a 
 ve touched 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 393 
 
 I a wish on 
 y; but I do 
 
 not remember that it bore other fruit than a very pleasant day at 
 Jack Straw's Castle, where Dickens read one of the later numbers to 
 us. Machse and myself (alonie in the carriage)," he wrote, "will be 
 with you at two exactly. We propose driving out to Hampstead and 
 walking there if it don't rain in buckets'-fuU. I shan't send Brad- 
 burys the MS. of next number till to-morrow, for it contains the 
 shadow of the number after that, and I want to read it to Mac as 
 It he likes the subject, it will furnish him with one. I think You can't 
 imagine (gravely I write and speak) how exhausted I am to-day with 
 yesterday's labours. I went to bed last night utterly dispirited and 
 done up. ... j f 
 
 Fast shortening as the life of little Nell was now, the dying year 
 might have seen it pass away; but I never knew him wind up any 
 tale with such a sorrowful reluctance as this. He caught at any excuse 
 to hold his hand from it, and stretched to the utmost limit the time 
 left to complete it in. . . . He read to me the two chapters of Nell's 
 death, the seventy-first and seventy-second, with the result described 
 in a letter of the following Monday, 17 January, 1841. 
 
 "I can't help letting you know how much your yesterday's letter 
 pleased me. I felt sure you liked the chapters when we read them on 
 Thursday night, but it was a great delight to have my impression so 
 strongly and heartily confirmed. You know how littl< value I should 
 set on what I had done, if all the world cried out that it was good 
 and those whose good opinion and approbation I value most were 
 silent. The assurance that this little closing of the scene touches and 
 is felt by you so strongly, is better to me than a thousand most sweet 
 voices out of doors. When I first began, on your valued suggestion to 
 keep my thoughts upon this ending of the tale, I resolved to try and 
 do something which might be read by people about whom Death had 
 
 been, with a softened feeling, and with consolation After you left 
 
 last night, I took my desk upstairs; and writing until four o'clock this 
 morning, finished the old story. It makes me very melancholy to think 
 that all these people are lost to me for ever, and I feel as if I never 
 could become attached to any new set of characters." The words 
 printed in italics, as underlined by himself, give me my share in the 
 story which had gone so closely to his heart. I was responsible for its 
 tragic ending. He had not thought of killing her, when, about half- 
 way through, : asked him to consider whether it did not necessarily 
 belong even to his own conception, after taking so mere a child 
 through such a tragedy of sorrow, to lift her also out of the common- 
 place of ordinary happy endings, so that the gentle pure little figure 
 and form should never change to the fancy. All that I meant he 
 seized at once, and never turned aside from it again. 
 
 The published book was an extraordinary success, and, in America 
 more especially, very greatly increased the writer's fame. The pathetic 
 
 vein it had Or>Pnp>rl wpt! n^rhanc moinlTr 4-\ta. ^n,,^^ ^t xu:_ •L.-j- i_?_^ 
 
 at home continued still to turn on the old characteristics; the fresh- 
 ness of humour of which the pathos was but another form or product, 
 331* 
 
 *. 
 
 I 
 
 !■ ( 
 
 I 
 
394 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickons 
 
 the grasp of reality with which character had again been seized, the 
 discernment of good under its least attractive forms and of evil in its 
 most captivating disguises, the cordiat wisdom and sound heart, the 
 enjoyment at^d fun, luxuriant yet under proper control. No falling-off 
 was found in these, and I doubt if any of his ptople have been more 
 widely liked than Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness. ... 
 
 VIII 
 
 DEVONSHIRE TERRACE AND BROADSTAIRS 
 
 1840 
 
 It was an excellent saying of the first Lord Shaftesbury, that, seeing 
 every man of any capacity holds within himself two men, the wise and 
 the foolish, each of them ought freely to be allowed his turn; and it 
 was one of the secrets of Dickens's social charm that he could, in strict 
 accordance with this saying, allow each part of him its turn; could 
 afford thoroughly to give rest and relief to what was serious in him, 
 and, when the time came to play his gambols, could surrender him- 
 self wholly to the enjoyment of the time, and become the very genius 
 and embodiment of one of his own most whimsical fancies. 
 
 Turning back from the narrative of his last piece of writing to recall 
 a few occurrences of the year during which it had occupied him, I find 
 him at its opening in one of these humorous moods, and another 
 friend, with myself, enslaved by its influence. "What on earth does it 
 all mean!" wrote poor puzzled Mr. Landor to me, enclosing a letter 
 from him of the date 11 February, the day after the royal nuptials of 
 that year. In this he had related to our old friend a wonderful halluci- 
 nation arising out of that event, which had then taken entire pos- 
 session of him. "Society is unhinged here," thus ran the letter, "by 
 her TTiajesty's marriage, and I am sorry to add that I have fallen hope- 
 lessly in love with the Queen, and wander up and down with vague 
 and dismal thoughts of running away to some uninhabited island 
 with a maid of honour, to be entrapped by conspiracy for that pur- 
 pose. Can you suggest any particular young person, serving in such a 
 capacity, who would suit me? It is too much perhaps to ask you to 
 join the band of noble youths (Forster is in it, and Maclise) who are to 
 assist me in this great enterprise, but a man of your energy would be 
 invaluable. I have my eye upon Lady . . ., principally because she is 
 very beautiful, and has no strong brothers. Upon this, and other points 
 of the scheme, however, we will confer more at large when we meet; 
 and meanwhile bum this document, that no suspicion may arise or 
 
 The maid of honour and the uninhabited island were flights of 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 395 
 
 fancy, but the other daring delusion was for a time encouraRed to 
 such whimsical lengths, not alone by him but ( under his influence) bv 
 the two friends named, that it took the wildest forms of humorous 
 extravagance; and of the private confidences much interchanged a«» 
 well as of his own style of open speech in which the joke of a despkir'- 
 ing unfitness for any further use or enjoyment of life was unflagginKly 
 kept up, to the amazement of bystanders knowing nothing of what it 
 meant and believing he had half lost his senses, I permit myself to 
 give from his letters one further illustration. "I am utterly lost in 
 misery, he writes on 12 February, "and can do nothing. I have been 
 reading Ohver, Ptckmck and Nichlehy tc get my thoughts together 
 tor the new effort, but all m vain: 
 
 My heart is at Windsor, 
 
 My heart isn't here; 
 My heart is at Windsor, 
 
 A following my dear. 
 
 I saw the Responsibilities this morning, and burst into tears The 
 presence of iny wife aggravates me. I loathe my parents. I detest my 
 house. I begm to have thoughts of the Serpentine, of the Regent's 
 Canal, of the razors upstairs, of the chemist's down the street of 
 
 poisoning myself at Mrs. 's table, of hanging myself upon the 
 
 Dear-tree in the garden, of abstaining from food and starving myself 
 to death, of being bled for my cold and tearing off the bandage of 
 fallmg u^-^er the feet of cab-horses in the New Road, of murdering 
 Chapman and Hall and becoming great in story(SHE must hear some- 
 thing of me then— perhaps sign the warrant: or is that a fable?) of 
 turning Chaxtist. of heading some bloody assault upon the palace and 
 
 savmg Her by my single hand of being anything but what I have 
 
 WnH^r n "^l^"^f?^^ but what I have done. Your distracted 
 tnend, CD. The wild derangement of asterisks in every shape and 
 form, with which this incoherence closed, cannot be given 
 
 Some ailments which dated from an earlier period in his life made 
 themselves felt in the spring of the year, as I remember, and increased 
 horse exercise was strongly recommended to him. "I find it will be 
 positively necessary to go. for five days in the week at least " he 
 wrote in March 'on a perfect regimen of diet and exercise, and am 
 anxious not to delay treating for a horse." We were now, therefore 
 when he was not at the seaside, much, on horseback in suburban lanes 
 and roads; and the spacious garden of his new house was also turned 
 to healthful use at even his busiest working times. I mark this, too. 
 as the time when the first ol his ravens took up residence; and as the 
 begmmng of disputes with two of his neighbours about the smoking 
 of the stable chimney, which his groom Topping, a highW absurd 
 little man with flaming redhair, so complicated by Scret devices of his 
 own. meant to conciliate each complainant alternately and having 
 a,,^r^~T".V;"*i^Vf V5 D^"x. mat law proceeaings were only barely 
 avoided. I shall give you." he writes, "my latest report of the 
 
 
30 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 chimney in the form of an address from Topping, made t '^ me on our 
 way from little Hall's at Norwood the other night, where he and 
 Chapman and I had been walking all day, while Topping drove Kate, 
 Mrs. Hall, and her sisters, to Dulwich. Topping had been regaled upon 
 the premises, and was just drunk enough to be confidential. 'Beggin' 
 your pardon, sir, but the genelman next door sir, seems to be gettin' 
 quite comfortable and pleasant about the chimley.' — ' I don't think he 
 is. Topping.' — 'Yes he is sir I think. He comes out in the yard this 
 morning and says Coachman he says' (observe the vision of a great 
 large fat man called up by the word) 'is that your raven he says 
 Coachman? or is it Mr. Dickens's raven? he says. My master's sir, I 
 says. ^Vell, he says, it's a fine bird. I think the chimley 'ill do notu 
 Coachman, — nowthejint's taken off the pipe he says. I hope it will, sir, 
 I says; my master's a genelman as wouldn't annoy no genelman if he 
 could help it, I'm sure; and my own missis is so afraid of havin' a bit 
 o' fire that o' Sundays our little bit o' weal or what not, goes to the 
 baker's a purpose. — Damn the chimley Coachman, he says, it's a 
 smokin' now. — It an't a smokin' your way sir, I says; Well, he says, 
 no more it is, Coachman, and as long as it smokes anybody else's way, 
 it's all right and I'm agreeable.' Of course I shall now have the man 
 from the other side upon me, and very likely with an action of nuis- 
 ance for smoking into his conservatory." 
 
 A graver incident, which occurred to him also among his earliesc 
 experiences as tenant of Devonshire Terrace, illustrates too well the 
 practical turn of his kindness and humanity not to deserve relation. 
 He has himself described it, in one of his minor writings, in setting 
 down what he remembered as the only good that ever came of a 
 beadle. 'Of that great parish functionary," he remarks, "having 
 newly taken the lease of a house in a certain distinguished metro- 
 politan parish, a house which then appeared to me to be a frightfully 
 first-class family mansion involving awful responsibilities, I became 
 the prey." In other words he was summoned, and obliged to sit, as 
 juryman at an inquest on the body '^f a little child alleged to have 
 been murdered by its mother; of which the result was, by his per- 
 severing exertion, seconded by the humane help of the coroner, Mr. 
 Wakley, the verdict of himself and his fellow- jurymen charged her 
 only with the concealment of birth. "The poor desolate creature 
 dropped upon her knees before us with protestations that we were 
 right (protestations amoixg the most affecting that I have ever heard 
 in my life), and was carried away insensible. I caused some extra care 
 to be taken of her in the prison, and counsel to be retained for her 
 defence when she was tried at the Old Bailey; and her sentence was 
 lenient, and her history and conduct proved that it was right." How 
 much he felt the little incident, at the actual time of its occurrence, 
 may be judged from the few lines written next morning: "Whether it 
 was the poor baby, or its poor mother, or the coffin, or my fellow- 
 
 inrizm*»T» o'*' 'wV»a+ nni- T 0311'+ sair bu'^ la^J^ ■nicrhi- T ViaH a TYincf irirjio-nf 
 
 attack of sickness and indigestion, which not only prevented me from 
 
me on our 
 jre he and 
 rove Kate, 
 galed upon 
 il. ' Beggin' 
 ) be gettin' 
 I't think he 
 9 yard this 
 of a great 
 en he says 
 iter's sir, 1 
 'ill do now 
 it will, sir, 
 2lman if he 
 lavin' a bit 
 goes to the 
 ays, it's a 
 II, he says, 
 else's way, 
 'e the man 
 on of nuis- 
 
 liis earliest 
 30 well the 
 re relation. 
 , in setting 
 came of a 
 s, "having 
 led metro- 
 frightfully 
 , I became 
 d to sit, as 
 ed to have 
 yy his per- 
 )roner, Mr. 
 harged her 
 ;e creature 
 it we were 
 ever heard 
 I extra care 
 led for her 
 titence was 
 ght." How 
 )ccurrence, 
 Whether it 
 my fellow- 
 
 lOSt violfiTit 
 
 3d me from 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 397 
 
 sleeping, but even from lying down. Accordingly Kate and I sat up 
 through the dreary watches." 
 
 The day of the first publication of Master Humphrey (Saturday, 
 4 April) had by this time come, and, according to the rule observed 
 ia his two other great ventures, he left town with Mrs. Dickens on 
 Friday the 3rd. With Maclise we had been together at Richmond the 
 previous night; and I joined him at Birmingham the day foUowii-g, 
 with news of the sale of the whole sixty thousand copies to which the 
 first working bad been limited, and of orders already in hand for ten 
 thousand more ! The excitement of the success somewhat lengthened 
 our holiday; and, after visiting Shakespeare's house at Stratford, and 
 Johnson's at Lichfield, we found our resources so straitened in return- 
 ing, that, employing as our messenger of need his younger brother 
 Alfred, who had joined us from Tamworth where he w.as a student- 
 engineer, we had to pawn our gold watches at Birmingham. 
 
 At the end of the following month he went to Broadstairs, and 
 not many days before (on 20 May) a note from Mr. Jerdan on behalf 
 of Mr. Bentley opened the negotiations formerly referred to, which 
 transferred to Messrs. Chapman and Hall the agreement for Barnaby 
 Rudge. I was myself absent when he left, and in a letter announcing 
 his departure he had written: "I don't know of a word of news in all 
 I^ndon, but there will be plenty next week, for I am going away, 
 and - hope you'll send me an account of it. I am doubtful whether it 
 will be a murder, a fire, a vast robbery, or the escape of Gould, but it 
 will be something remarkable no doubt. I almost blame myself for 
 the death of that poor girl who leaped off the monument upon my 
 leaving town last year. She would not have done it if I had remained, 
 neither would the two men have found the skeleton in the sewers." 
 His prediction was quite accurate, for I had to tell him, after not 
 many days, of the pitboy who shot at the queen. "It's a great pity 
 they couldn't suffocate that boy. Master Oxford," he replied very 
 sensibly, "and say no more about it. To have put him quietly between 
 two feather-beds would have stopped his heroic speeches, and dulled 
 the sound of his glory very much. As it is, she will have to run the 
 gauntlet of many a fool and madman, some of whom may perchance 
 be better shots and use other than Brummagem firearms." How much 
 of this actually came to pass, the reader knows. 
 
 From the letters of his present Broadstairs visit, there is little more 
 to add to the account of his progress with his story; but a sentence 
 may be given for its characteristic expression of his invariable habit 
 upon entering any new abode, whether to stay in it for days or for 
 years. On a Monday night he arrived, and on the Tuesday (2 June) 
 wrote: "Before I tasted bit or drop yesterday, I set out my writing- 
 table with extreme taste and neatness, and improved the disposition 
 of the furniture generally." He stayed till the end of June; when 
 Maclise and myself joined him for the pleasure of posting back home 
 by way of his favourite Chatham, Rochester, and Cobham, where we 
 passed two agreeable days in revisiting well-remembered scenes. 
 
 ? V 
 
 Iff I 
 
398 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 Meanwhile there had been brought to a close the treaty for repurchase 
 of Oliver and surrender of Barnaby, upon terms which are succinctly 
 stated in a letter written by him to Messrs. Chapman and Hall on 
 2 July, the day after our return. 
 
 "The terms upon which you advance the money to-day for the 
 purchase of the copyright and stock of Oliver on my behalf, are under- 
 stood between us to be these. That this ;^225o is to be deducted from 
 the purchase-money of a work by me entitled Barnaby Itudge, of 
 which two chapters are now in your hands, and of which the whole is 
 to be written within some convenient time to be agreed upon between 
 us. But if it should not be written (which God forbid!) within five 
 years, you are to have a lien to this amount on the property belonging 
 to me that is now in your hands, namely, my shares in the stock and 
 copyright of Sketches by Boz, The Pickwick Papers, Nicholas Nickleby, 
 Olivet Twist, and Master Humphrey's Clock; in which we do not 
 include any share of the cunent profits of the last-named work, 
 which I shall remain at liberty to draw at the times stated in our 
 agreement. Your purchase of Barnaby Rudge is made upon the follow- 
 ing terms. It is to consist of matter sufiftcient for ten monthly numbers 
 of the size of Pickwick and Nickleby, which you are however at liberty 
 to divide and publish in fifteen smaller numbers if you think fit. The 
 terms for the purchase of this edition in numbers, and for the copy- 
 right of the whole book for six months after the publication of the 
 last number, are ^3000. At the expiration of the six months the 
 whole copyright reverts to me." The sequel was, as all the world 
 knows, that Barnaby became successor to kttle Nell, the money 
 being repaid by the profits of the Clock; but I ought also to mention 
 the generous sequel that was given to the small service thus rendered 
 to him, by the gift, after not many days, of an antique silver- 
 mounted jug of great beauty of form and workmanship, and with a 
 wealth far beyond artist's design or jeweller's chasing in written 
 words that accompanied it.^ They were accepted to commemorate, 
 not the help they would have far overpaid, but the gladness of his 
 own escape from the last of the agreements that had hampered the 
 opening of his career, and the better future which was now before 
 him. 1 
 
 At the opening of August he was with Mrs. Dickens for some days 
 
 1 "Accept : ■ .le" (8 Ju'^, 1840), "as a slight memorial of your attached 
 companion, the poor keepsake which accompanies this. My heart is not an eloquent 
 one on matters which touch it most, but suppose this claret jug the urn in which it 
 lies, and believe that its wannest and truest blood is ^ rs. This was the object 
 of my fruitless search, and you. curiosity, on Friday. first I scarcely knew 
 what trifle (you will deem it valuable, I know, for the b'Ver's sake) to send j'ou- 
 but I thought it would be pleasant to connect it with our jovial moments, and to 
 let it add, to the wine we shall drink from it together, a flavour which the choicest 
 vintage could never impart. Take it from my hand— filled to the brim and running 
 over with truth and earnestness. I have just taken one parting look at it, and 
 it seems the most elegant thin^ in the world to me, for I lose sight of the vase in 
 the crowd of wfc^-ome associations that are clusterine and wreathin? them<;f»lvp« 
 about it." " 
 
purchase 
 
 iccinctly 
 
 Hall on 
 
 r for the 
 ■e under- 
 ted from 
 *udge, of 
 whole is 
 between 
 thin five 
 elonging 
 ;ock and 
 "^ickleby, 
 
 do not 
 d work, 
 d in our 
 B follow- 
 lumbers 
 t liberty 
 
 fit. The 
 le copy- 
 n of the 
 iths the 
 ke world 
 I money 
 mention 
 endered 
 ; silver- 
 i with a 
 written 
 morate, 
 js of his 
 sred the 
 V before 
 
 ne days 
 
 attached 
 eloquent 
 1 which it 
 he object 
 ely knew 
 send 5'ou* 
 ts, and to 
 3 choicest 
 i running 
 it it, and 
 le vase in 
 lemsplvpn 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 399 
 
 in Devonshire, on a visit to hi? father, but he had to take his work 
 with him; and they had only one real holiday, when Dawlish. TeiRn- 
 mouth Babbicombe. and Torquay were explored, returning to Exeter 
 at niMht. In the beginning of September he was again at Broadstairs 
 1 was just going to work." he wrote on the 9th. "when I got this 
 etter. and the story of the man who went to Chapman and Hall's 
 knocked me down flat. I wrote until now (a quarter to one) against 
 the grain, and have at last given it up for one day. Upon my word it 
 13 intolerable. I have been grinding my teeth all the morning. I think 
 I could say m two lines something about the general report with 
 
 P?T'!^r I " ^^'^ ^^"""^ *° *^^ P^""^" '^^^^ P«"e^ace to the first volume 
 of the Chck was at this time in preparation), "giving you full power 
 to cut theni out if you should think differently iiom me. and from 
 L- and H, who m such a matter must be admitted judges." He refers 
 here to a report, rather extensively circulated at the time, and which 
 through various channels had reached his publishers, that he was 
 suffering from loss of reason and was under treatment in an asylum ' 
 I would have withheld it from him. as an absurdity that must quickly 
 be forgotten— but he had been told of it. and there was a difficulty in 
 keeping within judicious bounds his not unnatural wrath 
 
 A few days later (the 15th) he wrote: "I have been rather surprised 
 ot late to have applications from Roman Catholic clergymen, demand- 
 ing (rather pastorally and with a kind of grave authority) assistance 
 literary employment, and so forth. At length it struck me tl at' 
 through some channel or other. I must have been represented as 
 belonging to that religion. Would you believe, that in a letter from 
 Lamert at Cork, to my mother, which J saw last night, he says 'What 
 do the papers mean by saying that Charles is demented, and further 
 that he has turned Roman Catholic?' \" Of the begging-letter writers' 
 hinted at here. I ought earlier to have said something. In one of his 
 detached essays he has described, without a particle of exaggeration 
 the extent to which he was made a victim by this class of swindler' 
 and the extravagance of the devices practised on him; but he had not 
 confessed, as he might, that for much of what he suffered he was 
 himseli responsible, by giving so largely, as at first he did. to almost 
 evetyone who applied to him. What at last brought him to his senses 
 m this respect. I think, was the request m.ade by the adventurer who 
 had exhausted every other expedient, and who desired finally after 
 describing himself reduced to the condition of a travelling Cheap 
 Jack in the smallest way of crockery, that a donkey might be le't 
 
 i-Lt^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^««" the subject of similar reports on the occasion of the 
 S^n L'^'I^r "^^'"^^ ponipeUed hun to suspend the publication of Pickxvick for two 
 months when, upon issuing a brief address in resuming his work (30 Tune le'T 
 he said: "By one set of intimate acquaintances, especially well-informed 'he /as 
 been kiUed outright; by another, driven mad; by a third. imprisoSd for debt- 
 by a fourth, sent per steamer to the United States; by a fifth, rendered incapable 
 of mental exertion for evermore; by all. in short, represented as doiS; Tn5?hS 
 n^' f ^f"?-*u ^ ^^^ ^^^^' retirement the restoration of that cheerfulness' ani 
 ptace of which a sad bereavement had temporarily deprived him." 
 
 Hi 1 
 
 ill ;, 
 
 ¥:rl 
 
 4k' 
 
11^' • 
 
 400 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 r ' 
 
 out for him next day, which he would duly call for. This I perfectly 
 remember, and I much fear that the applicant was the Daniel Tobin 
 before mentioned. 
 
 ' Many and delightful were other letters written from Broadstairs 
 at this date, filled with whimsical talk and humorous description, 
 relating chiefly to an eccentric friend who stayed with him most of 
 the time, and is sketched in one of his published papers as Mr. Kind- 
 heart; but all too private for reproduction now. He returned in the 
 middle of October, when we resumed our almost daily ridings, fore- 
 gatherings with Maclise at Hampstead and elsewhere, and social 
 entertainments with Macready, Talfourd, Procter, Stanfield, Fon- 
 blanque, Elliotson, Tennent, d'Orsay, Quin, Harness, Wilkie, Edwin 
 Landseer, Rogers, Sydney Smith, and Bulwer. Of the genius of the 
 author of Pelham and Eugene Aram he had, early and late, the highest 
 admiration, and he took occasion to express it during the present 
 year in a new preface which he published to Oliver Twist. Other 
 friends became familiar in later years; but, disinclined as he was to 
 the dinner invitations that reached him from every quarter, all such 
 meetings with those whom I have named, and in an especial manner 
 the marked attentions shown him by Miss Coutts, which began 
 with the very beginning of his career, were invariably welcome. 
 
 To speak here of the pleasure his society afforded, would anticipate 
 the litter mention to be made hereafter. But what in this respect 
 distinguishes nearly all original men, he possessed eminently. His 
 place was not to be filled up by any other. To the most trivial talk 
 he gave the attraction of his own character. It might be a small 
 matter; something he had read or observed during the day, some 
 quaint odd fancy from a book, a vivid little outdoor picture, the 
 laughing exposure of some imposture, or a burst of sheer mirthful 
 enjoyment; but of its kind it would be something unique, because 
 genuinely part of himself. This, and his unwearying animal spirits, 
 made him the most delightful of companions; no claim on good-fellow- 
 ship ever found him wanting; and no one so constantly recalled to his 
 friends the description Johnson gave of Garrick, as "the cheerfuUest 
 man of his age," 
 
 Of what occupied him in the way of literary labour in the autumn 
 and winter months of the year, some description has been given; and, 
 apart from what has already thus been said of his work at the closing 
 chapters of The Old Curiosity Shop, nothing now calls for more special 
 allusion, except that in his town- walks in November, impelled thereto 
 by specimens recently discovered in his country walks between 
 Broadstairs and Ramsgate, he thoroughly explored the ballad 
 literature of Seven Dials, and would occasionally sin^, with an effect 
 that justified his reputation for comic singing in his childhood, not a 
 Jew of those wonderful productions. . . . 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 perfectly 
 liel Tobin 
 
 roadstairs 
 scription, 
 n most of 
 Mr. Kind- 
 led in the 
 ngs, fore- 
 .nd social 
 eld, Fon- 
 ie, Edwin 
 ius of the 
 le highest 
 e present 
 ist. Other 
 le was to 
 r, all such 
 d manner 
 :h began 
 tne. 
 
 mticipate 
 is respect 
 ntly. His 
 ivial talk 
 e a small 
 lay, some 
 ;ture, the 
 mirthful 
 , because 
 al spirits, 
 )d-fellow- 
 lled to his 
 eerfuUest 
 
 3 autumn 
 ven; and, 
 le closing 
 re special 
 d thereto 
 
 between 
 le ballad 
 
 an effect 
 od, not a 
 
 401 
 
 IX 
 
 BARNABY RUDGE' 
 
 184I 
 
 The letters of 1841 yield similar fruit as to his doings and sayhigs, and 
 may in like manner first be consulted for the literary work he had in 
 hand. 
 
 He had the advantage of beginning Barnaby Rudge with a fair 
 amount of story in advance, which he had only to make suitable, 
 by occasional readjustment of chapters, to publication in weekly 
 portions; and on this he was engaged before the end of January. 
 "I am at present " (22 January, 1841) "in what Leigh Hunt would 
 call a kind of impossible state — thinking what on earth Master 
 Humphrey can think of through four mortal pages. I added here 
 and there to the last chapter of the Curiosity Shop yesterday, and it 
 leaves me only four pages to write." (They were filled by a paper from 
 Humphrey introductory of the new tale, in which will be found a 
 striking picture of London, from midnight to the break of day.) "I 
 also made up, ana wrote the needful insertions for, the second number 
 of Barnaby — so that I came back to the mill a little." Hardly yet: 
 for after four days he writes, having meanwhile done nothing: "I have 
 been looking (three o'clock) with an appearance of extraordinary 
 interest and study at one leafoi the Curiosities of Literature ever since 
 half-past ten this morning — I haven't the heart to turn over." Then, 
 on Friday the 29th, better news came. "I didn't stir out yesterday', 
 but sat and thought all day; not writing a line; not so much as the 
 cross of a / or dot of an i. I imaged forth a good deal of Barnaby by 
 keeping my mind steadily upon him; and am happy to say I have 
 gone to work this morning in good twig, strong hope, and cheerful 
 spirits. Last night I was unutterably and impossible-to-form-an-idea- 
 of-ably miserable. ... By the by don't engage yourself otherwise 
 than to me for Sunday week, because it's my birthday. I have no 
 doubt we shall have got over our troubles here by that time, and I 
 purpose having a snug dinner in the study." We had the dinner, 
 though the troubles were not over; but the next day another son was 
 born to him. "Thank God." he wrote on the gth, "quite well. I am 
 thinking hard, and have just written to Browne inquiring when he 
 will come and confer about the raven." He had by this time resolved 
 to make that bird, whose accomplishments had ien daily ripening 
 and enlarging for the last twelve months to the increasing mirth and 
 delight of us all, a prominent figure in Barnaby; and the invitation 
 to the artist was for a conference how best to mtroduce him graphic- 
 ally. 
 
 III 
 
 m 
 
 -t, 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 
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 1 ; 
 
 i 
 
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 I 
 
 
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 402 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 The next letter mentioning Barnaby was from Brighton (25 
 February-), whither he had flown for a week's quiet labour. "I have 
 (it's four o'clock) done a very fair morning's work, at which I have 
 sat very close, and been blessed besides with a clear view of the end 
 of the volume. As the contents of one number usually require a day's 
 thought at the very least, and often more, this puts me in great 
 spirits. I think — that is, I hope — the story takes a great stride at this 
 point, and takes it well. Nous verrons. Grip will be strong and I 
 build greatly on the Varden household." 
 
 Upon his return he had to lament a domestic calamity, which, for 
 Its connection with a famous personage in Barnaby, must be mentioned 
 here. The raven had for some days been ailing, and Topping had 
 reported of him, as Hamlet declared of himself, that he had lost his 
 mirth and foregone all custom of exercises: but Dickens paid no great 
 heed, remembering his recovery from an illness of the previous sum- 
 mer when he swallowed some white paint; so that the graver report 
 which led him to send for the doctor came upon him unexpectedly, 
 and nothing but his own language can worthily describe the result! 
 Unable from the state of his feelings to write two letters, he sent the 
 narrative to Maclise under an enormous black seal, for transmission 
 to me. 
 
 "You will be greatly Shocked" (the letter is dated Friday evening 
 12 March, 1841) "and grieved to hear that the Raven is no more! 
 He expired to-day at a few minut'-s after twelve o'clock at noon. He 
 had been ailing for a few days, but we anticipated no serious result 
 conjecturing that a portion of the white paint he swallowed last 
 summer might be lingering about his vitals without having any 
 serious effect upon his constitution. Yesterday afternoon he was 
 takenso much worse that I sent an express for the medical gentleman 
 (Mr. Hemng), who promptly attended, and administered a powerful 
 dose of castor oil. Under the influence of this medicine, he recovered 
 so far as to be able at eight o'clock p.m. to bite Topping. His night 
 was peaceful. This morning at daybreak he appeared better; received 
 (agreeably to the doctor's directions) another dose of castor oil- and 
 partook plentifully of some warm gruel, the flavour of which he 
 appeared to relish. Towards eleven o'clock he was so much wor > 
 thtit It was found necessary to muffle the stable-knocker. At half-past 
 or thereabouts, he was heard talking to himself about the horse and 
 Topping's family, and to add some incoherent expressions which are 
 supposed to have been either a foreboding of his approaching dissolu- 
 tion, or some wishes relative to the disposal of his little property- 
 consisting chiefly of half-pence which he had buried in different parts 
 of the garden. On the clock striking twelve he appeared slightly 
 agitated, but he soon recovered, walked twice or thrice along the 
 coach-house, stopped to bark, staggered, exclaimed Halloa old eirV 
 (his favourite expression), and died. 
 
 He behaved tliroughwut with a decent fortitude, equanimity 
 and self-possession, which cannot be too much admired. I deeply 
 
;hton {25 
 . "I have 
 :h I have 
 >f the end 
 re a day's 
 in great 
 de at this 
 ig, and I 
 
 /hich, for 
 lentioned 
 ping had 
 d lost his 
 . no great 
 ous sum- 
 er report 
 pectedly, 
 le result, 
 sent the 
 Lsmission 
 
 evening, 
 ao more, 
 loon. He 
 IS result, 
 wed last 
 dng any 
 
 he was 
 ntleman 
 powerful 
 jcovered 
 lis night 
 received 
 
 oil; and 
 rhich he 
 h wor ^ 
 alf-past, 
 3rse and 
 hich are 
 dissolu- 
 roperty: 
 nt parts 
 slightly 
 ong the 
 old girl! 
 
 mimity, 
 deeply 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 403 
 
 regret that being in ignorance of hi. .ianger I did not attend to receive 
 his last instructions. Something remarkable about his eyes occasioned 
 Topping to run for the doctor at twelve. When they returned together 
 our friend was gone. It was the medical gentleman who informed me 
 of his decease. He did it with great caution and delicacy, preparing 
 me by the remark that 'a jolly queer start had taken place'; but the 
 shock was very great notwithstanding. I am not wholly free from 
 suspicions of poison. A malicious butcher has been heard to say that 
 he would 'do' for him: his plea was that he would rot be molested in 
 taking orders down the mews, by any bird that wore a tail. Other 
 persons have also been heard to threaten: among others, Charles 
 Knight, who has just started a weekly publication price fourpence: 
 Barnaby being, as you know, threepence. I have directed a post- 
 mortem examination, and the body has been removed to Mr. Her- 
 ring's school of anatomy for that purpose. 
 
 "I could wish, if you can take the trouble, that you could enclose 
 this to Forster immediately after you have read it. I cannot discharge 
 the painful task of communication more than once. Were they ravens 
 who took manna to somebody in the wilderness? At times I hope 
 they were, and at others I fear they were not, or they would certainly 
 have stolen it by the way. In profound sorrow, I am ever your 
 bereaved friend C.D. Kate is as well as can be expected, but terribly 
 low as you may suppose. The children seem rather glad of it. He bit 
 their ankles. But that was play." 
 
 In what way the loss, was replaced, so that Barnaby should have 
 the fruit of continued study of the habits of the family of birds which 
 Grip had so nobly represented, Dickens has told in the preface to 
 the story; and another, older, e-id larger Grip, obtained through 
 Mr. Smithson, was installed in the stable, almost before the. stuffed 
 remains of his honoured predecessor had been sent home in a glass 
 case, by way of ornament to his bereaved master's study. 
 
 I resume our correspondence on what he was writing. ''I see there 
 is yet room for a few lines " (25 March), "and you are quite right in 
 wishing what I cut out to be restored. I did not want Joe to be so 
 short about Dolly, and really wrote his references to that young lady 
 carefully — as natural things with a meaning in them. Chigwell, my 
 dear fellow, is the greatest place in the world. Name your day for 
 going. Such a delicious old inn opposite the churchyard — such a 
 lovely ride — such beautiful forest scenery — such an out of the way, 
 rural place — such a sexton! I say again, name your day." The day 
 was named at once; and the whitest of stones marks it now in 
 sorrowful memory. His promise was exceeded by our enjoyment; and 
 his delight in the double recognition, of himself and of Barnaby, by 
 the landlord of the nice old inn, far exceeded any pride he would have 
 taken in what the world thinks the highest sort of honour. 
 
 A iii^',^- ........ •••J - ^•i' \-^"- ^-iifivm^ j.-jf iiij-o\.ii t.\j-\j.a.y , aiivi iiica.n 
 
 to try and 'go it' at the Clock; Kate being out, and the house peace- 
 fully dismal. I don't remember altering the exact part you object to. 
 
 ■^ . 
 
 ': l| 
 
 ;l. 
 
404 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 I ! 
 
 but if there be anything here you object to, knock it out ruthlessly." 
 "Don't fail" (5 April) "to erase an>i^ing that seems to you too 
 strong. It is difi&cult for me to judge what tells too much, and what 
 does not. I am trying a very quiet number to set against this neces- 
 sary one. I hope it will be good, bwt I am in very sad condition for 
 work. Glad you think this powerful. What I have put in is more 
 relief, from the raven." Two days later: "I have done that number, 
 and am now going to work on another. I am bent (please Heaven) oii 
 finishing the first chapter by Friday night. I hope to look in upon 
 you to-night, when we'll dispose of the toasts for Saturday. Still 
 bilious— but a good number, I hope, notwithstanding. Jeffrey has 
 come to town, and was here yesterday." The toasts to be disposed of 
 were those to be given at the dinner on the loth to celebrate the 
 second volume of Master Humphrey; when Talfourd presided, and 
 there was much jollity. According to the memorandum drawn up 
 that Saturday night now lying before me, we all in the greatest good 
 humour glorified each other: Talfourd proposing the Clock, Macready 
 Mrs. Dickens, Dickens the publishers, and myself the artists; Mac- 
 ready giving Talfourd, Talfourd Macready, Dickens myself, and 
 myself the comedian Mr. Harley, whose humorous songs had been no 
 inconsiderable element in the mirth of the evening. 
 
 Five days later he writes: "I finished the number yesterday, and, 
 although I dined with Jeffrey, and was obliged to go to Lord Den- 
 man's afterwards (which made me late), have done eight slips of the 
 Lamplighter for Mrs. Macrone, this morning. When I have got that 
 off my mind I shall try to go on steadily, fetching up the Clock 
 lee-way." The Lamplighter was his old farce, which he now turned 
 into a comic tale; and this, with other contributions given him by 
 friends and edited by him as Pic Nic Papers, enabled him to help the 
 widow of his old publisher in her straitened means by a gift of ;^3oo. 
 He had finished his work of charity before he next wrote of Barnahy 
 Rudge, but he was fetching up his lee-way lazily. "I am getting on" 
 (29 April) "very slowly. I want to stick to the story; and the fear of 
 committing myself, because of the impossibiity of trying back or 
 altering a syllable, makes it much harder than it looks. It was too 
 bad of me to give you the trouble of cutting the number, but I knew 
 so well you would do it in the right places. For what Harley would 
 call the 'onward work' I really think I have some famous thoughts." 
 There is an interval of a month before the next allusion. "Solomon's 
 expression" (3 June) "I meant to be one of those strong ones to which 
 strong circumstances give birth in the commonest minds. Deal with 
 it as you like. . . . Say what you please of Gordon" (I had objected 
 to some points in his view of this madman, stated much too favour- 
 ably as I thought), "he must have been at heart a kind man, and a 
 lover of the despised and rejected, after his own fashion. He lived 
 upon a small income, and always within it; was known to relieve the 
 necessities of many people; exposed in his place the corrupt attempt 
 of a minister to buy him out of Parliament; and did great charities in 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 the 
 
 405 
 
 Newgate. He always spoke on the people's side, and tried against his 
 muddled brains to expose the profligacy of both parties. He never got 
 anything by his madness, and never sought it. The wildest and most 
 ragmg attacks of the time, allow him these merits; and not to let him 
 have 'em m their full extent, remembering in what a (politically) 
 wicked time he lived, would lie upon my conscience heavily. The 
 libel he was imprisoned for when he died, was on the queen of France- 
 and the French government interested themselves warmly to procure 
 his release— which I think they might have done, but for Lord 
 Grenville," . . . 
 
 This tale was Dickens's first attempt out of the sphere of the life 
 of the day and its actual manners. Begun during the progress of 
 Oliver Twist, it had been for some time laid aside; the form it ulti- 
 mately took had been comprised only partially within its first design- 
 and the story in its finished shape presented st/ongly a special pur- 
 pose, the characteristic of all but his very earliest writings. Its scene 
 is laid at the time when the incessant execution of men and women 
 comparatively innocent, disgraced every part of the country- 
 demoralising thousands, whom it also prepared for the scaffold In 
 those days the theft of a few rags from a bleaching-ground, or the 
 abstraction of a roll of j-ibbons irom a counter, was visited with the 
 penalty of blood; and such laws brutalised both their ministers and 
 victims. It was the time, too, when a false religious outcry brought 
 with it appalling guilt and misery. Such vices leave more behind 
 them than the first forms assumed, and involve a lesson sufficiently 
 required to justify a writer in dealing with them. There were also 
 others grafted on them. In Barnaby himself it was desired to show 
 what sources of comfort there might be, for the patient and cheerful 
 heart, m even the worst of all human afflictions; and in the hunted life 
 of the outcast father, whose crime had entailed not that affliction 
 only, but other more fearful wretchedness, we have as powerful a 
 picture as any in his writings of the inevitable and unfathomable 
 consequences of sin. . . . 
 
 X 
 
 IN EDINBURGH 
 184I 
 
 His first letter from Edinburgh, where he and Mrs. Dickens had 
 taken up quarters at the Royal Hotel on their arrival the previous 
 night, is dated 23 June. "I have been this morning to the Parliament 
 House, and am now introduced (1 hope) to everybody in Edinburgh 
 The hotel is perfectly besieged, and I have been forced to take refuge 
 
 W 
 
 : ! 
 
 I 
 
4o6 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 
 in a sequestered apartment at the end of a long passage, wherein I 
 write this letter. They talk of 300 at the dinner. We are very well off 
 in point of rooms, having a handsome sitting-room, another next to 
 it for Clock purposes, a spacious bedroom, and large dressing-room 
 adjoining. The castle is in front of the windows, and the view noble. 
 There was a supper ready last night which would have been a dinner 
 anywhere." This was his first practical experience of the honours his 
 fame had won for him, and it found him as eager to receive as all 
 were eager to give. Very interesting still, too, are those who took 
 leading part in the celebration; and, in his pleasant sketches of them, 
 there are some once famous and familiar figures not so well known to 
 the present generation. Here, among the first, are Wilson and 
 Robertson. 
 
 "The renowned Peter Robertson is a 'arge, portly, full-faced man 
 with a merry eye, and a queer way of looking under his spectacles 
 which is characteristic and pleasant. He seems a very warm-hearted 
 earnest man too, and I felt quite at home with him forthwith. 
 Walking up and down the hall of the courts of law (which was full of 
 advocates, writers to the signet, clerk-, and idlers) was a tall, burly, 
 handsome man of eight and fifty, with a gait like O'Connell's, the 
 bluest eye you can imagine, and long hair — longer than mine — 
 falling down in a wild way under the broad brim of his hat. He had 
 on a surtout coat, a blue checked shirt; the collar standing up, and 
 kept in its place with a wisp of black neckerchief; no waistcoat; and a 
 large pocket-handkerchief thrust into his breast, which was all 
 broad and open. At his heels followed a wiry, sharp-eyed, shaggy 
 devil of a terrier, dogging his steps as he went slashing up and down, 
 now with one man beside him, now with another, and now quite 
 alone, but always at a fast, rolling pace, with his head in the air, and 
 his eyes as wide open as he could get them. I guessed it was Wilson, 
 and it was. A bright, clear-complexioned, mountain-looking fellow, 
 he looks as though he had just come down from, the Highlands, and 
 had never in his life taken pen in hand. But he has had an attack of 
 paralysis in his right arm. within this month. He winced when I 
 shook hands with him; and once or twice when we were walking up 
 and down, slipped as if he had stumbled on a piece of orange-peel. He 
 is a great fellow to look at, and to talk to; and, if you could divest 
 your mind of the actual Scott, is jus , the figure you would put in his 
 place." . . . 
 
 His next letter was written the morning after the dinner, on 
 Saturday, 26 June. "The great event is over; and being gone, I am a 
 man again. It was the most brilliant affair you can conceive; the 
 completest success possible, from first to last. The room was crammed, 
 and more than seventy applicants for tickets were of necessity 
 refused yesterday. Wilson was ill, but plucked up like a lion, and 
 spoke famously. I send you a paper herewith, but the report is 
 dismal in the extreme, ihey say there will be a better one — I don't 
 know where or when. Should there be, I will send it to you. I think 
 
'^herein I 
 ' well off 
 • next to 
 ng-room 
 IV noble, 
 a dinner 
 lours his 
 ^e as all 
 ho took 
 of them, 
 nown to 
 >on and 
 
 :ed man 
 >ectacles 
 -hearted 
 rthwith. 
 IS full of 
 1, burly, 
 ;ll's, the 
 mine — 
 He had 
 up, and 
 .t; and a 
 was all 
 shaggy 
 d down, 
 w quite 
 air, and 
 Wilson, 
 ; fellow, 
 ids, and 
 ttack of 
 when I 
 king up 
 seel. He 
 i divest 
 it in his 
 
 ner, on 
 I am a 
 ve; the 
 immed, 
 jcessity 
 Dn, and 
 sport is 
 I don't 
 I think 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 407 
 
 (ahem!) that I spoke rather well. It was an excellent room, and both 
 the subjects (Wilson and Scottish Literature, and the Memory of 
 Wilkie) were good to go upon. There were nearly two hundred ladies 
 present. The place is so contrived that the cross table is raised 
 enormously; much above the heads of people sitting below: and the 
 effect on first coming in (on me, I mean) was rather tremendous. 1 
 was quite self-possessed, however, and, notwithstanding the, 
 enthoosemoosy, which was very startling, as cool as a cucumber. I 
 wish to God you had been there, as it is impossible for the 'dis- 
 tinguished guest' to describe the scene. It beat all natur'. . . ." 
 
 Here was the close of his letter. "I have been expecting every day 
 to hear from you, and not hearing mean to make this the briefest 
 epistle possible. We start next Sunday (that's to-morrow week). We 
 are going out to Jeffrey's to-day (he is very unwell), and return here 
 to-morrow evening. If I don't find a letter from you when I come 
 back, expect no Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life from your 
 indignant correspondent. Murray the manager made very excellent, 
 tasteful, and gentlemanly mention of Macready, about whom 
 Wilson had been asking me divers questions during dinner." "A 
 hundred thanks for your letter," he writes four days later. "I read it 
 this morning with the greatest pleasure and delight, and answer it 
 with ditto, ditto. Where shall I begin — about my darlings? I am 
 delighted with Charley's precocity. He takes arter his father, he 
 does. God bless them, you can't imagine {you/ how can you?) how 
 much I long to see them. It makes me quite sorrowful to think of 
 them. . . . Yesterday, sir, the Lord Provost, council, and magis- 
 trates voted me by acclamation the freedom of the city, in testimony 
 (I quote the letter just received from 'James Forrest, Lord Provost') 
 'of the sense entertained by them of your distinguished abilities as an 
 author.' I acknowledged this morning in appropriate terms the 
 honour they had done me, and through me the pursuit to which I was 
 devoted. It is handsome, is it not? " 
 
 The parchment scroll of the city-freedom, recording the grounds on 
 which it was voted, hung framed in his study to the last, and was one 
 of his valued possessions. Answering some question of mine, he told 
 me further as to the speakers, and gave some amusing glimpses of the 
 party-spirit which still at that time ran high in the capital of the 
 north. 
 
 "The men who spoke at the dinner were all the most rising men 
 here, and chiefly at the Bar. They were all, alternately, Whigs and 
 Tories; with some few Radicals, such as Gordon, who gave the 
 memory of Burns. He is Wilson's son-in-law and the Lord Advocate's 
 nephew — a very masterly speaker indeed, who oughi; to become a 
 distinguished man. Neaves, who gave the other poets, a little too 
 lawyer-like for my taste, is a great gun in the courts. Mr. Primrose is 
 Lord Rosebery's son. Adam Black, the publisher as you know. Dr. 
 Alison, a very popular friend of the poor. Robertson you know. Allan 
 you know. Colquhoun is an advocate. All these men were selected for 
 
 *;| 
 
 
 ypi. 
 
 I 
 
i 
 
 k /i 
 
 iffil: 
 
 fh 1 
 I* I, ' 
 
 ^ f ( 
 
 1-1 ' 
 
 .li 
 
 408 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 the toasts as being crack speakers, known men, and opposed to each 
 other very strongly in politics. For this reason, the professors and so 
 forth who sat upon the platform about me made no speeches and had 
 none assigned them. I felt it was very remarkable to see such a 
 number of grey-headed men gathered about my brown flowing locks; 
 and it struck most of those who were present very forcibly. The 
 judges, Solicitor-General, Lord Advocate, and so forth, were all here to 
 call, the day after our arrival. The judges never go to public dinners 
 in Scotland. Lord Meadowbank alone broke through the custom, and 
 none of his successors have imitated him. It will give you a good 
 notion of party to hear that the Solicitor-General and Lord-Advocate 
 refused to go, though they had previously engaged, unless the croupier 
 or the chairman were a Whig. Both (Wilson and Robertson) were 
 Tories, simply because, Jeffrey excepted, no Whig could be found 
 who was adapted to the office. The solicitor laid strict injunctions on 
 Napier not to go if a Whig were not in office. No Whig was, and he 
 stayed away. I think this is good — bearing in mind that all the old 
 \yhigs of Edinburgh were cracking their throats in the room. They 
 give out that they were ill, and the Lord Advocate did actually lie in 
 bed all the afternoon; but this is the real truth, and one of the judges 
 told it to me with great glee. It seems they couldn't quite trust 
 Wilson or Robertson, as they thought; and feared some Tory demon- 
 stration. Nothing of the kind took place; and ever since, these men 
 have been the loudest in their praises of the whole affair." 
 
 The close of his letter tells us all his engagements, and ccmpletes 
 his grateful picture of the hearty Scottish welcome. . . . The 
 narrative of the trip to the Highlands must have a chapter to itself 
 and its incidents of adventure and comedy. The latter chiefly were 
 due to the guide who accompanied them, a quasi-high lander himself, 
 named a few pages back as Mr. Kindheart, whose real name was Mr. 
 Angus Fletcher, and to whom it hardly needs that I should give 
 other mention than will be supplied b}' future notices of him as his 
 friend's letters may contain. He had rnuch talent, but too fitful and 
 wayward to concentrate on a settled pursuit; and though at the time 
 we knew him first he had taken up the profession of a sculptor, he 
 abandoned it soon afterwards. His mother, ^a woman distinguished by 
 many remarkable qualities, lived now in the English lake-country; 
 and it was no fault of hers tiiat her son preferred a wandering life to 
 that of home. His unfitness for an ordinary career was, perhaps, the 
 secret of such liking for him as Dickens had. Fletcher's eccentricity 
 and absurdities, divided often by the thinnest partition from a 
 foolish extravagance, but occasionally clever, and always the 
 genuine though whimsical outgrowth of the life he led, had a curious 
 charm for Dickens. He Ci^ joyed the oddity and humour; tolerated all 
 the rest; and to none move freely than to Kindheart during the next 
 few years, both in Italy and in England, opened his house and hospi- 
 tality. 
 
1 to each 
 
 rs and so 
 and had 
 ; such a 
 ng locks; 
 bly. The 
 U here to 
 
 2 dinners 
 torn, and 
 1 a good 
 Advocate 
 croupier 
 on) were 
 3e found 
 ;tions on 
 1, and he 
 1 the old 
 m. They 
 illy lie in 
 le judges 
 ite trust 
 '' demon- 
 lese men 
 
 rmpletes 
 . . The 
 to itself 
 ;fly were 
 
 himself, 
 was Mr. 
 uld give 
 m as his 
 tful and 
 the time 
 ptor, he 
 ished by 
 :ountry; 
 ig life to 
 aps, the 
 mtricity 
 
 from a 
 lys the 
 
 curious 
 •ated all 
 :he next 
 d hospi- 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 409 
 
 XI 
 
 IN THE HIGHLANDS 
 1 841 
 
 From hoch Earn Head Dickens wrote on Monday, 5 July, having 
 reached it, "wet through," at four that afternoon. "Having had a 
 great deal to do in a crowded house on Saturday night at the theatre, 
 we left Edinburgh yesterday morning at ha!f-pas:: seven, and tra- 
 velled, with Fletcher for our guide, to a place called Stewart's Hotel 
 nine miles further than Callender. We had neglected to order rooms, 
 and were obliged to make a sitting-room of our own bed-chamber; in 
 which my genius for stowing furniture away was of the very greatest 
 service. Fletcher slept in a kennel with three panes of glass in it, 
 which formed part and parcel of a window; the other three panes 
 whereof belonged to a man who slept on the other side of the par- 
 tition. He told me this morning that he had had a nightmare all 
 night, and had screamed horribly, he knew. The stranger, as you may 
 suppose, hired a gig and went off at full gallop with the first glimpse 
 of daylight. Being very tired (for we had not had more than three 
 hours' sleep on the previous night) we lay till ten this morning; and 
 at half-past eleven went through the Trossachs to Lech Katrine, 
 where I walked from the hotel after tea last night. It is impossible fo 
 say what a glorious scene it was. It rained as it never does rain any- 
 where but here. We conveyed Kate up a rocky pass to go and see the 
 island of the Lady of the Lake, but she gave in after the first five 
 minutes, and we left her, very picturesque and uncomfortable, with 
 Tom" (the servant they had brought with them from Devonshire 
 Terrace) "holding an umbrella over her head, while we climbed on. 
 When we came back, she had gone into the carriage. We were wet 
 through to the skin, and came on in that state lour and twenty 
 miles. Fletcher is very good-natured, and of extraordinary use in 
 these outlandish parts. His habit of going into kitchens and bars, 
 disconcerting at Broadstairs, is here of great service. Not expecting 
 us till six, thoy hadn't lighted our fires when we arrived here; and if 
 you had seen him (with whom the responsibility of the omission 
 rested) running; in and out of the sitting-room and the two bedrooms 
 with a great pair of bellows, with which he distractec ■ ' >1 ew each of the 
 fires out in turn, you would have died of laughing. H. , had on his head 
 a great highland cap, on his back a white coat, and cut such a figure 
 as even the Inimitable can't depicter. . . . 
 
 "The inns, inside and out, arc the queerest places imaginable. 
 From the road, this one," at Loch Earn Head, "looks like a white 
 wall, with windows in it by mistake. We have a good sitting-room 
 
 i 
 
 ill 
 
 V I 
 
 ■ i 
 I ! 
 51 ! 
 
 H 
 
 |;! 
 
 ti 
 
1 1 
 
 , / 
 
 it 
 
 
 410 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 though, on the first floor: as large (but not so lofty) as my study The 
 bedrooms are of that size which renders it impossible for you to 
 move after you have taken your boots off. without chipping pieces 
 out of your legs. There isn't a basin in the Highlands which will hold 
 my face; not a drawer which will open after you have put your 
 clothes m it; not a water-bottle capacious enough to wet your tooth- 
 brush. The huts are wretched and miserable beyond all description 
 Ihe food (for those who can pay for it) 'not bad.' as M. would say- 
 oatcake, mutton, hotchpotch, trout from the loch, small beer 
 bottled, marmalade, and whisky. Of the last-named article I have 
 taken about a pint to-day. The weather is wlnt thcv call 'soft'— 
 which means that the sky is a vast waterspout that never leaves off 
 emptying 2tself; and the liquor has no more effect than water. 
 (I am going to work to-morrow, and hope before leaving here' to 
 write you again. The elections have been sad work indeed. That they 
 should return Sibthorp and reject Bulwer, is. by Heaven, a national 
 disgrace. ... I don't wonder the devil flew over .Lincoln The 
 people were far too addle-headed, even for him.) . . . l uon't bore 
 you with accounts of Ben this and that, and Lochs of all sorts of 
 names, but this is a wonderful region. The way the mists were 
 stalking about to-day. and the clouds lying down upon the hills; the 
 deep glens, the high rocks, the rushing waterfalls, and the roaring 
 rivers down in deep gulfs below; were all stupendous. This house is 
 wedged round by great heights that are lost in the clouds; and the 
 Jock twelve miles Jong, stretches out this dreary length before the 
 windows. In my next I shall soar to the sublime, perhaps; in this here 
 present writing I confine myself to the ridiculous. But 1 am alwavs " 
 etc., etc. •" ' 
 
 His next letter bore the date of "Ballechelish, Friday evening 
 nmth July, 1841, half-past nine, p.m." and described what we had 
 often longed to see together, the Pass of Glencoe. "... I can't go 
 to bed without writing to you from here, though the post will not 
 leave this place until we have left it. and arrived at another 
 The cold all day has been intense, and the rain sometimes most 
 violent. It has been impossible to keep warm, by any means; even 
 whisky failed; the wmd was too piercing even for that. One stage of 
 ten miles over a place called the Black Mount, took us two hours 
 and a half to do; and when we came back to a lone public called the 
 King's House,' at the entrance to Glencoe— this was about three 
 o clock— we were wellnigh frozen. We got a fire directly, and in 
 twenty minutes they served us up some famous kippered salmon 
 broiled; a broiled fowl; hot mutton, ham and poached eggs; pancakes- 
 oatcakes, wheaten bread; butter; bottled porter; hot water lump 
 sugar, and whisky; of which we made a very hearty meal All the 
 Avay, the road had been among moors and mountains with huge 
 masses of rock, which fell down God knows where, sprinkling the 
 o; " '" '-•'■-'-7 vixxcvLiuii, iiiiu giving ir the aspect ol the burial- 
 place of a race of giants. Now and then we passed a hut or two, with 
 
itudy. The 
 or yon to 
 ling pieces 
 h will hold 
 put your 
 3ur tooth- 
 !scription. 
 'ould say; 
 nail beer 
 ;le I have 
 11 'soft'— 
 leaves off 
 er. . . . 
 f? here to 
 rhat they 
 I national 
 :oln The 
 on't bore 
 1 sorts of 
 ists were 
 hills; the 
 B roaring 
 house is 
 and the 
 efore the 
 this here 
 always," 
 
 evening, 
 : we had 
 can't go 
 will not 
 jr. . . , 
 les most 
 ns; even 
 stage of 
 ^o hours 
 illed the 
 at three 
 
 and in 
 salmon, 
 mcakes; 
 r, lump 
 
 All the 
 th huge 
 ing the 
 
 buriai- 
 vo, with 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 411 
 
 neither v^rindow nor chimney, and the smoke of the peat fire rolling 
 t)ut at the door. B t there were not six of these dwellings in a dozen 
 miles; and anything so bleak and wild, and mighty in its loneliness, 
 as the whole country, it is impossible to conceive. Glencoe itself is 
 perfectly terrible. The pass in an awful place. It is shut in on each side 
 by enormous rocks from which great torrents come rushing down in 
 all directions. Ii» amongst these rocks on one side of the pass (the 
 left as we came) there are scores of glens, high up, which form such 
 haunts as you might imagine yourself wandering in, in the very 
 
 height of madness of a fever. They will live in my dreams for years 
 
 I was going to say as long as I live, and I seriously think so. The very 
 recollection of them makes me shudder. . . . Well, I will not bore 
 you with my impressions of these tremendous wilds, but they really 
 are fearful in their grandeur and amazing solitude. Wales is a mere 
 toy compared with them. ..." 
 
 The impression made upon him by the Pass of Glencoe was not 
 overstated in this letter. It continued with him; and, even where he 
 expected to find nature in her most desolate grandeur, on the dreary 
 waste of an American prairie, his imagination went back with a 
 higher satisfaction to Glencoe. But his experience of it is not yet 
 completely told. The sequel was in a letter of two days later date 
 from "Dalmally, Sunday, July the eleventh, 1841." 
 
 "As there was no place of this name in our route, you will be sur- 
 prised to see it at the head of this present writing. But our being 
 here is a part of such moving accidents by flood and field as will 
 astonish you. If you should happen to have your hat on, take it oft, 
 that your hair may stand on end without any interruption. To get 
 from Ballyhoolish (as I am obliged to spell it when Fletcher is not 
 in the way; and he is out at this moment) to Oban, it is necessary 
 to cross two ferries, one of which is an arm of the sea, eight or ten 
 miles broad. Into this ferry-boat, passengers, carriages, horses, and 
 all, get bodily, and are got across by hook or by crook if the weather 
 be reasonably fine. Yesterday morning, however, it blew such a 
 strong gale 4:hat the landlord of the inn, where we had paid for 
 horses all the way to Oban (thirty miles), honestly came upstairs 
 just as we were starting, with the money in his hand, and told us it 
 would be impossible to cross. There was nothing to be done but to 
 come back five and thirty miles, through Glencoe and Inverouran, 
 to a place called Tyndrum, whence a road twelve miles long crosses 
 to Dalmally, which is sixteen miles from Inverary. Accordingly 
 we turned back, and in a great storm of wind and rain began to 
 retrace the dreary road we had come the day before. ... I was not 
 at all ill-pleased to have to come again through that awful Glencoe. 
 If it had been tiemendous on the previous day, yesterday it was 
 perfectly horrific. It had rained all night, and was raining then, as 
 ..,..,,, J s,,,,^,j,j, ,...,v:>^ pdi to. ixiiuu5ii tHc wiiuic gicii, vvuicii is ten miles 
 long, torrents were boiling and foaming, and sending up in every 
 direction spray like the smoke of great fires. They were rushinj? 
 
 'Wa ' i 
 
 f J 
 
 
 
412 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 down every hill and mountain side, and tearing like devih across 
 he path, and down into the depths of the rocks. Some of the hHls 
 looked as ,f they were full of silver, and had cracked in a hundred 
 places. Others as if they were frightened, and had broken out into a 
 deadly sweat. In others there was no compromise or division of 
 streams, but one great torrent came roaring down with a dea enii^e 
 no.se. and a rushing of water that was quite appalling. Such a JZf 
 m short (that's the country word) has not been known for many 
 years, and the sights and sounds were beyond description The^ost^ 
 boy was not at all at his ease, and the horses were very much 
 frightened (as well they might be) by the perpetual ragfng and 
 roaring; one of them started as we came down a steep place and we 
 
 were withm that much ( ) of tumbling over a precipfceMust theT 
 
 too the drag broke, and we were obliged to go on as we best couW 
 without It: getting out every now and then. Ind hanging on at the 
 back of the carriage to prevent its rolling down too fLtf^and goW 
 Heaven knows where. Well, in this pleasant state of things we ?ame 
 ^i1.^Th' "°"Kf ^f »"'i^^i"g been four hours doing the rixte^n 
 niiles The rumble where Tom sat waa by this time so full of water 
 that he was obliged to borrow a gimlet, and bore holes in the bottom 
 to let It run out The horses that were to take us on. were out uC 
 the hills, some^vhere within ten miles round; and three or four h^e- 
 legged fellows went out to look for ^em. while we sat by the firc^nd 
 tried to dry ourselves. At last we got off again (without^the drag and 
 
 l^mnin. '''^.'"t'P""^' "^ T''^ ^^^^"^ within ten miles) and went 
 Iiniping on to Inverouran. In the first three miles we were in a diLh 
 and out agam, and lost a horse's shoe. All this time it never once left 
 off rammg. and was very windy, very cold, very mist^ and most 
 intensely dismal. So we crossed :he Black Mount, and came To a 
 place we had passed the day before, where a rapid river runTover a 
 bed of broken rock. Now this river, sir. had a bridge last winter but 
 
 m.'nH'iH^' ^"^^' ^n^'" ^^"" '^' ^^^'' ^^"^^' ^^^ has never ince been 
 mended; so travellers cross upon a little platform, made of rou Jh 
 
 ford P^^"k%^tn'^^"^ ^"^"^ ^°^^ *° ^°^k: ^"d carrkges and horses 
 ford the water at a certain point. As the platform is the reverse of 
 
 steady (we had proved this the day b3fo?e). is very slipped and 
 
 affords anything but a pleasant footing, having only a trembfin^ 
 
 ittle ran on one side, and on the other nothing between it and thf 
 
 foaming stream Kate decided to remain in thi carriage and trust 
 
 herself to the wheels rather than to her feet. Fletcher and I got out 
 
 and It was going away, when I advised her. as I had done several 
 
 times before to come with us; for I saw that the water was very hgh 
 
 the current being greatly swollen by the rain, and that thrpostbov 
 
 had been eyeing it m a very disconcerted manner for the last haH 
 
 hour. This decided her to come out; and Fletcher, she. Tom and I 
 
 began to cross, while the carriage went about a auart.r n/ ^11 
 
 u IT ?^"^' '" ^^''''''^'' ^^ ^ ^^^^^o^ place. The platform "shook so 
 much that we could only come across two at a time aTd then It 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 mi1< 
 
 413 
 
 ram 
 
 felt as if it were hung on springs. As to the wind J 
 put into one gust all the wind and rain you ever saw and heard, and 
 you'll have some faint notion of it ! When we got safely to the opposite 
 bank, there came riding up a wild highlander in a great plaid, whom 
 we recognised as the landlord of the inn, and who, without takin, 
 the least notice of us, went dashing on, with the plaid he was wrapped 
 in streaming in the wind, screeching in Gaelic to the postboy on the 
 opposite bank, and making the most frantic gestures you ever saw, 
 in which he was joined by some other wild men on foot, who had 
 come across by a short cut, knee deep in mire and water. As we 
 began to see what this meant, we (that is, Fletcher and I) scrambled 
 on after them, while the boy, horses, and carriage were plunging in 
 the water, which left only the horses' heads and the boy's body 
 visible. By the time we got up to them, the man on horseback and 
 the men on foot were perfectly mad with pantomine; for as to any 
 of their shouts being heard by the bov, the water made such a great 
 noise that they might as well have been dumb. It made me quite 
 sick to think how I should have felt if Kate had besn inside. The 
 carriage went round and round like a great stone, the boy was as 
 pale as death, the horses were struggling and plashing and snorting 
 like sea-animals, and we were all roaring to the driver to throw him- 
 self off, and let them and the coach go to the devil, when suddenly 
 it came all right (having got into shallow water), and, all tumbling 
 and dripping and jogging from side to side, climbed up to the dry 
 land. I assure you we looked rather queer, as we wiped our faces and 
 stared at each other in a little cluster round about it. It seemed that 
 the man on horseback had been lookinit; at us through a telescope as 
 we came to the track, and knowing that the place was very danger- 
 ous, and seeing that we meant to bring the carriage, had come on at 
 a great gallop to show the driver the only place where he could cross. 
 By the time he came up, the man had taken the water at a wrong 
 place, and in a word was as nearly drowned (with carriage, horses, 
 luggage, and all) as ever man was. V'as this a good adventure? 
 
 "We all went on to the inn— the -jvild man galloping on first, to get 
 a fire lighted— and there we dined on eggs and bacon, oatcake, and 
 whisky; and changed and dried ourselves. The place was a mere kiAot 
 of little outhouses, and in one of these there were fifty highlanders 
 all drunk. . . . Some were drovers, some pipers, and some work- 
 men engaged to build a hunting-lodge for Lord Breadalbane hard by, 
 who had been driven in by stress of weather. One was a paperhanger! 
 He had come out three days before to paper the inn's best room, a 
 chamber almost large enough to keep a Newfoundland dog in; and, 
 from the first ha If -hour after his arrival to that moment, had been 
 hopelessly and irreclaimably drunk. They were lying about in all 
 directions: on forms, on the ground, about a loft overhead, round the 
 turf-fire wrapped in plaids, on the tables, and under them. We paid 
 our bill, thanked our host very heartily, gave some money to his 
 children, and after an hour's rest came on again. At ten o'clock at 
 
 'm 
 
 (I 
 
 ( 
 
414 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 night, we reached this place, and were overjoyed to find quite an 
 English inn, with good beds (those we have slept on, yet, have 
 always been of straw), and every possible comfort. We breakfasted 
 this morning at half-past ten, and at three go on to Inverary to 
 dinner. I believe the very ro gh part of the journey is over, and I am 
 really glad of it. Kate sends all kinds of regards. I shall hope to find 
 a letter from you at Inverary when the post reaches there, to-morrow. 
 I \%rote to Oban yesterday, desiring the post-office keeper to send 
 any he might have for us, over to that place. Love to Mac." . . . 
 
 XII 
 
 AGAIN AT BROADSTAIRS 
 
 1 841 
 
 Soon after his return ["from Scotland], in August, he sent me some 
 rhymed squibs as his anonymous contribution to the fight the 
 Liberals were then making, against what was believed to be intended 
 by the return to office of the Tories; ignorant as we were how much 
 wise than his party the statesman then at the head of it was, or 
 how greatly what we all most desired would be advanced by the 
 very success that had been most disheartening. There will be no 
 harm no v in giving extracts from one or two of these pieces, which 
 will sufficiently show the tone of all of them, and with what relish 
 they were written. A celebrated address had been delivered at 
 Tamworth, in which the orator, though in those days big with 
 nothing much larger or graver than a sliding-scale, had made a 
 mystery of it as an infallible specific for public affairs, which he 
 refused to prescribe till regularly called in; and this was good- 
 humouredly laughed at in a quack-doctor's proclamation, to the 
 tune of "A Cobbler there was." 
 
 He's a famous corn-doctor, of wonderful skill — 
 No cutting, no rooting up, purging, or pill — 
 You're merely to take, 'stead of walking or riding, 
 The light schoolboy exercise, innocent sliding. 
 
 Tol de rol, etc 
 
 There's no advice gratis. If high ladies send 
 His legitimate fee, he's their soft-spoken friend. 
 At the great public counter, with one hand behind hira 
 And one in his waistcoat, they're certain to find him. 
 
 Tol de roi, etc. 
 
quite an 
 yet, have 
 eakfasted 
 verary to 
 and I am 
 pe to find 
 (-morrow, 
 r to send 
 
 me some 
 ight the 
 intended 
 3w much 
 : was, or 
 i by the 
 ill be no 
 (s, which 
 at relish 
 -'ered at 
 big with 
 made a 
 i^hich he 
 IS good- 
 , to the 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 415 
 
 He has only to add he's the true Doctor Flam, 
 All others being purely fictitious and sham; 
 The house is a large one, tall, slated, and white, 
 With a lobby, and lights in the passage at night. 
 
 Tol de rol, diddle doll, etc. 
 
 The last of these rhymes I will give entire. This had no touch of 
 personal satire in it, and he would himself, for that reason, have least 
 objected to its revival. Thus ran his new version of "The Fine Old 
 English Gentleman, to be said or sung at all Conservative dinners": 
 
 I'll sing you a new ballad, and I'll warrant it first-rate. 
 Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate; 
 When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate 
 On ev'ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev'ry noble gate, 
 
 In the fine old English Tory times; 
 
 Soon may they come again! 
 
 The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and chains 
 With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains, 
 With rebel heads and seas of blood once hot in rebel veins: 
 For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains 
 
 Of the fine old English Tory times; 
 
 Soon may they come again ! 
 
 This brave old code, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes 
 And ev'ry English peasant had his good old English spies, 
 To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies, 
 Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries, 
 
 In the fine old English Tory times; 
 
 Soon may they come again. 
 
 The good old times for cutting throats that cried out in their need 
 The good old times for hunting men who held their fathers' creed ' 
 The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed ' 
 Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed. '. , , 
 
 Oh the fine old English Tory times; 
 
 When will they come again! 
 
 In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark 
 But sweetly sang of men in pow'r, like any tuneful lark; ' 
 
 Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark; 
 And not a man in twenty score knew how to ma':e his mark. 
 
 Oh the fine old English Tory times; 
 
 Soon may they come again! . . . 
 
 But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing'd in the main; 
 That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was plain- 
 The pure old spirit struggled, but its str-iggles were in vain; ' 
 
 A nation's grip was on it. and it died in choking pain. 
 
 With the fine old English Tory days, 
 
 All of the olden time. 
 
 
 .^ 
 
 
 if 
 
 1 , M 
 
 ■;?i ■■ 
 
 
 r.^ -ij'^iW 
 
 
 
 
 ■ '' 
 
 f 
 
 ^^ 
 
 III 
 
 I 
 
1 1 
 
 416 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the land, 
 In England there shall be — dear bread! In Ireland — sword and brand! 
 Anc^ poverty, and ignorance, shall swell the rich and grand, 
 So, rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand, 
 
 Of the fine old English Tory days; 
 
 Hail to the coming time! 
 
 Small causes of displeasure had been growing out of the Clock, 
 and were almost unavoidably incident to the position in which he 
 found himself respecting it. Its discontinuance had become necessary, 
 the strain upon himself being too great without the help from others 
 which experience had shown to be impracticable; but I thought he 
 had not met the difficulty wisely by undertaking, which already he 
 had done, to begin a new story so early as the following March. On 
 his arrival therefore we decided on another plan, with which we went 
 armed that Saturday afternoon to his publishers; and of which the 
 result will be best told by himself. He had returned to Broadstairs 
 the following morning, and next day (Monday, 23 August) he wrote 
 to me in ve. y enthusiastic terms of the share I had taken in what he 
 calls "the development on Saturday afternoon; when I thought 
 Chapman very manly and sensible. Hall morally and physically 
 feeble though perfectly well-intentioned, and both the statement 
 and reception of the project quite triumphant. Didn't you think so 
 too?" A fortnight later, Tuesday, 7 September, the agreement was 
 signed in my chambers, and its terms were to the effect following. 
 The Clock was to cease with the close of Barnahy Rudge, the respective 
 ownerships continuing as provided; and the new work in twenty 
 numbers, similar to those of Pickwick and Nickleby, was not to begin 
 until after an interval of twelve months, in November 1842. During 
 its publication he was to receive ;^2oo monthly, to be accounted as 
 part of th"^ expenses; for all which, and all risks incident, the publish- 
 ers made themselves responsible, under conditions the same as in 
 the Clock agreement; except that, out of the profits of each number, 
 they were to have only a fourth, three-fourths going to him, and this 
 arrangement was to hold good until th§ termination of six months 
 from the completed book, when, upon payment to him of a fourth 
 of the value of all existing stock, they were to have half the future 
 interest. During the twelve months' interval before the book began, 
 he was to be paid ;^i5o each month; but this was to be drawn from 
 his three-fourths of the profits, and in no way to interfere with the 
 monthly payments of ;^2oo while the publication was going on. 
 Such was the "project," excepting only a provision to be mentioned 
 hereafter against the improbable event of the profits being inade- 
 quate to the repayment: and some fear as to the use he was likely to 
 make of the leisure it afforded him seemed to me its only drawback. 
 
 That this fear was not ill-founded appears at the close of his 
 next letter. "There's no news" (13 September) "since my last. We 
 are going to dine with Rogers to-day, and with Lady Essex, who is 
 
md, 
 >rand ! 
 
 the Clock, 
 which he 
 lecessary, 
 om others 
 lought he 
 .Iready he 
 larch. On 
 ti we went 
 which the 
 roadstairs 
 
 he wrote 
 n what he 
 [ thought 
 physically 
 statement 
 1 think so 
 ment was 
 following, 
 respective 
 n twenty 
 t to begin 
 2. During 
 ounted as 
 e publish- 
 ime as in 
 1 number, 
 [, and this 
 X months 
 I a fourth 
 he future 
 ok began, 
 awn from 
 : with the 
 going on. 
 mentioned 
 x\g inade- 
 3 likely to 
 Irawback. 
 »se of his 
 
 last. We 
 !X, who is 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 417 
 
 also here. Rogers is much pleased with Lord Ashley, who was offered 
 by Peel a post m the government, but resolutely refused to take 
 office unless Peel pledged himself to factory improvement. Peel 
 hadn t made up his mind'; and Lord Ashley was deaf to all other 
 inducements, though they must have been very tempting. Much do 
 I honour him for it. I am in an exquisitely lazy state, bathing, 
 walking, reading, lying m the sun, doing everything but workini! 
 This frame of mind is srper-induced by the prospect of rest, and the 
 promising arrangements which I owe to you. I am still haunted bv 
 visions of America, night and day. To miss this opportunity would be 
 a sad thing Kate cries dismally if I mention the subject: But God 
 \villing. I think it must be managed somehow ! " 
 
 )*'.' 
 !- 
 
 m 
 
 m\i 
 
 
 332 
 
 i 
 
H i :ll: 
 
 (I 
 
I 
 
 J 
 1 ^ 
 
 BOOK THIRD 
 AMERICA 
 
 184I — 2. MT. 29-30 
 
 I. Eve of the Visit 
 
 II. First Impressions 
 
 III. Second Impressions 
 
 IV. Philadelphia and the South 
 
 V. Canal and Steam Boat Journeys 
 
 VI. Far West: to Niagara Falls 
 
 VII. "American Notes " 
 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 419 
 
so far 
 his bo\ 
 
EVE OF THE VISIT 
 
 1841 
 
 The notion of America was in his mind, as we have seen, when he 
 first projected the Clock, and a very hearty letter from Washington 
 Irving about little Nell and the Curiosity Shop, expressing the delight 
 with his writings and the yearnings for himself which had indeed 
 been pourmg in upon him for some time from every part of the 
 States, had very strongly revived it. . . . Upon his return from 
 Scotland it began to take shape as a thing that somehow or other 
 at no very distant date, must be; and at last, near the end of a letter 
 filled with many unimportant things, the announcement, doublv 
 underlined, came to me. 
 
 The decision once taken, he was in his usual fever until its diffi- 
 culties were disposed of. The objections to separation from the chil- 
 dren led at first to the notion of taking them, but this was as quickly 
 abandoned; and what remained to be overcome yielded readily to 
 the kind offices of Macready, the offer of whose home to the little 
 ones during the time of absence, though not accepted to the full 
 extent, gave yet the assurance needed to quiet natural apprehensio:.s 
 All this, including an arrangement for publication of such notes as 
 might occur to him on the journey, took but a few days; and I was 
 reading in my chambers a letter he had written the previous day 
 from Broadstairs, when r. note from him reached me, written that 
 mornng in London, to tell me he was on his way to take share of my 
 breakfast. He had come overland by Canterbury after posting his 
 first letter; hai seen Macready the previous night; and had completed 
 some part of the arrangements. This mode of rapid procedure was 
 characteristic of him at all similar times, and will appear in the few 
 follow' ^ extracts from his letters. 
 
 "Now" (19 September) "to astonish you. After balancing, con- 
 sidermg, and v/'^ighing the matter in every point of view, I have 
 
 MADE UP .vIY MIND (WITH God's LEAVE) TO GO TO AMERICA— AND TO 
 START AS SOON AFTER CHRISTMAS AS IT WILL BE SAFE TO GO." Further 
 
 information was promised immediately; and a request followed, 
 characteristic as anv he could havp. aHHftH +r» hio rioo^rTr. />f +— -^-n:_^ 
 so tar away, that we should visit once more together the scenes of 
 his boyhood. "On the ninth of October we leave here. It's a Saturday. 
 
 421 
 
 i tfl 
 
 ]:W 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 
 il 
 
mi 
 
 422 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 If It should be fine dry weather, or anything :ke it, will you meet us 
 at Rochester, and stop there two or three days to see all the lions in 
 the surrounding country? Think of this. , . . 
 
 n 
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS 
 
 1842 
 
 His first " American " letter was written as soon as he got sight 
 of earth again, from the banks of Newfoundland, on Monday, 
 17 January, the fourteenth day from their departure: even then so far 
 from Halifax that they could not expect to make it before Wednes- 
 day night, or to reach Boston until Saturday or Sunday. They had 
 not been fortunate in the passage. During the whole voyage -le 
 weather had been unprecedentedly bad, the wind for the most part 
 dea^ against them, the wet intolerable, the sea horribly disturbed, 
 th days dark, and the nights fearful. On the previous Monday night 
 it had blown a hurricane, begmning at five in the afternoon and 
 raging all night. Hi<^ description of the storm is published, and the 
 peculiarities of a steamer's behaviour in such circumstances are hit 
 off as if he had been all his life a sailor. . . , 
 
 He stood out against sickness only for the day following that on 
 which they sailed. For the three following days he kept his bed; 
 miserable enough; and had not, until the eighth day of the voyage] 
 six days before the date of his letter, been able to get to work at the 
 dinner-table. What he then observed of his fellow-travellers, and had 
 to tell of their life on board, has been set forth in his Notes with 
 delightful humour; but in its first freshness I received it in this letter, 
 and some whimsical passages, then suppressed, there will be no 
 harm in printing now. 
 
 "We have 86 passengers; and such a^ strange collection of beasts 
 never was got together upon the sea, since the days of the Ark. 
 "I have established myself, from the first in the ladies' cabin— you 
 remember it.? I'll describe its other occupants, and our way of passin" 
 the time, to you. ^ 
 
 "Plrst, for the occupants. Kate and I, and Anne — when she is out 
 
 of bed, which is not often. A queer little Scotch body, a Mrs. P ,* 
 
 whose husband is a silversmith in New York. He married her at Glas- 
 gow three years ago, and bolted the day after the wedding; being 
 
 * The initials used here are in no case those of the real names, being employed 
 m everv case for the express purpose of disguising the names. Generally "the 
 rexnoiK is applicable to ail initials used in the letters priiiLed in the course of this 
 work. The exceptions are unimportant. 
 
u meet us 
 le lions in 
 
 got sight 
 Monday, 
 hen so far 
 i Wednes- 
 They had 
 yage. -le 
 most part 
 iisturbed, 
 day night 
 noon and 
 , and the 
 es are hit 
 
 g that on 
 his bed; 
 e voyage, 
 )rk at the 
 ;, and had 
 ^otss with 
 his letter, 
 ill be no 
 
 of beasts 
 
 the Ark. 
 
 bin — you 
 
 Df passing 
 
 she is out 
 p * 
 
 r at Glas- 
 ng; 
 
 being 
 
 » employed 
 nerally the 
 urse of tliis 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 423 
 
 (which he had not told her) heavily in debt. Since then she has been 
 living with her mother; and she is now going out under the protection 
 of a male cousin, to give him a year's trial. If she is not comfortable 
 at the expiration of that time, she means to go back to Scotland 
 
 again. A Mrs. B , about twenty years old, whose husband is on 
 
 board with her. He is a young Englishman domiciled in New York, 
 and by trade (as well as I can make out) a woollen-draper. They have 
 
 been married a fortnight. A Mr. and Mrs. C , marvellously fond 
 
 of each other, complete the catalogue. Mrs. C , I have settled, is 
 
 a publican's daughter, and Mr. C is running away with her, the 
 
 till, the time-piece off the bar mantel-shelf, the mother's gold watch 
 from the pocket at the head of the bed, and other miscellaneous 
 property. The women are all pretty; unusually pretty. I never saw 
 such good faces together, anywhere." . . . 
 
 The news that excited them from day to day, too, of which little 
 more than a hint appears in the Notes, is worth giving as originally 
 written. 
 
 "As for news, we have more of that than you would think for. 
 One man lost fourteen pounds at vingt-un in the saloon yesterday^ 
 or another got drunk before dinner was over, or another was blinded 
 with lobster sauce spilt over him by the steward, or another had a 
 fall on deck and fainted. The ship's cook was drunk yesterday 
 morning (having got at some salt-water-damaged whisky), and the 
 captain ordered the boatswain to play upon him the hose of the fire- 
 engine until he roared for mercy — which he didn't get; for he was 
 sentenced to look out, for four hours at a stretch for four nights 
 running, without a greatcoat, and to have his grog stopped. Four 
 do.-en plates were broken at dinner. One steward fell down the 
 cabin stairs with a round of beef, and injured his foot severely. 
 Another steward fell down after him, and cut his eye open. The 
 baker's taken ill: so is the pastry-cook. A new man, sick to death, has 
 been required to fill the place of the latter officer, and has been 
 dragged out of bed and propped up in a little house upon deck, 
 between two casks, and ordered (the captain standing over him) to 
 make and roll out pie-crust; which he protests, with tears in his eyes, 
 it is death to him in his bilious state to look at. Twelve dozen of 
 bottled porter has got loose upon deck, and the bottles are rolling 
 about distractedly, overhead. Lord Mulgrave (a handsome fellow, by 
 the by, to look at, and nothing but a good 'un to go) laid a wager 
 with twenty-five other men last night, whose berths, like his, are in 
 the fore-cabin whicii can only be got at by crossing the deck, that he 
 would reach his cabin first. Watches were set by the captain's, and 
 they sallied forth, wrapped up in coats and storm caps. The sea 
 broke over the ship 30 violently, that they were five and twenty 
 minutes holding on by the hand-rail at the starboard paddle-box, 
 drenched to the skin by every wave, and not daring to go on or come 
 back, lest they should be washed overboard. News ! A dozen murders 
 in town wouldn't interest us half as much." . . . 
 
 i . If 
 
 
 I • 
 
 
^a 
 
 |2 sf|^ ? • 
 
 
 424 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 The next day's landing at Halifax, and delivery of the mails, are 
 sketched in the Notes: but not his personal part in what followed. 
 "Then, sir, comes a breathless man who has been already into the 
 ship and out again, shouting my name as he tears along. I stop, arm 
 in arm with the little doctor -vhom I have taken ashore for oysters. 
 The breathless man introduces himself as The Speaker of the House 
 of Assembly; will drag me away to his house; and will have a carriage 
 and his wife sent down for Kate, who is laid up with a hideously 
 swollen face. Then he drags me up to the Governor's house (Lord 
 Falkland i ^he Governor), and then Heaven knows where; conclud- 
 ing with botu Houses of Parliament, which happen to meet for the 
 session that very day, and are opened by a mock speech from the 
 throne delivered by the Governor, with one of Lord Grey's sons for 
 his aide-de-camp, and a great host of officers about him. I wish you 
 could have seen the crowds cheering the Inimitable in the streets. I 
 wish you could have seen judges, law-officers, bishops, and law- 
 makers welcoming the Inimitable. I wish you could have seen the 
 Inimitable shown to a great elbow-chair by the Speaker's throne, and 
 sitting alone in the middle of the floor of the House of Commons, the 
 observed of all observers, listening with exemplary gravity to the 
 queerest speaking possible, and breaking in spite of himself into a 
 smile as he thought of this commencement to the Thousand and One 
 stories in reserve for home and Lincoln's Inn Fields and Jack Straw's 
 Castle. — Ah, Forster! when I dc come back again! " . . . 
 
 What further he had to say of that week's experience, finds its 
 first public utterance here. "How can I tell yoj," he continues, 
 "what has happened since that first day? How can I give you the 
 faintest notion of my reception here; of the crowds that pour in and 
 out of the whole day; of the people that line the streets when I go 
 out; of tl e cheering when I went to the theatre; of the copies of 
 verses, letters of congratulation, welcomco of all kinds, balls, dinners, 
 assemblies without end ? There is to be a public dinner to me here in 
 Boston, next Tuesday, and great dissatisfaction has been given to 
 the many by the high price (three pounds sterling each) of the tickets. 
 There is to be a ball next Monday week at New York, and 150 names 
 appear on the list of the committee. Tliere is to be a dinner in the 
 same place, in the same week, to which I have had an invitation with 
 every known name in America appended to it. But what can I tell 
 you about any of these things which will give you the slightest notion 
 of the enthusiastic greeting they give me, or the cry that runs through 
 the whole country 1 I have had deputations from the Far West, who 
 have come from more than two thousand miles distance: from the 
 lakes, the rivers, the backwoods, the log-houses, the cities, factories, 
 villages, and towns. Authorities from nearly all the States have 
 written to me. I have heard from the universities, congress, senate, 
 and bodies, public and private, of every sort and kind. 'It is no 
 nonsense, and no common ieeiiiig,' wrote Dr. Chanumg to me 
 yesterday. It is all heart. There never was, and never will be, such a 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 mails, are 
 followed. 
 f into the 
 stop, arm 
 ir oysters. 
 :he House 
 a carriage 
 hideously 
 use (Lord 
 ; conclud- 
 st for the 
 from the 
 s sons for 
 wish you 
 streets. I 
 and law- 
 seen the 
 rone, and 
 mons, the 
 ty to the 
 !elf into a 
 I and One 
 k Straw's 
 
 finds its 
 ontinues, 
 i you the 
 ur in and 
 /hen I go 
 copies of 
 ;, dinners, 
 le here in 
 
 given to 
 le tickets. 
 50 names 
 ler in the 
 ,tion with 
 can I tell 
 ist notion 
 s through 
 Vest, who 
 from the 
 factories, 
 ites have 
 )S, senate, 
 
 'It is no 
 Lg to me 
 36, such a 
 
 425 
 
 
 triumph.' And it is a good thing, is it not, ... to find those fancies it 
 has given me and you the greatest satisfaction to think of, at the core 
 of it all ? It makes my heart quieter, and me a more retiring, sober, 
 tranquil man to watch the effect of those thoughts in all this noise 
 and hurry, even than if I sat, pen in hand, to put them down for the 
 first time. I feel, in the best aspects of this welcome, something of the 
 presence and influence of that .spirit which directs my life, and 
 through a heavy sorrow has pointed upward with unchanging 
 finger for more than four years past. And if I know my heart, not 
 twenty times this praise would move me to an act of folly. . . ." 
 
 The last addition made to this letter, from which many most vivid 
 pages of the Notes (among them the bright quaint picture of Boston 
 streets) were taken with small alteration, bore date 29 January. 
 "I hardly know what to add to all this long and unconnected history. 
 Dana, the author of that Two Years before the Masf' (a book which I 
 had praised much to him, thinking it like De Foe), "is a very nice 
 fellow indeed; and in appeiiiance not at all the man you would expect. 
 He is short, mild-looking, and has a care-worn face. His father is 
 exactly like George Cruikshank after a night's jollity — only shorter. 
 The professors at the Cambridge University, Longfellow, Felton, 
 Jared Sparks, are noble fellows. ..." 
 
 Unmistakably to be seen, in this earliest of his letters, is the quite 
 fresh and unalloyed impression first received by him at this memor- 
 able visit; and it is due, as well to himself as to the country which 
 welcomed him, that this should be considered independently of any 
 modification or change it afterwards underwent. Of the fervency 
 and universality of the welcome there could be no doubt, and as little 
 that it sprang from feelings honourable both to giver and receiver. 
 The sources of Dickens's popularity in England were in truth multi- 
 plied many-fold in America. The hearty, cordial, and humane side of 
 his genius had fascinated them quite as much; but there was also 
 something beyond this. The cheerful temper that had given new 
 beauty to the commonest forms of life, the abounding humour which 
 had added largely to all innocent enjoyment, the honourable and in 
 those days rare distinction of America which left no home in the 
 Union inaccessible to such advantages, had made Dickens the object 
 everywhere of grateful admiration, for the most part of personal 
 affection. But even this was not all. I do not say it either to lessen or 
 increase the value of the tribute, but to express simply what it was; 
 and there cannot be a question that the young English author, 
 whom by his language the Americans claimed equally for their own, 
 was almost universally regarded by them as a kind of embodied 
 protest against what was believed to be worst in the institutions of 
 England, depressing and overshadowing in a social sense, and adverse 
 to purely intellectual influences. In all their newspapers of evtry 
 grade at the time, the feeling of triumph over the Mother Country in 
 this particular is predominant. You worship titles, they said, and 
 military heroes, and millionaires, and we of the New World want to 
 
 332* 
 
 III 
 
 hi 
 
 f I 
 
 I i 
 
 ^ I 
 
 •If ' i 
 
 
426 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 show you, by extending the kind of homage that the Old World 
 reserves for kings and conquerors to a young man with nothing to 
 distinguish him but his heart and his genius, what it is wo think in 
 these parts worthier of honour than birth or wealth, a title or a sword. 
 ■Well, there was something in this, too, apart from a mere crowing 
 over the Mother Country. The Americans had honestly more than a 
 common share in the triumphs of a genius, which in more than one 
 sense had made the deserts and wildernesses of life to blossom like the 
 rose. They were entitled to se" t for a welcome, as emphatic as they 
 might please to render it, the writer who pre-eminently in his genera- 
 tion had busied himself to "detect and save," in human creatures, 
 such sparks of virtue as misery or vice had not availed to extinguish; 
 to discover what is beautiful and comely, under what commonly 
 passes for the ungainly and deformed; to draw happiness and hope- 
 fulness from despair itself; and, above all, so to have made known to 
 his own countrymen the wants and sufferingsof the poor, the ignorant, 
 and the neglected, that they could be left in absolute neglect no 
 more. ... 
 
 Ill 
 
 SECOND IMPRESSIONS 
 
 1842 
 
 His second letter, radiant with the same kindly warmth that gave 
 always charm to his genius, was dated from the Carlton Hotel, New 
 York, on 14 February, but its only allusion of any public interest 
 was to the beginning of his agitation of the question of international 
 copyright. He went to America with no express intention of starting 
 this question in any way; and certainly with no belief that such 
 remark upon it as a person in his position could alone be expected to 
 make, would be resented strongly by any sections of the Amer.''.an 
 people. But he was not long left in doubt on this head. He had spoken 
 upon it twice publicly, "to the great indignation of some of the 
 editors here, who are attacking me for so doing, right and left." On the 
 other hand all the best men had assured him, that, if only at once 
 followed up in England, the blow .uck might bring about a change 
 in the law; and, yielding to the agieeable delusion that the best men 
 could be a match for the worst in such a matter, he urged me to enlist 
 on his side what force was obtamable, and in particular, as he had 
 made Scott's claim his wr -cry, to bring Lockhart into the field. I 
 could not do much, but wl at I could was done. . . . 
 
 
 
 J.TCVT 
 
 
 
 1842. 
 
 J ' 
 
 T7~U _ 
 
 o 
 
 CiXi 
 
 J.U 
 
 
 As there is a sailing-packet from here to England to- 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 )ld World 
 lothing to 
 e think in 
 ►r a sword, 
 e crowing 
 yre than a 
 : than one 
 m like the 
 ic as they 
 lis genera- 
 creatures, 
 xtinguish; 
 commonly 
 and hope- 
 known to 
 : ignorant, 
 leglect no 
 
 427 
 
 that gave 
 otel, New 
 c interest 
 jrnational 
 if starting 
 that such 
 pected to 
 American 
 id spoken 
 le of the 
 ;."Onthe 
 y at once 
 a change 
 best men 
 3 to enlist 
 IS he had 
 le field. I 
 
 ^ — J. -.,-■-, J. u 
 
 gland to- 
 
 
 morrow which is warranted (by the owners) to be a marvellous fast 
 sailer, and as it appears most probable that she will reach home (I 
 v/nte the word with a pang) before the Cunard steamer of next 
 month, I mdite this letter. And lest tnis letter should reach you 
 before another letter which I despatched from here last Monday let 
 me say m the first place that I dtd despatch a brief epistle fo you on 
 that day, together with a newspaper, and a pamphlet touchinir the 
 Boz ball; and tb.at I put in the postoftico at Boston anoth, r news- 
 papci lor you containing an account of the dinner, which was just 
 about to come off, you remember, when 1 wrote to you from that 
 city. 
 
 "It was a most superb affair; and the speaking admirable. Inc d 
 the general talent for public speaking here, is one of the most stril 1 ig 
 f)f the thir- -. that force themselves upon an Englishman's notice. \s 
 every ma; oks on to being a member of Congress, every man pre- 
 pares himi lor it; and the result is quite surprising. You will observe 
 one odd cu«..om— the drinking of sentiments. It is quite extinct with 
 us, but here everybody is expected to be prepared with an epigram aa 
 a matter of course. ... 
 
 Washington Irving was chairman of this dinner, and having from 
 the first a dread that he should break down in his speech, the catas- 
 trophe came accordingly. Near him sat the Cambridge professor who 
 had come with Dickens by boat from Newhaven, with whom already 
 a warm friendship had been formed that lasted for life, and who has 
 pleasantly sketched what happened. Mr. Felton saw Irving con- 
 stantly in the interval of preparation, and could not but despond at 
 his daily iterated foreboding of "I shall certainly break down": 
 though, besides the real dread, there was a sly humour which height- 
 ened its whimsical horror with an irresistible drollery. But the pro- 
 fessor plucked up hope a little when the night came, and he saw that 
 Irving, had laid under his plate the manuscript cf his speech. During 
 dinner, nevertheless, his old foreboding cry was still heard, and "at 
 last the moment arrived; Mr. Irving rose; and the deafening and long- 
 continued applause by no means lessened his apprehension. He began 
 in his pleasant voice; got through two or three sentences pretty 
 easily, but in the next hesitated; and, after one or two attempts to 
 go on, gave it up, with a graceful allusion to the tournament and the 
 troop of knights all armed and eager fir the fray; and ended with the 
 toast Charles Dickens, the guest of the nation. 'There, said he, 
 as he resumed his seat amid applause as great as had greeted his 
 rising, 'fhcxel I told you I should break down, and I've done it!' " 
 H-^ was in London a few months later, on his way to Spain; and I 
 heard Thomas Moore describe at Rogers's table the difficulty there 
 had been to overcome his reluctance, because of this breakdown, to 
 go to the dinner of the Literary Fund on the occasion of Prince 
 Mbert's presiding. "However," said Moore, "I told him only to 
 a ^empt a few words, and I suggested what they should "be, and he 
 said he'd never thought of anything so easy, and he went and did 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 I 
 
 ■I. 
 ■ 
 
428 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 famously." I knew very well, as I listened, that this h.d not been the 
 result; but as the distinguished American had found himself, on this 
 second occasion, not among orators as in New York, but among men 
 as unable as himself to speak in public, and equally able to do better 
 things, he was doubtless more reconciled to his own failure. I have 
 been l^d to this digression by Dickens's silence on his friend's break- 
 down. He had so great a love for Irving that it was painful to speak 
 of him as at any disadvantage, and of the New York dinner he wrote 
 only in its connection with his own copyright speeches. . 
 
 "We mean to retu'-n home in a packet-ship — not a steamer. Her 
 name is the George Washin-'on, and she will sail from here, for Liver- 
 pool, on the seventh of June. At that season of the year, they are 
 seldom more than three weeks making the voyage; and I never will 
 trust myself upon the wide ocean, if it please Heaven, in a steamer 
 again. When I tell you all that I observed on board that Britannia, 
 I shall astonish you. Meanwhile, consider two of their dangers. First, 
 that if the funnel were blown overboard, the vessel must instantly 
 be on fire, from stem to stern: to comprehend which consequence, you 
 have only to understand that the funnel is more than 40 feet high, 
 and that at night you see the solid fiire two or three feet above its 
 top. Imagine this swept down by a strong wind, and picture to your- 
 self the amount of flame on deck; and that a strong wind is likely to 
 sweep it down you soon learn, from the precautions taken to keep it 
 up in a storm, when it is the first thing thought of. Secondly, each oi 
 these boats consumes between London and Halifax 700 tons of coals; 
 and it is pretty clear, from this enormous difference -^' - /eight in a 
 ship of only 1200 tons burden in all, that she mu he e - ^. o heavy 
 when she comes out of port, or too light when s 51. The daily 
 
 difference in her rolling, as she burns the coa, ov' something 
 absolutely fearful. Add to all this, that by day and .i.^,uc she is full of 
 fire and people, that she has no boats, and that the struggling of that 
 enormous machinery in a heavy sea seems as though it would rend 
 her into fragments— and you may have a pretty considerable damned 
 good sort of a feeble notion that it don't fit nohow; and that it an't 
 calculated to make you smart, overmuch; and that you don't feel 
 special bright; and by no means first-rate; and not at all tonguey (or 
 disposed for conversation); and that however rowdy you may be by 
 natur', it does use you up com-plete, and that's a fact; and makes you 
 quake considerable, and disposed toe damn the Engine ! — All of which 
 phrases, I beg to add, are pure Americanisms of the first water. 
 
 "When we reach Baltimore, we are in the regions of slavery. It 
 exists there, in its least shocking and most mitigated form; but there 
 it is. They whisper, here (they dare only whisper, you know, and that 
 below their breaths), that on that place, and all through the South, 
 there is a dull gloomy cloud on which the very word seems written! 
 I shall be able to say, on*^ of these days, that I accepted no public 
 mark of respect in any place where slavery was; — and that's some- 
 thing. 
 
 
 Englan 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 429 
 
 t been the 
 If, on this 
 long men 
 do better 
 e. I have 
 I's break- 
 to speak 
 he wrote 
 
 mer. Her 
 tor Liver- 
 they are 
 Lever will 
 L steamer 
 'ritannia, 
 srs. First, 
 instantly 
 3nce, you 
 eet high, 
 ibove it^ 
 to your- 
 likely to 
 o keep it 
 ', each oi 
 of coals; 
 ight in a 
 o heavy 
 .'he daily 
 >mething 
 is full of 
 g of that 
 uld rend 
 damned 
 Lt it an't 
 on't feel 
 guey (or 
 ly be by 
 =ikes you 
 of which 
 ter. 
 
 very. It 
 lut there 
 md that 
 B South, 
 written, 
 o public 
 's some- 
 
 
 "The ladies of America are decidedly ad unquestionably beauti- 
 ful. Their complexions are not so good as those of Englishwomen; 
 their beauty does not last so long; and their figures are very inferior. 
 But they are most beautiful. I still reserve my opinion of the national 
 character — just whispering that I tremble for a Radical coming here,, 
 unless he is a Radical on principle, by reason and reflection, and from 
 the sense oi right. I fear that if he were anything else, he would return 
 home a Tory. ..." 
 
 A brief letter, sent me next day by the minister's bag, was in effect 
 a postscript; and expressed still more strongly the i^pprehensions his 
 voyage out had impressed him with, and which, though he after- 
 wards saw reason greatly to modify them, were not so strange at the 
 time as they appear to us now. 
 
 "Carlton House, New York, February twenty-eighth, 1842. . . . 
 The Caledonia, I grieve and regret to say, has not arrived. If she left 
 England to her time, she has been four and twenty days at sea. There 
 is no news of her; and on the nights of the fourteenth and eighteenth 
 it blew a terrible gale, which almost justifies the worst suspicions. 
 For myself, I have hardly any hope of her; having seen enough, in our 
 passage out to convince me that steaming across the ocean in heavy 
 weather is as yet an experiment of the utmost hazard. 
 
 "As it v/as supposed that there would be no steamer whatever for 
 England this month (since in ordinar)'- course the Caledonia would 
 have returned with the mails on the 2nd of March) I hastily got the 
 letters ready yesterday and sent them by the Garrick; which may 
 perhaps be three weeks out, but is not very likely to be longer. But 
 belonging to the Cunard Company is a boat called the Unicorn, which 
 in the summer time plies up the St. Lawrence, and brings passengers 
 from Canada to join the British and North American steamers at 
 Halifax. In the winter she lies at the last-mentioned place; from which 
 news has come this morning that they have sent her on to Boston for 
 the mails; and, rather than interrupt the communication, mean to dis- 
 patch her to England in lieu of the poor Caledonia. This in itself, by 
 the way, is a daring deed; for she was originally built to run between 
 Liverpool and Glasgow, and is no more designed for the Atlantic 
 than a Calais packet-boat; thoU||h she once crossed it, in the summer 
 season. 
 
 "You may judge, therefore, what the owners, think of the proba- 
 bility of the Caledonia's arrival. How slight an alteration in our plans 
 would have made us passengers on board of her ! 
 
 "It would be difficult to tell you, my dear fellow, what an impres- 
 sion this has made upon our minds, or with what intense anxiety and 
 suspense we have been waiting for your letters from hor-13. We were 
 to have gone South to-day, but linger here until to-morrow afternoon 
 (having sent the secretary'- and luggage forward) for one more chance 
 of news. Love to dear Macready, and to dear Mac, and every rne we 
 care tor. It's useless to speak of the dear children. It seem^ now as 
 though we should never hear of them. . , . 
 
 I 
 
 
 t'i*'' 
 
430 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 -J' 
 
 It 
 
 "P.S. Washington Irving is a great fellow. We have laughed most 
 heartily together. He is just the man he ought to be. So is Doctor 
 Channing, with whom I have had an interesting correspondence since I 
 saw him last at Boston. Halleck is a merry little man. Bryant a sad 
 one, and very reserved. Washington Allston the painter (who wrote 
 Monaldi) is a fine specimen of a glorious old genius. Longfellow, 
 whose volume of poems I have got for you, is a frank accomplished 
 man as well as a fine writer, and will be in town 'next fall.' Tell 
 Macready that I suspect prices here must have rather altered since his 
 time. I paid our fortnight's bill here, last night. We have dined out 
 every day (except when I was laid up with a sore throat), and only 
 had in all four bottles of wine. The bill was £70 English ! ! ! 
 
 "You will see, by my other letter, how we have been fSted and 
 feasted; and how there is war to the knife about the international 
 copyright; and how I will speak about it, and decline to be put 
 down. . . , 
 
 "Oh for news from home ! I think of y(^ur letters so full of heart arid 
 friendship, with perhaps a little scrawl of Charley's or Mamey's, 
 lying at the bottom of the deep sea; and am as full of sorrow 
 as if they had once been living creatures. — Well ! they may come, 
 yet. ..." 
 
 PHILADELPHIA AND THE SOUTH 
 1842 
 
 Dickens's next letter was begun in the "United States Hotel, Phila- 
 delphia," and bore date "Sunday, sixth March, 1842." It treated of 
 much dealt with afterwards at greater length in the Notes, but the 
 freshness and vivacity of the first impressions in it have surprised 
 me. I do not, however, print any passage here which has not its own 
 interest independently of anything contained in that book. The rule 
 will be continued, as in the portions of letters already given, if not 
 transcribing anything before printed, or anything having even but a 
 near resemblance to descriptions that appear in the Notes. 
 
 ". . . I have often asked Americans in London which were the 
 better railroads — ours or theirs? They have taken time for reflection, 
 and generally replied, on mature consideration, that they rather 
 thought we excelled; in respect of the punctuality with which we 
 arrived at our stations, and the smoothness of our travelling. I wish 
 you could see what an American railroad is, in some parts where I 
 now have seen them. I won't say I wish you could feel what it is, 
 
The Life of Chailes Dickens 
 
 431 
 
 hed most 
 is Doctor 
 ice since I 
 ant a sad 
 ho wrote 
 ngfellow, 
 mplished 
 ■all.' Tell 
 i since his 
 lined out 
 and only 
 
 Sted and 
 rnational 
 3 be put 
 
 leart arid 
 klamey's, 
 f sorrow 
 ly come, 
 
 ;1, Phila- 
 "eated of 
 but the 
 urprised 
 : its own 
 The rule 
 n, if not 
 en but a 
 
 vere the 
 I flection, 
 Y rather 
 hich we 
 r. I wish 
 where I 
 lat it is, 
 
 because that would be an unchristian and savage aspiration. It is 
 never enclosed, or warded off. You walk down the main street of a 
 large town: and, slap-dash, headlong, pell-mell, down the middle of 
 the street; with pigs burrowing, and boys flying kites and playing 
 marbles, and men smoking, and women talking, and children crawl- 
 ing, close to the very rails; there comes tearing along a mad locomo- 
 tive with its train of cars, scattering a red-hot shower of sparks (from 
 its wood fire) in all directions; screeching, hissing, yelling, and pant- 
 ing; and nobody one atom more concerned than if it were a hundred 
 miles away. You cross a turnpike-road; and there is no gate, no 
 policeman, no signal — nothing to keep the wayfarer or quiet traveller 
 out r ' the way, but a wooden arch on which is written in great letters 
 "Loo; out for the locomotive." And if any man, woman, or child, 
 don't look out, why it's his or her fault, and there's an end of it. 
 
 "The cars are like very shabby omnibuses — only larger; holding 
 sixty or seventy people. The seats, instead of being placed long-ways, 
 are put crosswise, back to front. Each holds two. There is a long row 
 of these on each jide of the caravan, and a narrow passage up the 
 centre. The windows are usually all closed, and there is very often, in 
 addition, a hot, close, most intolerable charcoal stove in a red-hot 
 glow. The heat and closeness are quite insupportable. But this is the 
 characteristic of all American houses, of all the public institutions, 
 chapels, theatres, and prisons. From the constant use of the hard 
 anthracite coal in these beastly furnaces, a perfectly new class of 
 diseases is springing up in the country. Their effect upon an English- 
 man is briefly told. He is always very sick and very faint; and has an 
 intolerable headache, morning, noon, and night. 
 
 "In the ladies' car, there is no smoking of tobacco allowed. All 
 gentlemen who have ladies with them, sit in this car; and it is usually 
 very full. Before it, is the gentlemen's car; which is something nar- 
 rower. As I had a window close to me yesterday which commanded 
 this gentleman's car, I looked at it pretty often, perforce. The flashes 
 of saliva flew so perpetually and incessantly out of the windows all 
 the way, that it looked as though they were ripping open feather- 
 beds inside, and letting the wind dispose of the feathers. But this 
 spitting is universal. In the courts of law, the judge has his spittoon on 
 the bench, the counsel have theirs, the witness has his, the prisoner 
 his, and the crier his. The jury are accommodated at the rate of three 
 m-^n to a spittoon (or spit-box as they call it here); and the spectators 
 in the gallery are provided for, as so many men who in the course of 
 nature expectorate without cessation. There are spit-boxes in every 
 steamboat, bar-room, public dining-room, house or ofiice, and place 
 of general resort, no matter what it be. In the hospitals, the students 
 are requested, by placards, to use the boxes provided for them, and 
 not to spit upon the stairs. I have twice seen gentlemen, at evening 
 parties in New York, turn aside when they were not engaged in con- 
 versation, and spit upon the drawing-room carpet. And iu every bar- 
 room and hotel passage the stone floor looks as if it were paved with 
 
 m 
 
 
pffBf 
 
 432 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 open oysters — from the quantity of this kind of deposit which 
 tessellates it all over. ..." 
 
 
 "Washington, Sundny, March the Thirteenth, 1842. 
 
 "I must tell you a slight experience I had in Philadelphia. My rooms 
 had been ordered for a week, but, in consequence of Kate's illness, 
 
 only Mr. Q and the luggage had gone on. Mr. Q always lives 
 
 at the table d'hote, so that while we were in New York our rooms 
 were empty. The landlord not only charged me half the full rent for 
 the time during which the rooms were reserved for us (which was 
 quite right), but charged me also/oy board for myself and Kate and 
 Anne, at the rate of nine dollars per day for the same period, when we 
 were actually living, at the same expense, in New York!!! I did 
 remonstrate upon this head; but was coolly told it was the custom 
 (which I have since been assured is a lie), and had nothing for it but 
 to pay the amount. What else could I do? I was going away by the 
 steamboat at five o'clock in the morning; and the landlord knew per- 
 fectly well that my disputing an item of his bill would draw down 
 upon me the sacred wrath of the newspapers, which would one and all 
 demand in capitah if this was the grititude of the man whom 
 America had received as she had never received any other man but 
 
 La Fayette? , 
 
 "I went last Tuesday to the Eastern Penitentiary near Phila- 
 delphia, which is the only prison in the Stater, or I believe, in the 
 world, on the principle of hopeless, strict, and unrelaxed solitary con- 
 finement, during the whole term of the sentence. It is wonderfully 
 kept, but a most dreadful, fearful place. The inspectors, immediately 
 on my arrival in Philadelphia, invited me to pass the day in the jail, 
 and to dine with them when I had finished my inspection, that they 
 might hear my opinion of the system. Accordingly I passed the whole 
 day in going from cell to cell, and conversing with the prisoners. 
 Every facility was given me, and no constraint whatever imposed 
 upon any man's free speech. If I were to write you a letter of twenty 
 sheets, I could not tell you this one day's work; so I will reserve it 
 until that happy time when we shall sit round the table at Jack 
 Straw's— you. and I, and Mac— and go over my diary. I never shall 
 be able to dismiss from my mind the impr'-ssions of that day. Making 
 notes of them, as I have done, is an absurdity, for they are written, 
 beyond all power of erasure, in my brain. I saw men who had been 
 there five years, six years, eleven years, two years, two months, two 
 days; some whose term was nearly over, and some whose term had 
 only just begun. Women too, under the same variety of circumstances. 
 Every prisoner who comes into the jail, comes at night; is put into a 
 bath, and dressed in the prison garb; and then a black hood is drawn 
 over his face and head, and he is led to the cell from which he never 
 stirs again until his whole period of confinement has expired. I looked 
 at some of them with the same awe as I should have looked at men 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 sit which 
 
 tth, 1842. 
 
 My rooms 
 e's illness, 
 ways lives 
 our rooms 
 ill rent for 
 rvhich was 
 ' Kate and 
 , when we 
 k!!! I did 
 tie custom 
 ; for it but 
 ay by the 
 knew per- 
 raw down 
 )ne and all 
 lan whom 
 r man but 
 
 ear Phila- 
 
 ive, in the 
 
 litary con- 
 
 onderfuUy 
 
 mediately 
 
 in the jail, 
 
 that they 
 
 the whole 
 
 prisoners. 
 
 r imposed 
 
 of twenty 
 
 reserve it 
 
 e at Jack 
 
 lever shall 
 
 ,y. Making 
 
 :e written, 
 
 had been 
 
 3nths, two 
 
 term had 
 
 imstances. 
 
 put into a 
 
 d is drawn 
 
 h he never 
 
 d. I looked 
 
 :ed at men 
 
 433 
 
 who had been buried alive, and dug up again. 
 
 "We dined in the jail: and I told them after dinner how much the 
 sight had allected me, and what an awful punishment it was. I dwelt 
 upon this; for, although the inspectors are extremely kind and 
 benevolent men, I question whether they are sufficiently acquainted 
 with the human mind to know what it is they are doing. Indeed, I am 
 sure they do not know. I bore testimony, as every one who sees it 
 must, to the admirable government of the institution (Stanfield is the 
 keeper: grown a little younger, that's all); and added that nbthing 
 could justify such a punishment, but its working a reformation in 
 the prisoners. That for short terms — say two years for the maximum 
 — I conceived, especially after what they had told me of its good 
 effects in certain cases, it might perhaps be highly beneficial; but that, 
 carried to so great an extent, I thought it cruel and unjustifiable; and 
 further, that their sentences for small offences were very rigorous, 
 not to say savage. All this they took like men who were really 
 anxious to have one's free opinion, and to do right. And we were 
 very much pleased with each other, and parted in the friendliest 
 way . . . 
 
 "I said I wouldn't write anything more concerning the American 
 people, for two months. Second thoughts are best. I shall not change, 
 and may as well speak out — to you. They are friendly, earnest, hospit- 
 able, kind, frank, very often accomplished, far less prejudiced than 
 you wo^Tld suppose, warm-hearted, fervent, and enthusiastic. They 
 are chivalrous in their universal politeness to women, courteous, 
 obliging, disinterested; and, when they conceive a perfect affection 
 for a man (as I may venture to say of myself), entirely devoted to 
 him. I have received thousands of people of all ranks and grades, and 
 have never once been asked an offensive or unpolite question — except 
 by Englishmen, who, when they have been 'located' here for some 
 years, are worse than the devil in his blackest painting. The State is 
 a parent to its people: has a parental care and watch over all poor 
 children, women labouring of child, sick persons, and captives. The 
 common men render you assistance in the streets, and would revolt 
 from the offer of a piece of money. The desire to oblige is universal; 
 and I have never once travelled in a public conveyance, without 
 making some generous acquaintance whom I have been sorry to part 
 from, and who has in many cases come on miles, to see us again. 
 But I don't like the country. I would not live here on any considera- 
 tion It goes against the grain with me. It would with you. I think it 
 impossible, utterly impossible, for any Englishman to live here and 
 be happy. I have a confidence that I must be right, because I have 
 everything, God knows, to lead me to the opposite conclusion: and 
 yet I cannot resist coming to this one. As to the causes, they are too 
 many to enter upon here, ..." 
 
 The reader of the American Notes will remember the humorous 
 description of the night steamer on the Potomac, and of the black 
 driver over the Virginia Road. Both were in th'" letter; which, after 
 
 i|:| 
 
 
 %'i 
 
 ■ 
 
 
434 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 three days, he resumed "At Washington again, Monday, March the 
 twenty-first. 
 
 "We had intended to go to Baltimore from Richmond, by a place 
 called Norfolk: but one of the boats being under repair, I found we 
 should probably be detained at this Norfolk two days. Therefore we 
 came back here yesterday, by th** road we had travelled before; lay 
 here last night; and go on to Baltimore this afternoon, at four o'clock. 
 It is a journey of only two hours and a half. Richmond is a prettily 
 situated town; but, like other towns in slave districts (as the planters 
 themselves admit), has an aspect of decay and gloom which to an 
 unaccustomed eye is most distressing. In the black car (for they don't 
 let them sit with the whites) on the railroad as we went there, were a 
 mother and family whom the steamer was conveying away, to sell; 
 retaining the man (the husband and father I mean) on his plantation. 
 The children cried the whole way. Yesterday, on board the boat, a 
 slave owner and two constables were our fellow-passengers. They 
 were coming here in search of two negroes who had run away on the 
 previous day. On the bridge at Richmond there is a notice against 
 fast driving over it, as it is rotten and crazy: penalty — for whites, 
 five dollars; for slaves, fifteen stripes. My heart is lightened as if a 
 great load had been taken from it, when I think that we are turning 
 our backs on this accursed and detested system. I really don't think 
 I could have borne it ? ny longer. It is all very well to say ' be silent on 
 the subject. ' They won't let you be silent. They will ask you what you 
 think of it; and will expatiate on slavery as if it were one of the 
 greatest blessings of mankind. 'It's not,' said a hard, bad-looking fel- 
 low to me the other day, ' it's not the interest of a man to use his 
 slaves ill. It's damned nonsense that you hear in England.' — I told 
 him quietly that it was not a man's interest to get drunk, or to steal, 
 or to game, or to indulge in any other vice, but he did indulge in it for 
 all that. That cnielty, and the abuse of irresponsible power, were two 
 of the bad passions of human nature, with the gratification of which, 
 considerations of interest or of ruin had nothing whatever to do; and 
 that, while every candid man must admit that even a slaVe might be 
 happy enougli with a good master, all human beings knew that bad 
 masters, cruel masters, and masters who disgraced the form they 
 bore, were matters of experience and history, whose existence was 
 as undisputed as that of slaves themselves. He was a little taken 
 aback by this, and asked me if I believed in the Bible. Yes, I said, but 
 if any man could prove to me that it sanctioned slavery, I would 
 place no further credence in it. 'Well, then,' he said, 'by God, sir, the 
 niggers must be kept down, and the whites have put down the 
 coloured people wherever they have found them.' 'That's the whole 
 question,' said I. 'Yes, and by God,' says he, 'the British had better 
 not stand out on that point when Lord Ashburton comes over, for I 
 oev^r felt so warlike as I do now, — and that's a fact.' I was obliged 
 t<>aec^pi a public supper in this Richmond, and I saw plainly enough, 
 khe^re, that the hatred which these Southern States bear to us as a 
 
[arch the 
 
 y a place 
 found we 
 refore we 
 ;fore; lay 
 r o'clock. 
 I prettily 
 ! planters 
 ich to an 
 ley don't 
 e, were a 
 ^, to sell; 
 antation. 
 e boat, a 
 Ts. They 
 ly on the 
 e against 
 r whites, 
 :d as if a 
 B turning 
 n't think 
 
 silent on 
 what you 
 le of the 
 )king fel- 
 o use his 
 '—I told 
 • to steal, 
 e in it for 
 were two 
 jf which, 
 3 do; and 
 might be 
 that bad 
 )rm they 
 gnce was 
 de taken 
 said, but 
 
 I would 
 1, sir, the 
 own the 
 he whole 
 id better 
 /er, for I 
 s obliged 
 ' enough, 
 > us as a 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 435 
 
 nation has been fanned up and revived again by this Creole business, 
 and can scarcely be exaggerated. ... We were desperately tired at 
 Richmond, as we went to a great many places, and received a very 
 great number of visitors. We appoint usually two hours in every day 
 for this latter purpose, and have our room so full at that period that 
 it is difficult to move or breathe. Before we left Richmond, a gentle- 
 man told me, when I really was so exhausted that I could hardly 
 stand, that 'three people of great fashion' were much offended by 
 having been told, when they called last evening, that I was tired and 
 not visible, then, but would be 'at home' from twelve to two next 
 day! Another gentleman (no doubt of great fashion also) sent a letter 
 to me two hours after I had gone to bed preparatory to rising at four 
 next morning, with instructions to the slave who brought it to knock 
 me up and wait for an answer I ..." 
 
 CANAL AND STEAM BOAT JOURNEYS 
 1842 
 
 It would not be possible that a more vivid or exact impression, than 
 that which is derivable from these letters, could be given of either 
 the genius or the character of the writer. The whole man is here in 
 the supreme hour of his life, and in all the enjoyment of its highest 
 sensations. Inexpressibly sad to me has been the task of going over 
 them. ... ■',; .,., 
 
 His next letter was begun from "On board the canal boat. 
 Going to Pittsburgh. Monday, March twenty-eighth, 1842"; and 
 the difficulties of rejection, to which reference has just been made, 
 have been nowhere felt by me so much. Several of the descrip- 
 tive masterpieces of the book are in it, with such touches of original 
 freshness as might fairly have justified a reproduction of them in 
 their first form. Among these are the Harrisburgh coach on its way 
 through the Susquehanah Valley; the railroad across the mountain; 
 the brown-forester of the Mississippi, the interrogative m.an in 
 pepper-and-salt, and the affecting scene of the emigrants put ashore 
 as the steamer passes up the Ohio. But all that I may here give, 
 bearing any resemblance to what is given in the Notes, are, the open- 
 ing sketch of the small creature on the top of the queer stage coach, 
 to which the printed version fails to do adequate justice; and an 
 experi^'ice to which the interest belongs of having suggested the 
 
 .<5f»ff-lf>mPTTf nf TTHAn in A/Tnvi'in/t ^hiivflaim'tf " WTa !«*•(- D^li.: 
 
 -.. , ,,....,„,„^„,,, , , ,,^^ ii_it -UdiHIiiUiC 
 
 last Thursday the twenty-fourth at half-past eight in the morning, 
 by railroad; and got to a place called York, about twelve. There we 
 
 f-| 
 
436 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 '< it 
 
 dined, and took a stage-coach for Harrisburgh; twenty-five miles 
 further. This stage-coach was like nothing so much as the body of 
 one of the swings you see at a fair set upon four wheels and roofed 
 and covered at the sides with painted canvas. There were twelve 
 inside ! I, thank my stars, was on the box. The luggage was on the 
 roof; among it, a good-sized dining-table, and a big rocking-chair. 
 We also took up an intoxicated gentleman, who sat for ten miles 
 between me and the coachman; and another intoxicated gentleman 
 who got up behind, but in the course of a mile or two fell off without 
 hurting himself, and was seen in the distant perspective reeling back 
 to the grog-shop where we had found him. There were four horses to 
 this land-ark, of course; but we did not perform the journey until 
 half-past six o'clock that night. . . , The first half of the journey 
 was tame enough, but the second lay through the valley of the 
 Susquehanah (I think I spell it right, but I haven't that American 
 Geography at hand) which is very beautiful. . . . 
 
 "You know my small respect for our House of Commons. These 
 local legislatures are too insufferably apish of mighty legislation, to 
 be seen without bile: for which reason, and because a great crowd of 
 senators and ladies had assembled in both houses to behold the 
 Inimitable, and had already begun to pour in upon him even in the 
 secretary's private room, I went back to the hotel, with all speed. 
 The members of both branches of the legislature followed me there, 
 however, so we had to hold the usual levee bofore our half-past one 
 o'clock dinner. We received a p~eat number of them. Pretty nearly 
 every man spat upon the carpet, as usual; and one blew his nose — 
 with his fingers — also on the carpet, which was a very neat one, the 
 room given up to us being the private parlour of the landlord's wife. 
 This has become so common since, however, that it scarcely seems 
 worth mentioning. Please to observe that the gentleman in question 
 was a member of the Senate, which answers (as they very often tell 
 me) to our House of Lords. 
 
 "The innkeeper was the most attentive, civil, and obliging person 
 I ever saw in my life. On being asked for his bill, he said there was 
 no bill: the honour and pleasure, etc., being more than sufficient. 
 
 I did not permit this, of course; and begged Mr. Q to explain 
 
 to him, that, travelling four strong, I could not hear of it on any 
 account. 
 
 "And now I come to the Canal Boat. Bless your heart and soul, 
 my dear fellow, — if you could only see us on board the canal boat ! 
 Let me think, for a moment, at what time of the day or night I 
 should best like you to see us. In the morning? Between five and six 
 in the morning, shall I say? Well! you would like to see me, standing 
 on the deck, fishing the dirty water out of the canal with a tin ladle 
 chained to the boat by a long chain; pouring the same into a tin 
 basin (also chained uv in like manner^: and scrubbinf^ rniy face with 
 the jack-towel. At night, shall I say? I don't know that you would 
 like to look into the cabin at night, only to see me lying on a tern- 
 
ve miles 
 body of 
 id roofed 
 e twelve 
 Ls on the 
 ng-chair. 
 en miles 
 jntleman 
 ; without 
 ing back 
 horses to 
 ley until 
 journey 
 y of the 
 Imerican 
 
 8. These 
 ation, to 
 crowd of 
 hold the 
 ;n in the 
 11 speed, 
 le there, 
 past one 
 ;y nearly 
 s nose — 
 one, the 
 d's wife, 
 ly seems 
 question 
 )ften tell 
 
 g person 
 lere was 
 afficient. 
 explain 
 ; on any 
 
 nd soul, 
 al boat! 
 night I 
 i and six 
 standing 
 tin ladle 
 to a tin 
 ace with 
 >u would 
 1 a tem- 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 437 
 
 porary shelf exactly the width of this sheet of paper when it's open 
 (/ measured it this morning), with one man above me, and another 
 below; and, in all, eight and twenty in a low cabin, which you can't 
 stand upright in with your hat on. I don't think you would like to 
 look in at breakfast time either, for then these shelves have only just 
 been taken down and put away, and the atmosphere of the place is, 
 as you may suppose, by no means fresh; though there are upon the 
 table tea and coffee, and bread and butter, and salmon, and shad, 
 and liver, and steak, and potatoes, and pickles, and ham, and 
 pudding, and sausages; and three and thirty people sitting round it, 
 eating and drinlcing; and savoury bottles of gin, and whisky, and 
 brandy, and rum, in the bar hard by; and seven and twenty out of 
 the eight and twenty men, in foul linen, with yellow streams from 
 half-chewed tobacco trickling down their chins. Perhaps the best 
 time for you to take a peep would be the present: eleven o'clock in 
 the forenoon: when the barber is at his shaving, and the gentlemen 
 are lounging about the stove waiting for their turns, and not more 
 than seventeen are spitting in concert, and two or three are walking 
 overhead (lying down on the luggage every time the man at the 
 helm calls 'Bridge !'), and I am writing this in the ladies' cabin, which 
 is a part of the gentlemen's, and only screened off by a red curtain. 
 Indeed it exactly resembles the dwarf's private apartment in a 
 caravan at a fair; and the gentlemen, generally, represent the 
 spectators at a penny-a-head. The place is just as clean and just as 
 large as that caravan you and I were in at Greenwich Fair last past. 
 Outside, it is exactly like any canal boat you have seen near the 
 Regent's Park, or elsewhere. 
 
 "You never can conceive what the hawking and spitting is, the 
 whole night through. Last night was the worst. Upon my honour and 
 word I was obliged, this morning, to lay my fur-coat on the deck, 
 and wipe the half-dried flakes of spittle from it with my handker- 
 chief: and the only surprise seemed to be, that I should consider it 
 necessary to do so. When I turned in last night, I put it on a stool 
 beside me, and there it lay, under a cross fire from five men — three 
 opposite; one above; and one below. I make no complaints, and show 
 no disgust. I am looked upon as highly facetious at night, for I crack 
 jokes with everybody near me until we fall asleep. I am considered 
 very hardy in the morning, for I run up, bare-necked, and plunge my 
 head into the half-frozen water, by half-past five o'clock. I am re- 
 spected for my activity, inasmuch as I jump from the boat to the 
 towing-path, and walk five or six miles before breakfast; keeping up 
 with the horses all the time. In a word, they are quite astonished to 
 find a sedentary Englishman roughing it so well, and taking so much 
 exercise; and question me very much on that head. The greater part 
 of the men will sit and shiver round the stove c.ll day, rather than 
 
 ■nn^ r\nf» ■fnr^'f K^^j-f/^ria -fliA rk-Mioi- Ac? "fr\ T-i< ' 
 
 
 
 * ,( 
 
 
 not to be thought of. 
 
 "I told you of the many uses of the word 'fix.' I ask Mr. Q 
 
438 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 on board a steam-boat if breakfast be nearly ready, and he tells me 
 yes he should think so, for when he was last below the steward was 
 'fixing the tables' — in other wirds, laying the cloth. When we have 
 been writing, and I beg him (do you remember anything of my love 
 of order, at this distance of time?) to collect our papers, he answers 
 that he'll 'fix 'em presently.' So when a man's dressing he's 'fixing' 
 himself, and when you put yourself under a doctor he 'fixes' you in 
 no time. T'other night, before we came on board here, when I had 
 ordered a bottle of mulled claret and waited some time for it, it was 
 put on table with an apology from the landlord (a lieutenant-colonel) 
 that 'he fear'd it wasn't fixed properly.' And here, on Saturday morn- 
 ing, a Western man, handing the potatoes to Mr. Q- — at breakfast, 
 inquired if he wouldn't take some of 'these fixings' with his meat. 
 I remained as grave as a judge. I catch them looking at me some- 
 times, and feel that they think I don't take any notice. Politics are 
 very high here; dreadfully strong; handbills, denunciations, invec- 
 tives, threats, and quarrels. The question is, who shall be the next 
 president. The election comes off in three years and a-half from this 
 time." . . . 
 
 All' 
 •if' \i 
 
 i 
 
 "Still in the Same Boat. April the Second, 1842. 
 
 "Many, many, happy returns of the day. It's only eight o'clock in 
 the morning now, but we mean to driiv.c your health after dinner, in 
 a bumper; and scores of Richmond dinners to us I We have some wine 
 (a present sent on board by our Pittsburgh landlord) in our own 
 cabin; and we shall tap it to good purpose, I assure you; wishing "ou 
 all manner and kinds of happiness, and a long life to ourselves that 
 we may be partakers of it. . . . 
 
 "Let me tell you that the other night at Pittsburgh, there being 
 
 present only Mr. Q and the portrait-painter, Kate sat down, 
 
 laughing, for me to try my hand upon her. 1 had been holding forth 
 upon the subject rather luminously, and asserting that I thought I 
 could exercise the influence, but had never tried. In six minutes, I 
 magnetised her into hysterics, and then into the magnetic sleep. I 
 tried again next night, and she fell into the slumber in little more 
 than two minutes. ... I can wake her with perfect ease; but I 
 confess (not being prepared for anything so sudden and complete) 
 I was on the first occasion rather alarmed. . . . The Western parts 
 being sometimes hazardous, I have fitted out the whole of my little 
 company/ with Life Preservers, which I inflate with gi-eat 
 solemnity when we get aboard any boat, and keep, as Mrs. Cluppins 
 did her umbrella in the court of common pleas, ready for use upon a 
 moment's notice. . . ." 
 
 He resumed his letter, on "Sunday, April the third." . . . 
 
 "At Pittsburgh I saw another solitary confinement prison: Pitts- 
 burgh being also in Pennsylvania. A horrible thought occurred to 
 me when I was recalling all I had seen, that night. What if ghosts be 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 439 
 
 one of the terrurs of the jails? I have pondered on it often, since then. 
 The utter solitude by day and night; the many hours of darkness; 
 the silence of death; the mind for ever brooding on melancholy 
 themes, and having no relief; sometimes an evil conscience very 
 busy: imagine a prisoner covering up his head in the bedclothes and 
 looking out from time to time, with a ghastly dread of some inex- 
 plicable silent figure that always sits upon his bed, or stands (if a 
 thing can be said to stand, that never walks as men do) in the same 
 comer of his cell. The more I think of it, the more certain I feel that 
 not a few of these men (during a portion of their imprisonment at 
 least) are nightly visited by spectres. I did ask one man in this last 
 jail, if he dreamed much. He gave me a most extraordinary look, 
 and said — under his breath — in a whisper — No.' . . , 
 
 i 
 
 II 
 
 VI 
 
 FAR west: to NIAGARA FALLS 
 
 1842 
 
 The next letter described his experiences in the Far West, his stay 
 in St. Louis, his visit to a Prairie, the return to Cincinnati, and, aftra: 
 a stage-coach ride from that city to Columbus, the travel thence to 
 Sandusky, and so, by Lake Erie, to the Falls of Niagara. All these 
 subjects appear in the Notes, but nothing printed there is repeated 
 in the extracts now to be given : 
 
 "... They won't let me alone about slavery. A certain Judge in 
 St. Louis went so far yesterday, that I fell upon him (to the indescrib- 
 able horror of the man who brought him) and told him a piece of my 
 mind. I said that I was very averse to speaking on the subject here, 
 and always forbore, if possible: but when he pitied our national 
 ignorance of the truths of slavery, I must remind him that we went 
 upon indisputable records, obtained after many years of careful 
 investigation, and at all sorts of self-sacrifice; and that I believed 
 we were much more competent to judge of its atrocity and horror, 
 than he who had been brought up in the midst of it. I told him that 
 I could sympathise with men who admitted it to be a dreadful evil, 
 but fra.nkly confessed their inability to devise a means of getting rid 
 of it: but that men who spoke of it as a blessing, as a matter of course, 
 as a state of things to be desired, were out of the pale of reason; and 
 that for them to speak of ignorance or prejudice was an absurdity 
 too ridiculous to be combated. ... 
 
 "It is not six vears ago, since a slave in this very same St. Louis 
 being arrested (1 forget for what), and knowing be bad no chance of 
 a fair trial be his offence what it might, drew his bowie knife and 
 
440 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ripped the constable across the body. A scuffle ensuing, the desperate 
 negro stabbed two others with the same weapon. The mob who 
 gathered round (among whom were men of mark, wealth, and in- 
 fluence in the place) overpowered him by numbers, carried him away 
 to a piece of open ground beyond the city; and burned him alive. 
 This, I say, was done within six years in broad day; in a city with its 
 courts, lawyers, tipstaffs, judges, jails, and hangman; and not a hair 
 on the head of one of those men has been hurt to this day. And it is, 
 believe me, it is the miserable, wretched independence in small 
 things; the paltry republicanism which recoils from honest service 
 to an honest man, but does not shrink from every trick, artifice, and 
 knavery in business; that makes these slaves necessary, and will 
 render them so, until the indignation of other countries sets them 
 free. . . . 
 
 
 w 
 
 I 
 
 "SxMii Boat, Saturday, Sixteenth April, 1842. 
 
 "Let me tell you, my dear Forster, before I forget it, a pretty 
 little scene we had on board the boat between Louisville and St. 
 Louis, as we were going to the latter place. It is not much to tell, 
 but it was very pleasant and interesting to witness." 
 
 What follows has been printed in the Notes, and ought not, by 
 the rule I have laid down, to be given here. But, beautiful as the 
 printed description is, it has not profited by the alteration of seme 
 touches, and the omission of others in the first fresh version of it, 
 which, for that reason, I here preserve — one of the most charming 
 poul-felt pictures of character and emotion that ever warmed the 
 heart in fact or fiction. It was, I think, Jeffrey's favourite passage in 
 all the writings of Dickens: and certainly, if anyone would learn the 
 secret of their popularity, it is to be read in the observation and 
 description of this little incident. 
 
 "There was a little woman on board, with a little baby; and both 
 little woman and little child were cheerful, good-looking, bright- 
 eyed, and fair to see. The little woman had been passing a long time 
 with a sick mother in New York, and had left her home in St. Louis 
 in that condition in which ladies who truly love their lords desire to 
 be. The baby had been born in her mother's house, and she had not 
 seen her husband (to whom she was now returning) for twelve 
 months: having left him a month or two after their marriage. Well, 
 to be sure, there never was a little woman so full of hope, and 
 tenderness, and love, and anxiety, as t^ is little woman was: and 
 there she was, all the livelong day, wonde- ing whether 'he' would be 
 at the wharf; and whether 'he' had got her letter; and whether, if she 
 sent the baby on shore by somebody else, 'Ae' would know it, meeting 
 it in the street: which, seeing that he had never set ej.os upon it in 
 his life, was not very likely in the abstract, but was probable enough 
 to the young mo*"her. She was such an artless little creature; and was 
 in such a sunny, beaming, hopeful state; and let out all this matter, 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 esperate 
 lob who 
 and in- 
 im away 
 m alive. 
 with its 
 )t a hair 
 ind it is, 
 n small 
 : service 
 [ice. and 
 md will 
 tts them 
 
 /, 1842. 
 
 a, pretty 
 and St. 
 I to tell, 
 
 not, by 
 il as the 
 of seme 
 Dn of it, 
 harming 
 med the 
 Lssage in 
 3arn the 
 ion and 
 
 nd both 
 bright- 
 )ng time 
 It. Louis 
 iesire to 
 had not 
 ■ twelve 
 :e. Well, 
 pe, and 
 i^as: and 
 i^ould be 
 iT, if she 
 meeting 
 ►on it in 
 ! enough 
 and was 
 matter, 
 
 441 
 
 chnging close about her heart, so freely; that all the other lady 
 passengers entered into the spirit of it as much as she: and the 
 captain (who heard all about it from his wife) was wondrous sly, I 
 promise you: inquiring, every time we met at table, whether she 
 expected anybody to meet her at St. Louis, and supposing she 
 wouldn't want to go ashore the night we reached it. and cutting 
 many other dry jokes which convulsed all his hearers, but especially 
 the ladies. There was one little, weazen, dried-apple old woman 
 among them, who took occasion to doubt the constancy of husbands 
 under such circumstances of bereavement; and there was another 
 lady (with a lap dog), old enough to moralise on the lightness of 
 human affections, and yet not so old that she could help nursing the 
 baby now and then, or laughing with the rest when the little woman 
 called it by its father's name, and asked it all manner of fantastic 
 questions concerning him, in the joy of her heart. It was something 
 of a blow to the little woman, that when we were within twenty 
 miles of our destination, it became clearly necessary to put the baby 
 to bed; but she got over that with the same good humour, tied a little 
 handkerchief over her little head, and came out into the gallery with 
 the rest. Then, such an oracle as she became in referenr-j to the 
 localities! and such facetiousness as was displayed by the ma Tied 
 ladies! and such sympathy as was shown by ^'le single onti and 
 such peals of laughter as the little woman her^ J (who would j^rst as 
 soon have cried) greeted every jest with! At last, there were the 
 lights of St. Louis— and here was the wharf— and those were the 
 steps— and the little woman, co-ering her face with her hands, and 
 laughing, or seeming to laugh, more than ever, ran into her own 
 cabin, and shut herself up tight. I have no doubt that, in the charm- 
 ing inconsistency of such excitement, she stopped her ears lest she 
 should hear 'him' asking for her; but 1 didn't see her do it. Then a 
 great crowd of people rushed ^" board, though the boat was not yet 
 made fast, and was staggering about among the other boats to find 
 a landing-place; and everybody looked for the husband, and nobody 
 saw him; when all of a sudden, right in the midst of them— God 
 knows how rhe ever got there— there was the little woman hugging 
 with both arms round the neck of 2 fine, good-looking, sturdy fellow 1 
 And in a moment afterwards, there she was again, dragging him 
 through the small door of her small cabin, to look at the baby as he 
 lay asleep ! — What a good thing it is to know that so many of us 
 would have been quite downhearted and sorry if that husband had 
 failed to come." ... 
 
 "Sandusky. 
 "Sunday, Twenty-fourth April, 1842. 
 
 ". . . We remained at Cincinnati all Tuesday the nineteenth, and 
 
 all that night. At eight o'clock on Wednesday morning the twentieth. 
 
 wo left ill the mail stage for Columbus: Anne, Kate, and Mr. Q 
 
 inside; I on the box. The distance is a hundred and twenty miles; 
 
442 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 the road macadamised; and for an American road, very good. We 
 were tliree and twenty hours performing the journey. We travelled 
 all night; reached Columbus at seven in the morning; breakfasted; 
 and went to bed until dinner time. At night we held a levee for half 
 an hour, and the people poured in as they always do: each gentleman 
 with a lady on each arm, exactly like the Chorus to God Save the 
 Queen. I wish you could see them, that you might know what a 
 splendid comparison this is. They wear their clothes precisely as the 
 chorus people do; and stand — supposing Kate and me to be in the 
 centre of the stage, with our backs to the footlights — just as the 
 company would, on the first night of the season. They shake hands 
 exactly after the manner of the guests at a ball at the Adelphi or 
 the Haymarket; receive any facetiousness on my part, as if there 
 were a stage direction 'all laugh'; and have rather more difficulty 
 in 'getting off' than the last gentlemen, in white pantaloons, polished 
 boots, and berlins, usually display, under the most trying circum- 
 stances. ... 
 
 "An inn at which we halted was a rough log-house. The people 
 were all abed, and we had to knock them up. We had the queerest 
 sleeping-room, with two doors, one opposite the other; both opening 
 directly on the wild black country, and neither having any lock or 
 bolt. The effect of these opposite doors was, that one was always 
 blowing the other open: an ingenuity in the art of building, which I 
 don't remember to have met with before. You should have seen me, 
 in my shirt, blockading them with portmanteaux, and desperately 
 endeavouring to make the room tidy ! But the blockading was really 
 needful, for in my dressing-case I have about ;^25o in gold; and for 
 the amount of the middle fi<?ure in that scarce metal, there are not a 
 few men in the West who would murder their fathers. Apropos of 
 this golden store, consider at your leisure the strange state of things 
 in this country. It has no money; really no money. The bank paper 
 won't pass; the newspapers are full of advertisements from trades- 
 men who sell by barter; and American gold is not to be had, or 
 purchased. I bought sovereigns, English sovereigns, at first: but as I 
 could get none of them at Cincinnati to this day, I have had to 
 purchase French gold; 20-franc pieces; with which I am travelling 
 as if I were in Paris ! 
 
 "But let's go back to Lower Sandusky. Mr. Q went to bed up 
 
 in the roof of the log-house somewhefe, but was so beset by bugs 
 that he got up after an hour and lay in the coach . . , where he was 
 obliged to wait till breakfast time. We breakfasted, driver and all, 
 in the one common room. It was papered with newspapers, and was 
 as rough a place as need be. At half-past seven we started again, and 
 we reached Sandusky at six o'clock yesterday afternoon. It is or 
 Lake Erie, twenty-four hours' journey by steam-boat from Buffalo. 
 We found no boat here, nor has there been one, since. We are waiting, 
 with every thing packed up, ready to start on the shortest notice; 
 and are anxiously looking out for smoke in the distance. . . , 
 
 
 "I do 
 
 Sandusl^ 
 as I finis 
 whereup 
 hasty ap 
 the spee 
 burden, 
 and had 
 talking ; 
 to sea-si 
 as the / 
 We reac 
 sent to 
 can say 
 our Eng 
 
 "We ] 
 called C 
 crowds, 
 'gentleni 
 stared ir 
 in bed. I 
 in that t 
 war witt 
 again,' a 
 should s 
 courts 
 present ] 
 bade Mi 
 very coc 
 a whittl 
 closed di 
 the big i 
 
 "1 ne^ 
 from Bu 
 two hou: 
 the roar, 
 in Liver] 
 Lincoln' I 
 white cl( 
 They ro; 
 Kate dc 
 bullied J 
 and felt, 
 louder ir 
 
 "Ther 
 what no 
 

 The Life of Charles Dickens 443 
 
 "Tuesday, April Twenty-sixth, 1842. 
 "NiAv.ARA Falls!!! (upon the English side). 
 
 "I don't know at what length I might have written you from 
 Sandusky, my beloved friend, if a steamer had not come in sight just 
 as I finished the last unintelligible sheet (oh I the ink in these parts !): 
 whereupon I was obliged to pack up bag and baggage, to swallow a 
 hasty apology for a dinner, and to hurry my train on board with all 
 the speed I might. She was a fine steamship, four hundred tons 
 burden, name the Constitution, had very few passengers on board, 
 and had bountiful and handsome accommodation. It's all very fine 
 talking about Lake Erie, but it won't do for persons who are liable 
 to sea-sickness. We were all sick. It's almost as bad in that respect 
 as the Atla^+ic. The waves are very short, and horribly constant. 
 We reached iuffalo at six this morning; went ashors to breakfast; 
 sent to the post-ofiice forthwith; and received — oh! who or what 
 can say with how much pleasure and what unspeakable delight I — 
 our English letters ! 
 
 "We lay all Sunday night at a town (and a beautiful town too) 
 called Cleveland, on Lake Erie. The people poured on board, in 
 crowds, by six on Monday morning, to see me; and a part^-^ of 
 'gentlemen' actually planted themselves before our little cabin, and 
 stared in at the door and windows while I was washing, and Kate lay 
 in bed. I was so incensed at this, and at a certain newspaper published 
 in that town which I had accidentally seen in Sandusky (advocating 
 war with England to the denth, saying that Britain must be 'whipped 
 again,' and promising all true Americans that within two years they 
 should sing Yankee Doodle m Hyde Park and Hail Columbia in the 
 courts of Westminster), that when the mayor came on board to 
 present himself to me, according to custom, I refused to see him, and 
 
 bade Mr. Q tell him why and wherefore. His honour took it 
 
 very coolly, and retired to the top ol the wharf, with a big stick and 
 a whittling \nife, with which he worked so lustily (staring at the 
 closed door of our cabin all the time) that long before the boat left 
 the big stick was no bigger than a cribbage peg ! 
 
 "I never in my life was in such a state of excitement as coming 
 from Buffalo here, this morning. You come by railroad; and are nigh 
 two hours upon the way. I looked out for the spray, and listened for 
 the roar, as far beyond the bounds of possibility, as though, landing 
 in Liverpool, I were to licten for the music of your pleasant voice in 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields. At la.«t, when the train stopped, I saw two great 
 white clouds rising up from the depths of the earth — nothing more. 
 They rose up slowly, gently, majestically, into the air. I dragged 
 Kate down a deep and slippery path leading to the ferry boat: 
 bullied Anne for not coming fast enough; perspired at every pore: 
 and felt, it is impossible to say how, as the sound grew louder ana 
 louder in my ears, and yet nothing could be seen for the mist. 
 
 "There were two English oiiicers with us (ahi what gentlemen, 
 what noblemen of nature they seened), and they hurried oft with 
 
 /' y '^ * 
 
 I Hi 
 
 m 
 
 H 
 
444 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 me; leaving Kate and Anne on a crag of ice; and clambered after me 
 over the rocks at the foot of the small Fall, while the ferryman was 
 getting the boat ready. I was not disappointed — but I could make 
 out nothing. In an instant, I was blinded by the spray, and wet to 
 the skin. I saw the water tearing madly down from some immense 
 height, but could get no idea of shape, or situation, or anything but 
 vague immensity. But when we were seated in the boat, and crossing 
 at the very foot of the cataract — then I began to feel what it was. 
 Directly I had changed my clothes at the inn I went out again, 
 taking Kate with me; and hurried to the Horseshoe Fall. I went down 
 alone, into the very basin. It would be hard for a man to stand nearer 
 God than he does there. There was a bright rainbow at my feet; and 
 from that I looked up to — great Heaven ! to what a fall of bright green 
 water! The broad, deep, mighty stream seems to die in the act of 
 falling; and, from its unfathomable grave, arises that tremendous 
 ghost of spray and mist which is never laid, and has been haunting 
 this place with the same dread solemnity — perhaps from the creation 
 of the world. 
 
 "We purpose remaining here a week. In my next, I will try to give 
 you some idea of my impressions, and to tell you hcv they change 
 with every day. At present it is impossible. I can only say that the 
 first eftect of this tremendous spectacle on me, was peace of mind — 
 tranquillity — great thoughts of eternal rest and happiness — nothing 
 of terror. I can shudder at the recollection of Glencoe (dear friend, 
 with Heaven's leave we must see Glencoe together), but whenever I 
 think of Niagara, I shall think of its beauty." 
 
 VII 
 
 "AMERICAN notes" 
 
 1842. 
 
 Reality did not fall short of his anticipation of home. His return 
 was the occa- ion of unbounded enjoyment; and what he had planned 
 before sailing as the way we should meet, received literal fulfilment. 
 By the sound of his cheery voice I first knew that he was come; and 
 from my house we went together to Maclise, also "without a moment's 
 wariiing." A Greenwich dinner in which several friends (Talfourd, 
 Milnes, Procter, Maclise, Stanfield, Marryat, Barham, Hood, and 
 Cruikshank among them) took part, and other immediate greetings, 
 followed; but the most special celebration was reserved for autumn, 
 when, by way of challenge to what he had seen while abroad, a home- 
 journey was arranged with Stanfield, Maclise, and myself for his 
 companions, into such of the most striking scenes of a picturesque 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 445 
 
 after me 
 '^man was 
 uld make 
 id wet to 
 im,mense 
 thing but 
 1 crossing 
 it it was. 
 ut again, 
 ent down 
 nd nearer 
 feet; and 
 ght green 
 he act of 
 ;mendous 
 haunting 
 3 creation 
 
 ry to give 
 y change 
 that the 
 if mind — 
 —nothing 
 ar friend, 
 tienever I 
 
 [is return 
 I planned 
 alfilment. 
 ome; and 
 noment's 
 Palfourd, 
 ood, and 
 greetings, 
 autumn, 
 , a home- 
 i for his 
 ;turesque 
 
 English county as the majority of us might not before have visited: 
 Cornwall being ultimately chosen. 
 
 Before our departure he was occupied by his preparation of the 
 American Notes; and to the same interval belongs the arrival ' i 
 London of Mr. Longfellow, who became his guest, and (for both of 
 us I am privileged to add) our attached friend. Longfellow's name 
 was not then the familiar word it has since been in England; but he 
 had already written several of his most felicitous pieces, and he 
 possessed all the qualities of delightful companionship, the culture 
 and the charm, which have no higher type than the accomplished 
 and genial American. He reminded me, when lately again in England, 
 of two experiences out of many we had enjoyed together this quarter 
 of a century before. One of them was a day at Rochester, when, met 
 by one of those prohibitions which are the wonder of visitors and 
 the shame of Englishmen, we overleapt gates and barriers, and, 
 setting at defiance repeated threats of all the terrors of law coarsely 
 expressed to us by the custodian of the place, explored minutely the 
 castle ruins. The other was a night among those portions of the 
 population which outrage law and defy its terrors all the days of their 
 lives, the tramps and thieves of London; when, under guidance and 
 protection of the most trusted officers of the two great metropolitan 
 prisons afforded to us by Mr. Chesterton and Lieut. Tracy, we went 
 over the worst haunts of the most dangerous classes. Nor will it be 
 unworthy of remark, in proof that attention is not drawn vainly to 
 such scenes, that, upon Dickens going ovei them a dozen years later 
 when he wTote a paper about them for his Household Words, he found 
 important changes etfected whereby these human dens, if not less 
 dangerous, were become certainly more decent. On the night of our 
 earlier visit, Maclise, who accompanied us, was struck with such 
 sickness on entering the first of the Mint lodging-houses in the 
 Borough, that he had to remain, for the time we were in them, under 
 guardianship of the police outside. Longfellow returned home by the 
 Great Western from Bristol on 21 October, enjoying as he passed 
 through Bath the hospitality of Landor; and at the end of the 
 following week we started on our Cornish travel. . . . 
 
 With the opening of September I had renewed report of his book, 
 and of other matters. "The Philadelphia ch^ipter I think veiy good, 
 but I am sorry to say it has not made as much in print as I hoped. . . . 
 In America they have forged a letter witii my signature, which they 
 coolly declare appeared in the Chronirie. with the copyright circular; 
 and in which I express myself in such ^rms as you may imagine, in 
 reference to the dinners and so forth. It has been widelj distributed 
 all over the States; and the felon who invented it is a 'smart man' of 
 course. You are to understand that it is not done as a joke, and is 
 scurrilously reviewed. Mr. Park Benjamin begins a lucubration upon 
 it with these capitals, Dickens is a Fool, and a Liar. ... I have 
 a new protege, in tiie person of a wretched deaf and dumb boy whom 
 I found upon the sands the other day, half dead, and have got (for 
 
 i ' 
 
 [I 
 
 f 
 It 
 
 ,t »i 
 
446 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 Ih 
 
 a.* I 
 
 
 the present) into the union infirmary at Minster. A most deplorable 
 case." 
 
 The printers were now hard at work, and in the last week of 
 September he wrote: "I send you proofs as far as Niagara. ... I 
 am rather holiday-making this week . . . taking principal part in 
 a regatta here yesterday, very pretty and gay indeed. We think of 
 coming up in time for Macready's opening, when perhaps you will 
 give us a chop; and of course you and Mac will dine with us the next 
 day? I shall leave nothing of the book to do after coming home, 
 please God, but the two chapters on slavery and the people which I 
 could manage easily in a week, if need were. . . . The policeman 
 who supposed the Duke of Brunswick to be one of the swell mob, 
 ought instantly to be made an inspector. The suspicion reflects the 
 highest credit (I seriously think) on his penetration and judgment." 
 Three days later: "For the last two days we have had gales blowing 
 from the north-east, and seas rolling on us that drown the pier. 
 To-day it is tremendous. Such a sea was never known here at this 
 season, and it is running in at this moment in waves of twelve feet 
 high. You would hardly know the place. But we shall be punctual to 
 your dinner hour on Saturday. If the wind should hold in the same 
 quarter, we may be obliged to come up by land; and in that case I 
 should start the caravan at six in the morning. . , . What do you 
 think of this for my title — American Notes for General CirculationV 
 On lo October I heard from him that the chapter intended to be 
 introductory to the Notes was written, and waiting our conference 
 whether or not it should be printed. We decided against it; on his 
 part so reluctantly, that I had to undertake for its publication when 
 a more fitting time should come. This in my judgment has arrived, 
 and the chapter first sees the light on this page. There is no danger 
 at present, as there would have been when it was written, that its 
 proper self-assertion should be mistaken for an apprehension of 
 hostile judgments which he was anxious to deprecate or avoid. He 
 is out of reach of all that now; and reveals to us here, as one whom 
 fear or censure can touch no more, his honest purpose in the use of 
 satire even where his humorous temptations were strongest. What 
 he says will on other grounds also be read with unusual interest, for 
 it will be found to connect itself impressively not with his first 
 experiences only, but with his second visit to America at the close 
 of his life. He held always the same high opinion of what was best 
 in that country, and always the same contempt for what was worst 
 in it. 
 
 "INTRODUCTORY. AND NECESSARY TO BE READ 
 
 , } ?,^^^ placed the foregoing title at the head of this page., because 
 I challenge and deny the right of any person to pass judgment on 
 this book, or to arrive at any reasonable conclusion in reference to 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 447 
 
 [eplorable 
 
 week of 
 a. ... I 
 il part in 
 ; think of 
 
 you will 
 • the next 
 ng home, 
 3 which I 
 •oliceman 
 veil mob, 
 fleets the 
 igment." 
 5 blowing 
 the pier, 
 e at this 
 'elve feet 
 nctual to 
 the same 
 at case I 
 t do you 
 'ilationV 
 led to be 
 inference 
 t; on his 
 ion when 
 
 arrived, 
 o danger 
 
 that its 
 nsion of 
 void. He 
 le whom 
 le use of 
 It. What 
 jrest, for 
 his first 
 :he close 
 ivas best 
 as worst 
 
 EAD 
 
 because 
 tnent on 
 rence to 
 
 it, without first being at the trouble of becoming acquainted with its 
 design and purpose. 
 
 "It is not statistical. Fi^jares of arithmetic have already been 
 heaped upon America's devoted head, almost as lavishly as figures 
 of speech have been piled above Shakespeare's grave. 
 
 "It comprehends no small talk concerning individuals, and no 
 violation of the social confidences of private life. The very prevalent 
 practice of kidnapping live ladies and gentlemen, forcing them into 
 cabinets, and labelling and ticketing them whether they will or no, 
 for the gratification of the idle and the curious, is not to my taste. 
 Therefore I have avoided it. 
 
 "It has not a grain of any political ingredient in its whole com- 
 position. 
 
 "Neither does it contain, nor have I intended that it should con- 
 tain, any lengthened and minute account of my personal reception 
 in the United States; not because I am, or ever was, insensible to 
 that spontaneous effusion of affection and generosity of heart, in a 
 most affectionate and generous-hearted people; but because I con- 
 ceive that it would ill become me to flourish matter necessarily 
 involving so much of my own praises, in the eyes of my unhappy 
 readers. 
 
 "This book is simply what it claims to be — a record of the impres- 
 sions I received from day to day, during my hasty travels in America, 
 and sometimes (but not always) of the conclusions to which they, 
 and after-reflection on them, have led me; a description of the 
 country I passed through; of the institutions I visited; of the kind 
 of people among whom I journeyed; and of the manners and customs 
 that came within my observation. Very many works having just 
 the same scope and range, have been already published, but I think 
 that these two volumes stand iii need of no apology on that account. 
 The interest of such productions, if they have any, lies in the varying 
 impressions made by the same novel things on different minds; and 
 not in new discoveries or extraordinary adventures. 
 
 ' ' I can scarcely be supposed to be ignorant of the hazard I run in 
 writing of America at all. I know perfectly well that there is, in that 
 country, a numerous class of well-intentioned persons prone to be 
 dissatisfied with all accounts of the Republic whose citizens they are, 
 which are not couched in terms of exalted and extravagant praise. I 
 know perfectly well that there is in America, as in most other places 
 laid down in maps of the great world, a numerous class of persons so 
 tenderly and delicately constituted, that they cannot bear the truth 
 in any form. And I do not need the gift of prophecy to discern afar 
 off, that they who will be aptest to detect malice, ill-will, and all 
 uncharitableness in these pages, and to show, beyond any doubt, 
 that they are perfectly inconsistent with that grateful and enduring 
 recollection which I profess to entertain of the welcome I found 
 awaiting me beyond the Atlantic — will be certain native journalists, 
 veracious and gentlemanly, who were at great pains to prove to me. 
 
 W 
 
 i.' n 
 
 «' 
 
 I 
 
 ..i^ 
 
448 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 I 
 
 on all occasions during my stay there, that the aforesaid welcome 
 was utterly worthless. 
 
 ''But, venturing to dissent even from these high authorities, I 
 formed my own opinion of its value in the outset, and retain it to this 
 hour; and in asserting (as I invariably did on all public occasions) my 
 liberty and freedom of speech while I was among the Americans, at 1 
 in n aintaining it at home, I believe that I best show my sense of the 
 high worth of that welcome, and of the honourable singleness of 
 purpose with which it was extended to me. From first to last I saw, 
 in the friends who crowded round me in America, old readers, over- 
 grateful and over-partial perhaps, to whom I had happily been the 
 means of furnishing pleasure and entertainment; not a vulgar herd 
 who would flatter and cajole a stranger into turning v 'th closed eyes 
 from all the blemishes of the nation, and into chauncing iu praises 
 with the discrimination of a street ballad-singer. From first to last I 
 saw, in those hospitable hands, a home-made wreath of laurel; and 
 not an iron muzzle disguised beneath a flower or two. 
 
 "Therefore I take — and hold myself noc only justined in taking, 
 but bound to take — the plain course of saying what I think, and 
 noting what I saw; and as it is not my custom to exalt what m my 
 judgment are foibles and abuses at home, so I have no intention of 
 softening down, or glozing over, those that I have observed abroad, 
 
 ' ' If ihis book should fall into the hands of any sensitive American 
 who cannot bear to be told that the working of the institutions of 
 his country is far from perfect; that in spite of the advantage she has 
 over all other nations in the elastic freshness and vigour of her youth, 
 she is far from being a model for the earth to copy; and that even 
 in those pictures of the national manners with which he quarrels 
 most, there is still (after the lapse of several years, each of which 
 may be fairly supposed to have had its stride in improvement) much 
 that is just and true at this hour; let him lay it down, now, for I shall 
 not please him. Of the intelligent, reflecting, and educated among his 
 countrymen, I have no fear; for I have ample reason to believe, after 
 many delightful conversations not easily to be forgotten; that there 
 are very few topics (if any) on which their sentiments differ materially 
 from mine. 
 
 "I may be asked — 'If you have been in any respect disappointed 
 in America, and are assured beforehand that the expression of your 
 disappointment will give offence to any class, why do you write at 
 all?' My answer is, that I went there expecting greater things than I 
 found, and resolved as far as in me lay to do justice to the country, at 
 the expense of any (in my view) mistaken or prejudiced statements 
 that might have been made to its disparagement. Coming home with 
 a corrected and sobered judgment, I consider myself no less bound 
 to do justice to what, according to my best means of judgment, I 
 found to be the truth." 
 
 Of the book for whose opening page this matter introductory was 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 449 
 
 welcome 
 
 lorities, I 
 I it to this 
 sioms) my 
 cans, at 1 
 nse of the 
 jlenpss of 
 ist I saw, 
 ers, over- 
 been the 
 Igar herd 
 osed eyes 
 U praises 
 t to last I 
 urel; and 
 
 written it will be enough merely to add that it appeared on i8 
 October; that before the close of the year four large editions had been 
 sold; and that in my opinion it thoroughly deserved the estimate 
 formed of it by one connected with America by the strongest social 
 affections, an., otherwise in all respects an honourable, high-minded, 
 upright judge. "You have been very tender," wrote Lord Jeffrey, 
 "to our sensitive friends beyond sea, and my whole heart goes along 
 with every word you have written. I think that you have perfectly 
 accomplished all that you profess or undertake to do, and that the 
 world has never yet seen a more faithful, graphic, amusing, kind- 
 hearted narrative." 
 
 il 
 
 n taking, 
 link, and 
 lat ill my 
 ention of 
 1 abroad. 
 American 
 ntions of 
 ;e she has 
 er youth, 
 ;hat even 
 quarrels 
 of which 
 nt) much 
 or I shall 
 mong his 
 eve, after 
 hat there 
 laterially 
 
 ppointed 
 1 of your 
 write at 
 gs than I 
 untry, at 
 atements 
 Dme with 
 ss bound 
 gment, I 
 
 I 
 
 tory was 
 
 333 
 
I. Firs- 
 
 II. " Ch 
 
 III. Yeai 
 
 IV. Idle 
 V. WOR 
 
 VI. Ital: 
 
 VII. Last 
 
BOOK FOURTH 
 
 LONDON AND GENOA 
 
 1843-5. ^T. 31-3 
 
 I. First Year of "Martin Chuzzlewit." 
 
 II. " Chuzzlewit " Disappointments and "Christmas Carol." 
 
 III. Year of Departure for Italy. 
 
 IV. Idleness at Albaro: Villa Bagnerello. 
 V. Work in Genoa: Palazzo Peschiere. 
 
 VI. Italian Travel. 
 Vll. Last Months in Italy. 
 
 451 
 
 'M^'^' 
 
 wwtr'Tr,' — 
 
The Corni 
 
 and contii 
 
 week of a 
 
 helped us 
 
 post-horse 
 
 tain or sea 
 
 "Behold 
 
 from Dick 
 
 have no cc 
 
 we travelh 
 
 those Corn 
 
 doned, anc 
 
 house or m 
 
 autumn ev 
 
 name he fi 
 
 tion of his 
 
 surname v 
 
 Sweezlewa, 
 
 Chuzzlewi^ 
 
 hesitation 
 
 finally adc 
 
 Chuzzlevvig 
 
 and his wa 
 
 didn't. Th( 
 
 wig." All V 
 
 the work I 
 
 contemplat 
 
 of "old Mi 
 
 difficulties 
 
 scheme we 
 
 bent upon 
 
 as might b( 
 
 The first 
 
 quite finish 
 
 copy makes 
 
 done. Than 
 
 his course « 
 
FIRST YEAR OF "MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT" 
 1843 
 
 The Cornish trip had come off, meanwhile, with such unexpected 
 and continued attraction for us that we were well into the third 
 week of absence before we turned our faces homeward. Railways 
 helped us then not much; but where the roads were inacces. ble to 
 post-horses, we walked. Tintagel was visited, and no part of moun- 
 tain or sea consecrated by the legends of Arthur was left unexplored. 
 "Behold finally, the title of the new book," was the first note I had 
 from Dickens (12 November) after our return; "don't lose it, for I 
 have no copy." Title and even story had been undetermined while 
 we travelled, from the lingering wish he still had to begin it among 
 those Cornish scenes; but this intention had now been finally aban- 
 doned, and the reader lost nothing by his substitution, for the light- 
 house or mine in Cornwall, of the Wiltshire village forge on the windy 
 autumn evening which opens the tale of Martin Chuzzlewit. Into that 
 name he finally settled, but only after much deliberation, as a men- 
 tion of his changes will show. Martin was the prefix to all, but the 
 surname varied from its first form of Sweezleden, Sweezleback, and 
 Sweezlewag, to those of Chuzzletoe, Chuzzleboy, Chubblewig, and 
 Chuzzlewig; nor was Chuzzlewit chosen at last until after more 
 hesitation and discussion. What he had sent me in his letter as 
 finally adopted, ran thus: "The Life and Adventures of Martin 
 Chuzzlewig, his family, friends, and enemies. Comprising all his wills 
 and his ways. With an historical record of what he did and what he 
 didn't. The whole forming a complete key to the house of Chuzzle- 
 wig." All which latter portion of the title was of course dropped as 
 the work became modified, in its progress, by changes at first not 
 contemplated; but as early as the third number he drew up the plan 
 of "old Martin's plot to degrade and punish Pecksniff," and the 
 difficulties he encountered in departing from other portions of his 
 scheme were such as to render him, in his subsequent stories, more 
 bent upon constructive care at the outset, and on adherence as far 
 as might be to any design he had formed. 
 
 The first number, which appeared in January 1843, had not been 
 quite finished when he wrote to me on 8 December: "The Chuzzlewit 
 copy makes so much more than I supposed, that the number is nearly 
 uuiiv. ii^ciiiiv \j\j.jl: i-v-Qiniiin^ su iiuxiicuiy us iit last ne aia, altering 
 his course at the opening and seeing little as yet of the main track 
 
 453 
 
454 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 of his design perhaps no story was ever begun by him with stronger 
 heart or confidence. Illness kept me to my rooms for some days and 
 he was so eager to try the effect of Pecks.iiff and Pinch that he came 
 down with the mk hardly dry on the last slip to roa-l the manuscript 
 to me. Well did Sydney Smith, on writing ti say how v y much the 
 number had pleased him. foresee the promii here was in those 
 characters Pecksniff and his daughters, and P ,c'.. . re -..dmirabie 
 —quite first-rate painting, such as no one but 3'our^ . m e:,ecute!' 
 And let me here at once remark that the notion of tr.kmg Pecksniff 
 for a type of character v,r. , .-eally the origin of ti- : „ .k; the design 
 being to sliow. more or less by every person intrc.u.ccd. the number 
 selfishTiess humours and vices that have their root in 
 
 Eighteen hundred and forty-three opened with the most vigorous 
 prosecution of his Chuzzlewit labour. "I hope the number will be verv 
 good, he wrote to me of number two (8 January). "I have been 
 hammering away, and at home all day. Ditto yesterday; except for 
 two hours in the afternoon, when I ploughed through snow half a 
 foot deep round about the wilds of Willesden." For the present 
 however. I shall glance only briefly from time to time at his progress 
 uith the earlier portions of the story on which he was thus engaged 
 until the midsummer of 1844. Disappointments arose in connection 
 h?^ k' ""''''P^''*^'^ ?"^ strange, which had important influence upon 
 nJTi; 1" I reserve the mention of these for awhile, that I may speak 
 of the leading incidents of 1843. j' f «^ 
 
 "I am in a difficulty." he wrote (12 February), "and am coming 
 
 down to you sometime to-day or to-night. I couldn't write a line 
 
 yesterday; not a word, though I really tried hard. In a kind of despair 
 
 Ln^'rlinl"! ^f^-Pf «^^^o w;th my pair of petticoats to Richmond; 
 
 and dined there!! Oh what a lovely day it was in those parts." His 
 
 pair of petticoats were Mrs. Dickens and her sister Georgina: the 
 
 atter ^mce his return from America, having become part of his 
 
 household, of which she remained a member until his death; and he 
 
 had just reason to be proud of the steadiness, depth, and devotion of 
 
 her friendship. In a note-book begun by him in January 1855 where 
 
 for the first time in his life he jotted down hints and fancies proposed 
 
 to be made available in future writings. I find a character sketched of 
 
 ^.hlch the most part was applicable to his sister-in-law. if the whole 
 
 TffirWi '"^S"'*f^^ by her. ••She-sacrificed to children, and 
 
 !o,^ K , ^ f warded. From a child herself, always 'the children' (of 
 
 somebody else) to engross her. And so it comes to pass that she is 
 
 iievv^r married; never herself has a child; is always devoted •to the 
 
 children (of somebody else); and they love her; and she has always 
 
 youth dependent on her till her death— and dies quite happily " 
 
 hJ/°°",S-^^'' ^""'T^ n'"" ^^ ^ ^°"^§^^ h^ ^e^ted in Finchley; and 
 
 Sfnn'f7 ^"^ ^''^ ^^"""^ .'^ *^^ S"^^" ^^"^3 as the midsummer 
 months were coming on. his intrnrlnction of Mro n ^-,j ^u- 
 
 uses to which he should apply that remarkable peTsonagr fir"st 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 th stronger 
 ; days, and 
 at he came 
 aanuscript 
 r much the 
 IS in those 
 ''.diairable 
 eir.ecute!' 
 \ Pecksniff 
 the design 
 lie number 
 r root in 
 
 t vigorous 
 ill be very 
 tiave been 
 except for 
 o\v half a 
 e present, 
 s progress 
 s engaged 
 onnection 
 ence upon 
 lay speak 
 
 n coming 
 ite a line 
 of despair 
 ichmond; 
 irts." His 
 gina: the 
 irt of his 
 h; and he 
 :votion of 
 55, where 
 proposed 
 etched of 
 he whole 
 ren, and 
 Idren' (of 
 lat she is 
 d 'to the 
 is always 
 y." . . . 
 iley; and 
 isummer 
 
 ige, first 
 
 455 
 
 occurred to him. In his preface to the book he speaks of her as a fair 
 representation, at the time it was published, of the hired attendant 
 on the poor in sickness, but he might have added that the rich were 
 no bettor off, for Mrs. Gamp's original was in reality a person hired 
 by a most distinguished friend of his own, a lady, to take charge of an 
 invalid very dear to her; aid the common habit of this nurse in the 
 sick-room, among other Gampish peculiarites, was to rub her nose 
 along the top of the tall fender. Whether or not, on that first mention 
 of her, I had any doubts whether such a character could be made a 
 central figure in his story, I do not now remember; but if there were 
 any at the time, they did not outlive the contents of the packet which 
 introduced her to me in the flesh a few weeks after our return. "Tell 
 me," he wrote from Yorkshire, where he had been meanwhile passing 
 pleasant holiday with a friend, "what you think of Mrs. Gamp? 
 You'll not find it easy to get through the hundreds o*' misprints in her 
 conN'ersation, but I want your opinion at once. I think you know 
 already something of mine. I mean to make a mark with her." 
 » « * ♦ 
 
 From October 4 to 6, he was at Manchester, presiding at the open- 
 ing of its great Athenaeum, when Mr. Cobden and Mr. Disraeli also 
 "assisted." Here he spoke mainly on a matter always nearest his 
 heart, the education of the very poor. He protested against the danger 
 of calling a little learning dangerous; declared his preference for the 
 very least of the little over none at all; proposed to substitute for 
 the old a new doggerel. 
 
 Though house and lands be never got, 
 Learning can give what they can not; 
 
 tok his listeners of the real and paramount danger we had lately 
 taken Longfellow to see in the nightly refuges of London, "thousands 
 of immortal creatures condemned without alternative or choice to 
 tread, not what our great poet calls the primrose path to the ever- 
 lasting bonfire, but one of jagged flints and stones laid down by brutal 
 ignorance"; and contrasted this with the unspeakable consolation 
 and blessings that a little knowledge had shed on men of the lowest 
 estate and most hopeless means, "watching the stars with Ferguson 
 the shepherd's boy, walking the streets with Crabbe, a poor barber 
 here in Lancashire with Arkwright, a tallow-chandler's son with 
 Franklin, shoe-making with Bloomfield in his garret, following the 
 plough with Burns, and high above the noise of loom and hammer, 
 whispering courage in the ears of workers I could this day name in 
 Sheffield and in Manchester." 
 
 The same spirit impelled him to give eager welcome to the remark- 
 able institution of Ragged Schools, which, begun by a shoemaker of 
 Portsmouth and a chimney-sweep of Windsor and carried on by a 
 peer of the realm, has had results of incalculable importance to 
 society. The year of which I am writing was its first, as this in which 
 I write is its last; and in the interval, out of three hundred thousand 
 children to whom it has given some sort of education, it is computed 
 
 if 
 
456 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ^^1 
 
 also to have given to a tliird of that number the means of honest 
 employment. "I sent Miss Coutts." he had written (24 September) 
 a sledge-hammer account of the Ragged Schools; and as I saw her 
 name for two hundred pounds in the clergy education subscription 
 list, took pams to show her that religious mysteries and difficult 
 creeds wouldn't do for such pupils. I told her, too, that it was of 
 mimense importance they should be washed. She writes back to 
 know what the rent of some large airy premises would be. and what 
 the expense of erecting a regular bathing or purifying place; touchin- 
 which points I am in correspondence with the authorities. I have nS 
 doubt she will do whatever I ask her in the matter. She is a most 
 excellent creature. I pr )test to God. and I have a most perfect 
 affection and respect for her." ... 
 
 Active as he had been in the now ending year, and great as were its 
 varieties of employment; his genius in its highest mood, his energv 
 unwearied in good work, and his capacity for enjoyment without 
 limit; xie was able to sirnalise its closing months by an achievement 
 supremely fortunate, which but for disappointments the year had 
 also brought might never have been thought of. He had not bec^un 
 until a week after his return from Manchester, where the fancy first 
 occurred to him, and before ^he end of November he had finished 
 his memorable Christmas Carol. It was the work of such odd moments 
 of leisure as were left^him out of the time taken up by two numbers of 
 his Chuzzlewtt] and though begun with but the special design of add- 
 ing something to the Chuzzlewit balance, I can testify to the accuraov 
 of his own account of what befell him in its composition with wh-t a 
 strange mastery it seized him for itself, how he wept 'over it and 
 laughed, and wept again, and excited himself to an extraordinary 
 degree, and how he walked thinking of it fifteen and twenty m^les 
 about the black streets of London, many and many a night after all 
 sober folks had gone to bed. Ard when it was done, as he told oar 
 American friend Mr. Felton, he let hims.:f loose like a madman 
 Forster is out again," he added, by way of illustrating our practical 
 comments on his book-celebration of the jovidi old season "and if 
 he don't go in again after the manner in which we have been keeping 
 Christmas, he must be very string indeed. Such dinings such 
 dancings, such conjurings, such blind-man's buffings, i^uch theatre- 
 goings, such kissings-out of old years and kissings-in of new ones 
 never took place in these parts before." 
 
 Yet had it been to him, this closing year, a time also of much 
 anxiety and strange disappointments of which I am now to speak • 
 and before, with that view, we go back for a while to its earlier 
 months, one step into the new year may be taken for what marked 
 It with interest and importance to him. Eighteen hundred and forty- 
 four was but fifteen days old when a third son (his fifth child which 
 received the name of its godfather Francis Jeffrey) was born- and 
 here is an answer sent by him. two days later, to an invitation 'from 
 Machse. Stanfield, and myself to dine with us at Richmond: "Devon- 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 457 
 
 SHIRE Lodge, Seventeenth of January, 1844, Fellow Countrymen! 
 The appeal with which you have honoured me, awakens within my 
 breast emotions that are more easily to be imagined than described. 
 Heaven bless you. I shall indeed be proud, my friends, to respond to 
 such a requisition. I had withdrawn from Public Life — I fondly 
 thought for ever — to pass the evening of my days in hydropathical 
 pursuits, and the contemplation of virtue. For which latter purpose, 
 I had bought a looking-glass. — But, my friends, private feeling must 
 ever yield to a stern sense of public duty. The Man is lost in the 
 Invited Guc^t. and I comply. Nurses, wet and dry; apothecaries; 
 mothers-in-law; babies; with all the sweet (and chasle) delights oif 
 private life; these, my countrymen, are hard to leave. But you have 
 called me forth, and I will come. Fellow countrymen, your friehd and 
 faithful servant, Charles Dickens." 
 
 II 
 
 CHUZZLEWIT 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENTS AND "CHRISTMAS CAROL" 
 
 1843-4 
 
 "Chuzzlewit" had fallen short of all the expectations formed of it in 
 regard to sale. By much the most masterly of his writings hitherto, 
 the public had rallied to it in far less numbers than to any of its pre- 
 decessors. The primary cause of this, there is little doubt, had been 
 the ciiange to weekly issues in the form of publication of his last two 
 stories; for into eveiything in this world mere habit enters more 
 largely than we are apt to suppose. Nor had the temporary with- 
 drawal to America been favourable to an immediate resumption by 
 his readers of their old and intimate relations. This also is to be added, 
 that the excitement by which a popular reputation is kept up to the 
 highest selling mark will always be subject to lulls too capricious for 
 explanation. But whatever the causes, here was the undeniable fact 
 of a gra\ e depr< ciation of sale in his writings, unaccompanied by any 
 falling off either in themselves or in the writer's reputation. It was 
 very temporary; but it was present, and to be dealt with accordingly. 
 The forty and fifty thousand purchasers of Pickwick and Nicklehy, 
 the sixty and seventy thousand of the early numbers of the enterprise 
 in which the Old Curiosity Shop and Barnahy Rudge appeared, had 
 fallen to little over twenty thousand. They rose somewhat on Martin's 
 ominous announcement, at the end of the fourth number, that he'd 
 go to America; but though it was believed that this resolve, which 
 Dickens adopted as suddenly as his hero, might increase the number 
 of his readers, that reason influenced him less than the challenge to 
 make good his Notes which every m 
 
 1 1 1-- 
 
 ilUU 
 
 him irom 
 
 333' 
 
458 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 J 
 
 ^Wi 
 
 unsparing assailants beyond the Atlantic. The substantial effect of 
 the American episode upon the sale was yet by no means great A 
 couple of thousand additional purchasers were added, but the high 
 est number at any time reached before the story closed was twenty- 
 three thousand. Its sale, since, has ranked next after Pickwick and 
 Lopperfleld. 
 
 We were now. however, to have a truth brought home to us which 
 few that have had real or varied experience in such matters can have 
 failed to be impressed by— that publishers are bitter bad judges of an 
 autnor, and are seldom safe persons to consult in regard to the fate or 
 fortunes that may probably await him. Describing the agreement for 
 this book m September 1841. I ^poke of a provision against the im- 
 probable event of its profits proving inadequate to certain necessar\' 
 repayments. In this unlikely case, wb .h was to be ascertained by the 
 proceeds of the first five numbers, the publishers were to have power 
 to appropriate fifty pounds a month out of the two hundred pounds 
 payable for authorship in, the expenses of each number; b it though 
 this had been introduced with my knowledge. I knew also too much of 
 the antecedent relations of the parties to regard it as other than a 
 mere form to satisfy the attorneys in the case. The fifth number 
 which landed Martin and Mark in America, and the sixth, whi^h des- 
 cribed their first experiences, were published; and on* the eve of the 
 seventh, in which Mrs. Gamp was to make her first appearance I 
 X. sard with infinite pain that from Mr. Hall, the younger partner' of 
 the firm which had enriched itself by Pickwick and Nickleby and a 
 very kind well-disposed man. there had dropped an inconsiderate 
 hint to the writer of those books that it might be desirable to put the 
 clause m force. It had escaped him without his thinking of all that it 
 involved; certainly the senior partner, whatever amount of as 
 thoughtless sanction he had at the moment given to it. always much 
 regretted it. and made endeavours to exhibit his regret; but the mis- 
 chief was done, and for the time was irreparable. 
 
 "I am so irritated," Dickens wrote to me on 28 June "so rubbed 
 
 in the tenderest part of my eyelids with bay-salt, by what I told you 
 
 yesterday, that a wrong kind of fire is burning in my iiead and I 
 
 don't think I can write. Nevertheltess, I am trying In case I'should 
 
 succeed, and should not come down to you this r.\orning, shall you 
 
 be at the club or elsewhere after dinner^ I am t at or. paying the 
 
 money. And before going into the matter ;/ith anyh-. dy ^ should hke 
 
 you to propound from me the one prelirninar - question to Bradbury 
 
 and Evans. It is more than a year and a ^aii since Clowes wrote to 
 
 urge me to give him a hearing, in case I shoi;,d r .-er think of altering 
 
 my plans. A printer is better than a bcokselLrr,. and :t is quite as much 
 
 the interest of one (if not more) to join me. But whoever it is, or 
 
 whatever, I am bent upon paying Chapman ^ud Kail down. And 
 
 when I have done that. Mr. Hall shall have a piecv o* my mind " 
 
 What he meant by the proposed repayment will be understood by 
 what formerly was said of his arrangements with those 'zenUemen on 
 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 459 
 
 the repurchase of his early copyrights. Feehng no surprise at this 
 announcement, 1 yet prevailed with him to suspend proceedings until 
 his return from Broadstairs in October; and what then I had to say 
 led to memorable resolves. Tue communication he had desired me to 
 make to his printers had taken them too much by surprise to enable 
 them to form a clear judgment respecting it; and they replied by 
 suggestions which vv^ere in effect a confession of that want of confi- 
 dence in themselves. They enlarged upon the great results that would 
 follow a re-issue of his writings in a cheap form; they strongly urged 
 such an underta.king; and they offered to invesv to any desired amount 
 in the establishment of a magazine or other periodical to be edited by 
 him. The possible dangers, in short, incident to their assumiig the 
 position of publishers as well as printers of new works from his pen, 
 seemed at first to be so much greater than on closer examiijiation they 
 were found to be, that at the outset the> shrank from encountering 
 them. And hence the remarkable lett- r 1 shall nov.- quote (i Novo i- 
 ber, 1843). 
 
 "Don't be startled by the novelty and extent (-^ iiiy project. Beth 
 startled me at first; but I am well assured of its wisdom and necessity. 
 I am afraid of a magazine — juL,t now. I don't think the time a good 
 one, or the chances favourable. I am afraid of putting myself before 
 the town as writing tooth and nail for bread, headlong, after the 
 close of a book taking so much out of one as Chuzzlewit. I am afraid I 
 could not do it, with justice to myself. I know that whatever we may 
 say at first, a new magazine, or a new anything, would require so 
 much propping, that I should he forced (as in the Clock) to put myself 
 into it, in my old shape. I am afraid of Bradburj'- and Evans's desire 
 to force on the cheap issue of my books, or any of them, prematurely. 
 I am sure if it tock place yet awhile, it would damage me and damage 
 the property, enormously. It is very natural in them to want it; but, 
 since they do v.-ant it, I have r^o faith in their regarding me in any 
 other respect than they would regard any other man in a speculation. 
 I see that this is really yorn- opinion as well; and I don't see what I 
 gain, in such z. case, by leaving Chapman and Hall. If I had made 
 money, I should unquestionably fade away from the public eye for a 
 year, and enlarge my stocic of description ana observation by seeing 
 countries new to me; wni ■» it is most necessary to me that I should 
 see, and v/hirb with -'p '-^ creasing family I cux scarcely hope to see at 
 all, unless I pee then> :kjvv. Already for some time I have had this hope 
 and intention before me; and, though not having yet made money, I 
 find or fancy that I can put myself in the position to accomplish it. 
 And this is the course I have before me. At the close of Chuzzlewit (b/ 
 which time tLe debt will have been materially reduced) I purpose 
 drawing from Chapman and Hall my share of the subscription — bills, 
 or money, will do equally well. I design to tell them that it is not likely 
 I shall do anv-«-.i-ing for a year; that, in the meantime, I make no 
 arrangem.ent .atever with anyone; and our business matters rest 
 in stuiu QUO. . le same to Bradburv and Evans. I shall let the house if 
 
 
 I 
 
460 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 I can; if not, leave it to be let. I shall take all the family, and two 
 rj^f ",'''' at most-tosome placewhich I know beforehand to be 
 CHEAP and in a delightful climate, in Normandy or Brittany to 
 which I shall go over, first, and where I shall rent some hou^^e fo-^ sS 
 or eight months. During that time, I shall walk through Switzerland 
 cross the Alps, travel through France and Italy; take Kate perhaps to 
 Rome and Venice, but not elsewhere; and in short see everything that 
 'l*° ^^ '^T'r/!'''^! '^"*^ ""^y descriptions to you from time to time 
 exactly as I did m America; and you will be able to judge whether or 
 not a new and attractive book may not be made on such ground \t 
 the same time 1 shall be able to turn over the story I have in my mind 
 and which I have a strong notion might be published with great 
 advantage, firs in Pari,-hv.t that's another matter to be talked over 
 
 th'^ frlf.';'''"^.H """^f "f.l^* l'*^^"^' ^^*^^^' ^^^^^t^^^r ^"y book about 
 the travel, or this, should be the first. 'All very well,' you say 'if vou 
 
 had money enough.' Well, but if I can see my way io what would be 
 necessary without binding myself in any form to anything- without 
 paying interest or giving any security but one of my Eagle five 
 thousand pounds; you would give up that objection. And I stand 
 committed to no bookseller, printer, moneylender, banker, or patron 
 whatever; and decidedly strengthen my position with my readers 
 instead of weakening it drop by drop, as 1 otherwise must^Is it noi 
 vnn h". '" the way before me, plainly this? I infer that in reality 
 you do yourself think that what I first thought of is not the way? 1 
 
 nnrrf.= ^°" "T^ '^^^""^ "^^"^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^ ^^^^ ^ ^^^^^d. I See its great 
 points, agamst mr prepossessions the other way_as. leaving 
 England, home, fr ■ everything I am fond of-but it seeilis t^ me^ 
 
 mv Tf.i r I' f -^^ '^* "'^ "§^^*- ^ blessing on Mr. Mariott 
 
 my Italian master. ^ , h,s pupil! . . . If you have any breath left 
 tell Topping how you are" y ^^^v icit. 
 
 I had certainly not much after reading this letter, written amid all 
 
 htnd hf °f -^^ ^S •^°'^' ^^'^'^ ^^^^ *^^ ^«^^^ ^"d Chuz^le^ultZ 
 hand, but such msufficient breath as was left to me I spent against 
 the project, and in favour of far more consideration than he had given 
 to It before anything should be settled. "I expected you." he wrote 
 next cay (2 November), 'to be startled. If I was startled myself 
 when I hrst got this project of foreign travel into my head mXhs 
 AGO, how much more must you be. on whom it comes fresh- number- 
 ing only hours! Still, I am very resolute upon it-very. I am con- 
 vinced that my expenses abroad would not be more than half of mv 
 Y^TCl ''"'"'' ^^^^/"«f "-- «f ^^hange and nature ^ po. rie. enormous"^ 
 You know as well as I. tnat I think Chuzzlewit in a :.undred points 
 immeasurably the best of my stories. That I feel my po r^now 
 
 Te'eVh^d Th.T ft ^^%' ] 'r'' I ^^^"^^^ ^°"fi^-^^ - -y-^f tha'n 
 fh7 .^,nH ? i^ ^'"'"'' '^ ^ ^'^""^ ^^^^*b. I could sustain my place in 
 
 Sorrow Rnf 1'^'"^"'^^ "^'^ *^°"^^ ^^'^ ^^"^^^^ started up to- 
 morrow. But how many readers do not think! Kow many take it 
 
 upon trust from knaves and idiots, that one writes too fast, or runs a 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 461 
 
 thing to death! How coldly did this very book go on for months, until 
 it forced itself up in people's opinion, without forcing itself up in sale! 
 If I wrote for forty thousand Forsters, or for forty thousand people 
 who know I write because I can't help it, I should have no need to 
 leave the scene. But this very book warns me that if I can leave it for 
 a time, I had better do so, and must do so. Apart from that again, I 
 feel that longer rest after this story would do me good. You say two 
 or three months, because you have been used to see me for eight 
 years never leaving off. But it is not rest enough. It is impossible to 
 go on working the brain to that extent for ever. The very spirit of 
 the thing, in doing it, leaves a horrible despondency behind, when it 
 is done; which must be prejudicial to the mind, so soon renewed and 
 so seldom let aione. What would poor Scott have given to have gone 
 abroad, of his own free will, a young man, instead of creeping there, a 
 driveller, in his miserable decay' I said myself in my note to you — 
 anticipating what you puc to me — that it was a question what I 
 should come out with, first. The travel-book, if to be done at all, 
 would cost me very little trouble; and surely would go very far to pay 
 charges, whenever published. We have spoken of the baby, and of 
 leaving it here with Catherine's mother. Moving the children into 
 France could not, in any ordinary course of things, do them any- 
 thing but good. And the question is, what it would do to that by 
 which they live: not what it would do to them. ... I had forgotten 
 that point in the B. and E. negotiation; but they certainly suggested 
 instant publication of the reprints, or at all events of some of them; 
 by which of course I know, and as you point out, I could provide of 
 myself what is wanted. I take this as putting the thing distinctly as a 
 matter of trade, and feeling it so. And, as a matter of trade with them 
 or anybody else, as a matter of trade between me and the public, 
 should I not be better off a year hence, with the reputation of having 
 seen so much in the meantime? The reason which induces you to look 
 upon this scheme with dislike — separation for so long a time— surely 
 has equal weight with me. I see very little pleasure in it, beyond the 
 natural desire to have been in those great scenes; I anticipate no en- 
 joyment at the time. I have come to look upon it as a matter of policy 
 and duty. I have a thousand other reasons, but shall very soon myself 
 be with you." 
 
 There were difficulties, still to be strongly urged, against taking 
 any present step to a final resolve; and he gave way a little. But the 
 pressure was soon renewed. "I have been," he wrote (10 November), 
 "all day in Chuzzlewit agonies — conceiving only. I hope to bring forth 
 to-morrow. Will you come here at six? I want to say a word or two 
 about the cover of the Carol and the advertising, and to consult you 
 on a nice point in the tale. It will come wonderfully 1 think. Mac will 
 call here soon after, and we can then o\l three go to Bulwer's together. 
 And do, my dear fellow, do for God's sake turn over about Chapman 
 and Hall, and look upon my project as a a settled thing. If you object to 
 
 Sec lliClil, i mU"3t WlitV WV/ v.l,JiiX. J.iAJf l.^^^u%>v^aIli\/^/ Vv ^"j ^'*'"'"> ~ 
 
 ^ i 
 
462 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ifl 
 
 II 'i 
 
 fi A 
 
 Change in his publishing arrangements was connected with the little 
 story which, amid all his troubles and "Chu,,lawit agonies "he was 
 steadily carrying to its close; and which remains a splend' ci prooTof 
 the consciousness of power felt by him. and of his confidence^that U 
 icLT^' M^", ^?^*^' *^^" ^"^^" ^'^ '^^^^'^ ^e^e thus falling oft 
 
 acTu lunger nf '"''",t^ '^' 9'"''' '''' Publication on his own 
 account, under the usual terms of commission, to the firm he had 
 been so long associated with; and at such a moment to t^ll them 
 short of absolute necessity, his intention to quit them ahogetheri 
 
 ^Zf^\f-'^^''' P""^"^ ^" P^"^ °^ '^' ^^tt»^ book's chances He 
 
 ii^t'tCKiTer'' '"' ''^ ^^^"^' ^^ -''' ^^ ^-"^' -- ^- ^- 
 
 Let disappointments, or annoyances, however, beset him as thev 
 might, once heartily in his work and all was forgotten His temDera 
 ment of course coloured everything, cheerful or sad. an? his Sn 
 
 tha^htllh' ^'''"?'^ ^^ '"^^S'""^y ^^^^^^ b"* '' ^-^ very certaS 
 that his labours and successes thus far had enriched others niore than 
 himself, and while he knew that his mode of living had been sJruDur 
 
 riVht . ^^. ^ T.^ inadequate made a change necessary to so up- 
 right a nature. It was the turning-point of his career- and the issue 
 though not immediately, ultimately justified him. M^ch of his present 
 restlessness I was too ready myself to ascribe to that love of change 
 which was a ways arising from his passionate desire to vary and extend 
 his observation; but even as to this the result showed him rfght^n 
 Xf '"f ^^^W'^^^^^ obtain intellectual advantage fro^^ the 
 effects of such further travel. Here indeed he spoke from experience 
 for already he had returned from America with wide? vbwsthln 
 
 cuities on which he dwelt were also, it is now to be admiffpri „n 
 questionable. Beyond his own domestic expenL LcesLr'^inc^^^^^^ 
 
 a^vTurrTers^'no^^^^^^ 
 
 and im?uTt fnH T T"" ^ '^^^ ^^^^^^b^^ because unreasonable 
 WtternP.. :> f^ H "^^l n^'^' ^^^^^^^bing to me one such with great 
 bitterness, a few days followmg the letter last quoted that he thit^ 
 
 m^fuZt- 'f """^ ^ay(xg November) to V commit I had 
 made upon it. I was most horribly put out for a little while- for I 
 
 to I^'^^Tk ^'^-^ '^ ^°i° ^°^^^' ^"^ ^^^ ^"11 of interest in what I had 
 to do. But having eased my mind by that note to you and taken a 
 
 nTreTt rtK'blaTd '"' ^^-'Z V ^^ '' ^^''^' ^-d -on^^^^^^^^^^ 
 interested that 1 blazed away till 9 last nitrht- onlv sfonnin^ f^r, 
 
 mr yesterday, fhe consequence is that I could finish to-dav but am 
 taking It ea.y. and making myself laugh very much^^' The^'e^ nex^ 
 day. unhappily, there came to himself I repetition of precSelv^milar 
 trouble m exaggerated form, and to me a fresh reminder of wha^was 
 
 then f Lv Taf TT ''"'' "^^'"^- "' ^" ^^^^ serfoul^nd sobS 
 When 1 say. that x have very grave thoughts of keeping my whole 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 463 
 
 menagerie in Italy three years." . . . 
 
 In construction and conduct of story Martin Chuzzlewit is defec- 
 tive, character and description constituting the chief part of its 
 strength. But what it lost as a story by the American episode it 
 gained in the other direction; young Martin, by happy use of a bitter 
 experience, casting off his slough of selfishness in the poisonous 
 swamp of Eden. Dickens often confessed, however, the difficulty it 
 had been to him to have to deal with this gap in the main course of his 
 narrative. . . . 
 
 Thackeray used to say that there was nothing finer in rascaldom 
 than this ruin of Pecksniff by his son-in-law at the very moment when 
 the oily hypocrite believes himself to be achieving his masterpiece of 
 dissembling over the more vulgar avowed ruffian. " 'Jonas!' cried 
 Mr. Pecksniff much affected, ' I am not a diplomatical character; my 
 heart is in my hand. By far the greater part of the inconsiderable 
 savings I have accumulated in the course of — I hope — a not dis- 
 honourable or useless career, is already given, devised, or bequeathed 
 (correct me, my dear Jonas, if I am technically wrong), with ex- 
 pressions of confidence which I will not repeat; and in securities 
 which it is unnecessary to mention; to a person whom I cannot, 
 whom I will not, whom I need not name.' Here he gave the hand of his 
 son-in-law a fervent squeeze, as ii he would have added, 'God bless 
 you: be very careful of it when you get if " 
 
 Certainly Dickens thus far had done nothing of which, as in this 
 novel, the details were filled in with such incomparable skill; where 
 the wealth of comic circumstance was lavished in such overflowing 
 abundance on single types of character; -^r where generally, as 
 throughout the story, the intensity of his observation of individual 
 humours and vices had taken so many varieties of imaginative form. 
 Everything in Chuzzlewit indeed had grown under treatment, as will 
 be commonly the case in the handling of a man of genius, who never 
 knows where any given conception may lead him, out of the wealth 
 of resource in development and incident which it has itself created. 
 "As to the way," he wrote to me of its two most prominent figures, as 
 soon as all their capabilities were revealed to him, "as to the way in 
 in which these characters have opened out, this is to me one of the 
 most surprising processes of the mind in this sort of invention. Given 
 what one knows, what one does not know springs up; and I am as 
 absolutely certain of its being true, as I am of the law of gravitation — 
 if such a thing be possible, more so." The remark displays exactly 
 what in all his important characters was the very process of creation 
 with him. . . . 
 
 m i 
 
 But this is a chapter of disappointments, and I have now to state, 
 that as Martin Chuzzlewit' s success was to seem to him at first only 
 distant and problematical, so even the prodigious immediate success 
 of the Christmas Carol itself was not to be an unmitigated pleasure. 
 Never had little book an outset so full of brilliancy of promise. 
 
 I 
 
464 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ,i;- 
 
 Published but a few days before Christmas, it was hailed on every 
 side with enthusiastic greeting. The first edition of six thousand 
 copies was sold the first day. and on 3 January. 1844, he wrote to me 
 that two thousand of the three printed for second and third editions 
 are already taken by the trade." But a very few weeks were to pass 
 before the darker side of the picture came. "Such a night as I have 
 passed! he wrote to le on Saturday morning. 10 February "I 
 really believed I should never get up again, until I had passed through 
 all the horrors of a fever. I found the Carol accounts awaiting me and 
 they were the cause of it. The first six thousand copies show a profit 
 of ;^23o! And the last four will yield as much more. I had set mv 
 heart and soul upon a Thousand, clear. What a wonderful thing it is 
 that such a great success should occasion me such intolerable anxiety 
 and disappointment! My year's bills, unpaid, are so terrific that all 
 the energy and determination I can possibly exert will be required to 
 c ear me before I go abroad; which, if next June come and find me 
 alive. I shall do. Good Heaven, if I had only taken heart a year a^^o! 
 Do come soon, as I am very anxious to talk with you. We can send 
 round to Mac after you arrive, and tell him to join us at Hampstead 
 or elsewhere. I was so utterly knocked down last night, that I came 
 up to the contemplation of all these things quite bold this morning If 
 I can let the house for this season, I will be off to some seaside place as 
 soon as a tenant offers. I am not afraid, if I reduce my expenses- but 
 If I do not. I shall be ruined past all mortal hope of redemption ' 
 
 The ultimate result was that his publishers were changed and the 
 immediate result that his departure for Italy became a settled thing- 
 but a word may be said on these Carol accounts before mention is 
 made of his new publishing arrangements. W^ant of judgment had 
 been shown m not adjusting the expenses of production with a more 
 equable regard to the selling price, but even as it was, before the close 
 of the year, he had received ;^726 from a sale of fifteen thousand 
 copies; and the difference between this and the amount realised by 
 the same proportion of the sale of the successor to the Carol un- 
 doubcedly justified him in the discontent now expressed Of 'that 
 second sale, as well as of the third and fourth, more than double the 
 numbers of the Carol were at ouqc sold, and of course there was no 
 complaint of any want of success; but the truth really was. as to all 
 the Christmas stories issued in this form, that the price charged 
 while too large for the public addressed by them, was too little to 
 remunerate their outlay; and when in later years he put forth similar 
 fancies for Christmas, charging for them fewer pence than . iO shillings 
 required for these, he counted his purchasers with fairly corrr spond- 
 mg gams to himself, not by tens but by hundreds of thousands The 
 sale of one of those pieces, five years before his death, went up in its 
 first week to 250,000. ^ 
 
 It %yas necessary now that negotiations should be resumed with 
 his printers, but before any step was taken Mess.s. Chapman and 
 Hall were informed of his intention not to open fresh publishing 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 465 
 
 on every 
 thousand 
 ote to me 
 d editions 
 re to pass 
 as I have 
 ruary. "I 
 1 through 
 ? me, and 
 V a profit 
 d set my 
 liing it is, 
 e anxiety 
 , that all 
 quired to 
 I find me 
 /•ear ago! 
 can send 
 mpstead 
 t I came 
 >rning. If 
 ; place as 
 nses; but 
 ion. 
 
 and the 
 ;d thing; 
 ^ntion is 
 lent had 
 1 a more 
 :he close 
 housand 
 lised by 
 irol, un- 
 Of that 
 uble the 
 
 was no 
 as to all 
 charged, 
 little to 
 I similar 
 'hillings 
 espond- 
 ds. The 
 ip m its 
 
 3d with 
 lan and 
 blishing 
 
 relations with them after Chuzzlewit should have closed. Then fol- 
 lowed deliberations and discussions, many and grave, which settled 
 themselves at last into the form of an agreement with Messrs. Brad- 
 bury and Evans executed on i June 1844; by which upon advance 
 made to him of ;^2,8oo he assigned to them a fourth share in whatever 
 he might write during the next ensuing eight years, to which the 
 agreement was to be strictly limited. There were the usual protecting 
 clauses, but no interest was to be paid, and no obligations were im- 
 posed as to what works should be written, if any, or the form of them; 
 the only farther stipulation having reference to the event of a period- 
 ical being undertaken whereof Dickens might be only partially 
 editor or author, in which case his proprietorship of copyright and 
 profits was to be two-thirds inste?.d of three-fourths. There was an 
 understanding, at the time this agreement was signed, that a suc- 
 cessor to the Carol would be ready for the Christmas of 1844; but no 
 other promise was asked or made in regard to any other book, nor had 
 he himself decided what form to give to his experiences of Italy, if he 
 should even finally determine to publish them at all. 
 
 Between this agreement and his journey six weeks elapsed, and 
 there were one or two characteristic incidents before his departure: 
 but mention must first be interposed of the success quite without 
 alloy that also attended the little book, and carried off in excitement 
 and delight every trace of doubt or misgiving. "Blessing on your kind 
 heart," wrote Jeffrey to the author of the Carol. "You should be happy 
 yourself, for you may be sure you have done more good by this little 
 publication, fostered more kindly feelings, and prompted more positive 
 acts of beneficence, than can be traced to all the pulpits and confes- 
 sionals in Christendom since Christmas 1842." "Who can listen," 
 exclaimed Thackeray, "to objections regarding such a book as this? 
 It seems to me a national benefit, and to every man or woman who 
 reads it a personal kindness." Such praise expressed what men of 
 genius felt and said: but the small volume had other tributes, less 
 usual and not less genuine. There poured upon its author daily, all 
 through that Christmas time, letters from complete strangers to him 
 which I remember reading with a wonder of pleasure; not literary at 
 all, but of the simplest domestic kind, of which the general burden was 
 to tell him, amid many confidences, about their homes, how the Carol 
 had come to be read aloud there, and was to be kept upon a little 
 shelf by itself, and was to do them no end of good. Anything more 
 to be said of it will not add much to this. . . . 
 
 1) 
 
466 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 III 
 
 YEAR OF DEPARTURE FOR ITALY 
 1844 
 
 ... In the previous February, on the 26th and 28th respectively 
 he had taken the chair at two great meetings, in Liverpool of the 
 Mechanics' Institution, and in Birmingham of the Polytechnic Institu- 
 tion, to which reference is made by him in a letter of the 21st. I quote 
 the allusion because it shows thus early the sensitive regard to his 
 position as a man of letters, and his scrupulous consideration for the 
 feelings as well as interest of the class, which he manifested in many 
 various and often greatly self-sacrificing ways all through his life 
 Advise me on the following point. And as I must write to-night 
 having already lost a post, advise me by bearer. Thi Liverpool 
 Institution, which is wealthy and has a high grammar school the 
 masters of which receive in salaries upwards of I2000 a \ ear (indeed 
 Its extent horrifies me; I am struggling through its papers this morn- 
 ing), writes me yesterday by its secretary a business letter about the 
 order of the proceedings on Monday; and it begins thus. "I beg to 
 send you prefixed, with the best respects of our committee a bank 
 order for twenty pounds in payment of the expenses contingent on 
 -our visit to Liverpool.'— And there, sure enough, it is. Now mv 
 .ipulse was, and ts decidedly to return it. Jwenty p< unds is not of 
 moment to me; and any sacrifice of independence is worth it twenty 
 times twenty times told. But haggling in my mind is doubt whether 
 that would be proper, and not boastful (in an inexplicable way)- and 
 whether as an author, I have a right to put myself on a basis which 
 the professors of literature in other forms connected with the Institution 
 cannot afford to occupy. Don't you see? But of course you do The 
 case stands thus. The Manchester Institution, being in debt appeals 
 to me as it were in formd pauperis, and makes no such pro'vision as 
 I have named. The Birmingham Institution, just struggling into life 
 with great difficulty, applies to me on the same grounds. But the 
 Leeds people (thriving) write to me, making the expenses a distinct 
 matter of business; and the Liverpool, as a point of delicacy say 
 nothing about it to the last minute, and then send the money Now 
 what in the name of goodness ought I to do?— I am as much puzzled 
 with the cheque as Colonel Jack was with his gold. If it w^ould have 
 settled the matter to put it on the fire yesterday, I should certainly 
 have done it. Your opinion is requested. I think I shall have grounds 
 for a very good speech at Brummagem; but I am not sure about 
 Liverpool; having misgivings of over-gentility." My opinion was 
 clearly for sending the money back, which accordingly was done 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 467 
 
 Both speeches, duly delivered to enthusiastic hsteners at the places 
 named, were good, and both, with suitable variations, had the same 
 theme: telling his popular audience in Birmingham that the principle 
 of their institute, education comprehensive and unseclarian, was the 
 only safe one, for that without danger no society could go on punish- 
 ing men for preferrinf< vice to virtue without giving them the means 
 of knowing what virtue was; and reminding his genteeler audience in 
 Liverpool, that if happily they had been themselves well taught, so 
 much the more should they seek to extend the benefit to all, since, 
 whatever the precedence due to rank, wealth, or intellect, there was 
 yet a nobility beyond them, expressed unaffectedly by the poet's 
 verse aid in the power of education to confer. 
 
 Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 
 
 'Tis only noble to be good: 
 True hearts are more than coronets. 
 
 And simple faith than Norman blood. 
 
 He underwent some suffering, which he might have spared himself, 
 at his return. "I saw the Carol last night," he wrote to me of a dram- 
 atic performance of the little story at the Adelphi. "Better than usual, 
 and Wright seems to enjoy Bob Cratchit, but heart-breaking to me. 
 Oh Heaven! if any forecast of this was ever in my mind! Yet O. Smith 
 was drearily better than I expected. It is a great comfort to have that 
 kind of meat underdone; and his face i (|uite perfect." Of what he 
 suffered from these adaptations of his books, multiplied remorselessly 
 at every theatre, I have forborne to speak, but it was the subject of 
 complaint with him incessantly; and more or less satisfied as he was 
 with individual performances, such as Mr. Yates's Quilp or Mantalini 
 and Mrs. Keeley's Smike or Dot, there was only one, that of Barnaby 
 Rudge by the Miss Fortescue who became afterwards Lady Gardner, 
 on which I ever heard him dwell with a thorough liking. It is true 
 that to the dramatisations of his next and other following Christmas 
 stories he gave help himself; but, even then, all such efforts to assist 
 special representations were mere attempts to render more tolerable 
 what he had no power to prevent, and, with a few rare exceptions, 
 they were never very successful. Anotb- and graver wrong was the 
 piracy of his writings, every one of wl.ich had been reproduced with 
 merely such colourable changes of title, incidents, and name of 
 characters, as were believed to be sufficient to evade the law and 
 adapt them to "penny" purchasers. So shamelessly had this been 
 going on every since the days of Pickwick, in so many outrageous 
 ways and with all but impunity, that a course repeatedly urged by 
 Talfourd and myself was at last taken in the present year with the 
 Christmas Carol and the Chuzzlewit pirates. Upon a case of such pe- 
 culiar fiagrancy, however, that the vice-chancellor would not even hear 
 Dickens's counsel; and what it cost our dear friend Talfourd to sup- 
 press his speech exceeded by very much the labour and pains with 
 which he had prepared it. "The pirates," wrote Dickens to me. after 
 
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 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 leaving the court on i8 January, "are beaten flat. They are bruised, 
 bloody, battered, smashed, squelched, and utterly undone. Knight 
 Bruce would not hear Talfourd, but instantly gave judgement. He 
 had interrupted Anderton constantly by asking him to produce a 
 passage which was not an expanded or contracted idea from my book. 
 And at every successive passage he cried out, 'That is Mr. Dickens's 
 case. Fmd another!' He said that there was not a shadow of doubt 
 upon the matter. That there was no authority which would bear a 
 construction in their favour; the piracy going beyond all previous 
 instances. They might mention it again in a week, he said, if they 
 liked, and mighthave an issue if theypleased; but they would probably 
 consider it unnecessary after that strong expression of his opinion. 
 Of course I will stand by what v.e have agreed as to the only terms of 
 compromise with the printers. I am determined that I will have an 
 apology for their affidavits. The other men may pay their costs and 
 get out of it, but I will stick to my friend the author." Two days later 
 he wrote: "The further affidavits put in by way of extenuation by the 
 printing rascals are rather strong, and give one a pretty correct idea 
 of what the men must be who hold on by the heels of literature. Oh' 
 the agony of Talfourd at Knight Bruce's not hearing him! He had 
 sat up till three in the morning, he says, preparing his speech; and 
 would have done all kinds of things with the affidavits. It certainly 
 was a splendid subject. We have heard nothing from the vagabonds 
 yet, I once thought of printing the affidavits without a word of 
 comment, and sewing them up wath Chuzzlewit. Talfourd is strongly 
 disinclined to compromise with the printers on any terms. In which 
 case it would be referred to the master to ascertain what profits had 
 been made by the piracy, and to order the same to be paid to me. 
 But wear and tear of law is my consideration." The undertaking to 
 which he had at last to submit was, that upon ample public apology 
 and payment of all costs, the offenders should be let go: but the real 
 result was that, after infinite vexation and trouble, he had himself to 
 pay all the costs incurred on his own behalf; and, a couple of years 
 later, upon repetition of the wrong he had suffered in so gross a form 
 that proceedings were again advised by Talfourd and others, he wrote 
 to me from Switzerland the condition of mind to which his experience 
 
 had brought him. "My feeling about the is the feeling common. I 
 
 suppose, to three-fourths of the reflecting part of the community in 
 our happiest of all possible countries; and that is. that it is better to 
 suffer a great wrong than to have recourse to the much greater wrong 
 of the law. I shall not easily forget the expense, and anxiety, and 
 horrible injustice of the Cayol case, wherein, in asserting the plainest 
 right on earth. I was really treated as if I were the robb. r instead of 
 therobbed. Uponthe whole. IcertainlywouldmuchratherNOTproceed. 
 What do you think of sending ii . a grave protest against what has been 
 done in thijcase. on account of the immense amount of piracy to which 
 I am daily exposed, and because I have been already met in the Court 
 of Chancery with the legal doctrine that silence under such wrongs 
 
 a corner c 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 469 
 
 barred my remedy: to which Talfourd's written opinion might be 
 appended as proof that we stopped under no discouragement, It is 
 useless to affect that I don't know I. have a morbid susceptibility of 
 exasperation, to which the meanness and badness of the law in such a 
 matter would be stinging in the last degree. And I know of nothing 
 that could come, even of a successful action, which would be worth the 
 mental trouble and disturbance it would cost." . . . 
 
 The reader may be amused if I add what he said of the pirates 
 in those earlier days when grave matters touched him less gravely. 
 On the eve of the first number of Nicklehy he had issued a proclama- 
 tion. "Whereas we are the only true and lawful Boz. And whereas 
 it hath been reported to us, who are commencing a new work, 
 that some dishonest dullards resident in the by-streets and cellars 
 of this town impose upon the unwary and credulous, by producing 
 cheap and wretched imitations of our delectable works. And whereas 
 we derive but small comfort under this injury from the knowledge 
 that the dishonest dullards aforesaid cannot, by reason of their mental 
 smallness, follow near our heels, but are constrained to creep along 
 by dirty and little-frequented ways, at a most respectful and humble 
 distance behind. And whereas, in like manner, as some other vermin 
 are not worth the killing for the sake of their carcases, so these kennel 
 pirates are not worth the powder and shot of the law, inasmuch as 
 whatever damages they may commit they are in no condition to pay 
 any. This is to give notice, that we have at length devised a mode of 
 execution for them, so summary and terrible, that if any gang or 
 gangs thereof presume to hoist but one shred of the colours of the 
 good ship Nickleby,\ve will han^ them on gibbets so loity and endur- 
 ing that their remains shall be a monument of our just vengeance to 
 all succeeding ages; and it shall not lie in the power of any lord high 
 admiral, on earth, to cause them to be taken down again." The last 
 paragraph of the proclamation informed the potentates of Pater- 
 noster Row, that from the then ensuing day of the thirtieth of March, 
 until further notice, "we shall hold our Levees, as heretofore, on the 
 last evening but one of every month, between the hours of seven and 
 nine, at our Board of Trade, number one hundred and e hty-six in 
 the Strand, London; where we again request the attendance (in vast 
 crowds) of their accredited agents and ambassadors. Gentlemen to 
 wear knots upon their shoulders; and patent cabs to draw up with 
 their doors towards the grand entrance, for the convenience of load- 
 ing." 
 
 The preparation for departure [for Italy] was now actively going 
 forward, and especially his inquiries for two important adjuncts 
 thereto, a courier and a carriage. As to the latter it occurred to him 
 that he might perhaps get for little money "some good old shabby 
 devil of a coach — one of those vast phantoms that hide themselves in 
 a corner of the Pantechnicon" and exactly such a one he found there; 
 sitting himself inside it, a perfect Sentimental Traveller, while the 
 managing man told him its history. "As for comfort — let me see — it 
 
 f:, 
 
470 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 IS about the size of your library; with night-lamps and day-lamps and 
 pockets and imperials and leathern cellars, and the most extraordin- 
 ary contrivances. Joking apart, it is a wonderful machine. And when 
 you see it (if you do see it) you will roar at first, and will then pro- 
 claim It to be perfectly brilliant, my dear fellow.' " It was marked 
 sixty pounds; he got it for five-and-forty; and my own emotions 
 respecting it he had described by anticipation quite correctly In 
 hndmg a courier he was even more fortunate; and these successes were 
 followed by a third apparently very promising but in the result less 
 satisfactory. His house was let to not very careful people. 
 
 The tenant having offered herself for Devonshire Terrace unexpect- 
 edly, during the last week or two of his stay in England he went into 
 temporary quarters in Osnaburgh Terrace: and here a domestic 
 difficulty befell of which the mention maybe amusing, when I have dis- 
 posed of am ncident that preceded it too characteristic for omission 
 Ihe Mendicity Society's officers had caught a notorious begging-letter 
 writer, had identified him as an old offender against Dickens of which 
 proofs were found on his person, and had put matters in train for his 
 proper punishment; when the wretched creature's wife made such 
 appeal before the case was heard at the police-court, that Dickens 
 broke down in his character of prosecutor, and at the last moment 
 finding what was said of the man's distress at the time to be true' 
 relented. "When the Mendicity officers themselves told me the man 
 was in distress, I desi. ed them to suppress what they knew about him 
 and Slipped out of the bundle (in the police-office) his first letter which 
 was the greatest lie of all. For he looked wretched, and his wife had 
 been waiting about the street to see me. all the morning. It was an 
 exceedingly bad case, however, and the imposition, all through very 
 great indeed. Insomuch that I could not say anything in his favour 
 even when I saw him. Yet I was not sorry that the creature found the 
 loophole for escape. The officers had taken him illegally without any 
 warrant; and really they messed it all through, quite facetiously " 
 
 He \vill himself also best relate the small domestic difficulty into 
 which he fell m his temporary dwelling upon his unexpectedly 
 discovering it to be unequal to the strain of a dinner party for which 
 mvitations had gone out just before the ^sudden "let" of Devonshire 
 rerrace. The letter is characteristic in other ways, or I should hardly 
 have gone so far into domesticities here; and it enables me to add that 
 w'lth the last on its list of guests, Mr. Thomas Chapman, the chairman 
 ol l.loyd s, he held frequent kindly intercourse, and that few things 
 more absurd or unfounded have been invented, even of Dickens than 
 that he found any part of the original of Mr. Dombey i:i the nature 
 the appearance, or the manners of this excellent and much-valued 
 c . '..^ '^'^^' ^^^^se," he wrote (9 Osnaburgh Terrace, 28 May 
 i»44), advise with a distracted man. Investigation below stairs 
 renders it, as my father would say, 'manifest to any person of ordin- 
 ary intelligence, if the tenn may be considered allowable.' that the 
 Saturday s dinner cannot come off here with safety. It would be a 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 471 
 
 toss-up, and might come down heads, but it would put us into an 
 agony with that kind of people. . . . Now, I feel a difficulty in 
 dropping it altogether, and really fear that this might have an inde- 
 finably suspicious and odd appearance. Then said I at breakfast this 
 morning, I'll send down to the Clarendon. Then says Kate, have it at 
 Richmond. Then say I that might be inconvenient to the people. 
 Then she says, how could it be if we dine late enough? Then I am very 
 mv. h offended without exactly knowing why; and come up here, in a 
 state of liopeless mystification. . . . What do you think? Ellis would 
 be quite as dear as anybody else; and unless the weather changes, 
 the place is objectionable. I must make up my mind to do one thing 
 or other, for we shall meet Lord Denham at dinner to-day. Could it 
 be dropped decently? That, I think very doubtful. Could it be done for 
 a couple of guineas apiece at the Clarendon? ... In a matter of 
 more importance I could make up my mind. But in a matter of this 
 kind I bother and bewilder myself, and come to no conclusion 
 whatever. Advise! Advise! . . . List of the invited. There's Lord 
 Normanby. And there's Lord Benham. There's Easthope, wife, r d 
 sister. There's Sydney Smith. There's you and Mac. There's Babbage. 
 There's a Lady Osborne and her daughter. There's Southwood Smith. 
 And there's Quin. And there are Thomas Chapman and his wife. So 
 many of these people have j jver dined with us, that the fix is partic- 
 ularly tight. Advise! Advise!" My advice was for throwing over the 
 party altogether, but additional help was obtained and the dinner 
 went off very pleasantly. . . . 
 
 The last incident before Dickens's departure was a farewell dinner 
 tc him at Greenwich, which took also the form of a celebration for 
 the completion of Chuzzlewit, or, as the Ballantynes used to call it in 
 Scott's case, a christening dinner; when Lord Normanby took the 
 chair, and I remember sitting next the great painter Turner, who 
 had come with Stanfield, and had enveloped his throat, that sultry 
 summer day, in a huge red belcher-handkerchief, which nothing 
 would induce him to remove. He was not otherwise demonstrative, 
 but enjoyed himself in a quiet silent way, less perhaps at the speeches 
 than at the changing lights on the river. Carlyle did not come; telling 
 me in his reply to the invitation that he truly loved Dickens, having 
 discerned in the inner man of him a real music of the genuine kind, 
 but that he'd rather testify to this in some other form than that of 
 dining out in the dog-days. 
 
 !: 
 
 M 
 
 j gTj'ij^ji i ( ■B . i yw IMMi l iw- 
 
472 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 IV 
 
 IDLENESS AT ALBARO: VILLA BAGNERELLO 
 
 1844 
 
 The travelling party arrived at Marseilles on the evening of Sunday 
 14 July. Not being able to get vethtrino horses in Paris, they had conie 
 on post; paying for nine horses but bringing only four, and thereby 
 saving a shilling a mile out of what the four would have cost in 
 England. So great thus far, however, had been the cost of travel, that 
 "what with distance, caravan, sight-seeing, and everything,'' two 
 hundred pounds would be nearly swallowed up before they were at 
 their destination. The success otherwise had been complete The 
 children had not cried in their worst troubles, the carriage had gone 
 lightly over abominable roads, and the courier had proved himself a 
 perfect gem. "Surrounded by strange and perfectly novel circum- 
 stances," Dickens wrote to me from Marseilles, "I feel as if I had a 
 new head on side by side with my old one." 
 
 To what shrewd and kindly observation the old one had helped 
 him at every stage of his journey, his published book of travel tells 
 and of all that there will be nothing here; but a couple of experiences 
 at his outset, of which he told me afterwards, have enough character 
 in them to be worth mention. 
 
 Shortly before there had been some public interest about the 
 captain of a Boulogne steamer apprehended on a suspicion of having 
 stolen specie, but reinstated by his owners after a public apology to 
 him on their behalf; and Dickens had hardly cet f )t on the boat that 
 was to carry them across, when he was attract, by the look of its 
 captain, and discovered him after a minute's talk to be that very 
 man. "Such an honest, simple, good feljow, I never saw," said 
 Dickens, as he imitated for me the homely speech in which his con- 
 fidences were related. The Boulogne people, he said, had given him 
 a piece of plate, "but Lord bless us ! it took a deal more than that to 
 get him round again in his own mind; and for weeks and weeks he was 
 uncommon low to be sure. Newgate, you see ! What a place for a 
 seafaring man as had held up his head afore the best on 'em, and had 
 more friends, I mean to say, and I do tell you the daylight truth 
 than any man on this station— ah ! or any other. I don't care where »'' 
 
 His first experience in a foreign tongue he made immediately on 
 landing, when he had gone to the bank for money, and after deliver- 
 ing with most laborious distinctness a rather long address in French 
 to the clerk behind the counter, was disconcerted by that function- 
 ary's cool inquiry in the native-born Lombard Street manner "How 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 473 
 
 would you like to take it, sir?" He took it, as everybody must, in 
 five-franc pieces, and a most inconvenient coinage he found it; for 
 he required so much that he had to carry it in a couple of small sacks, 
 and was always "turning hot about suddenly" taking it into his head 
 that he had lost them. 
 
 The evening of Tuesday, i6 July, saw him in a villa at Albaro, 
 the suburb of Genoa in which, upon the advice of our Gore House 
 friends, he had resolved to pass the summer months before taking up 
 his quarters in the city. His wish was to have had Lord Byron's house 
 there, but it had fallen into neghict and become the refuge of a third- 
 rate wineshop. The matter had then been left to Angus Fletcher who 
 just now lived near Genoa, and he had taken at a rent absurdly 
 above its value an unpicturesque and uninteresting dwelling, which 
 at once impressed its new tenant with its likeness to a pink jail. 
 "It is," he said to me, "the most perfectly lonely, rusty, stagnant old 
 staggerer of a domain that you can possibly imagine. What would I 
 give if you could only look round the courtyard ! / look down into it, 
 whenever I am near that side of the house, for the stable is so full of 
 'vermin and swarmers' (pardon the quotation from my inimitable 
 friend) that I always expect to see the carriage going out bodily, 
 with legions of industrious fleas harnessed to and drawing it off, on 
 their own account. We have a couple of Italia i work-people in our 
 establishment; and to hear one or other of them talking away to our 
 servants with the utmost violence and volubility in Genoese, and our 
 servants answering with great fluency in English (very loud: as if the 
 others were only deaf, not Italian), is one of the most ridiculous 
 things possible. The effect is greatly enhanced by the Genoese 
 manner, which is exceedingly animated and pantomimic; so that 
 two friends of the lower class conversing pleasantly in the street, 
 always seem on the eve of stabbing each other forthwith. And a 
 stranger is immensely astonished at their not doing it." . . . 
 
 A letter sketched for me the story of his travel through France, 
 and I may at once say that I thus received, from week to week, the 
 "first sprightly runnings" of every description in his Pictures from 
 Italy. But my rule as to the American letters must be here observed 
 yet more strictly; and nothing resembling his printed book, however 
 distantly, can be admitted into these pages. Even so my difficulty of 
 rejection will not be less; for as he had not actually decided, until the 
 very last, to publish his present experiences at all, a larger number of 
 the letters were left unritled by him. He had no settled plan from the 
 first, as in the other case. . . . 
 
 [In one of his early letters he wrote:] ". . . Good Heavens! Howl 
 wish you'd come for a week or two, and taste the white wine at a 
 penny farthing the pint. It is excellent. . . ." Then, after seven 
 days: "I have got my paper and inkstand and figures now (the box 
 from Osnaburgh Terrace only came last Thursday), and can think — 
 I have begun to do so every morning — with a business-like air, of 
 the Christmas book. My paper is arranged, and my pens are spread 
 
 I \ 
 
474 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 out m the usual form. I think you know the form— don't vou? Mv 
 books have not passed the custom-house yet, and I tremble for some 
 volumes of Voltau-e. ... I write in the best bedroom. The sun is 
 oil the corner wmdow at the side of the house by a very little after 
 twelve; and I can then throw the blinds open, and look up from mv 
 paper, at the sea. the mountains, the washed-out villas, the vineyards 
 at the blistering white-hot fort with a sentry on the drawbndee 
 standing m a bit of shadow no broader than his own musket and at 
 the sky as often as I like. It is a very peaceful view, and yet a very 
 cheerful one. Quiet as quiet can be." ^ 
 
 Not yet. however, had the time for writing come A sharp attack 
 of Illness befell his youngest little daughter. Kate, and troubled him 
 much. rhen. after beginning the Italian grammar himself, he had to 
 call in the help of a master; and his learning of the language took up 
 time. But he had an aptitude for it, and after a month's application 
 told nie (24 August) that he could ask in Italian for whatever he 
 wanted in any shop or coffee-house, and could read it pretty well 
 I wish you could see me" (16 September), "without my knowing it" 
 walking about alone here. I am now as bold as a lion in the streets' 
 Ihe audacity with which one begins to speak when there is no helo 
 lor it, IS quite astonishing." ... ^ 
 
 In the middle of August he dined with the French consul-general 
 ^?1* 5^^ ^''" °°?^ ^^ "^^ impropriety in printing his agreeable sketch 
 of the dinner. There was present, among other Genoese, the Marquis 
 d! Negri, a very fat and much older Jerdan. with the same thickness 
 of speech and size of tongue. He was Byron's friend, keeps open house 
 here, writes poetry, improvises, and is a very good old Blunderbore- 
 just tne sort of instrument to make an artesian well v/ith. anywhere' 
 Well, sir, after dmner. the consul proposed my health with a little 
 French conceit to the effect that I had come to Italy to have personal 
 experience of its lovely climate, and that there was this similarity 
 between the Italian sun and its visitor, that the sun shone into the 
 darkest places and made them bright and happy with its benignant 
 influence, and that my books had done the like with the breasts of 
 men. and so forth. Upon which Blunderbore gives his bright-but- 
 toned blue coat a great rap on the brea^, turns up his fishy eyes 
 stretches out his arm like the living statue defying the lightning at 
 Astley's. and delivers four impromptu verses in my honour, at which 
 everybody is enchanted, and I more than anybody— perhaps with 
 the best reason, for I didn't understand a word of them. The consul 
 then takes from his breast a roll of paper, and says, 'I shall read 
 them!' Blunderbore then says, 'Don't!' But the consul does and 
 Blunderbore beats time to the music of the verse with his knuckles 
 on the table; and perpetually ducks forward to look round the cap of 
 a lady sitting between himself and me to see what I think of them 
 I exhibit lively emotion. The verses are in French— short line— on 
 the taking of Tangiers by the Prince de Joinville; and are received 
 with great applause; especially by a nobleman present who is 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 475 
 
 reported to be unable to read and write. They end in my mind 
 (rapidly translating them into prose) thus: 
 
 The cannon of France 
 
 Shake the foundation 
 
 Of the wondering sea, 
 
 The artillery on the shore 
 
 Is put to silence. 
 
 Honour to Joinville 
 
 And tlie Brave! 
 
 The Great Intelligence 
 
 Is borne 
 
 Upon the wings of Fains 
 
 To Paris. 
 
 Her national citizens 
 
 Excliange caresses 
 
 In the streets! 
 
 The temples are crowded 
 
 With religious patriots 
 
 kendering thank> 
 
 To Heaven. 
 
 The King 
 
 And all the Royal Family 
 
 Are bathed 
 
 In tears. 
 
 They call upon the name 
 
 Of Joinville! 
 
 France also 
 
 Weeps, and echoes it. 
 
 Joinville is crowned 
 
 With Immortality; 
 
 And Peace and Joinville, 
 
 And the Glory of France, 
 
 Diffuse themselves 
 
 Conjointly. 
 
 If you can figure to yourself the choice absurdity of receiving any- 
 thing into one's mind in this way, you can imagine the labour I 
 underwent in my attempts to keep the lower part of my face square, 
 and to lift up one eye gently, as with admiring attention. But I am 
 bound to add that this is really pretty literal; for I read them after- 
 wards." At his French friend's house he afterwards made the acquain- 
 tance of Lamartine. . . . 
 
 The marquis had a splendid house, but Dickens found the grounds 
 so carved into grottoes and fanciful walks as to remind him of noth- 
 ing so much as our old White Conduit House, except that he would 
 have been well pleased, on the present occasion, to have discovered 
 a waiter crying, "Give your orders, gents!" it being not easy to him 
 at any time to keep up, the whole night through, on ices and variegated 
 lamps merely. But the scene for awhile was amusing enough, and not 
 rendered less so bj^ the delight of the marquis himself, "who was con- 
 stantly diving out into dark corners and then among the lattice- 
 work and flower pots, rubbing his hands and going round and round 
 with explosive chuckles in his huge satisfaction with the entertain- 
 ment." With horror it occurred to Dickens, however, that four more 
 hours of this kuid of entertainment would be too much; that the 
 Genoa gates closed at twelve; and that as the caniage had not been 
 ordered till the dancing was expected to be over and the gates to 
 reopen, he must make a sudden bolt if he would himself get back to 
 Albaro. "I had barely time," he told me, "to reach the gate before 
 midnight; and was running as hard as J. could go, downhill, over un- 
 even ground, along a new street, called the Strada Sevra, when I 
 came to a pole fastened straight across the street, nearly breast- 
 high, without any light or watchman — quite in the Italian style. I 
 went over it, headlong, with such force that I rolled myself completely 
 white in the dust; but although I tore my clothes to shreds, I hardly 
 r;cratched myself except in one place on the knee. I had no time to 
 
476 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 think of it then, for I was up directly and off again to save the gate: 
 but when I got outside the wall and saw the state I was in, I won- 
 dered I had not broken my neck. I 't -»k it easy' after this, and walked 
 home, by lonely ways enough, witi.out meeting a single soul. But 
 there is nothing to be feared, I believe, from midnight walks in this 
 part of Italy. In other places you incur the danger of being stabbed 
 by mistake; whereas the people here are quiet ai.d good-tempered, 
 and very rarely commit any outrage." 
 
 Such adventures, nevertheless, are seldom without consequences, 
 and there followed in this case a short but sharp attack of illness. It 
 came on with the old " unspeakable and agonising pain in the side," 
 for which Bob Fagin had prepared and applied the hot bottles in the 
 old warehouse time; and it yielded quickly to powerful remedies. 
 But for a few days he had to content himself with the minor sights 
 of Albaro. ... 
 
 In the second week of September he went to meet his brother 
 Frederick at Marseilles, and bring him back over the Cornice road to 
 pass a fortnight's holiday at Genoa: and his description of the first 
 mn upon the Alps they slept in is too good to be lost. "We lay last 
 night," he wrote (9 September), "at the first halting-place on this 
 journey, m an inn which is not entitled, as it ought to be, The house 
 of call for fleas and vermin in general, but is entitled The grand hotel 
 of the Post! I hardly know what to compare it to. It seemed some- 
 thing like a house in Somers Town originally built for a wine-vaults 
 and never finished, but grown very old. There was nothing to eat in 
 It and nothing to drink. They had lost the teapot; and when they 
 found It, they couldn't make out what had become of the lid, which, 
 turnmg up at last and being fixed on to the teapot, couldn't be got 
 off again for the pouring-in of more water. Fleas of elephantine dimen- 
 sions were gambolling boldly in the dirty beds; and the mosquitoes 1 
 -—But here let me draw a curtain (as I would have done if there had 
 been any). We had scarcely any sleep, and rose up with hands and 
 arms hardly human." . . . 
 
 WORK IN GENOA: PALAZZO PESCHIERE 
 1844 
 
 . . . The subject for his new Christmas story he had chosen, but he 
 had not found a title for it, or the machnery to work it with; when, 
 at the moment of what seemed to be his greatest trouble, both reliefs 
 came. Sitting down one mornng resolute for work, though against 
 the gram, his hand being out and everything inviting to idleness, 
 such a peal of chimes arose from the city as he found to be "madden- 
 
The Lif'. of Charles Dickens 
 
 477 
 
 ing." All Genoa lay beneath him, and up from it, with some sudden 
 set of the wind, came in one fell sound the clang and clash of all its 
 steeples, pouring into his ears, again and again, in a tuneless, grating, 
 discordant, jerking, hideous vibration that made his ideas "spin 
 round and round till they lost themselves in a whirl of vexation and 
 giddin-^ss, and dropped down dead." He had never before so suffered, 
 nor did he again; but this was his description to me next day, and 
 his excuse for having failed in a promise to send me his title. Only 
 two days later, however, came a letter in which not a syllable was 
 written but "We have heard the Chimes at midnight. Master 
 Shallow!" and I knew he had discovered what he wanted. 
 
 Other difficulties were still to be got over. He craved for the London 
 streets. He so missed his long night-walks before beginning anything 
 that he seemed, as he said, dumbfounded without them. "I can't help 
 thinking of the boy in the school-class whose button was cut off by 
 Walter Scott and his friends. Put me down on Waterloo Bridge at 
 eight o'clock in the evening, with leave to roam about as long as I 
 like, and I would come home, as you know, panting to go on. I am 
 sadly strange as it is, and can't settle. You will have lots of hasty 
 notes from me while I am at work: but you know your man; and 
 whatever strikes me, I shall let off upon you as if I were in Devon- 
 shire Terrace. It's a great thing to have my title, and see my way how 
 to work the bells. Let them clash upon me now from all the churches 
 and convents in Genoa, I see nothing but the old London belfry I 
 have set them in. In my mind's eye, Horatio, I like more and more 
 my notion of making, in this little book, a great blow for the poor. 
 Something powerful, I think I can do, but I want to be tender too, 
 and cheerful; as like the Carol in that respect as may be, and as unlike 
 it as such a thing can be. The duration of the action will resemble ?' 
 a little, but I trust to the novelty of the machinery to carry that o^ 
 and if my design be anything at all, it has a grip upon the very throa 
 of the time." (8 October.) 
 
 Thus bent upon his work, for which he never had been in more 
 earnest mood, he was disturlaed by hearing that he must attend the 
 levee of the governor, who had unexpectedly arrived in the city, and 
 who would take it as an affront, his eccentric friend Fletcher told 
 him, if that courtesy were not immediately paid. "It was the morning 
 on which I was going to begin, so J wrote round to our consul," — 
 praying, of course, that excuse should be made for him. Don't bother 
 yourself, replied that sensible functionary, for all the consuls and 
 governors alive; but shut yourself up by all means. "So," continues 
 Dickens telling me the tale, "he went next morning in great state, 
 and full costume, to present two English gentlemen. 'Where's the 
 great poet?' said the Governor. 'I want to see the great poet.' 'The 
 great poet, your excellency,' said the consul, 'is at work, writing a 
 book, and begged me to make his excuses.' 'Excuses!' said the 
 Governor, 'I wouldn't interfere with such an occupation for all the 
 world. Pray tell him that my house is open to the honour of his 
 
 i ") ! 
 
 H 
 
 I 1 
 
 » 
 
 ; I 
 
 »M 
 
 ¥' 
 
 
478 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 presence when it is perfectly convenient for him; but not otherwise. 
 And let no gentleman,' said the Governor, a surweyin' of his suite 
 with majestic eye, call upon Signor Dickens till he is understood to 
 be disengaged.' And he sent somebody with his own cards next day. 
 Now I do seriously call this, real politeness and pleasant consideration 
 — not positively American, but still gentlemanly and polished. The 
 same spirit pervades the inferior depi-rtments; and I have not been 
 required to observe the usual police regulations, or to put myself 
 to the slightest trouble about anything." {i8 October.) . . . 
 
 He kept his promise that I should hear from him while writing, 
 and I had frequent letters when he was fairly m his work. "With my 
 steam very much up, I find it a great trial to be so far off from you, 
 and consequently to have no one (always excepting Kate and 
 Georgy) to whom to expatiate on my day's work. And I want a 
 crowded street to plunge into at night. And I want to be 'on the 
 spot' as it were. But apart from such things, the life I lead is favour- 
 able to work." In his next letter: 'I am in regular, ferocious excite- 
 ment with the Chimes; get up at seven; have a cold bat' before 
 breakfast; and blaze away, wrathful and red-hot, until three o'clock 
 or so: when I usually knock off (unless it rains) for the day. ... I 
 am fierce to finish in a spirit bearing some affinity to those of truth 
 and mercy, and to shame the cruel and the canting. I have not 
 forgotten my catechism. 'Yes, verily, and with Gou's help, so I 
 Willi'" 
 
 Within a week he had completed his first part, or quarter. "I send 
 you to-day" (i8 October), "by mail, the first and longest of the four 
 divisions. This is great for the first week, which is usually uphill. I 
 have kept a copy in shorthand in case of accidents. I hope to senrl you 
 a parcel every Monday until the whole is done. I do not wish to 
 influence you, but it has a great hold upon me, and has affected me, 
 in the doing, in divers strong ways, deeply, forcibly. ..." 
 
 A visit from him to London was to be expected almost imme- 
 diately! That all remonstrance would be idle, under the restless 
 excitement his work had awakened, I well knew. It was not merely 
 the wish he had, natural enough, to see the last proofs and the wood- 
 cuts before the day c: publication, which he could not otherwise do; 
 but it was the stronger and more eager wish, before that final launch, 
 to have a vivider sense than letters could give him of the effect of 
 what he had been doing. "If I come, I shall put up at Cuttris's" 
 (then the Piazza Hotel in Co vent Garden), "that I may be close to 
 you. Don't say to anybody, except our immediate friends, that I am 
 coming. Then I shall not be bothered. If I should preserve my 
 present fierce writing humour, in any pass I may run to V, lice, 
 Bologna, and Florence, before I turn my face towards Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields; and come to England by Milan and Turin. But this of course 
 deptinds in a greac measure on your reply." My reply, dwelling on the 
 fatigue and cost, had the reception I foresaw. "Notwithstanding 
 what you say, I am still in the same mind about coming to London. 
 
The Lite of Charles Dickens 479 
 
 Not because the proois concern me at all (f should be an ass as well 
 as a thanklc. ., /agabond if they did), but becaust! of that unspeakable 
 restless something which would render it almost as impcxssiblc for me 
 to remain here and not see the thing complete, as it would Ix; for a 
 full balloon, left to itself, not to go up. I do not intend coming from 
 here, but by way of Milan and Turin (previously goin|» to Venice), 
 and so, across the wildest pass of the Alps that may b(; open, to 
 Strasburg. ... As you dislike the Young ICngland gentleman I 
 shall knock him out, and replace him by a man (I can dash him in at 
 your rooms in an hour) who recognises no virtue in anything but the 
 good old times, and talks of them, parrot-like, whatever the matter 
 is. A real good old city Tory, in a blue coat and bright buttons and a 
 white cravat, and with a tendency of blood to the head. File away 
 at Filer, as you please; but bear in mind t.^at the Westminster 
 Review considered Scrooge's presentation of the turkey to Bob 
 Cratchit as grossly incompatible with political economy. I don't 
 care at all for the skittle-v^laying." These were among things I iiad 
 objected to. 
 
 But the close of his lettei revealed more than its ;jening of the 
 reason, not at once so frankly confessed, for the long wini.er-journey 
 he was about to make; and -f it be thought that, in printing the 
 passage, I take a liberty with my friend, it will be found that equal 
 liberty is taken with myself, whom it good-naturedly caricatures; so 
 that the reader can enjoy h'^j laugh at either or both. "Shall I confess 
 to you, I particularly want Carlyle above all to see it before the rest of 
 the world, when it is done; and I should like to inflict the little stor^- 
 on him and on dear old gallant Macready with my own lips, and to 
 have Stanny and the other Mac sitting by. Now, if you was a real 
 gent, you'd get up a little circle for me, one wet evening, v/hen I 
 come tc town: and would say, 'My boy (sir, will you have the good- 
 ness to leave those books alone and go downstairs — What the devil 
 are you doing! And mind, sir, I can see nobody — Do you hear.? 
 Nobody. I am particularly engaged with a gentleman from Asia) — 
 My boy, would you give us that little Christmas book (a little 
 Christmas book of Dickens's, Macready, which I'm anxious you 
 should hear); and don't slur it, now or be too fast, Dickens, please !' — 
 I say, if you was a real gent, sometiiing to this effect might happen. I 
 shall be under sailing orders the moment I have finished. And I 
 shall produce myself (please God) in London on the very day you 
 name. For one week: to the hour." 
 
 The wish was complied with, of course; and that night in Lincoln's 
 Inn Fields led to rather memorable issues. His next letter told me 
 the little tale was done. "Third of November, 1844. Half-past t\vo, 
 afternoon. Thank God ! I have finished the Chimes. This moment. I 
 take up my pen again to-day, to say only that much; and to add that 
 I have had what women call 'a real good cry.' " Very genuine all 
 this, it is hardly necessary to say. The little book thus completed was 
 not one of his greater successes, and it raised him up some objectors; 
 
 I 
 
 
 
48o 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 p* 
 
 ii.f. 
 
 but there was that in it which more than repaid the suffering its 
 writing cost him. and the enmity its opinions provoked; and in his 
 own heart i+ had a cherished corner to the last. . . . 
 
 VI 
 
 ITALIAN TRAVEL 
 1844 
 
 So it all fell out accordingly. He parted from his disconsolate wife as 
 he told me in his first letter from Ferrara. on Wednesday. 6 Novem! 
 ber: le t her shut up nrher palace like a baron's lady in the time of the 
 Crusades; and had his first real experience of the wonders of Ttalv He 
 
 lTf^t.T^'H wT^'-^"^°^"^ ^^^''^'^' ^^"^^^' Verona, and Mantua 
 As tc all which the impressions conveyed to me in his letters have 
 been more or less given in his published Pictures 
 
 On Sunday the 17th. he was at Lodi, from which he wrote to me 
 that J.e had been, ike Leigh Hunt's pig. up "all manner of streets'' 
 since he left his palazzo; that with one exception he had not on anv 
 night given up more than five hours to rest; that all the davs excedt 
 tjvo had been bad ("the last two foggy as Blackfriars Bridge on LoS 
 Mayor s Day"); and that the cold had been dismal. But what cheerful 
 keen, observant eyes he carried everywhere; and, in the midst of new 
 ana unaccustomed scenes, and of objects and remains of art for 
 which no previous study had prepared him. with what a delicate 
 play of imagination and fancy the accuracy of his ordinary vision was 
 exalted and refined. 1 think strikingly shown by the few unstudld 
 passages I am preserving from the^i friendly letters 
 
 "I am alr-Pdy brim-full of cant about pictures* and shall be 
 happy to enlighten you on the subject of the different schools at anv 
 length you please. It seems to me that the preposterous exaggeration 
 in which our countrymen delight in reference to this Italf harcUv 
 extends to the really good things. Perhaps it is in its nat^ure that 
 there it snould fall short. I have never yet seen any praise of Titian^s 
 great picture of the 'Assumption of the Virgin' at Venice Sh 
 soared half as high as the beautiful and amafing reality .Tt i^per 
 fection. Tintoretto's picture too, of the 'Assembly of the Blest 'at 
 Venice also, with all the lines in it (it is of immense size and the 
 figures are countless) tending majestically and dutifully to Almightv 
 God in the centre is grand and noble in the extreme. There are some 
 wonderful portraits there, besides; and some confused, and hurriS 
 and slaughterous battle pieces, in which the surprising ar? thai 
 presents the generals to your eye, so that it is almost impossible you 
 T.!!!!ff !^T 'V ^^^^^ though they are in the thick of it, is verv 
 
 .^^4. 4.^ J— _ii - „ - --"-o ^j «xv. XII I.I.C LiucK oi It, IS verv 
 
 ocxx. .V. dwell upon. 1 nave seen some delightful pictures; and 
 
 some (at ^ 
 
 to laugh a 
 
 rum 'uns 
 
 are clear 
 
 slavishly i 
 
 day after 
 
 turning re 
 
 have a gi 
 
 becomes < 
 
 who were 
 
 priests. p< 
 
 see, in pic 
 
 the paint 
 
 convent s 
 
 inmates o 
 
 all the lai 
 
 that in si 
 
 the vanit 
 
 canvas a1 
 
 In the 
 
 quite a i 
 
 Italian in 
 
 England; 
 
 which is ( 
 
 than you 
 
 tual; and 
 
 a beast n 
 
 The wind 
 
 (a cat C01 
 
 mand of 1 
 
 positivel3 
 
 like leave 
 
 hearth w 
 
 only kno 
 
 and an aj 
 
 an uncon 
 
 strictly i 
 
 painted ( 
 
 dinner; a 
 
 the chara 
 
 amiably ( 
 
 English, 
 
 pleasure 
 
 Of the 
 
 instances 
 
 publishe* 
 
 essential 
 
 may prei 
 
 334 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 481 
 
 some (at Verona and Mantua) really too absurd and ridiculous even 
 to laugh at. Hampton Court is a fool to 'em— and oh there are some 
 rum 'uns there, my friend. Some werry rum 'uns. . . . Two things 
 are clear to me already. One is, that the rules of art are much too- 
 slavishly followed; making it a pain to you, when you go into galleries 
 day after day, to be so very precisely sure where this figure will be 
 turning round, and that figure will be lying down, ?»nd that other will 
 have a great lot of drapery twined about him, and so forth. This 
 becomes' a perfect nightmare. The second is, that these great men, 
 who were of necessity very much in the hands of the monks and 
 priests, painted monks and priests a vast deal too often. I constantly 
 see, in pictures of tremendous power, heads quite below the story and 
 the painter; and I invariably observe that those heads are of the 
 convent stamp, and have their counterparts, exactly, in the convent 
 inmates of this hour. I see the portraits of monks I know at Genoa, in 
 all the lame parts of strong paintings: so I have settled with myself 
 that in such cases the lameness was not with the painter, but with 
 the vanity and ignorance of his employers, who would be apostles on 
 canvas at all events." 
 
 In the same letter he described the Inns. "It is a great thing — 
 quite a matter of course — with English travellers, to decry the 
 Italian inns. Of course you have no comforts that you are used to in 
 England; and travelling alone, you dine in your bedroom always; 
 which is opposed to our habits. But they are immeasurably better 
 than you would suppose. The attendants are very quick; very punc- 
 tual; and so obliging, if you s )eak to thern politely, that you would be 
 a beast not to look cheerful, and take everything pleasantly. . . . 
 The windows won't open, and the doors won't shut; and these latter 
 (a cat could get in, between them and the floor) have a windy com- 
 mand of a colonnade which is open to the night, so that my slippers 
 positively blow off my feet, and make little circuits in the room — 
 like leaves. There is a very ashy wood-fire, burning on an immense 
 hearth which has no fender (there is no such thing in Italy); and it 
 only knows two extremes — an agony of heat when wood is put on, 
 and an agony of cold when it has been on two minutes. There is also 
 an uncomfortable stain in the wall, where the fifth door (not being 
 strictly indispensable) was walled up a year or two ago, and never 
 painted over. But the bed is clean; and I have had an excellent 
 dinner; and without being obsequious or servile, which is not at all 
 the characteristic of the people in the north of Italy, the waiters are so 
 amiably disposed to invent little attentions which they suppose to be 
 English, and are so lighthearted and good-natured, that it is a 
 pleasure to have to do with them. ... 
 
 Of the help his courier continued to be to him I had whimsical 
 instances in almost every letter, but he appears too often in the 
 published book to require such celebration here. He is, however, an 
 essential figure to two little scenes sketched for me at Lodi, and I 
 may prefac'e them by saying that Louis Roche, a native of Avignon. 
 
 334 
 
 I M 
 
482 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 justified to the close his master's high opinion. He was again engaged 
 for nearly a year in Switzerland, and soon after, poor fellow, though 
 with a jovial robustness of look and breadth of chest that promised 
 unusual length of days, was killed by heart-disease. "The brave C. 
 continues to be a prodigy. He puts out my clothes at every inn as if 
 I were going to stay there twelve months; calls me to the instant 
 every morning; lights the fire before I get up; gets hold of roast fowls 
 and produces them in coaches at a distance from all other help, in 
 hungry moments; and is invaluable to me. He is such a good fellow, 
 too, that little rewards don't spoil him. I always give him, after I 
 have dined, a tumbler of Sauterne or Hermitage or whatever 1 may 
 have; sometimes (as yesterday) when we have come to a public- 
 house at about eleven o'clock, very cold, having started before 
 daybreak and had nothing, I make him take his breakfast with me; 
 and this renders him only more anxious than ever, by redoubling 
 attentions, to show me that he thinks he has got a good master. 
 ... I didn't tell you that the day before I left Genoa, we had a 
 dinner-party— our English consul and his wife; the banker; Sir George 
 Crawford and his wife; the De la Rues; Mr. Curry; and some others, 
 fourteen in all. At about nine in the morning, two men in immense 
 paper caps inquired at the door for the brave C, who presently 
 introduced them in triumph as the governor's cooks, his private 
 friends, who had come to dress the dinner! Jane wouldn't stand this, 
 however; so we were obliged to decline. Then there came, at half- 
 hourly intervals, six gentlemen having the appearance of English 
 clergymen, being other private friends who had come to wait. . . . 
 We accepted their services; and you never saw anything so nicely and 
 quietly done. He had asked, as a special distinction, to be allowed the 
 supreme control of the dessert; and he had ices made like fruit, had 
 pieces of crockery turned upside-down so as to look like other pieces 
 of crockery non-existent in this part of Europe, and carried a case of 
 toothpicks in his pocket. Then his delight was, to get behind Kate 
 at one end of the table, to look at me at the other, and to say to 
 Georgy in a low voice whenever he handed her anything, "What 
 does master think of datter 'rangement? Is he content?' ... If 
 you could see what these fellows of couriers are when their families 
 are not upon the move, you would feel what a prize he is. I can't 
 make out whether he was ever a smuggler, but nothing will induce 
 him to give the custom-house officers anything: in consequence of 
 which that portmanteau of mine has been unnecessarily opened 
 twenty times. Two of them will come to the coach-door, at the gate 
 of a town. 'Is there anything contraband in this carriage, signore?' 
 'No, no. There's nothing here. I am an Englishman, and this is my 
 servant.' 'A buono mano signore?' 'Roche' (in English), 'give him 
 something, and get rid of him.' He sits unmoved. 'A buono mano 
 signore?' 'Go along with you!' says the brave C. 'Signore, I am a 
 custom-house officer!' 'Well, then, more shame for you!' — he always 
 makes the same answer. And then he turns to me and says in English: 
 
 while the 
 
 in the coa 
 
 told to hi 
 
 greatest ti 
 
 that I car 
 
 include tl 
 
 the old bl 
 
 He clos 
 
 her sister 
 
 couple of 
 
 London. 
 
 am still b 
 
 walked ti 
 
 write to 
 
 enhance 
 
 so wide !' 
 
 There 
 
 but to wr 
 
 flashed u 
 
 before I c 
 
 It is alm( 
 
 ing. Han 
 
 the visit 
 
 form for 
 
 day, 2 I 
 
 aloud. . 
 
 He wr 
 
 see Macr 
 
 English 
 
 Fields. T 
 
 dismal r 
 
 before t< 
 
 Madam 
 
 size, froi 
 
 stand uj 
 
 my life 
 
 picked I 
 
 swollen 1 
 
 Helef 
 
 did not ] 
 
 days an 
 
 confusio 
 
 detained 
 
 manage( 
 
 As he w( 
 
 traveller 
 
 blarmcd 
 
 Five Ah 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 483 
 
 while the custom-house officer s face is a portrait of anguish framed 
 in the coach window, from his intense desire to know what is being 
 told to his disparagement: 'Datter chip,' shaking his fist at him, 'is 
 greatest tief — and you know it you rascal — as never did en-razh me so, 
 that I cannot bear myself!' I suppose chip to mean chap, but it may 
 include the custom-house officer's father and have some reference to 
 the old block, for anything I distinctly know." 
 
 He closed his Lodi letter next day at Milan, whither his wife and 
 her sister had made an eighty miles' journey from Genoa, to pass a 
 couple of days with him in Prospero's old dukedom before he left for 
 London. "We shall go our several ways on Thursday morning, and I 
 am still bent on appearing at Cuttris's on Sunday the first, as if I had 
 walked thither from Devonshire Terrace. In the meantime I shall not 
 write to you again ... to enhance the pleasure (if anything can 
 enhance the pleasure) of our meeting. . . . I am opening my arms 
 
 so wide!" ... 
 
 There was certainly no want of animation when we met. I have 
 but to write the words to bring back the eager face and figure, as they 
 flashed upon me so suddenly this wintry Saturday night that almost 
 before I could be conscious of his presence I felt the grasp of his hand. 
 It is almost all I find it possible to remember of the brief, bright meet- 
 ing. Hardly did he seem to have come when he was gone. But all that 
 the visit proposed he accomplished. He saw his little book in its final 
 form for publication; and, to a select few brought together on Mon- 
 day, 2 December, at my house, had the opportunity of reading it 
 
 aloud. ... , . , 1 . 
 
 He wrote from Paris, at which he had stopped on his way back to 
 see Macready, whom an engagement to act there with Mr. Mitchell's 
 English company had prevented from joining us in Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields. There had been no such frost and snow since 1829, and he gave 
 dismai report of the city. With Macready he had gone two nights 
 before to the Odeon to see Alexander Dumas' Christme played by 
 Madam St. George, "once Napoleon's mistress; now of an immense 
 size, from dropsy I suppose; and with little weak legs which she can't 
 stand upon Her age, withal, somewhere about 80 or 90. I never in 
 my life beheld such a sight. Every stage conventionality she ever 
 picked up (and she had them all) has got the dropsy too, and is 
 swollen and bloated hideously. ... 
 
 He left Paris on the night of the i3tn with the tnalle paste, whicn 
 did not reach Marseilles till fifteen hours behind its time, after three 
 days and three nights travelling over horrible roads. Then, ma 
 confusion between the two rival packets for Genoa, he unwillingly 
 detained one of them more than an hour from sailing; and only 
 managed at last to get to her just as she was moving out of harbour. 
 As he went up the side, he saw a strange sensation among the angry 
 travellers whom he had detained so long; heard a voice exclaim "I am 
 
 _'„»iT^.^. ,»,».,, I" ^-nA t^4-r^r-kA in fhr* r*>r)frp nf a. crnii'D of 
 
 Diarmca oi ii uiii ii-ri'-r,.r^N = 
 
 ii 
 
 
 \m 
 
 Five Americans^. But the pleasantest part of the story is that they 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
484 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 were, one and all, glad to see him; that their chief man, or leader, who 
 had met him in New York, at once introduced them all round with 
 the remark, "Personally our countrymen, and you, can fix it friendly, 
 sir, I do expectuate," and that, through the stormy passage to 
 Genoa which followed, they were excellent friends. For the greater 
 part of the time, it is true, Dickens had to keep to his cabin; but he 
 contrived to get enjoyment out of them nevertheless. . . . 
 
 ill 
 
 VII 
 
 LAST MONTHS IN ITALY 
 1845 
 
 On 22 December he had resumed his ordinary Genoa life. . . . 
 A journey southward began on 20 January, and five days later I 
 had a letter written from La Scala, at a little'inn, "supported on low 
 brick arches like a British ha^/stack," the bed in their room "like a 
 mangle," the ceiling without lath or plaster, nothing to speak of 
 available for comfort or decency, and nothing particular to eat or 
 drink. "But for all this I have become attached to the country and I 
 don't care who knows it." 
 
 Before Radicofani was reached, there were disturbing rumours of 
 bandits and even uncomfortable whispers as to their night's lodging- 
 place : "Can you imagine" (he named a first-rate bore, for whose 
 name I shall substitute) "M. F. G. in a very frowsy brown cloak con- 
 cealing his whole figure, and with very white hair and a very white 
 beard, darting out of this place with a long staff in his hand, and 
 bp'-ging? There he was, whether you can or not; out of breath with 
 the rapidity of his dive, and staying with his staff all the Radicofani 
 boys, that he might fight it out with me alone. It was very v/et, and 
 so was I: for I had kept, according tg custom, my box-seat. It was 
 blowing so hard that I could scarcely stand; and there was a custom- 
 house on the spot, besides. Over and above all this, I had no small 
 money; and the brave C. never has, when I want it for a beggar. 
 When I had excused myself several times, he suddenly drew himself 
 up and said, with a wizard look (fancy the aggravation of M. F. G. as 
 a wizard !), 'Do you know what you are doing, my lord? Do you mean 
 to go on to-day.?' 'Yes,' I said, 'I do.' 'My lord,' he said, 'do you 
 know that your vetturino is unacquainted with this part of the 
 country; that there is a wind raging on the mountain, which will 
 sweep you away; that the courier, the coach, and all the passengers, 
 were blown from the road last year; and that the danger is great and 
 almost certain?' 'No,' I said, 'i don't.^ My lord, you don't under- 
 stand me, I think?' 'Yes, I do, d you!' nettled by this (you feel 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ader, who 
 )und with 
 b friendly, 
 assage to 
 le greater 
 in; but he 
 
 485 
 
 fe 
 
 ys later I 
 3d on low 
 n "like a 
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 try and I 
 
 mours of 
 ; lodging- 
 or whose 
 loak con- 
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 ath with 
 idicofani 
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 r himself 
 F. G. as 
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 it? I confess it). 'Speak to my servant. It's his business. Not mine' — 
 for he really was too like M. F. G. to be borne. If you could have seen 
 him! — 'Santa Maria, these English lords! It's not their business if 
 they're killed ! They leave it to their servants I' He drew off the boys; 
 whispered them to keep away from the heretic; and ran up the hill 
 again, almost as fast as he had come down. He stopped at a little 
 distance as we moved on; and pointing to Roche with his long staff 
 cried loudly after me, 'It's his business if you're killed, is it, my 
 lord? Ha! ha! ha! whose business is it when the English lords are 
 born ! Ha ! ha ! ha !' The boys taking it up in a shrill yell, I left the joke 
 and them at this point. But I must confess that I thought he had the 
 best of it. And he had so far reason for what he urged, that when we 
 got on the mountain pass the wjnd became terrific, so that we were 
 obliged to take Kate out of the carriage lest she should be blown over, 
 carriage and all. and had ourselves to hang on to it, on the windy 
 side, to prevent its going Heaven knows where !" 
 
 The first impression of Rome was disappointing. It was the evening 
 of 30 January, and the cloudy sky, dull cold rain and muddy foot- 
 ways, he was prepared for; but he was not prepared for the long streets 
 of commonplace shops and houses like Paris or any other capital, the 
 busy people, the equipages, the ordinary walkers up and down. "It 
 was no more my Rome, degraded and fallen and lying asleep in the 
 sun among a heap of ruins, than Lincoln's Inn Fields is. So I really 
 went to bed in a very indifferent humour." That all this yielded to 
 later and worthier impressions I need hardly say; and he had never 
 in his life, he told me afterwards, been so moved or overcome by any 
 sight as by that of the Coliseum, "except perhaps by the first con- 
 templation of the Falls of Niagara." . . . 
 
 Two more months were to finish his Italian holiday, and I do not 
 think he enjoyed any part of it so much as its close. He had formed a 
 real friendship for Genoa, was greatly attached to the social circle 
 he had drawn round him there, and liked rest after his travel all the 
 more for the little excitement of living its activities over again, week 
 by week, in these letters to me. Of incidents during these remaining 
 weeks there were few, but such as he mentioned had in them points of 
 humour or character still worth remembering. Two men were hanged 
 in the city; and two ladies of quality, he told me, agreed to keep up 
 for a time a prayer for the souls of these two miserable creatures so 
 incessant that Heaven should never for a moment be left alone: to 
 which end "they relieved each other" after such wise, that, for the 
 whole of the stated time, one of them was always on her knees in the 
 cathedral church of San Lorenzo. From which he inferred that "a 
 morbid sympathy for criminals is not wholly peculiar to England, 
 though it affects more people in that country perhaps than in any 
 other." . . . 
 
 Another little incident is also characteristic. An English ship of 
 war, the Fantome, appeared in the harbour; and from her commander, 
 Sir Frederick Nicolson, Dickens received, among attentions very 
 
 f j 
 I I 
 
 i 
 
 1 t 
 
 
486 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 pleasant to him, an invitation to lunch on board and bring his wife, 
 for whom, at a time appointed, a boat was to be sent to the Ponte 
 Reale (the royal bridge). But no boat being there at the time, Dickens 
 sent off his servant in another boat to the ship to say he feared some 
 mistake. "While we were walking up and down a neighbouring 
 piazza in his absence, a brilliant fellow in a dark blue shirt with a 
 white hem to it all round the collar, regular corkscrew curls, and a 
 face as brown as a berry, comes up to me and says, 'Beg your pardon 
 sir, Mr. Dickens?' 'Yes.' 'Beg your pardon ^r, but I'm one of the 
 ship's company of the Phaniom sir, cox'en of the cap'en's gig r.ir, she's 
 a- lying off the pint sir — been there half an hour.' Well but my good 
 fellow,' I said, 'you're at the wrong place!' 'Beg your pardon sir, I 
 was afeerd it was the wrong place sir, but I've asked them Genoese 
 here, sir, twenty times if it was Port Real; and they knows no more 
 than a dead jackasGi' — Isn't it a good thing to have made a regular 
 Portsmouth name of it?" . . . 
 
 His last letter from Genoa was written on 7 June, not from the 
 Peschiere, but from a neighbouring palace, "Brignole Rosso," into 
 which he had fled from the miseries of moving. "They are all at sixes 
 and sevens up at the Peschiere, as you may suppose; and Roche is in a 
 condition of tremendous excitement, engaged in settling the inventory 
 with the house-agent, who has just told me he is the devil himself. I 
 had been appealed to, an 1 had contented myself with this expression 
 of opinion, 'Signor Noli, you are an old impostor!' 'Illustrissimo,' 
 said Signor Noli in reply, 'your servant is the devil himself: sent on 
 earth to torture me.' I look occasionally towards the Peschiere (it is 
 visible from this room), expecting to see one of them flying out of a 
 window. . . . 
 
' II 
 
 BOOK FIFTH 
 
 LONDON. LAUSANNE AND PARIS 
 
 1845-7. ^T. 33-5 
 
 I. Again in England. 
 IL Retreat to Switzerland. 
 
 III. Swiss People and Scenery. 
 
 IV. Sketches chiefly Personal. 
 V. Three Months in Paris. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I ri*j 
 
 1 
 
 487 
 
.1 
 
 i 
 
 ( 
 
 His firsi 
 
 
 revived ; 
 
 
 changed 
 
 
 agreeme 
 
 
 with hiri 
 
 
 a period 
 
 
 receive 
 
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 populari 
 
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 one, for 
 
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 much in 
 
 
 weekly; 
 
 
 notices c 
 
 
 of all ba( 
 
 
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 time of 
 
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 call it, s 
 
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AGAIN IN ENGLAND 
 
 1845-6 
 
 His first letter after again taking possession of Devonshire Terrace 
 revived a subject on which opinions had been from time to time inter- 
 changed during his absence, and to which there was allusion in the 
 agreement executed before his departure. The desire was still as strong 
 with him as when he started Master Humphrey's Clock to establish 
 a periodical, that, while relieving his own pen by enabling him to 
 receive frequent help from other writers, might retain always the 
 popularity of his name. "I really think I have an idea, and not a bad 
 one, for the periodical. I have turned it over, the last two days, very 
 much in my mind: and think it positively good. I incline still to 
 weekly; price three-halfpence, if possible; partly original, partly select; 
 notices of books, notices of theatres, notices of all good things, notices 
 of all bad ones; Carol philosophy, chee-^'ul views, sharp anatomisation 
 of humbug, jolly good temper; papers always in season, pat to the 
 time of year; and a vein of glowing, hearty, generous, mirthful, 
 beaming reference in everything to Home and Fireside. And I would 
 call it, sir: 
 
 THE CRICKET 
 A cheerful creature that churnips on the Hearth. 
 
 Natural History. 
 
 "Now, don't decide hastily till you've heard what I would do. I 
 would come out, sir, with a prospectus on the subject of the Cricket 
 that should put everybody in a good temper, and make such a dash 
 at people's fenders and arm-chairs as hasn't been made for many a 
 long day. I could approach them in a difEerent mode under this name, 
 and in a more winning and immediate way, than under any other. I 
 would at once sit down upon their very hobs; and take a personal and 
 confidential position with them which should separate me, instantly, 
 from all other periodicals periodically published, and supply a dis- 
 tinct and sufiicient reason for my coming into existence. And I would 
 chirp, chirp, chirp away in every number until I chirped it up to 
 well, you shall 1 how many hundred thousand ! . . . '* 
 
 334 489 
 
 J : 
 
 m 
 
 i s 
 
 ill 
 
490 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 My objection, incident more or less to every such scheme, was 
 the risk of losing its general advantage by making it too specially 
 dependent on individual characteristics; but there was much in favour 
 of the present notion, and its plan had l)ecn modified so far, in the 
 discussions that followed, as *^o involve less absolute jiersonal iden- 
 tification with Dickens,— when discussion, project, everything was 
 swept away by a larger scIumuc, in its extent and its danger more 
 suitable to the wild and hazardous ent'^prisos of that prodigious 
 year (1845) of e>:citen\ent and disaster. In this more tremendous 
 adventure, already hinted at on a previous page, we all brcame in- 
 volved; and the chirp of the Cricket, delayed in conscnpu nee imtil 
 Christmas, was heard then in circumstances quite other than those 
 first intended. The change he thus announced to mc about half way 
 through the summer, in the same letter which told me the success of 
 d'Orsay's kind exertion to procure a fresh engagement for his courier 
 Roche. "What do you think o'i a notion that has occurred to mo in 
 connection with our abiindoned little weekly? It would be a delicate 
 and beautiful fancy for a Christmas book, making the Cricket a little 
 household god— silent in the wrong and sorrow of the tale, and loud 
 again when all went well and happy." The reader will not need to be 
 told that thus originated the story of the Crichfit on the Hearth, a 
 Fairy Tale of Home, which had a great popularity in the Chri.stmas 
 days of 1845. Its sale at the outset doubled that of both its prede- 
 cessors. 
 
 But as yet the larger adventure had not made itself known, and the 
 interval was occupied with the private play of which the notion had 
 been started between us at his visit in December, and which led to his 
 disclosure of a pas.sagc in his early career belonging to that interval 
 between his school-days and start in life when he had iu pass nearly 
 two weary years as a reporter for one of the oflices in Doctors' 
 Commons, from which he sought relief by an attempt to get upon 
 the stage. I had asked him, alter his return to Genoa, whether he 
 continued to think that we should have the play; and his reply be- 
 gan thus: "Are we to have that play? ? ? Have I spoken of it, ever 
 since I came home from London, as a settled thing! I do not know 
 if I have ever told you seriou.sly, but 1 have often thought, that I 
 should certainly have been as successful on the boards as 1 have been 
 between them. I assure you, when I was on the stage vt Montreal 
 (not having played for years) I was as much astonished at the reality 
 and ease, to myself, of what I did as if I had been another man. See 
 how oddly things come about!" ... 
 
 Graver things now claim a notice which need not be proportioned 
 to their gravity, because, though they had an immediate effect on 
 Dickens's fortunes, they do not otherwise form part of his story. But 
 first let me say, he was at Broadstairs for three weeks in the autumn; 
 we had the private play on his return; and a month later, on 28 
 October, a sixth child and fourth son, named Alfred Tennyson aiter 
 his godfathers d'Orsay and Tennyson, was born in Devonshire 
 
 'vj'' 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 49t 
 
 Tcrraco a do.ith in tho fnniilv followed, tho oldrr and motv RifteM oT 
 
 Jrrav ens having inaul^ iho .am. illicit tanto for pnttv and paint 
 
 which ha I l>oon fatal to his pmlcoe.sor. Voracity M\^d »»m. «« Jt 
 
 Wk<l ScottVHn aioa unoxpoctodly l^^forc the kitchen-fire. He 
 
 kept hi, ey^^ to the last upon the meat as it ro«Hte<l. «m» «;''';»;';>y 
 
 tun ed oveT on his back with a sepulchral cry of ( uckr^or he letter 
 
 wS tohl tne this (,t October) announced to me also that he was at 
 
 a eadlock m his Christmas story: "Sick, bothered and depressed. 
 
 Visims of Brighton come upon me; and I have a great mtnd to gB 
 
 thereto finish mv second part. .>r t.) Hampstond. I have a desperate 
 
 oug of "lack Straw's; I nevn- was in such bad wr.tuig cue as I 
 
 Vm this week in all my life." The reason was n«)t far to seek. In 
 
 ?he nrAmratk;n for the proposed new Daily I'aper he was novv 
 
 activ^\7as^sHng! ^id had all V>ut consented to the publication of 
 
 ^''VciZtaine^l at this time, for more than one powerful reason, the 
 greatest misgiving of his intended share in the adventure. It was not 
 fuUv revealed uniil later on what dilhcult terms, physical as well as 
 meUarmkeiiB heM the tenure of his imaginative life; but a ready I 
 l^^^ew enough to .ioubt the wisdom of what he was at present under- 
 Hki^R n all intellectual labour, his will prevailed so s rongly when he 
 xecUt n any object of desire, thai what else its attainment might 
 cx'ict w s ne7er duly measure ... and this led to frequent strain and 
 untmictois waste of what no man could less aiTord to spare, lo the 
 3dS\cnedbyhiswork.itspn)ducticMimig1itnlwayshavefleemed 
 
 ouite a^^ e^^^^^^ its enjoyment! but it may be doubted If ever any 
 man's mentJl effort cost him more. His habits were robust, but not 
 
 s hea th that secret had been disclosed to me before he went to 
 Amedca an(l to the last he dccide.lly refused lo admit the enormous 
 pr^e he ha P^ Ms triumphsandsuccesses. The morningafter his 
 
 ast note 1 I card again. "1 have been so very unwell this morning, 
 witli gidcl ness and headache, and botheration of one sort or other, 
 U at 1 n't get up till noon: and. shunning Fleet Street ( Ij^ on.ce 
 of he pr posed new paper), "am now going for a country walk, in the 
 cour^e^of which you will find me. if you feel disposed to come away in 
 the c irriaee that goes to you with this. U is to call for a pull of the 
 ft St p^^^^^^^ Te Cricket, L\ will bring you. if you ike. by way o 
 ilaUsiead to me. and subsequently to dinner. There is much I should 
 like to discuss, if you can manage it. It's the loss of my walks I 
 suppose but 1 am as giddy as if I were drunk, and can hardly see^ I 
 pave hir from sufhcient importance at the time to the frecpiency of com- 
 Xin ts o this kind, or ti the recurrence, at almost regular periods 
 a ter the year following the present of those spasms in the side of 
 which he has recorded an instance in the recollections of his childhood. 
 
 UK of w^^^^^^ «n attack in Genoa; but though tiot conscious 
 
 it to Us full extent, this consideration was among tho e that influ- 
 
 or It to Its lu '^^^. ^^ ntnrlppvniir to tum him from what 
 
 could n^t but be regarded as full of peril. His health, however, had no 
 
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492 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 real prominence in my letter; and it is strange now to observe that it 
 appears as an argument in his reply. I had simp'y put before him, in 
 the strongest form, all the considerations d-awn from his genius and 
 fame that should deter him from the labour and responsibility of a 
 daily paper, not less than from the party and political involvements 
 incident to it; and here was the material part of the answer made: 
 "Many thanks for your affectionate letter, which is full of generous 
 truth. These considerations weigh with me, heavily: but 1 think I 
 descry in these times, greater stimulants to such an effort; greater 
 chance of some fair recognition of it, greater means of preserving in it, 
 or retiring from it unscratched by any weapon one should care for; 
 than at any other period. And most of all I have, sometimes, t).at 
 possibility of failing health or fading popularity before me, which 
 beckons me to such a venture when it comes within my reach. At the 
 worst, I have written to little purpose, if 1 cannot write my^Uf right 
 in people's minds, in such a case as this." 
 
 And so it went on: but it does not fall within my plan to describe 
 more than the issue, which was to be accounted so far at least fortu- 
 nate that it established a journal which has advocated steadily im- 
 provements in the condition of all classes, rich as well a^ poor, and 
 has been able, during late momentous occurrences, to give wider 
 scope to its influence by its enterprise and liberaltv. To that result, the 
 great writer whose name gave its earliest att action to the Daily 
 News was not enabled to contribute much; but from him it certainly 
 received the first impress of the opinions it has since consistently- 
 maintained. Its prospectus is before me in his handwriting, but it 
 bears upon itself sufficiently the character of his hand and mind. The 
 paper would be kept free, it said, from personal influence or party 
 bias; and would be devoted to the advocacy of all rational and honest 
 means by which wrong might be redressed, just rights maintained, 
 and the happiness and welfare of society promoted. 
 
 The day for the appearance of its first number was that which was 
 to follow Peel's speech for the repeal of the Corn Laws; but, brief 
 as my allusions to the subject are, the remark should be made that 
 even before this day came there were interruptions to the work of 
 preparation, at one time very grave, whicu threw such "changes of 
 vexation" on Dickens's personal relations ' , th'^ v :iture as went far 
 to destroy both his faith and his pleasure lu it. No opinion need be 
 offered as to where most of the blame lay, and it would be useless now 
 to apportion the share that might possibly have belonged to himself; 
 but, owing to this cause, his editorial work began with such dimin- 
 ished ardour that its brief continuance could not but be looked for. 
 A 'ittle note written "before going home" at six o'clock in the morn- 
 iiig ot Wednesday, 21 January, 1846, to tell me they had "been at 
 press i hree-quarters of an hour, and were out before The Times," 
 marks the beginning; and a note written m .he night of Monday, '9 
 
 -J ..,v« I.-.. vi--tt.vix Kiivt --j^Liii-w -.Tf^in uui., Lu aay mm. no haci 
 
 ■just resigned his editorial functions, describes the end. I had not been 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 493 
 
 unprepared. A week before (Friday. 30 January) he had written: 
 "I want a long talk with you. I was obliged to come down here in a 
 hurry to give out a travelling letter I meant to have given out last 
 night, and could not call upon yt,u. Will you dine with us to-morrow 
 at six sharp? 1 tiave been revolving plans in my mind this morning 
 for quitting the paper and going abroad again to write a new book 
 in shilling numbers. Shall we go to Rochester to-morrow week (my 
 birthday) if the weather be, as it surely must be, better?" To Roch- 
 ester accordingly we had gone, he and Mrs. Dickens and her sister, 
 with Maclise and Jerrold and myself; going over the old Castle! 
 Watts's Charity, and Chatham fortifications on the Saturday, passing' 
 Sunday in Cobham church and Cobham Park; having our quarters 
 both days at the "Bull" Inn made famous in Pickwick; and thus, 
 by indulgence of the desire which was always strangely urgent in him! 
 associating his new resolve in life with those earliest scenes of his 
 youthful time. On one point our feeling had been in thorough agree- 
 ment. If long continuance with the paper was not likely, the earliest 
 possible departure from it was desirable. But as the letters descriptive 
 of his Italian travel (turned afterwards into Pictures from Italy) had 
 begun with its first number, his name could not at once be withdrawn; 
 and. for the time durirr; which they were still to appear he consented 
 to contribute other occasional letters on important social questions. 
 Public executions and Ragged Schools were among the subjects 
 chosen by him, and all were handled with conspicuous ability, But 
 the interval they covered was a short one. 
 
 To the supreme control which he had quitted, I succeeded, retain- 
 ing it very reluctantly for the greater part of that weary, anxious, 
 laborious year; but in little more than four months from the day the 
 paper started, the whole of Dickens's connection with the Daily 
 News, even that of contributing letters with his signature, had ceased. 
 As he said in the preface to the republished Pictures, it was a mistake, 
 in so departing from his old pursuits, to have disturbed the old rela- 
 tions between himself and his readers. It had, however, been "a brief 
 mistake"; the departure had been only "for a moment"; and now 
 those pursuits were "joyfully" to be resumed in Switzerland 
 
 II 
 
 RETREAT TO SWITZERLAND 
 18^6 
 
 Very pleasant were the earliest impressions of Switzerland with 
 b his fuse letter closed. "The country is delightful in the 
 extreme— as leafy, green, and shady, as England; full of deep glens 
 
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494 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 kj 
 
 and branchy places (rather a Leigh Huntish expression), and bright 
 with all sorts of flowers in profusion. It abounds in singing birds be- 
 sides—very pleasant after Italy; and the moonlight on the lake is 
 noble. Prodigious mountains rise up from its opposite shore (it is eight 
 or nine miles across, at this point), and the Simplon, the St. Gothard, 
 Mon : Blanc and all the Alpine wonders are piled there, in tremendous 
 grandeur. The cultivation is uncommonly rich and profuse. There are 
 all manner of walks, vineyard, green lanes, cornfields, and pastures 
 full of hay. The general neatness is as remarkable as in England. 
 There are no priests or monks in the streets, and the people appear to 
 be industrious and thriving. French (and very intelligible and pleas- 
 ant French) seems to be the universal language. I never saw so many 
 booksellers' shops crammed within the same space, as in the steep 
 up-and-down streets of L.ausanne." . . . 
 
 In the heart of these things he was now to live 9nd work for at least 
 six months; and, as the love of nature was as much a passion with 
 him in his intervals of leisure, as the craving fo.- crowds and streets 
 when he was busy with the creatures of his fancy, no man was better 
 qualified to enjoy what was thus open to him from his little farm 
 
 Regular evening walks of nine or ten miles were named in the 
 next letter (22 June) as having been begun; and thoughts of his 
 books were already stirring in him. "An odd shadowy undefined idea 
 is at work within me, that I could connect a great battlefield some- 
 how with my little Christmas story. Shapeless visions of the repose 
 and peace pervading it in after-time; with the corn and grass growing 
 over the slain, and people singing at the plough; are so perpetually 
 floating before me, that I cannot but think there may turn out to be 
 something good in them when I see them more plainly. ... I want 
 to get Four Numbers of the monthly book done here, and the Christ- 
 mas book. If all goes well, and nothing changes, and I can accomplish 
 this by the end of November, I shall run over to you in England for a 
 few days with a light heart, and leave Roche to move the caravan to 
 Paris in the meanwhile. It will be just the very point in the story 
 when the life and crowd of that extraordinary place will come vividly 
 to my assistance in writing." Such was his design and, though 
 difficulties not now seen started up which he had a hard fight o get 
 through, he managed to accomplish it. . . . 
 
 Only a couple of weeks, themselves not idle ones, had passed over 
 him when he made a dash at the beginning of his work; from which 
 indeed he had only been detained so long by the non-arrival of a box 
 despatched from London before his own departure, containing not 
 his proper writing materials only, but certain quaint little bronze 
 figures that thus early stood upon his desk, and were as much needed 
 for the easy flow of his writing as blue ink or quill pens. "I have not 
 been idle (28th of June) since I have been here, though at first I was 
 'kept out' of the big box as you know. I had a good deal to write for 
 I^rd John about the Ragged Schools. I set to work and did that. A 
 good deal for Miss Coutts, in reference to her charitable projects. I 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 495 
 
 set to work and did that. Half of the children's New Testament to 
 write, or pretty nearly. I set to work and did that. Next I cleared off 
 the greater part of such correspondence as I had rashly pledged 
 myself to; and then ... 
 
 BEGAN DOMBEy! 
 
 I performed this feat yesterday — only wrote the first slip — but there 
 it is, and it is a plunge straight over head and ears into the story. 
 . . . Besides all this, I have really gone with great vigour at the 
 French, where I find myself greatly assisted by the Italian; and 
 am subject to two descriptions of mental fits in reference to the 
 Christmas book: one, of the suddenest and wildest enthusiasm; one, 
 of solitary and anxious consideration. ... By the way, as I was 
 unpacking the big box I took hold of a book, and said to 'Them,'— 
 'Now, whatever passage my thumb rests on, I shall take as having 
 reference to my work.' It was Tristram Shandy, and opened at 
 these words, 'What a work it is likely to turn out! Let us begin it!' " 
 
 The same letter told me that he still inclined strongly to "the field 
 of battle notion" for his Christmas volume, but was not as yet 
 advanced in it; being curious first to see whether its capacity seemed 
 to strike me at all. My only objection was to his adventure of opening 
 two stories at once, of which he did not yet see the full danger; 
 but for the moment the Christmas fancy was laid aside, and not 
 resumed, except in passing allusions, until after the close of August, 
 when the first two numbers of Domhey were done. The interval 
 supplied fresh illustration of his life in his new home, not without 
 much interest; and as I have shown what a pleasant social circle, 
 "wonderfully friendly and hospitable to the last, already had 
 grouped itself round him m Lausanne, and how full of matter to be 
 heard and learned he found such institutions as its prison and blind 
 school, the picture will receive attractive touches if I borrow from 
 his letters written during this outset of Dombey some further notices 
 as well as of general progress of his work, as of what was specially 
 interesting and amusing to him at the time and of how the country 
 and the people impressed him. In all of these his character will be 
 found strongly marked. 
 
 m 
 
496 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 
 4 , 
 
 ii 
 
 f i 
 
 4 i. 
 
 Ill 
 
 SWISS PEOPLE AND SCENERY 
 1846 
 
 . . .Of the ordinary Swiss people he formed from the first a 
 high opinion which everything during his stay among them con- 
 firmed. He thought it the greatest injustice to call them "the 
 Americans of th. Continent." In his first letters he said of the 
 peasantry aU about Lausanne that they were as pleasant a people 
 as need be. He never passed, on any of the roads, man. woman o? 
 Child, without a salutation; and anything churlish or disigreeaWe he 
 never noticed in them. "They have not," he continued, ''the sweet! 
 ness and grace of the Italians, or the agreeable manners of the better 
 specimens of French peasantry, but they are admirably educated 
 the schools of this canton are extraordinarily good in every Httle 
 village), and always prepared to give a civil and pleasant Answer 
 1 here is no greater mistake. ... ^ ^ «- answer. 
 
 A letter of a little later date, describing a marriage on the farm 
 gave some further comical illustration of the rifle-firing propensS 
 of the Swiss, and had otherwise also whimsical touches of cKcer 
 h?rZ^ ^u ^^"^'M People-a sister. I think-was married from 
 here the other day It is wonderful to see how naturally the smalleS 
 girls are interested m marriages. Katey and Mamey were asTxcited 
 as If they were eighteen. Ine fondness of the Swiss for gunpowder on 
 intereslmg occasions, is one of the drollest things. For three davs 
 before, the farmer himself, in the midst of his virions agrLuUural 
 duties plunged out of a little door near my windows, about onceTn 
 every hour, and fired off a rifle. I thought he was shooting rats who 
 were spoiling the vines; but he wac merely relieving hi! m nd it 
 seemed on the subject of the approaching nuptials. All night a t'er- 
 wards, he and a small circle of friends k?pt perpetually fttirV off 
 guns under the casement of the bridaL chamber. A Bride is a\LZ 
 drest here in black silk; but this bride wore merino of that cl/r 
 observing to her mother when she bought it (the old lady is 82 and 
 works on the farm), 'You know, mother. I am sure to wa/t mourning 
 for you. soon; and the same gown will do.' " "mourning 
 
 Meanwhile, day by day. he was steadily moving on with his first 
 number; feeling sometimes the want of streets in an "extraordinarv 
 nervousness it would be hardly possible to describe." that would 
 come upon him after he had been writing all day; but ^11 otherThnes 
 findmg the repose of the place very favourable to industry "I am 
 writing slowly at first of course" (5 July), "but I hope I shall hav^ 
 fimshed the first number in the course of a fortnight at ZiLTr 
 nave done the first chapter, and begun another. ... '" """ " 
 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 497 
 
 le first a 
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 answer. 
 
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 Densities 
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 ... But when the fourth chapter yet was incomplete, _ 2 could 
 repress no longer the desire to write to me of what he was doing 
 (18 July). "I think the general idea of Dombey is interesting and new, 
 and has great material in it. But I don't like to discuss it with you 
 till you have read number one, for fear I should spoil its effect When 
 done— about Wednesday or Thursday, please God— I will send it in 
 two days' posts, seven letters each day. If you have it set at once (I 
 am afraid you couldn't read it, otherwise than in print) I know you 
 will impress on B. & E. the necessity of the closest secrecy. The very 
 name getting out, would be ruinous. The points for illustration, and 
 the enormous care required, make me excessively anxious.' The 
 man for Dombe> , if Browne could see him, the class man to a T, is 
 
 Sir A E , of D 's. Great pains will be necessary with Miss 
 
 Tox. The Toodle Family should not be too much caricatured, because 
 of Polly. I should like Browne to think of Susan Nipper, who will not 
 be wanted in the first number. After the second number, they will all 
 be nine or ten years older; but this will not involve much change in 
 the characters, except in the children and Miss Nipper. What a 
 brilliant thing to be telling you all these names so familiarly, when 
 you know nothing about 'em ! I quite enjoy it. By the by, I hope you 
 may like the introduction of Solomon Gills. I think he lives in a good 
 sort of house. ..." 
 
 His letter (2 August) described his own first real experience of 
 mountain travel. "I begin my letter to-night, but only begin, for we 
 returned from Chamonix in time for dinner just now, and are pretty 
 considerably done up. We went by a mountian pass not often crossed 
 by ladies, called the Col de Balme, where your imagination may 
 picture Kate and Georgy on mules /or ten hotirs at a stretch -iding up 
 and down the most frightful precipices. . . . You may suppose 
 that the mule-travelling is pretty primitive. Each person takes a 
 carpet-bag strapped on the mule behind himself or herself: and that 
 is all the baggage that can be carried. A guide, a thorough-bred 
 moun':aineer, walks all the way, leading the lady's mule; I say lady's 
 par excellence, in compliment to Kate; and all the rest struggle on as 
 they please. The cavalcade stops at a lone hut for an hour and a half 
 in the middk of the day, and lunches brilliantly on whatever it can 
 get. Going by that Col de Balme pass, you climb up and up and up for 
 five hours and more, and look — from a mere unguarded ledge of path 
 on the side of the precipice — into such awful valleys, that at last you 
 are firm in the belief that j'-ou have got everything in the world, and 
 that there can be nothing earthly overhead. ... I was very 
 anxious to make the expedition to what is called 'The Garden': a 
 green spot covered with wild flowers, lying across the Mer de Glace, 
 and among the most awful mountains: but I could find no Englishman 
 at the hotels who was similarly disposed, and the Brave [i.e. Roche, 
 his servant] wouldn't ^o. No, sir! He gave in point blank (having 
 been horribly blown in a climbing excursion the day before), and 
 couldn't stand it. He is too heavy for such work, unquestionably. In 
 
 : f» .il 
 
 I 
 
498 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 :>i i 
 
 ■ > t 
 I* ^ ' 
 
 i I 
 
 all other respects. I think he has exceeded himself on this journey 
 and if you could have seen him riding a very small mule up a road 
 exactly like the broken stairs of Rochester Castle, with a brandy 
 bottle slung over his shoulder, a small pie in his hat, a roast fowl 
 lookmg out of his pocket, and a mountain staff of six feet long 
 carried crosswise on the saddle before him, you'd have said so He 
 was (next to me) the admiration of Chamonix, but he utterly 
 quenched me on the road." ^ 
 
 On the road as they returned there had been a small adventure the 
 day before this letter was written. Dickens was jingling slowly up 
 the Tete Noire pass (his mule having thirty-seven bells on its head) 
 riding at the moment quite alone, when— "an Englishman came 
 bolting out of a little chaletain, a most inaccessible and extraordinary 
 place, and said with great glee, "There has been an accident here sir i' 
 I had been thinking of anything else you please! and, having no 
 reason to suppose him an Englishman except his language which 
 went for nothing in the confusion, stammered out a reply in French 
 and stared at him, in a very damp shirt and trousers, as he stared at 
 me in a similar costume. On his repeating the announcement I began 
 to have a glimmering of common sense; and so arrived at a know- 
 ledge of the fact that a German lady had been thrown from her mule 
 and had broken her leg, at a short distance off, and had found her way 
 in great pain to that cottage, where the Englishman, a Prussian and 
 a Frenchman, had presently come up; and the Frenchman by 
 extraordinary good fortune, was a surgeon! They were all from 
 Chamonix, and the three latter were walking in company It was 
 quite charming to see how attentive they were. The lady was from 
 Lausanne; where she had come from Frankfort to make excursions 
 with her two boys, who are at the college here, during the vacation 
 bhe had no other attendants, and the boys were crying and very 
 frightened. The Englishman was in the full glee of having just cut 
 up one white dress, two chemises, and three pocket-handkerchiefs 
 for bandages; the Frenchman had just set the leg skilfully the 
 Prussian had scoured a neighbouring wood for some men to carry her 
 forward; and they were all at it, behind the hut, making a sort of 
 hand-barrow on which to bear her. Wheij it was constructed she was 
 strapped upon it; had her poor head covered over with a handker- 
 chief, and was carried away; and we all went on in company: Kate and 
 Georgy consoling and tending the sufferer, who was very cheerful 
 but had lost her husband only a year." With the same delightfui 
 observation, and missing no touch of kindly character that might 
 give each actor his place in the little scene, the sequel is described- 
 but It does not need to add more. It was hoped that by means of 
 relays of men at Martigny the poor lady might have been carried on 
 some twenty miles, m the cooler evening, to the head of the lake and 
 sr have been got into the steamer; but she was too exhausted to be 
 borne beyond the inn, and there she had to remain until joined bv 
 relatives from Frankfort. ... ■* .. 
 
 of 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 499 
 
 IV 
 
 SKETCHES CHIEFLY PERSONAL 
 
 1846 
 
 Some sketches from the life in his pleasantest vein now claim to be 
 taken from the same series of letters; and I will prefix one or two less 
 important notices, for the most part personal also, that have char- 
 acteristic mention of his opinions in them: — "I am very sorry to hear 
 of Haydon's death. If any subscription be proposed, put me down for 
 five pounds." An unfortunate son of Leigh Hunt died also just at 
 this time, and I preserve the allusion to him for the opportunity of 
 explaining it. "I quite shuddered at John Hunt's having applied to 
 that generous duke. It went against the grain with me, sorely, after 
 the story of the two hundred pounds. I don't know v/hat I should 
 have done, if I had been Hunt." The duke was the lat'^ Duke of 
 Devonshire; and the story was this. During the delay of the promised 
 production of Leigh Hunt's first play, he asked the duke for ;^20o as a 
 loan for two years; and the duke replied by taking the money himself 
 to Hunt's house in Edwardes Square. On the last day of the second 
 year within which repayment was promised, Hunt sent back the 
 ^200; and was startled, the morning after, by another visit from the 
 duke, who pressed upon him its reacceptance as a gift. He added that 
 there would be no obligation, for he was himself Hunt's debtor. He 
 was ill when he asked for the loan, and it had done him good to 
 comply with the request. Never but once before had borrowed 
 money ever come back to him, and he should always retain the sense 
 of pleasure which its return had occasioned. "He remained grateful." 
 It is a charming story, and hard to say who shows in it to the greatest 
 advantage. Hunt or the duke. ... 
 
 [In another letter] "... There are two old ladies (English) 
 living here who may serve me for a few lines of gossip — as I have 
 intended they should, over and over again, but I have always for- 
 gotten it. There were originally four old ladies, sisters, but two of 
 them have faded away in the course of eighteen years, and withered 
 by the side of John Kemble in the cemetery. They are very little and 
 very skinny; and each of them wears a row of false curls, like little 
 rolling-pins, so low upon her brow, that there is no forehead; nothing 
 above the eyebrows but a deep horizontal wrinkle, and then the 
 curls. They live upon some small annuity. For thirteen years they 
 have wanted very much to move to Italy, as the eldest old lady says 
 the climate of this part of Switzerland doesn't agree with her, and 
 preys upon her spirits; but they have never been able to go, because 
 of the difficulty of moving 'the books.' This tremendous library 
 
 ii 
 
 i 
 
 3 
 
500 
 
 The Life of Charles D.ckens 
 
 ■t. 
 
 r •; 
 
 i 
 
 belonged once upon a time to the father of these old ladies and 
 comprises about fifty volumes. I have never been able to see ' /.at 
 they are because one of the old ladies ahva.s sits before th'nr but 
 they look, outside, like very old backganmon boar£ 'Ke two 
 deceased sis ers died in the firm persu- .^ion that this p^ecio^s 
 property could never be got overtheSimpIon without some giSr?Mc 
 
 sisters live and will die also, in the same belief. I met the eldest 
 (evicenly drooping) yesterday, and recommended her to try Genoa 
 She looked shrewdly at the snow that closes up the mountain pros^ 
 pect just now, and said when the spring was quite setT andThe 
 
 trv thnt ' V" -IT'' ^""^^ V^^ ^"^''^ ^^" «P^" «^^- woula'cer" ainl^ 
 try that place, if they could devise any plan, in the course of the 
 winter, for moving 'the books.' The whole library wiH be sr?ld by 
 auction here, when they are both dead, for about a napoleon and 
 
 """tUu^A Tr^'" '? " ""'W ^°"^" ^^ t^° J°"^"^y« with a bask '• 
 The ast letter sent me before he fell upon his self-appointed • c-k 
 for Christmas conrained a delightful account of the trip to he o'^elt 
 St. Bernard. It was dated on 6 September. 
 
 th7crZ''f!'%''^''^''^'^''^I clearing, we started off last Tuesday for 
 the Great St. Bernard, returning here on Friday afternoon The 
 party consisted of eleven people and two servants-Haldimand Mr 
 
 Tavl^/^K 7^"^""^ ^"' ''V'^''''' ^''- ^"d ^^^^- "^'^'^on, two Ladies 
 cWrfnl ; ^'"'^r- ""''i ^- ^^^" ^^^^^ wonderfully unanimous and 
 
 tion IwhnT '"'T ^'""^ ^"'? ^y '^^" ''''■'''''' f«""d at its destina- 
 tion a whole omnibus provided by the Brave (who went on in advance 
 everywhere ; rode therein to Bex; found two large carriages ready to 
 take us to Martigny; slept there; and proceeded up the mountaiifon 
 mules next day. Although the St. Bernard convent is. as I da?e say 
 you know, the highest inhabited spot but one in the world the asceS 
 IS extremely gradual and uncommonly easy: really presenting no 
 thfont^'' 1 "'^ until within the last league,\vhen t^e'^Lscent Tying 
 through a place called the valley of desolation, is very awf d and 
 
 Sfnf sn:;:■"Tho^"'' ";^"'^^^'' '°^^^°"^^ by ^cattei-yrocks and 
 melting snow. The convent is a most extraordinary place, full of 
 
 great vaulted passages, divided from each other with iVon gratings 
 
 and presentmg a series of the most astonishing little dormitories' 
 
 where the windows are so small (on account of the cold and sno"v ' 
 
 that it is as much as one can do to get one's head out of them Here 
 
 we sdept: supping, thirty strong, in a rambling room with a great 
 
 wood-fire in it set apart for that purpose; with a grim monk ^[n a 
 
 high black sugar-loaf hat with a great knob at the top of it carv^g 
 
 the dishes At five o'clock in the morning the chapel bell rang in SI 
 
 dismallest way for matins: and I, lying in%ed closj to the chape" and 
 
 bemg awakened by the solemn organ and the chaunting. thought for 
 
 a momenr I had died in the night and passed into the unknownVorld 
 
 1 wish to God you could see that olace. A preat bollo"' -n '-^c 
 
 top oi a range of dreadful mountains; fenced in by riven 'ro^cks of 
 
dies, and 
 see a'-iEt 
 hem; but 
 The two 
 
 precious 
 jgiganUc 
 cmaining 
 ]ie eldest 
 y Genoa, 
 ain pros- 
 
 and the 
 certainly 
 se of the 
 ! sold by 
 pon; and 
 basket.'* 
 ilcd tcisk 
 he Great 
 
 sday for 
 on. The 
 and, Mr. 
 3 Ladies 
 ous and 
 destina- 
 advance 
 ready to 
 itain on 
 lare say 
 c; ascent 
 ting no 
 it, lying 
 fill and 
 cks and 
 
 full of 
 ratings; 
 litories, 
 
 snow), 
 n. Here 
 a great 
 ik, in a 
 :arving 
 I in the 
 »el, and 
 ght for 
 world, 
 on the 
 )cks of 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 501 
 
 everysLap^ r.nd colour: and in the midst, a black lake, with phantom 
 clouds perpetually stalking over it. Peaks, and points, and plains of 
 eternal ice c..:d snow, bounding the view, and shutting out the world 
 on every s.de: the Jake reflecting nothing: and no human figure in 
 the scene. Ttc '.ir so fine, that it is difficult to breathe without feeling 
 out of oreath; ;-.nd tho cold so exquisitely thin and sharp that it is 
 not [-J be c.escnoed. Nothing of life or living interest in the picture, 
 but the grc 7 dull walls of the convent. No vegetation of any sort or 
 kind. Nothing growing, nothing stirring. Everything iron-bound, and 
 frozen up. Beside the convent, in a little outhouse with a grated iron 
 door which you may unbolt for yourself, are the bodies of people 
 found in the snow who have never been claimed and are withering 
 away— not laid down, or stretched out, but standing up, in corners 
 and against walls; some erect and horribly human, with distinct 
 expressions on the faces; some sunk down on their knees; some drop- 
 ping over on one side; some tumbled down altogether, and presenting 
 a heap of skulls and fibrous dust. There is no other decay in that 
 atmosphere; and there they remain during the short days and the 
 long nights, the only human company out of doors, withering away 
 by grains, and holding ghastly possession of the mountain where 
 they died. 
 
 "It is the most distinct and individual place I have seen, even in 
 this transcendent country. But, for the Saint Jiernard holy fathers 
 and convent in themselves, I am sorry to say that they are a piece of 
 as sheer humbug as we ever learnt to believe in, in our young days. 
 Trashy French sentiment and the dogs (of which, by the by, there 
 are only three remaining) have done it all. They are a lazy'set of 
 fellows; not over fond of going out themselves; employing servants 
 to clear the road (which has not been important or much used as a 
 pass these hundred years); rich; and driving a good trade in Innkeep- 
 mg: the convent being a common tavern in everything but the sign. 
 No charge is made for their hospitality, to be sure; but you are shown 
 to a box in the chapel, where everybody puts in more than could, 
 with any show of face, be charged for the entertainment; and from 
 this the establishment derives a right good income. As to the self- 
 sacrifice of living up there, they are obliged to go there young, it is 
 true, to be inured to the climate: but it is an infinitely more exciting 
 and various life than any other convent can offer; with constant 
 change and company through the v^rhole summer; with a hospital for 
 invalids down in the valley, which affords another change; and with 
 an annual begging-journey to Geneva and this place and all the places 
 round for one brother or other, which affords further change. The 
 brother who carved at our supper could speak some English, and 
 had just had Pickwick given him !— what a humbug he will think me 
 when he tries to understand it ! If I had had any other book of mine 
 with me, I would have given it him, that I might have had some 
 chance of being intelligible. ..." 
 
502 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 [After working for some time at Lausanne, Dickens proceeded to 
 Geneva.] 
 
 He found it to be a very good place; pleasantly reporting himself 
 as quite dismayed at first by the sight of gas in it, and as trembling at 
 the noise in its streets, which he pronounced to be fully equal to the 
 uproar of Richmond in Surrey; but deriving from it some soit of 
 benefit both in health and in writing. So far his trip had been suc- 
 cessful, though he had to leave the place hurriedly to welcome his 
 English visitors to Rosemont. 
 
 One social and very novel experience he had in his hotel, however, 
 the jiight before he left, which may be told before he hastens back to 
 Lausanne; for it could hardly now offend anyone even if the names 
 were given. "And now, sir, I will describe, modestly, tamely, literally, 
 the visit to the r,mall select circle which I promised should make your 
 hair stand on e.id. In our hotel were a Mother and a Daughter, who 
 came to the Peschiere shortly before we left it, and who have a deep 
 admiration for your humble servant the inimitable B. They are both 
 very clever. Daughter, extremely well-informed in languages living 
 and dead, books, and gossip; very pretty; with two little children, and 
 not yet five and twenty. Mother, plump, fresh, and rosy; matronly, 
 both full of spirits and good looks. Nothing would serve them but we 
 must dine with them; and accordingly, on Friday at six, we went 
 down to their room. I knew them to be rather odd. For instance, I 
 have knovm the Mother, /«// dressed, walk alone through the streets'of 
 Genoa, the squalid Italian by-streets, to the Governor's soiree; and 
 announce herself at the palace of state, by knocking at the door. I 
 have also met the Daughter full dressed, without any cap or bonnet, 
 walking a mile to the opera, with all sorts of jingling jewels about 
 her, beside a sedan chair in which sat enthroned her mama. Conse- 
 quently, I was not surprised at such little sparkles in the conversa- 
 tion (from the young lady) as 'Oh God what a sermon we had here 
 last Sunday!' 'And did you ever read such infernal trash as Mrs. 
 Gore's?' — and the like. Still, but for Kate and Georgy (who were 
 decidedly in the way, as we agreed afterwards), I should have thought 
 it all very funny; and, as it was, I threw the ball back again, was 
 mighty free and easy, made some rather broad jokes, and was highly 
 applauded. 'You smoke, don't you?' said the young ladv. in a pause 
 of this kind of conversation. 'Yes,' I said, 'I generally take a cigar after 
 dinner when I am alone.' 'I'll give you a good 'un,' said she, 'when we 
 go upstairs.' Well sir, in due course we went jpstairs, and there we 
 were joined by an American lady residing in the same hotel, who 
 looked like what we call in old England 'a reg'lar Bunter' — fluffy face 
 (rouged); considerable development of figure; one gvoggy eye; blue 
 satin dress made low with short sleeves, and shoes of the same. Also 
 a daughter; face likewise fluffy; figure likewise developed; dress like- 
 wise low, with short sleeves, and shoes of the same; and one eye not 
 y«?v vv!^t««ixjf £^iV55j-, t^uL oOiiig Lu uc. xi.uii;iicaii lauy raamea at six- 
 teen; American daughter sixteen now, often mistaken for sisters, etc. 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 503 
 
 ceded to 
 
 I himself 
 nbling at 
 lal to the 
 } SOit of 
 
 )een suc- 
 ;ome his 
 
 lowever, 
 1 back to 
 e names 
 literally, 
 ike your 
 ter, who 
 e a deep 
 ire both 
 es living 
 ren, and 
 atronly, 
 1 but we 
 ive went 
 tance, I 
 treets of 
 ree; and 
 door. I 
 bonnet, 
 Is about 
 . Conse- 
 )nversa- 
 lad here 
 as Mrs. 
 tio were 
 thought 
 lin, was 
 s highly 
 a pause 
 far after 
 v^hen we 
 here we 
 el, who 
 iffy face 
 /e; blue 
 le. Also 
 3ss like- 
 eye not 
 i at six- 
 ers, etc. 
 
 When that was over, the younger of our entertainers brought out a 
 cigar box. and gave me a cigar, made of negrohead she said, which 
 would quell an elephant in six whiffs. The box was full of cigarettes — 
 good large ones, made of pretty strong tobacco; I always smoke them 
 here, and used to smoke them at Genoa, and I knew them well. When 
 I lighted my cigar. Daughter lighted hers at mine; leaned against the 
 mantelpiece, in conversation with me; put out her stomach, folded her 
 arms, and with her pretty face cocked up sideways and her cigarette 
 smoking away like a Manchester cotton mill, laughed, and talked, and 
 smoked, in the most gentlemanly manner I ever beheld. Mother 
 immediately lighted her cigar; American lady immediately lighted 
 hers; and in five minutes the room was a cloud of smoke, with us' four 
 in the centre pulling away bravely, while American lady related 
 stories of her 'Hookah' upstairs, and described different kinds of 
 pipes. But even this was not all. For presently two Frenchmen came 
 in, with whom, and the American lady, Daughter sat down to whist. 
 The Frenchmen smoked of course (they were really modest gentlemen 
 and seemed dismayed), and Daughter played for the next hour or 
 two with a cigar continually in her mouth — ^never out of it. She 
 certainly smoked six or eight. Mother gave in soon — I think she only 
 did it out of vanity. American lady had been smoking all the morning. 
 I took no more; and Daughter and the Frenchmen had it all to them- 
 selves. 
 
 "Conceive this in a great hotel, with not only their own servants, 
 but half a dozen waiters coming constantly in and out ! I showed no 
 atom of surprise, but I nevi. . was so surprised, so ridiculously taken 
 aback, in my life; for in all my experience of 'ladies' of one kind and 
 another, I never saw a woman — not a basket woman or a gipsy — 
 smoke, before!" He lived to have larger and wider experience, but 
 there was enough to startle as well as amuse him in the scene des- 
 cribed. 
 
 But now Saturday is come; he has hurried back for the friends who 
 are on their way to his cottage; and on his arrival, even before they 
 have appeared, he writes to tell me his better news of himself and his 
 work. 
 
 "In the breathless interval" (Rosemont, 3 October) "between our 
 return from Geneva and the arrival of the Talfourds (expected in 
 an hour or two), I cannot do better than write to you. For I think 
 you will be well pleased if I anticipate my promise, and Monday, at 
 the same time. I have been greatly better at Geneva, though I am 
 still made uneasy by occasional giddiness and headache: attributable, 
 I have not the least doubt, to the absence of streets. There is an 
 idea here, too, that people are occasionally made despondent and 
 sluggish in their spirits by this great mass of still water, Lake 
 Leman. At any rate I have been very uncomfortable: at any rate I 
 am, I hope, greatly better: and (lastly) at any rate I hope and trust, 
 now, the Christmas book will come in due course!! I have had three 
 very good days' work at Geneva, and I trust I may finish the second 
 
 ;■: -i 
 
504 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 part (the third is the shortest) by this day week. Whenever I finish 
 It. I will send you Lhe first two together. I do not think they can begin 
 to Illustrate it. until the third arrives; for it is a single-minded ston,- 
 as It were, and an artist shoukl know the end: which I don't think 
 very hkely. unless he reads it." Then, aftrr relating a superhuman 
 I A^ i^? ^^ makmg to lodge his visitors in his doll's house ("I 
 didn t like the idea of turning them out at night. It is so dark in these 
 lanes and groves, when the moon's not bright"), he sketched for me 
 what he possibly might, and really did, accomplish. He would bv 
 great efifort finish the small book on the 20th: would fly to Geneva 
 lor a week to work a little at Domhey, if he felt "pretty sound" in 
 any case would finish his numb.-^r three by the loth of November- 
 and on that day would start for Paris: "so that, instead of resting 
 unprcfitably here. I shall be using my interval of idleness to make 
 the journey and get into a new house, and shall hope so to put a 
 pmch of Palt on the tail of the sliding number in advance. . I am 
 horrified at the idea of getting the blues (and bloodshots) again " 
 1 hough I did not then know how gravely ill he had been. I was fain 
 to remind him that it was bad economy to make business out of rest 
 Itself; but I received prompt confirmation that all was falling out as 
 he wished. The Talfourds stayed two days: "and I think they were 
 very happy. He was in his best aspect; the manner so well known to 
 us, not the less lovable for being laughable; and if you could have 
 seen him going round and round the coach that brought them as a 
 preliminary to paying the voiturier to whom he couldn't speak' in a 
 currency he didn't understand, you never would have forgotteA it " 
 His iriends left Lausanne on the 5th; and five days later he sent me 
 two-thirds of the manuscript of his Christmas book. 
 
 THREE MONTHS IH PARIS 
 1846-7 
 
 He had begun his third number of Dombey on 26 October on the 
 4th of the following month he was half through it. on the 7th he was 
 m "the agonies" of its last chapter, and on the 9th, one day before 
 that proposed for its com-letion, all was done. This was marvellously 
 rapid work, after what else he had undergone; but within a week 
 Monday the iGth being the day for departure, they were to strike' 
 their tents, and troubled and sad were the few days thus left him for 
 preparation and farewell. He included in his leave-taking his deaf 
 
 dumb, and blind friends- and fo uqf i-*'-^ ^-..r., >,^-~.^i i * 
 
 yet more terribly down in the mouth' ' at taking leave of his hearing 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 505 
 
 speaking, and seeing friends. "I ihall see you soon, please God, and 
 that sets all to rights. But I don't believe *here are inany dots on 
 the map of the world where we shall have left such affectionate 
 remembrances behind us, as in Lausanne. It was quite miserable 
 this last night, when we left them at Haldimand's.'' 
 
 He shall himself describe how they travelled post to Paris, occu- 
 pying five days. "We got through the jcirney charmingly, though 
 not quite so quickly as ,ve hoped. The children as good as usual, and 
 even Skittles jolly to the last. That name has long superseded Samp- 
 son Brass, by the by. I call him so, from something skittle-playing 
 and public-housey in his countenance. We have been up at five 
 every morning, and on the road before seven. We were three carriages: 
 a sort of waggon, with a cabriolet attached, for the luggage; a ram- 
 shackle villainous old swing upon wheels (hired at Geneva), for the 
 children; and for ourselves, that travelling chariot which I was so 
 kind as to bring here for sale. It was very cold indeed crossing the 
 Jura nothing but fog and frost; but when we were out of Switzer- 
 land and across the French frontier, it became warmer, and con- 
 tinued so. We stopped at between six and seven each evening; had 
 two rather queer inns, wild French country inns; but the rest good. 
 They were three hours and a half examining the luggage at the fron- 
 tier custom-house — atop of a mountain, in a hard and biting frost; 
 where Anne and Roche had sharp work I assure you, and the latter 
 insisted on volunteering the most astonishing and unnecessary lies 
 about my books, for the mere pleasure of deceiving the officials. 
 When we were out of the mountain country, we came at a good pace, 
 but were a day late in getting to our hotel here." 
 
 They were in Paris when that was written; at the Hotel Brighton; 
 which they had reached in the evening of Friday, 20 November. 
 
 No man enjoyed brief residence in a hotel more than Dickens, but 
 ''several tons of luggage, other tons of servants, and other tons of 
 children" are not desirable accompaniments to this kind of life; and 
 his first day in Paris did not close before he had offered for an 
 "eligible mansion." That same Saturday night he took a "colossal" 
 walk about the city, of which the brilliancy and brightness almost 
 frightened him; and among other things that attracted his notice 
 was "rather a good book announced in a bookseller's window as 
 Les Mystdres de Londres par Sir TroUopp. Do you know him?" A 
 countryman better known had given him earlier greeting. "The first 
 man who took hold of me in the street, immediately outside this door, 
 was Bruffum in his check trousers, and without the proper number of 
 buttons on his shirt, who was going away this morning, he told me, 
 but coming back .n two months, when we would go and dine — at 
 some place known to him and fame." 
 
 Next day he took another long walk about the streets, and lost 
 himself fifty times. This was Sunday, and he hardly knew what to 
 say of it, as he saw it there and then. The bitter observance of that 
 day he always sharply resisted, believing a little rational enjoyment 
 
5o6 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 to be not opposed to either rest or religion; but here was another 
 matter. "The dirty churches, and the clattering c. rts and waggons, 
 and the open shops (I don't think I passed fifty shut up, in all my 
 strollings in and out), and the work-a-day dresses and drudgeries, are 
 not comfortable. Open theatres and so forth I am well used to, of 
 course, by this time; but so much toil and sweat on what one would 
 like to see, apart from religious observances, a sensible holiday, is 
 painful." 
 
 The date of his letter was 22 November, and it had three post- 
 scripts. The first, "Monday afternoon," told me a house was taken; 
 that, unless the agreement should break off or any unforeseen fight 
 between Roche and the agent ("a French Mrs. Gamp"), I was to 
 address him at No. 48 Rue de Courcelles, Faubourg, St. Honor6; and 
 that he would merely then advert to the premises as in his belief the 
 "most ridiculous, extraordinary, unparalleled, and preposterous" in 
 the whole world; being something between a baby-house, a "shades." 
 a haunted castle, and a mad kind of clock. "They belong to a Mar- 
 quis Castellan, and you will be ready to die of laughing when you go 
 over them." The second P.S. declared that his lips should be scaled 
 till I beheld for myself. "By Heaven it is not to be imagined by the 
 mind of man!" The third P.S. closed the letter. "One room is a tent. 
 Another room is a grove Another room is a scene at the Victoria. 
 The upstairs rooms are like fanlights over street-doors. The nurseries 
 — but no, no, no, no more! . . ." 
 
 His following letter nevertheless sent more, even in the form of an 
 additional protestation that never till I saw it should the place be 
 described. "I will merely observe that it .3 fifty yards long, and eigh- 
 teen feet high, and that the bedrooms are exactly like opera-boxes. 
 It has its little courtyard and garden, and porter's house and cordon 
 to open the door, and so forth: and is a Paris inansion in little. There 
 is a gleam of reason in the drawing-room. Being a gentleman's house, 
 and not one furnished to let, it has some very curious things in it; 
 some of the '^ddest things you ever beheld in your life; and an infinity 
 of easy chairs and sofas. . . . Bad weather. It is snowing hard. There 
 is not a door or window here — but that's nothing I there's not a door 
 or window in all Paris — that shuts; not a chink in all the billions of 
 trillions of chinks in the city that can be stopped to keep the wind 
 out. And the cold ! — but you shall judge for yourself; and also of this 
 preposterous dining-room. The invention, sir. of Henry Bulwer, who 
 when he had executed it (he used to live here), got frightened at 
 what he had done, as well he might, and went away. . . . The Brave 
 called me aside on Saturday night, and showed me an improvement 
 he had effected in the decorative way. 'Which,' he said, 'will very 
 much s'prise Mis'r Fors'er when he come.' You are to be deluded into 
 the belief that there is a perspective of chambers twenty miles in 
 length, opening from the drawing-room. ..." 
 
 I had frequent rcporfc of his progress with his famous fifth number, 
 on the completion of which I was to join him. The day at one time 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 507 
 
 seemed doubtful. "It would be miserable to have to work while you 
 were here. Still I make such sudden starts, and am so possessed of 
 what I am going to do, that the fear may prove to be quite ground- 
 less, and if any alteration would trouble you, let the 13th stand at 
 all hazards." The cold he described as so intense, and the price of fuel 
 so enormous, that though the house was not half warmed ("as you'll 
 say, when you feel it"), it cost him very near a pound a day. Begging- 
 letter writers had found out "Monsieur Dickens, le romancier 
 c616bre," and waylaid him at the door and in the street as numerously 
 as in London: their distinguishing peculiarity being that they were 
 nearly all of them "Chevaliers de la Garde Imp6riale de sa Majest6 
 Napol6on le Grand," and that their letters bore immense seals with 
 coats of arms as large as five-shilling pieces. His friends the Wat- 
 sons passed New Year's Day with him on their way to Rockingham 
 from Lausanne, leaving that country covered with snow and the 
 Bise blowing cruelly over it, but describing it as nothing to the cold 
 of Paris. On the day that closed the old year he had gone into the 
 Morgue and seen an old man with grey head lying there. "It seemed 
 the strangest thing in the world that it should have been necessary 
 to take any trouble to stop such a feeble, spent, exhausted morsel of 
 life. It was just dusk, when I went in; the place was empty; and he 
 lay there, all alone, like an impersonation of the wintry eigliteen 
 hundred and forty-six. ... I find I am getting inimitable, so I'll 
 
 stop." 
 
 The time for my visit [to him at Paris] having come, I had grateful 
 proof of the minute and thoughtful provision characteristic of him in 
 everything. Dinner had been ordered to the second at Boulogne, a 
 place in the walle-poste taken, and these and other services annouiiccd 
 in a letter, which, by way of doing its part also in the kindly work of 
 preparation, broke out into French. He never spoke that language 
 very well, his accent being somehow defective; but he practised him- 
 self into writing it with remarkable ease and fluency. "I have written 
 to the Hotel des Bains at Boulogne to send on to Calais and take your 
 place in the malle-poste. ... Of course you know that you'll be assailed 
 with frightful shouts all along the two lines of ropes, from all the 
 touters in Boulogne, and of course you'll pass on like the princess 
 who went up the mountain after the talking bird; but don't forget 
 quietly to single out the Hotel des Bains commissionnaire. The follow- 
 ing circumstances will then occur. My experience is more recent than 
 
 yo'urs, and I will throw them into a dramatic form You are filtered 
 
 into the little office, where there are some soldiers; and a gentleman 
 with a black beard and a pen and ink sitting behind a counter. Barbe 
 Noire (to the lord of L. L F.). Monsieur, votre passeport. Monsieur. 
 Monsieur, le voici ! Barbe Noire. Ou allez-vous, monsieur? Monsieur. 
 Monsieur, je vais k Paris. Barbe Noire. Quand allez-vous partir, 
 monsieur? Monsieur. Monsieur, je vais partir aujourd'hui. Avec la 
 malle-postc. Barbe Noire. C'est bien. (To Gendarme.) Laissez sortir 
 monsieur ! Gendarme. Par ici, monsieur, s'il vous plait. Le gendarme 
 
5o8 
 
 The Life of Chailes Dickens 
 
 ouvert une trds petite porte. Monsieur se trouve subitement entourd 
 tous les gamms, agents, commissionnaires, portcurs, et polissons 
 en g6n6ral. de Boulogne, qui s'elancent sur lui, en poussant des oris 
 epouvantables. Monsieur esc, pour le moment, tout-4-fait effray6 
 boulevers6. Mais monsieur reprend ses forces et dit, de L .ute voix' 
 Le Commissionnaire de I'Hotel des Bains!' Un petit homme (s'avan- 
 <;ant rapidejnent, et en souriant doucement). Me voici monsieur 
 Monsieur Fors Tair, nest-ce pas? . . . Mors . . . Mors monsieur se 
 prom^ne k I'Hotel des Bams, ou monsieur trouvera qu'un petit salon 
 particuher, en haut, est deja prepare pour sa reception, et que son 
 diner est dej^i commande. grace aux soins du brave Courier, a midi 
 et denu .... Monsieur mangera son diner prds du feu, avec beaucoup 
 de plaisir, et i' boirera de vin rouge k la sante de Monsieur de Boze et 
 sa famille interessante et aimable. La malle-poste arrivera au bureau 
 de la poste aux lettres a deux heures ou peut-etrc un peu plus tard. 
 Mais monsieur chargera le commissionnaire d'y I'accompagner de 
 bonne heure, car c'est beaucoup mieux de I'attendre que de la perdre. 
 La malle-poste arrivce, monsieur prendra sa place, aussi comfortable- 
 ment qu'il le pourra, et il y restera jusqu'a son arrivee au bureau de 
 a poste aux lettres a Paris. Parceque. le convoi {train) n'est pas 
 1 affaire de monsieur, qui gardera sa place dans la malle-poste, sur 
 le chemm de fer, et apres le chemin de fer, jusqu'il se trouve k la basse- 
 cour du bureau de la poste aux lettres a Paris, ou il trouvera une voi- 
 ture qui a 6te depeche de la Rue de Courcelles, quarante-huit Mais 
 monsieur aura la bont6 d'observer— Si le convoi arriverait k Amiens 
 aprds le depart du convoi a miniit, il faudrait y rester jusqu'a 
 1 arnvee d'un autre convoi a trois heures moins un quart. En attend- 
 ant, monsieur pent rester au buffet {yefreshment room), ou Ton peut 
 toujours trouver un bon feu, et du cafe rhaud, et de tr^s bonnes choses 
 a boire et k manger, pendant toute la nuit.— Est-ce que monsieur 
 comprend parfaitement toutes ces rdgles?— Vive le Roi des Francaisi 
 Roi de la nation la plus grande, et la plus noble, et la plus extra- 
 ordmau-ement merveilleuse, du monde ! A bas les Anglais ! 
 
 " Charles Dickens, 
 "Fran9ais naturalise, et Citoyen de Paris." 
 
 We passed a fortnight together, and cro\v'dcd into it more than 
 might seem possible to such a narrow space. One day we visited in the 
 Rue du Bac the sick and ailing Chateaubriand, whom we thought 
 like Basil Montagu; found ourselves at the other extreme of opinion 
 m the sculpture-room of David d'Angers; and closed that day at the 
 house of Victor Hugo, by whom Dickens was received with infinite 
 courtesy and grace. The great writer then occupied a floor in a noble 
 corner-house in the Place Royale, the old quarter of Ninon I'Enclos 
 and the people of the Regency, of whom the gorgeous tapestries, the 
 painted ceilings, the wonderful carvings and old golden furniture, 
 mc.iidmg a canopy of state out of some palace of the middle age, 
 quamtly and grandly reminded us. He was, himself, however, the best 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 509 
 
 thing we saw; and I find it difficult to associate the attitudes and aspect 
 in which the world has lately wondered at him, with the sober grace 
 and self-possessed quiet gravity of that night of twenty-five years ago. 
 Just then Louis Philippe had ennobled him, but the man's nature 
 was written noble. Rather under the middle size, of compact close- 
 buttoned-up figure, with ample dark hair falling loosely over his 
 close-shaven face, I never saw upon any features so keenly intellectual 
 such a soft and sweet gentility, and certainly never heard the French 
 language spoken with the picturesque distinctness given to it by 
 Victor Hugo. He talked of his childhood in Spain, and of his father 
 having been Governor of the Tagus in Napoleon's wars; spoke warmly 
 of the English people and their literature; declared his preference for 
 melody and simplicity over the music then fashionable at the Con- 
 servatoire; referred kindly to Ponsard, laughed at the actors who had 
 murdered his tragedy at the Odeon, and sympathised with the 
 dramatic venture of Dumas. To Dickens he addressed very charming 
 flattery, in the best taste; and my friend long remembered the enjoy- 
 ment of that evening. . . . 
 
 Our last talk before I quitted Paris, after dinner at the Embassy, 
 was of the danger underlying all this, and of the signs also visible 
 everywhere of the Napoleon-worship which the Orleanists themselves 
 had most favoured. Accident brought Dickens to England a fortnight 
 later, when again v/e met together, at Gore House, the self-contained 
 reticent man whose doubtful inheritance was thus rapidly preparing 
 to fail to him. 
 
 The accident was the having underwritten his number of Dombey 
 by two pages, which there was not time to supply otherwise than by 
 coming to London to write them. This was done accordingly; but 
 another, greater trouble followed. He had hardly returned to Paris 
 when his eldest son, whom I had brought to England with me and 
 placed in the house of Doctor Major, then headmaster of King's 
 College School, was attacked by scarlet fever; and this closed prenia- 
 turely Dickens's residence in Paris. But though he and his wife at 
 once came over, and were folIoM^ed after some days by the children 
 and their aunt, the isolation of the little invalid could not so soon be 
 broken through. His father at last saw him, nearly a month before 
 the rest, in a lodging in Albany Street, where his grandmother, Mrs. 
 Hogarth, had devoted herself to the charge of him; and an incident 
 of the visit, which amused us all very much, will not unfitly introduce 
 the subject that waits me in my next chapter. 
 
 An elderly charwoman employed about the place had shown so 
 much sympathy in the family trouble, that Mrs. Hogarth specially 
 told her of the approaching visit, and who it was that was coming 
 to the sick-room. "Lawk ma'am !" she said. "Is the young gentleman 
 upstairs the son of the man that put together Dombey V Reassured 
 upon this point, she explained her question by declaring that she 
 never thought there was a man that could have put together Dombey. 
 Being pressed further as to what her notion was of this mystery of a 
 
 I'i 
 
 J 
 
510 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 Dombey (for it was known she could not read), it turned out that she 
 lodged at a snuff-shop kept by a person named Douglas, where there 
 were several other lodgers; and that on the first Monday of every 
 month there was a Tea, and the landlord read the month's number of 
 Dombey, those only of the lodgers who subscribed to the tea partaking 
 of that luxury, but all having the benefit of the reading; and the 
 impression produced on the old charwoman revealed itself in the 
 remark with which she closed her account of it. "Lawk ma'am! I 
 thought that three or four men must have put together Dombey V 
 Dickens thought there was something of a compliment in this, and 
 was not ungrateful. 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 III 
 
 IV 
 
 V 
 VI 
 
 w 
 
at she 
 there 
 every 
 ber of 
 :aking 
 id the 
 n the 
 am! I 
 ibeyV 
 3, and 
 
 
 BOOK SIXTH 
 
 AT THE SUMMIT 
 1847-52. ^T. 35-40 
 
 I. Splendid Strolling. 
 
 II. Seaside Holidays. 
 
 III. Christmas Books closed and " Household Words 
 
 IV. In Aid of Literature and Art. 
 
 V. Last Years in Devonshire Terrace. 
 VI. "David Copperfield." 
 
 begun. 
 
 5" 
 
h > m 
 
 Dev 
 
 Duk 
 
 18 A 
 
 Smil 
 
 the ; 
 
 rega 
 
 whoi 
 
 kind 
 
 mon 
 
 or I 
 
 intei 
 
 in th 
 
 agn 
 
 Th 
 
 state 
 
 John 
 
 list f 
 
 thou 
 
 mear 
 
 as mi 
 
 to en 
 
 ing t 
 
 auth( 
 
 impo 
 
 repre 
 
 othei 
 
 with 
 
 chest 
 
 to b( 
 
 assoc 
 
 Mr. J 
 
 IVIr. 
 
 Lewe 
 
 Dick* 
 
 Lei 
 
 my f] 
 
 some 
 
SPLENDID STROLLING 
 
 1847-52 
 
 Devonshire Terrace remaining still in possession of Sir James 
 Duke, a house was taken in Chester Place, Regent's Park, where, on 
 18 April, Dickens's fifth son, to whom he gave the name of Sydney 
 Smith Haldimand, was born. Exactly a month before, he had attended 
 the funeral at Highgate of his publisher Mr. William Hall, his old 
 regard for whom had survived the recent temporary cloud, and with 
 whom he had the association as well of his first success, as of much 
 kindly intercourse not forgotten at this sad time. Of the summer 
 months that followed, the greater part was passed by him at Brighton 
 or Broadstairs; and the chief employment of his leisure, in the 
 intervals of Dombey, was the management of an enterprise originating 
 in the success of our private play, of which the design was to benefit 
 a great man of letters. 
 
 The purpose and name had hardly been announced, when, with the 
 statesman-like attention to literature and its followers for which Lord 
 John Russell has been eccentric among English politicians, a civil- 
 list pension of two hundred a year was granted to Leigh Hunt; but 
 though this modified our plan so far as to strike out of it performances 
 meant to be given in London, so much was still thought necessary 
 as might clear off past liabilities, and enable a delightful writer better 
 to enjoy the easier fuic.*e that had at last been opened to him. Reserv- 
 ing therefore anything realised beyond a certain sum for a dramatic 
 author of merit, Mr. John Poole, to whom help had become also 
 important, it was proposed to give, on Leigh Hunt's behalf, two 
 representations of Ben Jonson's comedy, one at Manchester and the 
 other at Liverpool, to be varied by different farces in each place; and 
 with a prologue of Talfourd's which Dickens was to deliver in Man- 
 chester, while a similar address by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton was 
 to be spoken by me in Liverpool. Among the artists and writers 
 associated in the scheme were Mr. Frank Stone, Mr. Augustus Egg, 
 Mr. John Leech, and Mr. George Cruikshank; Mr. Douglas Jerrold, 
 IVIr. Mark Lemon, Mr. Dudley Costello, and Mr. George Henry 
 Lewes; the general management and supreme control being given to 
 Dickens. 
 
 Leading men in both cities contributed largely to the design, and 
 my friend Mr. Alexander Ireland of Manchester has lately sent me 
 some letters not more characteristic of the energy of Dickens in regard 
 
 335 
 
 513 
 
514 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ■If 
 
 to it than ot the eagerness of everyone addressed to give what help 
 they could. Making personal mention of his fellow-sharers in the enter- 
 prise he describes the troop, in one of those letters, as "the most 
 easily governable company of actors on earth"; and to this he had 
 doubtless brought them, but not very easily. One or two of his 
 managerial troubles at rehearsals remain on record in letters to my- 
 self, and may give amusement still. Comedy and farces are referred to 
 indiscriminately, but the farces were the most recurring plague. 
 "Good Heaven! I find that A. hasn't twelve words, and 1 am in hourly 
 expectation of rebellion!" — "You were right about the green baize, 
 that it would certainly tn .^fflc the voices; and some of our actors, by 
 Jove, haven't too mu. of that commodity at the best." — "B. 
 shocked me so much the other night by a restless, stupid movement 
 of his hands in his first scene with you, that 1 took a turn of an hour 
 with him yesterday morning, and 1 hope quieted his nerves a little." 
 — "I made a desperate effort to get C. to give up his part. Yet in spite 
 of all the trouble he gives me I am sorry for him, he is so evidently 
 hurt by his own sense of not doing well. He clutched the part, how- 
 ever, tenaciously; and three weary times we drii<;ged through it last 
 night." — "That infernal E. forgets everything." — "1 plainly see that 
 F. when nervous, which 1 ^ is sure to be, loses his memory. Moreover, 
 his asides are inaudible, even at Miss Kelly's; and as regularly as I 
 stop him to say them again, he exclaims (with a face of agon}'^) that 
 'he'll speak loud on the night,' as if anybody ever did without doing 
 it always!" — "G. not born for it at all, and too innately conceited, 
 I much fear, to do anything well. I thought him better last night, but 
 £ would as soon laugh at a kitchen poker." — "Fancy H., ten days 
 after the casting of that farce, wanting F.'s part therein! Having him- 
 self an excellent old man in it already, and a quite admirable part in 
 the other farce." From which it will appear that my friend's office was 
 not a sinecure, and that he was not, as few amateur-managers have 
 €ver been, without the experiences of Peter Quince. Fewer still, I 
 suspect, have fought through them with such perfect success, for the 
 company turned out at last would have done credit to any enterprise. 
 They deserved the term applied to them by Maclise, who had invented 
 it first for Macready, on his being driven to "star" in the provinces 
 when his managements in London closed. They were "splendid 
 strollers." 
 
 On Monday, 26 July, we played at Manchester, and on Wednesday 
 the 28th at Liverpool; the comedy being followed on the first night by 
 A Good Night's Rest and Turning the Tables, and on the second by 
 Comfortable Lodgings, or Paris in .T750; and the receipts being, on the 
 first night £440 12s., and on the second, £^6;^ 8s. 6d. But though 
 the married members of the company who took their wives defrayed 
 that part of the cost, and every one who acted paid three pounds ten 
 to the benefit fund for his hotel charges, the expenses were necessarily 
 
 handsomely as this realised the design, expectations had been raised 
 
 as 
 
 iff* 
 
what help 
 itheenter- 
 'the most 
 lis he had 
 wo of his 
 ers to my- 
 ref erred to 
 ig plague. 
 I in hourly 
 een baize, 
 actors, by 
 ist."-— "B. 
 iiovement 
 3f an hour 
 s a little." 
 ot in spite 
 evidently 
 )art, how- 
 agh it last 
 y see that 
 Moreover, 
 ilarly as I 
 [on}'') that 
 out doing 
 :onceited, 
 tiight, but 
 ten days 
 ,ving him- 
 )le part in 
 office was 
 gers have 
 er still, I 
 ss, for the 
 nterprise. 
 I invented 
 provinces 
 "splendid 
 
 ednesday 
 t night by 
 lecond by 
 ig, on the 
 it though 
 defrayed 
 aunds ten 
 ecessarily 
 
 ;en raised 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 515 
 
 to five hundred. There was just that shade of disappointment, there- 
 fore, when, shortly after we came back and Dickens had returned to 
 Broadstairs, I was startled by a letter from him. On 3 August he had 
 written: "All well. Children" (who had been going through whooping 
 cough) "immensely improved. Business arising out of the late blaze 
 of triumph, worse than ever." Then came what startled me, the very 
 next day. As if his business were not enough, it had occurred to him 
 that he might add the much longed-for hundred pounds to the benefit 
 fund by a little jeu d'esprit in form of a history of the trip, to be 
 published witli illustrations from the artists; and his notion was to 
 write It in the charac "^Irs. Gamp. It was to be, in the phra.se- 
 
 ology of that notorious v ..x. i», anew "Piljians Projiss"; and was to 
 bear upon the title-page its description as an Account of a late Expedi- 
 tion into the North, for an Amateur Theatrical Benefit, written by 
 Mrs. Gamp (who was an eyewitness). Inscribed to Mrs. Harris, 
 Edited by Charles Dickens, and published, with illustrations on wood 
 by so and so in aid of the benefit fund. "What do you think of this idea 
 for it? The argument would be, that Mrs. Gamp, being on the eve of 
 an excursion to Margate as a relief from her professional fatigues, 
 comes to the knowledge of the intended excursion of our party; hears 
 that several of the ladies concerned are in an interesting situation; 
 and decides to accompany the party unbeknown, in a second-class 
 carriage — 'in case.' There, she finds a gentleman from the Strand in a 
 checked suit, who is going down with the wigs" — the theatrical hair- 
 dresser employed on these occasions, Mr. Wilson, had eccentric points 
 of character that were a fund of infinite mirth to Dickens — "and to 
 his politeness Mrs. Gamp is indebted for much support and counten- 
 ance during the excursion. She will describe the whole thing in her 
 own manner: sitting, in each place of performance, in the orchestra, 
 next the gentleman who plays the hettle-drums. She gives her critical 
 opinion of Ben Jonson as a literary character, and refers to the 
 different members of the party, in the course of her description of the 
 trip: having always an invincible animosity towards Jerrold, for 
 Caudle reasons. She addresses herself, generally, to Mrs. Harris, to 
 whom the book is dedicated — but is discursive. Amount of matter, 
 haif a sheet of Dombey: may be a page or so more, but not less." Alas! 
 it never arrived at even that small s'-^.e, but perished prematurely, 
 as I feared it would, from failure of the artists to furnish needful 
 nourishment. Of course it could not live alone. Without suitable 
 illustration it must have lost it'- oint and pleasantry, "Mac will make 
 a little garland of the ladies for the title-page. Egg and Stone will 
 themselves originate something fanciful, and I will settle with Cruik- 
 shank and Leech. I have no doubt the little thing will be droll and 
 attractive." So it certainly would have been, if the Thanes of art 
 had not fallen from him; but on their desertion it had to be abandoned 
 
 posal then; and, though the little jest had lost much of its flavour now, 
 I cannot find it in my heart to omit them here. There are so many 
 
 1.J 1 1 
 I 
 
 It 
 
5i6 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 friends ol Mrs, Gamp who will rejoice at this unexpected visit from 
 her! 
 
 
 "I. Mrs Gamp's Account or her Connexion with 
 
 THIS Affair 
 
 "Which Mrs. Harris's own words to me, was these: 'Sairey Gamp ' 
 she says, 'why not go to Margate? Srimps,' says that dear creetur, "is 
 to your liking, Sairey; why not go to Margate for a week, bring your 
 constitootion up with srimps, and come back to them loving arts as 
 knows and wallies of you, blooming? Sairev,' Mrs. Harris says 'you 
 are but poorly. Don't denige it, Mrs. Gamp, for books is in your 
 looks. You must have rest. Your mind,' slie says, 'is too strong 
 for you; it gets you down and treads upon you, Sairey. It is useless 
 to disguige the fact — the blade is a wearing out the sheets.' 'Mrs 
 Harris,' I says to her, 'I could not undertake to say, and I will not 
 deceive you ma'am, that I am the woman I could wish to be. The time 
 of worrit as I had with Mrs. Colliber, the baker's lady, which was so 
 bad in her mind with her first, that she would not so much as look at 
 bottled stout, and kept to gruel through the month, has agued me 
 Mrs. Harris. But ma'am,' I ?• s to her, 'talk not of Margate, for if I 
 do go anywheres, it is elsewxieres and not there.' 'Sairey,' says Mrs. 
 Harris, solemn, 'whence this mystery? If I have ever deceived the 
 hardest-working, soberest, and best of women, ,^hich her name is well 
 beknown is S. Gamp Midwife Kingsgate Street High Holborn, men- 
 tion It. If not,' says Mrs. Harris, with the tears a standing in her eyes 
 'reweal your intentions.' 'Yes, Mrs. Harris,' I says, 'L will. Well 1 
 knows you Mrs. Harris; well you knows me; well we both knows wot 
 the characters of one another is. Mrs. Harris then,' I says. '1 have 
 heard as there is a expedition going down to Manjestir and Liverspool, 
 a play-acting. If I goes anywheres for change it is along with that.' 
 Mrs Harris cla.sps her hands, and drops into a chair, as if her time was 
 come— which I know'd it couldn't be, by rights, for six weeks odd 
 •And have I lived to hear,' she says, 'of Sairey Gamp, as always kept 
 herself respectable, in company with play-actors!' 'Mrs. Harris,' I 
 says to her, 'be not alarmed— not rfeg'lar play-actors— hammertoors ' 
 'Thank Evans!' says Mrs. Harris, and bustiges into a flood of tears. " 
 "When the sweet creetur had compoged hersef (which a sip of 
 brandy and warm water, and sugared pleasant, with a little nutmeg 
 did It), I proceeds in these words. 'Mrs Harris, I am told as these 
 Hammertoors are litter'ry and artistickle.' 'Sairey,' says that best of 
 wimmin, with a shiver and a slight relasp, 'go on, it might be worse ' 
 ♦I likewise hears," I says to her, 'that they're agoin play-acting for 
 the benefit of two litter'ry men; one as has had his wrongs a long time 
 ago and has got his rights at last, and one as has made a many 
 people merry m his time, but is very dull and sick and lonelv his own 
 sei indeed.* 'Sairey,' says Mrs. Harris, 'you're an Inglish woman' 
 and that's no business of you'rn.' ' 
 
I visit from 
 
 VITH 
 
 rey Gamp, ' 
 creetur, "is 
 bring your 
 'ing arts as 
 i says, 'you 
 i is in your 
 too strong 
 '.t is useless 
 leets.' 'Mrs 
 1 I will not 
 e. The time 
 lich was so 
 1 as look at 
 agued me, 
 ite, for if I 
 ' says Mrs. 
 iceived the 
 ame is well 
 3orn, men- 
 n her eyes, 
 ill. \^'ell 1 
 knows wot 
 ys. '1 have 
 ^iverspool, 
 ivith that.' 
 r time was 
 veeks odd. 
 ways kept 
 Harris,' I 
 mertoors.' 
 of tears. 
 h a sip of 
 le nutmeg 
 d as these 
 lat best of 
 be worse.' 
 icting, for 
 . long time 
 e a many 
 ly his own 
 h woman. 
 
 The Life oi Charles Dickens 
 
 517 
 
 No, Mrs. Harris,' I says, that's very true; I hope I knows my 
 dooty and my country. But,' I says. *I am informed as there is Ladies 
 m this party, and that half a dozen of 'em if not more, is in various 
 stages of a interesting state. Mrs. Harris, you and me well knows what 
 Ingeins often does. If I accompanies this expedition, unbeknown and 
 second cladge, may I not combine my calling, with change of air, and 
 prove a service to my feller creeturs?' 'Sairey.' was Mrs. Harris's 
 reply, ' you was born to be a blessing to your sex. and bring 'em through 
 it. Good go with you! But keep your distance tiU called in. Lord bless 
 you Mrs. Gamp; for people is known by the company they keeps 
 and htterary and artistickle society might be the ruin of you before 
 you was aware, with your best customers, both sick and monthly if 
 they took a pride in themselves." 
 
 "11. Mrs. Gamp is Descriptive 
 "The number of the cab had a seven in it 1 think, and a ought 1 
 know— and if this should meet his eye (which it was a black 'un, new 
 done, that h -aw with; the other was tied up), I give him a warning 
 that he'd better take that umbreller and patten to the Hackney 
 Coach Office before he repents it. He was a young man in a weskit with 
 sleeves to it and strings behind, and needn't flatter himsef with a 
 suppogition of escape, as I gave this description of him to the Police 
 the moment I found he had drove off with my property; and if he 
 thinks there an't laws enough he's much mistook— I tell him that. 
 "I do assure you Mrs. Harris, when I stood in the raihvays office 
 that morning with my bundle on my arm and one patten in my hand, 
 you might have knocked me down with a feather, far less pork- 
 mangers which was a lumping against me, continual and sewere all 
 round. I was drove about like a brute animal and almost worrited into 
 fits, when a gentleman with a large shirt-collar and a hook nose, and a 
 eye like one of Mr. Sweedlepipes's hawks, and long locks of hair, and 
 wiskers that I wouldn't have round no lady as I was engaged to meet 
 suddenly a turning round a corner, for any sum of money you could 
 offer me, says, laughing, 'Halloa, Mrs. Gamp, what are you up to!' 
 I didn't know him from a man (except by his clothes); but I says 
 faintly, 'If you're a Christian man, show me where to get a second- 
 cladge ticket for Manjestir, and have me put in a carriage, or I shall 
 drop!' Which he kindly did, in a cheerful kind of a way, skipping 
 about in the strangest manner as ever I see, making all kinds of actions 
 and looking and vinking at me from under the brim of his hat (which 
 was a good deal turned up) , to that extent, that I should have thought 
 he meant something but for being so flurried as not to have no thoughts 
 at all until I was put into a carriage along with a individgle — the 
 politest as ever I did see— in a shepherd's plaid suit with a long gold 
 watch-guard hanging round his neck, and his hand a trembling 
 through nervousness worse than a aspian leaf, 
 
 " 'I'm wery appy, ma'am,' he says— the politest vice as ever I 
 

 "ii 
 
 1 4 
 I 
 
 lil 
 
 518 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 heerd! — 'to go down with a lady belonging to our party.' 
 
 " 'Our party, sir!' I says. 
 
 " 'Yes, ma'am,' he says, 'I'm Mr. Wilson. I'm going down with the 
 wigs.' 
 
 "Mrs. Harris, wen he said he was agoing down with the wigs, such 
 was my state of confugion and worrit that I though t he must be 
 connected with the Government in some ways or another, but directly 
 moment he explains himsef, for he says: 
 
 " 'There's not a theatre in London worth mentioning that I don't 
 attend punctually. There's five-and -twenty wigs in these boxes, 
 ma'am,' he says, a pinting towards c. cap of luggage, 'as was worn 
 at the Queen's Fancy Ball. There's a black wig, ma'am,' he says, 'as 
 was worn by Garrick; there's a red one, ma'am,' he says, 'as was worn 
 by Kean; there's a brown one, ma'am,' he says, 'as was worn by 
 Kemble; there's a yellow one, ma'am,' he says, 'as was made for Cooke; 
 there's a grey one, ma'am,' he .cays, 'as I measured Mr. Young for, 
 myself: and there's a white one, ma'am, that Mr. Macready went mad 
 in. There's a flaxen one as was got up express for Jenny Lind the night 
 she came out at the Italian Opera. It was very much applauded was 
 that wig, ma'am, through the evening. It had a great reception. 
 The audience broke out the moment they see it.' 
 
 " 'Are you inMr. Sweedlepipes's line, sir?' I says. 
 
 " 'Which is that, ma'am?' he says — the softest and genteelest vice 
 I ever heerd, I do declare, Mrs. Harris! 
 
 " 'Hair-dressing,' I says. 
 
 " 'Yes, ma'am,' he replies, 'I have that honour. Do you see this, 
 ma'am?' he says, holding up his right hand. 
 
 " 'I never see such a trembling,' I says to him. And I never did! 
 
 " 'All along of Her Majesty's Costume Ball ma'am,' he says. 'The 
 excitement did it. Two hundred ar.d fifty-seven ladies of the first 
 rank and fashion had their heads got jp on that occasion by this hand, 
 and my t'other one. I was at it eight-and-forty hours on my feet, 
 ma'am, without rest. It was a Powder ball, ma'am. We have a 
 Powder piece at Liverpool. Have I not the pleasure,' he says, looking 
 at me curious, 'of addressing Mrs. Gamp!' 
 
 " 'Gamp I am, sir,' I replies. 'Both by name and natur.' 
 
 Would you like to see your beeographer's moustache and wiskers, 
 ma'am?' he says. 'I've got 'em in this box.' 
 
 " 'Drat my beeograffer, sir,' I says, 'he has given me no region to 
 wish to know anythink about him.' 
 
 " 'Oh, Missus Gamp, I ask your parden' — I never see such a polite 
 man, Mrs. Harris! 'P'raps,' he says, 'if you're not of the party, you 
 don't know who it was that assisted you into this carriage!' 
 
 '' 'No, sir,' I says. 'I don't, indeed.' 
 
 " 'Why, ma'am,' he says, a wisperin', 'that was George, ma'am.' 
 
 " 'What George, sir? I don't know no George,' says I. 
 
 'Thft PTPat Gpnrrrp ma 'rim ' ca\rc Ko 'TVio Prn'-'lrohqr'Vo * 
 
 "If you'll believe me, Mrs. Harris, I turns my head, and see the 
 
n with the 
 
 wigs, such 
 e must be 
 at directly 
 
 at 1 don't 
 !se boxes, 
 was worn 
 e says, 'as 
 was worn 
 ; worn by 
 for Cooke; 
 'oung for, 
 went mad 
 I the night 
 luded was 
 reception. 
 
 3elest vice 
 
 1 see this, 
 
 /er did ! 
 5ays. 'The 
 [ the first 
 this hand, 
 my feet, 
 e have a 
 s, looking 
 
 d wiskers, 
 
 region to 
 
 h a polite 
 arty, you 
 
 la'am.' 
 
 Pi 
 
 d see the 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 519 
 
 wery man a making picturs of me on his thumb nail, at the winder! 
 while anothei- of 'em — a tall, slim, melancolly gent, with dark hair 
 and a bage vice — looks over his shoulder, with his head o' one side as 
 if he understood the subject, and coolly says, 'I've draw'd her several 
 times — in Punch,' he says too! The owdacious wretch! 
 
 " 'Which 1 never touches, Mr. Wilson,' I remarks out loud — I 
 couldn't have helped it, Mrs. Harris, if you had took my life for it! — 
 'which I never touches, Mr. Wilson, on account of the lemon!' 
 
 " Hush!' says Mr. Wilson, 'There he is!' 
 
 "I only see a fat gentleman with curly black hair and a merry face, 
 a standing on the platform rubbing his two hands over one another, 
 as if he was washing of 'em, and shaking his head and shoulders wery 
 much; and I was a wondering wot Mr. Wilson meant, wen he says 
 'There's Dougladge, Mrs. Gamp!' he says. 'There's him as wrote the 
 life of Mrs. Caudle!' 
 
 "Mrs. Harris, wen I see that little willain bodily before me, it give 
 me such a turn that I was all in a tremble. If I hadn't lost my 
 umbreller in the cab, I must have done him a injury with it! Oh the 
 bragian little traitor! right among the ladies, Mrs. Harris; looking his 
 wickedest and deceitfullest of eyes while he was a talking to 'em; 
 laughing at his own jokes as loud a you please; holding his hat in 
 one hand to cool his-sef, and to.ssing back his iron-grey mop of a 
 head of hair with the other, as if it was so much shavings — there, 
 Mrs. Harris, I see him gettin encouragement from the pretty delooded 
 crteturs, which never know'd that sweet saint, Mrs. C., as I did, and 
 being treated with as much confidence as if he'd never wdolated none 
 oi the domestic ties, and never showed up nothing! Oh the aggrawa- 
 tion of that Dougladge! Mrs. Harris, if I hadn't apologiged to Mr. 
 Wilson, and put a little bottle to my lips which was i" my pocket for 
 the journey, and which it is very rare indeed I have about me, I 
 could not have abared the sight of him — there, Mrs. Harris! 1 could 
 not! — I must have tore him, or have give way and fainted. 
 
 "While the bell was a ringing, and the luggage of the hammer-toors 
 in great confusion — all a litter'ry indeed — was handled up, Mr. 
 Wilson demeens his-sef politer than ever. 'That,' he says, 'Mrs. 
 Gamp,' a pinting to a officer- ^ooking gentleman, that a lady with a 
 little basket was a taking (;are on, 'is another of our party. He's a 
 author too — continivally going up the walley of the Muses, Mrs. 
 Gamp. There,' he says, alluding to a fine looking, portly gentleman, 
 with a face like a amiable full moon, and a short mild gent, with a 
 pleasant smile, 'is two more of our astists, Mrs. G., well beknowed at 
 the Royal Academy, as sure as stones is stones, and eggs is eggs. 
 This resolute gent,' he says, 'a coming along here as is aperrently 
 going to take the railway s by storm — him with the tight legs, and his 
 weskit very much buttoned, and his mouth very much shut, and his 
 coat a flying open, and his heels a-giving it to the jplatform, is a 
 cricket and beeografier, and our principal tragegian.* '±5ut who,' says 
 I, when the bell had left off, and the train had begun to move, 'who. 
 
 
520 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 Mr. Wilson, is the wild gent in the prespiration, that's been a-tearing 
 up and down all this time with a great box of papers under his arm, 
 a-talking to everybody wery indistinct, and exciting of himself dread- 
 ful?' 'Why?' says Mr, Wilson, with a smile. 'Because, sir,' 1 says, 
 "he's being left behind.' 'Good God!' cries Mr. Wilson, turning pale 
 and putting out his head, 'it's yo^vr becograffer — the Manager— and 
 he has got the money, Mrs. Gamp!' Hous'ever, someone chucked him 
 into the train and we went off. At the first shreek of the whistle, 
 Mrs. Harris, I turned white, for I had took notice of some of them 
 dear creeturs as was the cause of my being in company, and 1 1- ow'd 
 the danger that — but Mr. Wilson, which is a married man, puts his 
 hand on mine, and says, 'Mrs. Gamp, calm yourself; it's only the 
 Ingein.' " 
 
 Of those of the party with whom these humorous liberties were 
 taken, there arc only two now living to complain of their friendly 
 caricaturist; and Mr. Cruikshank will perhaps join me in a frank 
 forgiveness not the less heartily for the kind words about himself 
 that reached me from Broadstairs not many days after Mrs. Gamp. 
 "At Canterbury yesterday" (2 September) "I bought George Cruik- 
 shank's Bottle. I think it very powerful indeed; the two last plates 
 most admirable, except that the boy and girl in the very last are 
 too young, and the girl more like a circus phenomenon than that no- 
 phenomenon she is intended to represent. I question, however, 
 whether anybody else living could have done it so well. There is a 
 woman in the last plate but one, garrulous about the murder, with a 
 child in her arms, that is as good as Hogarth. Also, the man who is 
 stooping down, loolang at the body. The philosophy of the thing, as a 
 great lesson, I think all wrong; because to be striking, and original 
 too, the drinking should have begun in sorrow, or poverty, or ignor- 
 ance — Ine three things in which, in its awful aspect, it does begin. 
 The design would then have been a double-handed sword — but too 
 'radical' for good old George, I suppose." 
 
 The same letter made mention of other matters of interest. His 
 accounts for the first half-year of Dombey were so much in excess of 
 what had been expected from the new publishing arrangements, that 
 from this date all embarrassments connected with money were 
 brought to a close. His future profits varied of course with his varying 
 sales, but there was always enough, and savings were now to begin. 
 "The profits of the half-year are brilliant. Deducting the hundred 
 pounds a month paid six times, I have still to receive two thousand, 
 two hundred and twenty pounds, which I think is tidy. Ddn't 
 you? ..." 
 
 Devonshire Terrace meanwhile had been quitted by his tenant; 
 and coming up joyfully himself to take possession, he brought for 
 completion in his old home an important chapter of Dombev. On the 
 way he lost his portmanteau, but ' ' Thank God ! the MS. of th ^ chapter 
 v,asn't in it. Whenever I travel, and have anything of that valuable 
 
 aracie, x aiways carry it in my pocket." He had begun at this time 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 521 
 
 to find difficulties in writing at Broaa.,tairs, of which he told me on 
 his return. "Vagrant music is getting to that height here, and is so 
 impossible to be escaped from, that I fear Broadstairs and I must 
 part company in time to come. Unless it pours of rain. I cannot write 
 half-an-hour without the most excruciating organs, fiddles, bells o* 
 glee-smgers. There is a violin of the most torturing kind under the 
 window now (time, ten in the morning) and an Italian box of music 
 on the steps-both in full blast." He closed with a mention of im- 
 provements in the Margate theatre since his memorable last visit 
 In the past two years it had bc^n managed by a son of the great 
 comedian, Dowton, with whose name it is pleasant to connect this 
 note. "We went to the manager's benefit on Wednesday" ( lo Septem- 
 ber): "As You Like It really very well done, and a most excellent 
 house. Mr Dowton delivered a sensiblt and modest kind of speech 
 on the occasion, setting fortji his convi-tion that a means of instruc- 
 tion and entertainment possessing si a literature as the stage in 
 England, could not pass away; and i what inspired great minds 
 and delighted great men, two thousan years ago. and did the same 
 m Shakespeare's day, must have within itself a principle of life 
 superior to the whim and fashion of the hour. And with that, and 
 with cheers, he retired. He really seems a most respectable man', and 
 he has cleared out this dust-hole of a theatre into something like 
 decency." ... 
 
 II 
 
 SEASIDE HOLIDAY.S 
 1848-51 
 
 The portion of Dickens's life over which his adventures of strolling 
 extended was in other respects not without interest; and this chapter 
 wil^. deal with some of his seaside holidays before I pass to the publica- 
 tion in 1848 of the scory of The Haunted Man, and to the establish- 
 ment in 1850 of the Periodical which had been in his thoughts for 
 half a dozen years before, and has had foreshadowings neariy as 
 frequent in my pages. 
 
 Among the incidents of 1848 before the holiday season came were 
 the dethronement of Louis Philippe, a..d birth of the second French 
 republic: on which I ventured to predict that a Gore House friend 
 of ours, and his friend, would m three days be on the scene of action 
 The three days passed, and I had this letter. "Mardi, Fevrier 29 
 1848. MoN Cher. Vous etes homme de la plus grande penetration' 
 Ah, mon Dieu, que vous etcs absolument magnifique! Vous prevoyez 
 pxcsquc toutes ies choses qui out arriver; et aux choses qui viennent 
 335* 
 
 H ^ 
 
522 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 \i 
 
 li 
 
 d'arriver vous etes merveilleusement au-fait. Ah, cher enfant, quelle 
 id^e sublime vous vous aviez k la tSte quand vous prevites si claire- 
 ment que M. le Comte Alfred d'Orsay se rendrait au pays de sa 
 naissance! Quel magicien! Mais— c'est tout egal, mais— il n'est pas 
 parti. II reste k Gore House, ou, avant-hier, il y avait un grand diner 
 l. tout le monde. Mais quel homme, quel ange, nianmoins! Mon Ami, 
 je trouve que j'aime tant la Republrque, qu'il me faut renoncer ma 
 
 langue et ecrire seulement le langage de la Republique de France 
 
 langage des Dieux et des Anges— langage, en un mot, des Fran9ais! 
 Hier au soir je rencontrai k 1' Athenaeum Monsieur Mack Leese, qui me 
 dit que MM. les Commissionnaires des Beaux Arts 'ui avaient ecrit, 
 par leur secretaire, un billet de remerciements a propos de s^i tableau 
 dans la CHambre des Deputes, et qu'ils lui avaient prie de faire I'autre 
 tableau en fresque, dont on y a besoin. Ce qa'il a promis. Voici des 
 nouvelles pour les champs de Lincoln's Inn! Vive la gloire de France! 
 Vive la Republique! Vive le Peuple! Plus de Royaut6! Plus de 
 Bourbons! Plus de Guizot! Mort aux traitres! Faisons couler le sang 
 pou- ^a liberte, la justice, la cause populaire! Jusqu'a cinq heures et 
 demie, adieu, mon brave! Recevez I'assurance de ma consideration 
 distinguee, et croyez-moi, concitoyen! votre tout devoue, Citoyen 
 Charles Dickens." I proved to be not quite so wrong, nevertheless, 
 as my friend supposed. 
 
 Somewhat earlier than usual this summer, on the close of the 
 Shakespeare House performances, he tried Broadstairs once more, 
 having no important writing in hand: but in the brief interval before 
 leaving he saw a thing of celebrity in those days, the Chinese junk; 
 and I had all the details in so good a description that I could not 
 resist the temptation of using some parts of it at the time. "Drive 
 down to the Blackwall railway," he wrote to me, "and for a matter 
 of eighteen-peiice you are at the Chinese Empire in no time. In half 
 a score of minutes, the tiles and chimney-pots, backs of squalid 
 houses, frowsy pieces of waste ground, narrow courts and streets, 
 swamps, ditches, masts of ships, gardens of duckweed, and unwhole- 
 some little bowers of scarlet beans, whirl away in a flying dream, and 
 nothing is left but China. How the flowery region ever came into this 
 latitude and longitude is the first thing one asks; and it is not cer- 
 tainly the least of the marvel. As Aladdin's palace was transported 
 hither and thither by the rubbing of a lamp, so the crew of Chinamen 
 aboard the Keying devoutly believed that their good ship would turn 
 up, quite safe, at the desired port, if they only tied red rags enough 
 upon the mast, rudder, and cable. Somehow they did not succeed. 
 Perhaps they ran short of rag; at any rate they hadn't enough oti 
 board to keep them above water; and to the bottom they v/ould 
 undoubtedly have gone but for the skill and coolness of a dozen 
 English sailors, who brought them over the ocean in safety. Well, 
 if there be any one thing in the world that this extraordinary craft 
 is not at all like, that thing is a ship nf any kind. So narrow, 30 long, 
 so grotesque; so low in the middle, so high at each end, like a China 
 
 m 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 523 
 
 pen-tray; with no rigging, with nowhere to go to aloft; with mats for 
 saiL, great warped cigars for masts, gaudy dragons and sea-monster . 
 disporting themselves from stem to stern,, and on the stern a gigantic 
 cock of impossible aspect, defying the world (as well he may) to 
 produce his equal— it would look more at home at the top of a public 
 building, or at the top of a mountain, or in an avenue of trees, or down 
 in a mine, than afloat on the water. As for the Chinese lounging on 
 the deck, the most extravagant imagination would never dare to 
 suppose them to be mariners. Imagine a ship's crew, without a pro- 
 file among them, in gauze pinafores and plaited hair; wearing stiff 
 clogs a quarter of a foot thick in the sole; and lying at night in little 
 scented boxes, like back-gammon men or chess-pieces, or mother- 
 of-pearl counters! But by Jove! even this is nothing to your surprise 
 wher. you go down into the cabin. There you get a torture of per- 
 plexity. As, what became of all those lanterns hanging to the roof 
 when the Junk was out at sea? Whether they dangled there, banging 
 and beating against each other, like so many jesters' baubles.? 
 Whether the idol Chin Tee, of the eighteen arms, enshrined in a 
 celestial Punch's Show, in the place of honour, ever tumbled out in 
 heavy weather.? Whether the incense and the joss-stick still burnt 
 before her, with a faint perfume and a little thread of smoke, while 
 the mighty waves were roaring all around.? Whether that preposterous 
 tissue-paper umbrella in the corner was always spread, as being a 
 convenient maritime instrument for walking about the decks with 
 in a storm? Whether all the cool and shiny little chairs and tables 
 were continually sliding about and bruising each other, and if not why 
 not? "'nether anybrcly on the voyage ever read those two books 
 prir . r.i characters like bird-cages and fly-traps? Whether the 
 ■V m passenger, He Sing, who had never been ten miles from home 
 in ' • -Ife before, lying sick on a bamboo couch in a private china 
 clo..t;t of his own (where he is now perpetually writing autographs for 
 inquisitive barbar.ans), ever began to doubt the potency of the 
 Goddess of the Sea. whose counterfeit presentment, like a flowery 
 monthly nurse, occupies the sailors' joss-house in the second gallery? 
 Whether it is possible that the said Mandarin, or the artist of the ship, 
 Sam Sing, Esquire, R.A. of Canton, can ever go ashor*^ without a 
 walking-staff of cinnamon, agreeably to the usage of their likenesses 
 in British tea-shops? Above all, whether the hoarse old ocean could 
 ever have been seriously in earnest with this floating toy-shop- or 
 had merely played with it in lightness of spirit— roughly, but meaning 
 no harm— as the bull did with another kind of china-shop on St. 
 Patrick's Day in the morning." ... 
 
 Other letters of the summer from Broadstairs will complete what 
 he wrote from the same place last year on Mr. Cruikshank's efforts 
 in the cause of temperance, and will enable me to say, what I know 
 he wished to be remembered in his story, that there was no subject 
 on which through his whole life he felt more strongly than this. No 
 man advocated temj^erance, even as far as possible its legislative 
 
 '<■ i. 
 
524 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 
 
 enforcement, with greater earnestness; but he made important 
 reservations. Not thinking drunkenness to be a vice inborn, or 
 incident to the poor more than to other people, he never would agree 
 that the existence of a gin-shop was the alpha and omega of it. 
 Believing it to be the "national horror," he also believed that many 
 operative causes had to do with having made it so; and his objection 
 to the temperance agitation was that these were left out of account 
 altogether. He thought the gin-shop not fairly to be rendered the 
 exclusive object of attack until, in connection with the classes who 
 mostly made it their resort, the temptations that led to it, physical 
 and moral, should have been more bravely dealt with. Among the 
 former he counted foul smells, disgusting habitations, bad work- 
 shop-customs, scarcity of light, air, and water, in short the absence 
 of all easy means of decency and health; and among the latter, the 
 mental weariness and languor so induced, the desire of wholesome 
 relaxation, the craving for some stimulus and excitement, not less 
 needful than the sun itself to lives so passed, and last, and inclusive 
 of all the rest, ignorance, and the want of rational mental training 
 generally applied. This was consistently Dickens's "platform" 
 throughout the years he was known to me; and holding it to be 
 within the reach as well as the scope of legislation, which even our 
 political magnates have been discovering lately, he thought intem- 
 perance to be but the one result that, out of all of those arising from 
 the absence of legislation, was the most wretched. For him, drunken- 
 ness had a teeming and reproachful history anterior to the drunken 
 stage; and he thought it the first duty of the moralist bent upon 
 annihilating the gin-shop, to "strike deep and spare not" at those 
 previous remediable evils. Certainly this was not the way of Mr. 
 Cruikshank, any more than it is that of the many excellent people 
 who take part in temperance agitations. His former tale of the Bottle, 
 as told by his admirable pencil, was that of a decent working man,' 
 father of a boy and a girl, living in comfort and good esteem until 
 near the middle age, when happening unluckily to have a goose for 
 dinner one day in the bosom of his thriving family, he jocularly sends 
 out for a bottle of gin, persuades his wife, until then a picture of 
 neatness, and good housewifery, to take a little drop after the stuffing, 
 and the whole family from that moment drink themselves to des- 
 truction. The sequel, of which Dickens now wrote to me, traced the 
 lives of the boy and girl after the wretched deaths of their drunken 
 parents, through gin-shop, beer-shop, and dancing-rooms, up to their 
 trial for robbery: when the boy is convicted, dying aboard the hulks; 
 and the girl desolate and mad after her acquittal, flings herself frorn 
 London Bridge into the night darkened river. 
 
 "I think," said Dickens, "the power of that closing scene quite 
 extraordinary. It haunts the remembrance like an awful reality. It 
 is full of passion and terror, and I doubt very much whether any 
 hand but his could so have rendered it. There are other fine things 
 too. The death-bed scene on board the hulks; the convict who is 
 
 fit 
 
 rt 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 525 
 
 composmg the face, and the other who is drawing the screen round 
 the bed's head; seem to mo masterpieces worthy of the greatest 
 pamter. The reality of the place and the fidelity with which everv 
 minute object illustrative of it is presented, are surprising. I think 
 myself no bad judge of this feature, and it is remarkable throughout 
 In the trial scene at the Old Bailey, the eye may wander round the 
 Court, and observe everything that is a part of the place. The verv 
 light and atmosphere are faithfully reproduced. So. in the gin-shop 
 and the beer-shop. An inferior hand would indicate a fragment of 
 the fact, and slur it over; but here every shred is honestly made out 
 \ !u"^ u" behind the bar in the gin-shop, is as real as the convicts 
 at the hulks, or the barrister-^ round the table in the Old Bailey I 
 found It quite curious, as I c. jed the book, to recall the number of 
 faces. I had seen of individual identity, and to think what a chance 
 they have of living, as the Spanish friar said to Wilkie. when the 
 living have passed away. But it only makes more exasperating to 
 me the obstinate one-sidedness of the thing. When a man shows so 
 forcibly the side of the medal on which th people in their faults and 
 crimes are stamped, he is the more bound to help us to a glance at 
 that other side on which the faults and vices of the governments 
 placed over the people are not less gravely impressed." 
 
 This led to some remark on Hogarth's method in such matters, 
 and I am glad to be able to preserve a masterly criticism of that 
 great Englishman, by a writer who closely resembled him in genius- 
 as another generation will be probably more apt than our own to 
 discover. "Hogarth avoided the Drunkard's Progress. I conceive 
 precisely because the causes of drunkenness among the poor were so 
 numerous and widely spread, and lurked so sorrowfully deep and 
 far down m all human misery, neglect, and despair, that even his 
 pencil could not bring them fairly and justly into the light. It was. 
 never his plan to be content with only showing the effect. In the 
 death of the miser-father, his shoes new-soled with the binding of 
 his Bible, before the young Rake begins his career; in the worldly 
 father, listless daughter, impoverished young lord, and crafty lawyer 
 of the first plate of Marriage-a-la-mode; in the detestable advances, 
 through the stages of Cruelty; and in the progress downward of 
 Thomas Idle; you see the effects indeed, but also the causes. He was. 
 never disposed to spare the kind of drunkenness that was of more 
 'respectable' engenderment. as one sees in his Midnight Modern 
 Conversation, the election plates, and crowds of stupid aldermen 
 and other guzzlers. But after one immortal journey down Gin I>ane 
 he turned away in pity and sorrow— perhaps in hope of better things' 
 one day, from better laws and schools and poor men's homes— and 
 went back no more. The scene of Gin Lane, you know, is that just 
 cleared away for the extension of Oxford Street, which we were 
 looking at the other dav- and T thinlr if q. romai-Vr.Ki'- +'-'>if -' "- 
 garth s picture, that, while it exhibits drunkenness in the most 
 appalling forms, it also forces on attention a most neglected wretched 
 
 '"if 
 
 I 
 
526 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ■ ( 1 
 • 1 
 
 neighbourhood and an unwholesome, indecent abject condition of 
 lile that might be put as frontispiece to our sanitary report of a hun- 
 dred years later date. I have always myself thought tae purpose of 
 this hne piece to be not adequately stated even by Charles Lamb, 
 i he very houses seem absolutely reeling' it is true; but beside that 
 wonderful picture of what follows intoxication, we have indication 
 quite as powerful of what leads to it among the neglected classes. 
 Ihere is no evidence that any of the actors in the dreary scene have 
 ever been much better than we see them there. The best are pawning 
 the commonest necessaries, and tools of their trades; and the worst 
 are homeless vagrants who give us no clue to their having been 
 otherwise in bygone days. All are living and dying miserably 
 Nobody IS interfering for prevention or for cure, in the generation 
 going out before us, or the generation coming in. The beadle is the 
 only sober man in the composition except the pawnbroker, and he 
 IS mightily indifferent to the orphan-child crying beside its parent's 
 coltin Ine little charity-girls are not so well taught or looked after 
 but that they can take to dram-drinking already. The church indeed 
 is very prominent and handsome; but as, quite passive in the picture 
 It coldly s^urveys these things in progress under shadow of its tower' 
 1 cannot but bethink me that it was not until this year of grace 1848 
 tnat a Bishop of London first came out respecting something wron^^ 
 in poor men's social accommodations, and I am confirmed in m? 
 suspicions that Hogarth had manv meanings which have not grown 
 obsolete in a century." ..." fe ^ 
 
 Of what otherwise occupied him at Broadstairs in 1848 there is 
 not much to mention until the close of his holiday. He used to say 
 that he never went for more than a couple of days from his own home 
 without something befalling him that never happened to anyone else 
 and his Broadstairs adventure of the present summer verged closer on 
 tragedy than comedy. Returning there one day in August after 
 bringing up his boys to school, it had been arranged that his wife 
 should meet him at Margate; but he had walked impatiently far 
 beyond the place for meeting when at last he caught sight of her 
 not in a small chaise but in a large carriage and pair followed by an 
 excited crowd, and with the youth th^t should have been driving 
 the little pony bruised and bandaged on the box behind the two 
 prancing horses. "You may faintly imagine my amazement at 
 encountering this carriage, and the strange people, and Kate, and the 
 crowd, and the bandaged one. and all the rest of it." And then in 
 a line or two 1 had the story. "At the top of a steep hill on the road 
 with a ditch on each side, the pony bolted, whereupon what does 
 John do but jump out ! He says he was thrown out. but it cannot be 
 The reins immediately became entangled in the wheels, and away 
 went the pony down the hill madly, with Kate inside rending the 
 Isle of Thanet with her screams. The accident might have been a 
 fcanui one. u the pony had not. thank Heaven, on getting to the 
 bottom, pitched over the side; breaking the shaft and cutting her 
 
 'T? 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 527 
 
 hind legs, but in the most extraordinary manner smashing her own 
 way apart. She tumbled down, a bundle of legs with her head tucked 
 underneath, and left the chaise standing on the bank! A Captain 
 Devaynes and his wife where passing in their carriage at the moment, 
 saw the accident with no power of preventing it, got Kate out, laid 
 her on the grass, and behaved with infinite kindness. All's well that 
 ends well, and I think she's really none the worse for the fright. 
 John is in bed a good deal bruised, but without any broken bone, and 
 likely soon to come right; though for the present plastered all over, 
 and, like Squeers, a brown-paper parcel chock-full of nothing but 
 groans. The women generally have no sympathy for him whatever, 
 and the nurse says, with indignation. How could he go and leave a 
 unprotected female in the shay!" . . . 
 
 Not till the close of September I heard of work intruding itself, 
 in a letter twitting me for a broken promise in not joining him: 
 *'We are reasonably jolly, but rnrally so; going to bed o' nights at 
 ten, and bathing o' mornings at half-past seven; and not drugging 
 ourselves with those dirty and spoiled waters of Lethe that flow 
 round the base of the great pyramid." Then, after mention of the 
 friends who had left him. Sheriff Gordon, the Leeches, Lemon, Egg 
 and Stone: "reflection and pensiveness are coming. I have not 
 
 * — seen Fancy write 
 With a pencil of light 
 On the blotter so solid, commanding the seal' 
 
 but I shouldn't wonder if she were to do it, one of these days. Dim 
 visions of divers things are floating around me; and I must go to work, 
 head foremost, when I get home. I am glad, after all, that I have not 
 been at it here, for I am all the better for my idleness, no doubt. . . . 
 Roche was very ill last night, and looks like one with his face turned 
 to the other world, this morning. When are you coming? Oh what 
 days and nights there have been here, this week past!" . . . 
 
 His first seaside holiday in 1849 was at Brighton, where he passed 
 some weeks in February; and not, I am bound to add, without the 
 tmusual adventure to signalise his visit. He had not been a week in 
 his lodgings, where Leech and his wife joined him, when both his 
 landlord and the daughter of his landlord went raving mad, and the 
 lodgers were driven away to the Bedford Hotel. "If you could have 
 heard the cursing and crying of the two; could have seen the physi- 
 cian and nurse quoited out into the passage by the madman at the 
 hazard of their lives; could have seen Leech and me flying to tiie doc- 
 tor's rescue; could have seen our wives pulling us back; could have 
 seen the M.D. faint with fear; could have seen three other M.D.'s 
 come to his aid; with an atmosphere of Mrs. Gamp's strait- waistcoats, 
 struggling friends and servants, surrounding the whole; you would 
 have said it was quite worthy of me. and quite in keeping with my 
 usual proceedings." The lecter ended with a word on what then his 
 thoughts were full of, but for which no name had yet been found. 
 
 
 i f 
 
528 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 A ^ea-fog to-day. but yesterday inexpressibly delicious. My mind 
 runnmg, like a high sea. on names— not satisfied yet. though " 
 VV hen he next wrote from the seaside, in the beginning of July, he 
 had found the name; had started his book; and was "rushing to 
 Broadstaurs" to write the fourth number of David Copperfield. 
 
 In this came the childish experiences which had left so deep an 
 impression upon him. and over which he had some difficulty in 
 throwing the needful disguises. "Fourteen miles to-day in the coun- 
 ^•u 1, ^ •? written to me on 21 June, "revolving number four!" 
 w^till he did not quite see his way. Three days later he wrote- "On 
 leaving you last night. I found myself summoned on a special jury 
 m the Queen's Bench to-day. I have taken no notice of the document 
 and hourly expect to be dragged forth to a dungeon for contempt of 
 court. I think I should rather like it. It might help me with a new 
 notion or two m my difficulties. Meanwhile I shall take a stroll to- 
 night in the green fields from seven to ten if you feel inclined to 
 
 He had taken a house at Bonchurch. attracted there by the friend 
 who had made it a place of interest for him during the last few 
 years, the Rev. James White, with whose name and its associations 
 my mind connects inseparably many of Dickens's happiest hours. 
 To pay him fitting tribute would not be easy, if here it were caUed 
 for In the kindly shrewd Scotch face, a keen sensitiveness to pleasure 
 and pam was the first thing that struck any common observer. 
 Cheerfulness and gloom coursed over it so rapidly that no one could 
 question the tale they told. But the relish of his life had outlived 
 Its more than usual share of sorrows; and quaint sly humour, love of 
 jest and merriment, capital knowledge of books and sagacious quips 
 at men. made his companionship delightful. Like his life, his genius 
 was made up of alternations of mirth and melancholy. He would be 
 immersed, at one time, in those darkest Scottish annals from which 
 he drevv .us tragedies; and overflowing, at another, into Sir Frizzle 
 Pumpkin s exuberant farce. The tragic histories may probably 
 perish with the actor's perishable art; but three little abstracts of 
 history written at a later time in prose, with a sunny clearness of 
 narration and a glow of picturesque interest to my knowledge 
 unequalled m books of such small pretension, will find I hope a 
 lasting place in literature. They are filled with felicities' of phrase 
 with breadth of understanding and judgment, with manful honesty' 
 quiet sagacity, and a constant cheerful piety, valuable for all and 
 priceless for the young. Another word I permit myself to add With 
 Dickens, White was popular supremely for his eager good fellowship- 
 and few men brought him more of what he always liked to conceive 
 But he brought nothing so good as his wife. "He is excellent, but 
 she IS better, is the pithy remark of his first Bonchurch letter- and 
 the^true affection and respect that followed is happily still borne her 
 by iiis uauj^ixtcra. . . . 
 
 After a few more days 1 heard of progress with his writing in spite 
 
her 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 529 
 
 of all festivities. "I have made it a rule that the Inimitable is invisible 
 until two every day. I shall have half the number done, please God 
 to-morrow. I have not worked quickly here yet, but I don't know 
 what I may do. Divers cogitations have occupied my mind at inter- 
 vals, respecting the dim design." The design was the weekly periodi- 
 cal so often in his thoughts, of which more will appear in niy next 
 chapter. His letter closed with intimations of discomfort in his health- 
 of an obstinate cough; and of a determination he had formed to 
 mount daily to the top of the downs. "It makes a great difference in 
 tne climate to get a blow -there and come down again." Then I heard 
 of the doctor "stethoscoping" him. of his hope that all was right in 
 that quarter, and of rubbings "k la St. John Long" being ordered 
 for his chest. But the mirth still went on. "There has been a Doctor 
 l^nkester at Sandown. a very good merry fellow, who has made 
 one at the picnics, and whom I went over and dined with, alon- 
 with Danby {I remember your hking for Danby, and don't wonde? 
 at It). Leech, and White." A letter towards the close of August 
 resumed yet more of his ordinary tone. "We had games and forfeits 
 last night at White's. Davy Roberts's pretty little daughter is there 
 for a week, with her husband. Bicknell's son. There was a dinner 
 hrst to say good-bye to Danby, who goes to other clergyman's duty 
 and we were very merry. Mrs. White unchanging; White comicallv 
 various in his moods. Talfourd comes down next Tuesday.^d w^ 
 thmk of going over to Ryde on Monday visiting the play, sleeping 
 there (I don't mean at the play) and bringing the Judge S 
 Browne is coming down when he has done his month's work Should 
 you like to go to Alum Bay. while you are here? It would involve a 
 night out but I thmk would be very pleasant; and if you think so 
 too. I wil arrange it sub rosa. so that we may not be. like Bobadil 
 oppressed by numbers/ I mean to take a fly over from ShanWin to 
 meet you at Ryde; so that we can walk back from Shanklin over the 
 landslip, where the scenery is wonderfully beautiful. Stone and E<^s 
 are coming next month, and we hope to see Jerrold before we go"" 
 Such notices from his letters may be thought hardly worth pre- 
 serving: but a wonderful vitality in every circumstance, as lonfas 
 life under any conditions remained to the writer, is the picture thev 
 contribute to; nor would it be complete without the addition that 
 fond as he was. m the intervals of his work, of this abundance and 
 variety of enjoyments, to no man were so essential also those quieter 
 
 numLrs.'' :'^ '' '"^ *'^^' "°' "^'"^""^^^ "^^^ "oppresid by 
 When he next wrote there was news very welcome to me for the 
 pleasure to himself it involved. "Browne has sketched an uncom! 
 monly chaiactenstic and capital Mr. Micawber for the next numhZ 
 I hope the present number is a good one. I hear nothing but pleasant 
 accounts of the general satisfactio: ."' Thr ' ' • - " ^ '^^'^"'^ 
 
 ..« i_j.i. . 
 
 intention to go to BroaStaTrr-put aswTby'dm;^?! ™'^jfts 
 sanitary condition; but it will be seen presently that Th^rewal 
 
 ml 
 
 ' r^l 
 
 I 
 
 'ill 
 
 m 
 
 s\ 
 
 ,; ki 
 
 I 1 
 
 ill: 
 
 -i> ! 
 
 ^ fl' 
 
530 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 li 
 
 n 
 
 III' 
 
 ^^B'- 
 
 > ij X 
 
 another graver interruption. With his work well off his hands, how- 
 ever, he had been getting on better where he was; and they had all 
 been very merry, "Yes," he said, writing after a couple of days 
 (23 September), "we have been sufficiently rollicking since I finished 
 the number; and have had great games at rounders every afternoon, 
 with all Bonchurch looking on; but I begin to long for a little peace 
 and solitude. And now for my less pleasing piece of news. The sea has 
 been running very high, and Leech, while bathing, was knocked over 
 by a bad blow from a great wave on the forehead. He is in bed, and 
 had twenty of his namesakes on his temples this morning. When I 
 heard of him just now, he was asleep — which he had not been all 
 night." He closed his letter hopefully, but next day (24 September) 
 I had a less favourable report. "Leech has been very ill with con- 
 gestion of the brain ever since I wrote, and being still in excessive 
 pain has had ice to his head continuously, and been bled in the arm 
 besides. Beard and I sat up there, all night." On the 26th he wrote. 
 "My plans are all unsettled by Leech's illness; as of course I do not 
 like to leave this place while I can be of any service to him and his 
 good little wife. But all visitors are gone to-day, and Winterbourne 
 once more left to the engaging family of the inimitable B. Ever since 
 I wrote to you Leech has been seriously worse, and again very 
 heavily bled. The night before last he was in such an alarming state of 
 restlessness, which nothing could relieve, that I proposed to Mrs. 
 Leech to try magnetism. Accordingly in the middle of the night I 
 fell to; and, after a very fatiguing bout of it, put him to sleep for an 
 hour and thirty-five minutes. A change came on in the sleep, nd he 
 is decidedly better. I talked to the astounded little Mrs. Leech across 
 him, when he was asleep, as if he had been a truss of hay. . . . What 
 do you think of my setting up in the magnetic line with a large 
 brass plate? 'Terms, twenty-five guineas per nap.' " When he wrote 
 on the 30th, he had completed his sixth number; and his friend was 
 so clearly on the way to recovery that he was himself next day to 
 leave for Broadstairs with his wife, her sister, and the two little girls. 
 "I will merely add that I entreat to be kindly remembered to 
 Thackeray" (who had a dangerous illness at this time); "that I think 
 I have, without a doubt, got the PQriodical notion; and that I am 
 writing under the depressing and discomfortmg influence of paying 
 off the tribe of bills that pour in upon an unfortunate family-young 
 man on the eve of a residence like this. So no more at present from 
 the disgusted, though still inimitable, and always affectionate B." 
 He stayed at Broadstairs till he had finished his number seven, 
 and what else chiefly occupied him were thoughts about the Periodi- 
 cal of which account will presently be given. "Such a night and day 
 of rain," ran his first letter, "I should think the oldest inhabitant 
 never saw ! and yet, in the ould formiliar Broadstairs, I somehow or 
 other don't mind it much. The change has done Mamey a world of 
 good, and I have begun to sleep again. As for news, you might as 
 well ask me for dolphins. Nobody in Broadstairs — to speak of. 
 
ds, how- 
 j had all 
 
 of days 
 
 finished 
 ternoon, 
 tie peace 
 e sea has 
 ked over 
 bed, and 
 
 When I 
 been all 
 Jtember) 
 dth con- 
 !xcessive 
 
 the arm 
 le wrote. 
 I do not 
 L and his 
 ^rbourne 
 ver since 
 lin very 
 \ state of 
 
 to Mrs. 
 ; night I 
 ;p for an 
 ), nd he 
 :h across 
 
 . What 
 
 I a large 
 he wrote 
 lend was 
 t day to 
 :tle girls, 
 bered to 
 
 I I think 
 lat I am 
 f paying 
 ly-young 
 snt from 
 late B." 
 IX seven, 
 
 Periodi- 
 and day 
 habitant 
 lehow or 
 world of 
 might as 
 peak of. 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 4 i 
 
 531 
 
 Certainly nobody in Ballard's. We are in the part, which is the house 
 next door to the hotel itself, that we once had for three years running, 
 and just as quiet and snug now as it was then. I don't think I shall 
 return before the 20th or so, when the number is done; but I may, 
 in some inconstant freak, run up to you before. Preliminary des- 
 patches and advices shall be forwarded in any case to the fragrant 
 neighbourhood of Clare Market and the Portugal Street burying- 
 ground." Such was his polite designation of my whereabouts: for 
 which nevertheless he had secret likings. "On the Portsmouth 
 railway, coming here, encountered Kenyon. On the ditto ditto at 
 Reigate, encountered young Dilke, and took him in tow to Canter- 
 bur>'. On the ditto ditto at ditto (meaning Reigate), encountered 
 Fox, M.P. for Oldham, and his daughter. All within an hour. Young 
 Dilke great about the proposed Exposition under the direction of 
 H.R.H. Prince Albert, and evincing, very pleasantly to me, un- 
 bounded faith in our old friend his father." There was one more 
 letter, taking a rather gloomy view of public affairs in connection with 
 an inflated pastoral from Doctor Wiseman "given out of the Flamin- 
 ian Gate," and speaking dolefully of some family matters; which 
 was subscribed, each word forming a separate line, "Yours Des- 
 pondently, And Disgustedly, Wilkins Micawber." 
 
 His visit to the little watering-place in the following year was 
 signalised by his completion of the most famous of his novels, and 
 his letters otherwise were occupied by elaborate managerial prepara- 
 tion for the private performances at Knebworth. But again the 
 plague of itinerant music flung him into such fevers of irritation, that 
 he finally resolved against any renewed attempt to carry on import- 
 ant work here; and the summer of 1851, when he was busy with 
 miscellaneous writing only, was the last of his regular residences in 
 the place. He then let his London house for the brief remainder of 
 its term; running away at the end of May, when some grave family 
 sorrows had befallen him, from the crowds and excitements of the 
 Great Exliibition; and I will only add generally of these seaside 
 residences that his reading was considerable and very various at 
 such intervals of labour. One of them, as I remember, took in all the 
 minor tales as well as the plays of Voltaire, several of the novels 
 (old favourites with him) of Paul de Kock, Ruskin's Lamps of 
 Architecture, and a surprising number of books of African and other 
 travel for which he had insatiable relish: but there was never much 
 notice of his reading in his letters. "By the by, I observe, reading 
 that wonderful book the French Revolution again for the 500th time, 
 that Carlyle, who knows everything, don't know what Mumbo 
 Jumbo is. It is not an Idol. It is a secnjt preserved among the men of 
 certain African tribes, and never revealed by any of them, for the 
 punishment of their women. Mumbo Jumbo comes in hideous form 
 out of the forest, or the mud, or the river, or where not, and flogs 
 some woman who has been backbiting, or scolding, or with some 
 other domestic mischief disturbing the general peace. Carlyle's seems 
 
 iff 
 
 '^\ 
 
 fill 
 
532 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 to confound him with the common Fetish; but he is quite another 
 thing. He is a disguised man; and all about him is u freemasons' 
 secret among the men." — "I finished the Scarlet Letter yesterday. 
 It falls off sadly after that fine opening scene. The psychological 
 part of the story is very much overdone, and not truly done I think. 
 Their suddenness of meeting and agreeing to go away together after 
 all those years, is very poor. INIr. Chillingworth ditto. The child out 
 of nature altogether. And Mr. Dimmisdale certainly never could 
 have begotten her." In INIr. Hawthorne's earlier books he had taken 
 especial pleasure; his Mosses from and Old Manse having been the 
 first book he placed in my hands on his return from America, with 
 reiterated injunctions to read it. . . , 
 
 III 
 
 :4 
 
 i* 
 
 U 
 
 CHRISTMAS BOOKS CLOSED AND "HOUSEHOLD WORDS BEGUN 
 \ 1848-50 
 
 It has been seen that his fancy for his Christmas book of 1848 first 
 arose to him at Lausanne in the summer of 1846, and that, after 
 writing its opening pages in the autumn of the following year, he 
 laid it aside under the pressure of his Donibey. These lines were in 
 the letter that closed his 1848 Broadstairs hoUday. "At last I am a 
 mentally matooring of the Christmas book — or, as poor Macrone 
 used to write, 'booke,' 'boke,' 'buke,' etc." It was the first labour to 
 which he applied himself at his return. 
 
 In London it soon came to maturity; was published duly as 
 The Haunted Man, or the Ghost's Bargain; sold largely, beginning 
 with a subscription of twenty thousand; and had a great success on 
 the Adelphi stage, to which it was rather cleverly adapted by Lemon. 
 He had placed on its title-page originally four lines from Tennyson's 
 Departure. "" 
 
 And o'er the hills, and far away 
 
 Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
 Bevond the night, across the day, 
 
 Tliro' all the world it followed him; 
 
 but they were less applicable to the close than to the opening of the 
 tale, and were dropped before publication. . . . 
 
 The design for his much-thought-of new Periodical was still 
 "dim," as we have seen, when tne first cogitation of it at Bonchurch 
 occupiea nim; l?ul tne e.-vpcuicnv^y 01 iiia.tvij.ig iv. vivaivi --cmi^- j\joii 
 after with a visit from Mr. Evans, who brought his half-year's 
 accounts of sales, and some small disappointment for him in those of 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 533 
 
 ; another 
 eniusoiis' 
 esterday. 
 ;hological 
 D I think. 
 thcT after 
 child out 
 fCT could 
 lad taken 
 been the 
 :ica, with 
 
 BEGUN 
 
 1848 first 
 lat, after 
 
 year, he 
 3 were in 
 it I am a 
 
 Macrone 
 labour to 
 
 duly as 
 )eginning 
 access on 
 »;' Lemon, 
 innyson's 
 
 ng of the 
 
 was still 
 Dnchurch 
 
 ilf-year's 
 I those of 
 
 Copperfield. "The accounts are rather shy, after Dombey, and what 
 you said comes true after all. I am not sorry I cannot bring myself 
 to care much for what opinions people may form; and I have a strong 
 belief, that, if any of my books are read years hence, Dombey will be 
 remembered as among the best of them: but passing influences are 
 important for the time, and as Chuzzlewit with its small sale sent me 
 up, Dombey's large sale has tumbled me down. Not very much, 
 however, in real truth. These accounts only include the first three 
 numbers, have of course been burdened with all the heavy expenses 
 of number one, and ought not in reason to be complained of. But it 
 is clear to me that the Periodical must be set a-going in the spring; 
 and I have already been busy, at odd half-hours, in shadowing forth 
 a name and an idea. Evans says they have but one opinion repeated 
 to them of Copperfield, and they feel very confident about it. A steady 
 twenty-five thousand, which it is now on the verge of, will do very 
 well. The back numbers are always going off. Read the enclosed." . . . 
 
 The week before he left Bonchurch I again had news of the old 
 and often recurring fancy. "The old notion of the Periodical, which 
 had been agitating itself in my mind for so long, I really think is at 
 last gradually growing into form." ... It was to be a weekly mis- 
 cellany of general literature; and its stated objects were to be, to 
 contribute to the entertainment and instruction of all classes of 
 readers, and to help in the discussion of the more important social 
 questions of the time: It was to comprise short stories by others as 
 well as himself; matters of passing interest in the liveliest form that 
 could be given to them; subjects suggested by books that might 
 most be attracting attention; and poetry in every number if possible, 
 but in any ca'^e something of romantic fancy. This was to be a 
 cardinal point. There was to be no more utilitarian spirit; with all 
 familiar things, but especially those repellent on the surface, some- 
 thing was to be connected that should be fanciful or kindly; and the 
 hardest workers were to be taught that their lot is not necessarily 
 excluded from the sympathies and graces of imagination. This was 
 all finally settled by the close of 1849, when a general announcement 
 of the intended adventure was made. There remained only a title 
 and an assistant-editor; and I am happy now to remember that for 
 the latter important duty Mr. Wills was chosen at my suggestion. 
 He discharged its duties with admirable patience and ability for 
 twenty years, and Dickens's later life had no more intimate friend. 
 
 The title took some time and occupied many letters. One of the 
 first thought-of has now the curious interest of having fore-shadowed, 
 by the motto proposed to accompany it, the title of the series of 
 All the Year Round which he was led to sulsstitute for the older series 
 in 1859. "The Robin. With this motto from Goldsmith. The redbreast, 
 celebrated for its affection to mankind, continues with us, the year round." 
 That however was rejected. Then came: "Mankind. This I think 
 very good." It foiiowed the other neverthelf>ss. After it came: "And 
 here a strange idea, but with decided advantages. 'Charles Dickens. 
 
 hi: 
 

 
 534 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 A weekly journal designed for the instruction and entertainment of 
 all classes of readers. Conducted by Himself.' " Still something was 
 wanting in that also. Next day there arrived: "I really think if there 
 be anything wanting in the other name, that this i" very pretty, and 
 just supplies it. The Household Voice. I have thought of many 
 others, as— The Household Guest. The Household Face. 
 The Comrade. The Microscope, The Highway of Life. The 
 Lever. The Rolling Years. The Holly Tree (with two lines 
 from Southey for a motto). Everything. But I rather think the 
 Voice is it." It was near indeed; but the following day came, 
 "Household Words. This is a very pretty name": and the choice 
 was made. 
 
 The first number appeared on Saturday, 30 March, 1850, and 
 contained among other things the beginning of a story by a very 
 original writer, Mrs. Gaskell, for whose powers he had a high admira- 
 tion, and with whom he had friendly intercourse during many years. 
 Other opportunities will arise for mention of those with whom this 
 new labour brought him into personal communication, but I may 
 "t once say that of all the writers, before unknown, whom his journal 
 nelped to make familiar to a wide world of readers, he had the 
 strongest personal interest in Mr. Sala, and placed at once in the high- 
 est rank his capabilities of help in such an enterprise. An illustrative 
 trait of what I have named as its cardinal point to him will fitly 
 close my account of its establishment. Its first number, still unpub- 
 lished, had not seemed to him quite to fulfil his promise, "tenderly 
 to cherish the light of fancy inherent in all breasts"; and, as soon as 
 he received the proof of the second, I heard from him. "Looking 
 over the suggested contents of Dumber two at breakfast this morning" 
 (Bri£,hton: 14 March, 1850) "I felt an uneasy sense of there being a 
 want of something tender, which would apply to some universal 
 household knowledge. Coming down in the railroad the other night 
 (always a wonderfully suggestive place to me when I am alone) I 
 was looking at the stars, and revolving a little idea about them. 
 Putting now these two things together, I wrote the enclosed little 
 paper, straightway; and should like you to read it before you send it 
 to the printers (it will not take you five minutes), and let me have a 
 proof by return." This was the cliild's "dream of a star," which 
 opened his second number; it appears among his reprinted pieces. . . . 
 
 His sister Fanny and himself, he told me long before this paper 
 was written, used to wander at night about a churchyard near their 
 house, looking up at the stars; and her early death, of which I am 
 shortly to speak, had vividly reawakened all the childish associations 
 which made Y r memory dear to him. 
 
 If 
 
iment of 
 hingwas 
 : if there 
 tty, and 
 af many 
 ) Face. 
 ?E. The 
 wo lines 
 link the 
 y came, 
 e choice 
 
 550, and 
 ^ a very 
 admira- 
 ly years. 
 10m this 
 t I may 
 3 journal 
 had the 
 the high- 
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 will fitly 
 1 unpub- 
 tenderly 
 5 soon as 
 Looking 
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 3 being a 
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 •ieces. . . . 
 lis paper 
 ear their 
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 Delations 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 535 
 
 IV 
 
 IN AID OF LITERATURE AND ART 
 1850-2 
 
 In the year of the establishment of Household Words Dickens re- 
 sumed what I have called his splendid strolling on behalf of a scheme 
 for the advantage of men of letteri, to which a great brother-author 
 had given the sanction of his genius and name. In November 1850, 
 in the hall of Lord Lytton's old family seat in Knebworth Park, 
 there were three privat*^ performances by the original actors in Ben 
 Jonson's Every Man in His Hmaour, of which all the circumstances 
 and surroundings were very brilliant; some of the gentlemen of tho 
 country played both in comedy and farces; our geieiou. host was 
 profuse of all noble encouragement; and amid the gexieral pleasure 
 and excitement hopes rose high. Recent; experience had shown what 
 the public interest in this kind of amusement might place within 
 reach of its providers; and ^.here came to be discussed the possibility 
 of making permanent such help as had been aftordfvd to fellow 
 writers, by means of an endowment that should not be mere charity, 
 but should combine something of both pension-list and colle^'e- 
 lectureship, without the drawbacks ot either. It was nrY. enough 
 considered that schemes for selt-help, to be successful, require from 
 those they are meant to benefit, not only a general asf>ent to their 
 desirability, but zealous co-operation. Too readily assuming what 
 should have had more thorough investigation, the enterprise was 
 set on foot, and the "Guild of Literature and Art" Oji inated at 
 Knebworth. A five-act comedy was to be written by bir Edward 
 Lytton; and, when a certain sum of monjv h^id been obtained by 
 public representations of it, the details of the scheme v/ere to be 
 drawn up, and appeal made to thr- e whom it add'.essca more 
 especially. In a very few months everything was leady, except a 
 farce which Dickens was to have written to follov/ the comedy, and 
 which unexpected cares of management and preparation were held 
 to absolve him from. There were other reasons. "I have written the 
 first scene,*' he told me (23 March, 18^1), 'and it has droll points in 
 it, 'more farcical points than you commonly find in farces.' really 
 better. Yet I am constantly striving, for niy reputation's sake, to get 
 into it a meaning that is impossible in a farce; constantly thinking of 
 it, therefore, against the grain; and constantly impressed with a con- 
 viction that I could never act in it myself with that wild abandon- 
 ment which can alone carry a farce oil. Wherefore I have confessed 
 to Bulwer Lytton and asked for absolution.' There was substituted a 
 
 i li 
 
 ;l 
 
536 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 new farce of Lemon's, to which, however, Dickens soon contributed 
 so many jokes and so much Gampish and other fun of his own, that 
 it came to be in effect a joint piece of authorship; and Gabblewigg, 
 which the manager took to himself, was one of those personation 
 parts requiring five or six changes of face, voice, and gait in the 
 course of it, from which, as we have seen, he derived all the early 
 theatrical ambition that the elder Mathews had awakened in him. 
 "You have no idea," he continued, "of the immensity of the work as 
 the time advances, for the Duke even throws the whole of the 
 audience on us, or he would get (he says) into all manner of 
 scrapes." 
 
 "The Duke" was the Duke of Devonshire, of whose love of letters 
 and interest for men of that calling I have given one cf the many 
 instarces that adorned a life which alone perhaps in England was 
 genumely and completely that of the Grand Seigneur. Well-read and 
 very accomplished, he had the pleasing manners which proceed fiom 
 a kind nature; and splendid in his mode of living beyond any other 
 English noble, his magnificence, by the ease and elegance that 
 accompanied it, was relieved from all offence of ostentation. He had 
 offered his house in Piccadilly for the first rci resentations, and in his 
 princely way discharged all the expenses attending them. A movable 
 theatre was built and set up in the great drawing-room, the library 
 was turned into a green-room, and here Lytton's comedy was 
 presented. . . . 
 
 The design nevertheless did not prosper, and both the great writers 
 who had associated themselves with it are now passed away. Since 
 it first was mentioned on this page. Lord Lytton has himself been 
 borne to the Abbey where Dickens is laid, and which never opeixed 
 to receive a more varied genius, a more gallant spirit, a man more 
 constant to his friends, more true to any cause he represented, or 
 whose name will hereafter be found entitled to a more honoured 
 place in the history of his time. The Guild design failed because the 
 support indispensable to success was not, as Dickens too sanguinely 
 hoped, given to it by literary men themselves. . . • 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 5d>7 
 
 LAST YEARS IN DEVONSHIRE TERRACE 
 X848-51 
 
 Excepting always the haunts and associations of his childhood 
 Dickens had no particular sentiment of locality, and any special 
 regard for houses he had lived in was not a thing noticeable in him 
 But he cared most for Devonshire Terrace, perhaps for the bit of 
 ground attached to it; and it was wit! egret he suddenly discovered 
 at the close of 1847, that he should nave to resign it "next Lady 
 Day three years. I had thought the lease two years more." To that 
 brief remaining time belong some incidents of which I have still to 
 give account; and I connect them with the house in which he lived 
 during the progress of what is generally thought his greatest book 
 and of what I think were his happiest years. 
 
 We had never had such intimate confidences as in the interval 
 since his return from Paris; but these have been used in my narrative 
 of the childhood and boyish experiences, and what remain are inci- 
 dental only. Of the fragment of autobiogi-aphy there also given, the 
 origin has been told: but the intention of leaving such a record 'had 
 been also in his mind at an earlier date; and it was the very depth 
 of our interest in the opening of his fragment that led to the larger 
 design in which it became absorbed. "I hardly know why I write 
 this," was his own comment on one of his personal revelations, "but 
 the more than friendship which has grown between us seems to force 
 it on me in my present mood. We shall speak of it all, you and I, 
 Heaven grant, wisely and wonderingly many and many a time in 
 after years. In the meanwhile I am more at rest for having opened all 
 my heart and mind to you. . . . This day eleven years, poor dear 
 Mary died." That was written on 7 May, 1848. . . . 
 
 In all the later part of the year Dickens's thoughts were turning 
 much to the form his next book should assume. A suggestion that he 
 should write it in the first person, by way of change, had been thrown 
 out by me, which he took at once very gravel v; and this, with other 
 things, though as yet not dreaming of any public use of hid early 
 personal trials, conspurtd to bring about the resolve xo use them. His 
 determination once taken, with what a singular truthfulness he con- 
 trived to blend the fact with the fiction may be shown by a small 
 occurrence of this time. It has been inferred, from the vividness of 
 the boy-impress'>.ns of Yarmouth in David's earliest experiences, 
 that the place must have been familiar to his own bovhood: but the 
 truth was that at the close of 1848 he first saw that celebrated seaport. 
 
 1'^ 
 
 i •! I 
 
538 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 One of its earlier months had been signalised by an adventure in 
 which Leech, Lemon, and myself took part with him, when, obtain- 
 ing horses from Salisbury, we passed the whole of a March day in 
 riding over every part of the Plain; visiting Stonehenge, and explor- 
 ing Hazlitt's "hut" at Winterslow, birthplace of some of his finest 
 essays; altogether with so brilliant a success that now (13 November) 
 he proposed to ' 'repeat the Salisbury Plain idea in a new direction in 
 midwinter, to wit, Blackgang Chine in the Isle of Wight, with dark 
 winter cliffs and roaring oceans." But mid-winter brought with it too 
 nuch dreariness of its own, to render these stormy accompaniments 
 to it very palatable; and on the last day of the year he bethought 
 him "it would be better to make an outburst to some old cathedral 
 city we don't know, and what do you say to Norwich and Stanfield 
 Hall?" Thither accordingly the three friends went, illness at the last 
 aisabling me; and of the result I heard {12 January, 1849) that Stan- 
 field Hall, the scene of a recent frightful tragedy, had nothing attrac- 
 tive unless the term might be applied to "a. murderous look that 
 seemed to invite such a crime. We arrived," continued Dickens, 
 "between the Hall and Potass farm, as the search was going on for 
 the pistol in a manner so consummately stupid, that there was nothing 
 on earth to prevent any of Rush's labourers from accepting five 
 pounds from Rush junior to find the weapon and give it to him. 
 Norwich, a disappointment" (one pleasant face "transformeth a 
 city," but he was unable yet to connect it with our delightful friend 
 Elwin); "all save its place of execution, which we found fit for a 
 gigantic scoundrel's exit. But the success of the trip, for me, was to 
 come. Yarmouth, sir, where we went afterwards, is the strangest 
 place in the wide world: one hundred and forty-six miles of 
 hill-less marsh between it and London. More when we meet. I 
 shall certainly try my hand at it." He made it the home of his 
 "little Em'ly." 
 
 Everything now was taking that direction with him; and soon, to 
 give his own account of it, his mind was upon names "running like 
 a high sea." Four days after the date of the last-quoted letter ("all 
 over happily, thank God, by four o'clock this morning") there came 
 the birth of his eighth child and sixth son; whom at first h'=! meant to 
 call by Oliver Goldsmith's name, but settled afterwards into that of 
 Henry Fielding; and to whom that early friend Ainsworth who had 
 first made us known to each other, welcome and pleasant companion 
 always, was asked to be godfather. Telling me of the change in the 
 name of the little fellow, which he had made in a kind of homage to 
 the style of work he was now so bent on beginning, he added, "What 
 should you think of this for a notion of a character.? 'Yes, that is very 
 true; but now, What's his motive?' I fancy I could make something 
 like it into a kind of amusing and more innocent Pecksniff, 'Weil 
 now, yes — no doubt that was a fine thing to do! But now, stop a 
 moment, let us see — What's his motive?' " Here again was but one 
 of the many ou-ward signs of fancy and fertility that accompanied 
 
 A _ 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 539 
 
 the outset of all his more important books; though, as in their cases 
 also, other moods of the mind incident to such beginnings were less 
 favourable. "Deepest despondency, as usual, in commencing, besets 
 me;" is the opening of the letter in which he speaks of what of course 
 was always one of his first anxieties, the selection of a name. In this 
 particular instance he had been undergoing doubts and misgivings to 
 more than the usual degree. It was not until 23 February he got to 
 anything like the shape of a feasible title. "I should like to know how 
 the enclosed (one of those I have been thinking of) strikes you, on a 
 first acquaintance with it. It is odd, I think, and new: but it may 
 have A's. difficulty of being 'too comic, my boy.' I suppose I should 
 have to add, though, by way of motto, 'And in short it led to the very 
 Mag's Diversions. Old Saying.'' Or would it be better, there being 
 equal authority for either, 'And in short they all played Mag's 
 Diversions. Old Saying' V 
 
 "Mag^s Diversions. 
 
 Being the personal history of 
 
 Mr. Thomas Mag the Younger, 
 
 Of Blunderstone House." 
 
 This was hardly satisfactory, I thought; and it soon became 
 apparent that he thought so too, although within the next three 
 days I had it in three other forms. "Mag's Diversions, being the 
 Personal History, Adventures, Experience, and Observation of Mr. 
 David Mag the Younger, of Blunderstone House," The second 
 omitted Adventures, and called his hero Mr. David Mag the Younger, 
 of Copperfield House. The third made nearer approach to what the 
 destinies were leading him to, and transformed Mr. David Mag into 
 Mr. David Copperfield the Younger and his great-aunt Margaret; 
 retaining still as his leading title, Mag's Diversions. It is singular that 
 it should never have occurred to him, while the name was thus 
 strangely as by accident bringing itself together, that the initials 
 were but his own reversed. He was much startled when I pointed this 
 out, and protested it was just in keeping with the fates and 
 chances which were always befalling him, "Why else," he said, 
 "should I so obstinately have kept to that name when once it 
 turned up?" 
 
 It was quite true that he did so, as I had curious proof foiu ving 
 close upon the heels of his third proposal. "I wish," he wrote on 25 
 February, "you would look over carefully the titles now enclosed, 
 and tell me to which you most incline. You will see that they give up 
 Mag altogether, and refer exclusively to one name — that which I 
 
 1*-»o+- o£kT*4* ■«Tr\ii T /^r\iiV\*i- txrln/i'f Viof T r»/-»iil/l ori ■4*V|o ^irHo^'Ck rr^4' q Vk^4-4-/**- 
 
 name. 
 
 m 
 
 i^: Ifi 
 
540 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 'i. The Copper field Disclosures. Being 
 the perbonal history, experience, 
 and observation, of Mr. David 
 Copperfield the Younger, of 
 Blunderstone House. 
 
 '2. The Copperfield Records. Being the 
 personal history, experience, and 
 observation, of Mr. David 
 Copperfield the Younger, of 
 Copperfield Cottage. 
 
 '3. The Last Living Speech and 
 Confession of David Copperfield, 
 Junior, of Blunderstone Lodge, 
 who was never executed at the 
 Old Bailey, being his personal 
 history found among his papers. 
 
 The Copperfield Survey of the World 
 as it Rolled. Being the personal 
 historj', experience, and obser- 
 vation of David Copperfield the 
 Younger, of Blunderstone Rook- 
 ery. 
 
 The Last Will and Testament of 
 Mr. David Copperfield. Being his 
 personal history left as a legacy. 
 
 Copperfield, Complete. Being the 
 whole personal history and 
 experience of Mr. David Copper- 
 field of Blunderstone House, 
 which he never meant to be 
 published on any account. 
 
 Or, the opening words of No. 6 might be Copperfield' s Entire; and 
 The Copperfield Confessions might open Nos. i and 2. Now, what 
 
 SAY YOU?" 
 
 What I said is to h*^ inferred from what he wrote back on the 28th. 
 "The Survey has been my favourite from the first. Kate picked it out 
 from the rest, without my saying anything about it, Georgy too. 
 You hit upon it, on the first glance. Therefore I have no doubt that 
 it is indisputably the best title; and I will stick to it." There was a 
 change nevertheless. His completion of the second chapter defined to 
 himself, more clearly than before, the character of the book; and the 
 propriety of rejecting everything not strictly personal from the name 
 given to it. The words proposed, therefore, became ultimately these 
 only: "The Personal History, Adventures, Experience, and Observa- 
 tion of David Copperfield the Younger, of Blunderstone Rookery, 
 which he never meant to be published on any account." And the 
 letter which told me that with this name it was finally to be launched 
 on I May, told me also (19 April) the difi&culties that still beset him 
 at the opening. "My hand is out in the matter of Copperfield. To-day 
 and yesterday I have done nothing". Though I know what I want to 
 do, I am lumbering on like a stage-waggon. I can't even dine at the 
 Temple to-day, I feel it so important to stick at it this evening, and 
 make some head. I am quite aground; quite a literary Benedict, as he 
 appeared when his heels wouldn't stay upon the carpet; and the long 
 Copperfieldian perspective looks snowy and thick, this fine morning." 
 The allusion was to a dinner at his house the night before; when not 
 only Rogers had to be borne out, having fallen sick at the table, but, 
 as we rose soon after to quit the dining-room, Mr. Jules Benedict had 
 quite suddenly followed the poet's lead, and fallen prostrate on the 
 carpel iu the midst of us. Amid the general consternation there seemed 
 a want of proper attendance on the sick: the distinguished musician 
 
the World 
 personal 
 d obser- 
 rfiekl tlie 
 ne Rook- 
 
 ament of 
 Being his 
 a legacy. 
 
 teing the 
 ary and 
 i Copper- 
 5 House, 
 it to be 
 mt. 
 
 ire; and 
 
 V, WHAT 
 
 he 28th. 
 2d it out 
 rgy too. 
 abt that 
 re was a 
 jfined to 
 and the 
 he name 
 ily these 
 )bserva- 
 {.ookery, 
 And the 
 aunched 
 eset him 
 . To-day 
 want to 
 le at the 
 ing, and 
 ict, as he 
 the long 
 orning." 
 vhen not 
 .ble, but, 
 idict had 
 :e on the 
 e seeined 
 musician 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 541 
 
 1 
 
 fanng m this respect hardly so well as the famous bard, by whose 
 protracted sufferings in the library, whither he had been removed, 
 the sanitary help available on the establishment was citill absorbed: 
 and as Dickens had been eloquent during dinner on the atrocities of a 
 pauper-farming case at Tooting which was then exciting a fury of 
 indignation, Fonblanque now declared him to be no better himself 
 than a second Drouet. reducing his guests to a lamentable state by 
 the food he had given them, and aggravating their sad condition by 
 absence of all proper nursing. The joke was well kept up by Quin and 
 Edwm Landseer, Lord Strangford joining in with a tragic sympathy 
 for his friend the poet; and the banquet so dolefully interrupted 
 elided m uproarious mirth. For nothing really serious had happened. 
 Benedict went laughing away with his wife, and I helped Rogers 
 on with his over-shoes for his usual night-walk home. "Do you 
 know how many waistcoats I wear?" asked the poet of me. as I 
 was doing him this service. I professed my inability to guess. 
 "Five" he said: "and here they are!" Upon which he opened them, 
 in the manner of the grave-digger in Hamlet, and showed me every 
 one. That dinner was in the April 1849. . . . 
 
 The month of May was that of the start of David Copperfield, 
 and to one more dinner (on the 12th) I may especially refer for those 
 who were present at it. Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle came, Thackeray 
 and Rogers, Mrs. Gaskell and Kenyon, Jerrold and Hablot Browne, 
 with Mr. and Mrs. Tagart; and it was a delight to see the enjoyment 
 of Dickens at Carlyle's laughing reply to questions about his health, 
 that he was. in the language of Mr. Peggotty's housekeeper, a lorn 
 lone creature and everything went contrairy with him. Things were 
 not hkely to go better, I thought, as I saw the great writer— kindest 
 as well as wisest of men. but not very patient under sentimental 
 philosophies— seated next the good Mr. Tagart, who soon was heard 
 launching at him various metaphysical questions in regard to heaven 
 and such like; and the relief was great when Thackeray introduced, 
 with quaint whimsicality, a story which he and I had just heard 
 Macready relate in talking to us about his boyish days, of a country 
 actor who had supported himself for six months on his judicious, 
 treatment of the "tag" to the Castle Spectre. In the original it stands 
 that you are to do away with suspicion, banish vile mistrust, and. 
 almost in the words we had just heard from the minister to the 
 philosopher. "Believe there is a heaven, nor doubt that heaven is 
 just!" in place of which Macready's friend, observing that the drop 
 fell for the most part quite coldly, substituted one night the more 
 telling appeal, "And give us your Applause, for that is always 
 JUST !" which brought down the house with rapture. . , 
 
 Some incidents that belong specially to the three years that closed 
 his residence in the home thus associated with not the least interest- 
 ing pui t oi liis career, will further show what now were his occupa- 
 tions and ways of life. In the summer of 1849 he came up from Broad- 
 stairs to attend a Mansion House dinner, which the lord mayor of 
 
 ii 
 
 iS 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 1 r. 
 
542 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 m 
 
 l'J!j 
 
 that day had been moved by a laudable ambition to give to " litera- 
 ture and art," which he supposed would be adequately represented 
 by the Royal Academy, the contributors to Punch, Dickens, and one 
 or two newspaper men. On the whole the result was not cheering; the 
 worthy chief magistrate, no doubt quite undesignedly, expressing too 
 much surprise at the unaccustomed faces around him to be altogether 
 complimentary. In general (this was the tone) we are in the habit of 
 having princes, dukes, ministers, and what not for our guests, but 
 what a delight, all the greater for being unusual, to see gentlemen like 
 you! In other words, what could possibly be pleasanter than for 
 people satiated with greatness to get for a while by way of change 
 into the butler's pantry? This in substance was Dickens's account to 
 me next day, and his reason for having been very careful in his 
 acknowledgment of the toast of "The Novelists." He was nettled not 
 a little therefore by a jesting allusion to himself in the Daily News in 
 connection with the proceedings, and asked me to fonvard a remon- 
 strance. Having a strong dislike to all such displays of sensitiveness, 
 I suppressed the letter; but it is perhaps worth printing now. Its date 
 is Broadstairs, Wednesday, ii July, 1849. "I have no other interest 
 in, or concern with, a most facetious article on last Saturday's dinner 
 at the Mansion House, which appeared in your paper of yesterday, 
 and found its way here to-day, than that it misrepresents me in what 
 I said on the occasion. If you shoukl not think it at all damaging to 
 the wit of that satire to state what I did say, I shall be much obliged 
 to you. It was this. . . . That I considered the compliment of a 
 recognition of Literature by the citizens of London the more accept- 
 able to us because it was unusual in that hall, and likely to be an 
 advantage and benefit to them in proportion as it became in future 
 less unusual. That, on behalf of the novelists, I accepted the tribute 
 as an appropriate one; inasmuch as we had sometimes reason to hope 
 that our imaginary worlds afEorded an occasional refuge to men busily 
 •engaged in the toils of life, from which they came forth none the 
 worse to a renewal of its strivings; and certainly that the chief 
 magistrate of the greatest city in the world might be fitly regarded 
 as the representative of that class of our readers." 
 
 Of an incident towards the close of the year, though it had import- 
 ant practical results, brief mention will here suffice. We saw the 
 Mannings executed on the walls of Horsemonger Lane Gaol; and with 
 the letter which Dickens wrote next day to The Times descriptive of 
 what we had witnessed on that memorable morning, there began an 
 active agitation against public executions which never ceased until 
 "the salutary change was effected whv' 11 has worked so well, . . . 
 
 The chief occupation of the past and present year, David Copper- 
 field, win have a section to itself, and in this may be touched but 
 lightly. Once fairly in it, the story bore him irresistibly along; cer- 
 tainly with less trouble to himself in the composition, beyond that 
 ardent sympathy with the creatures of the fancy which always made 
 ;so absolutely real to him their sufferings or sorrows; and he was 
 
" litera- 
 resented 
 and one 
 •ing; the 
 ising too 
 together 
 habit of 
 sts, but 
 [nen like 
 ;han for 
 ■ change 
 :ount to 
 il in his 
 tied not 
 News in 
 , remon- 
 iveness, 
 Its date 
 interest 
 s dinner 
 sterday, 
 in what 
 aging to 
 I obliged 
 jnt of a 
 i accept- 
 :o be an 
 n future 
 ; tribute 
 to hope 
 in busily 
 tone the 
 he chief 
 egarded 
 
 import- 
 saw the 
 ind with 
 iptive of 
 »egan an 
 ed until 
 
 Copper- 
 hed but 
 >ng; cer- 
 ind that 
 ys made 
 he was 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 543 
 
 probably never less harassed by interruptions or breaks in his 
 invention. His princii.il hesitation occurred in connection with the 
 child-wife Dora, who had become a great favourite as he went on; 
 and It was shortly after her fate had been decided, in the early 
 autumn of 1850, but I jfore she bren^hed her last, that a third 
 daughter was born to him, to whom he gave his dying little heroine's 
 name. On these ; id c ,ner points, without forestalling what waits to 
 be said of the composition of this fine story, a few illustrative words 
 from his letters will properly find a place here. "Copperfield half 
 done," he wrote of the second number on 6 June. "I feel, thank God, 
 quite confident in the story. I have a move in it ready for this 
 month; another for next; and another for the next." "I think it is 
 necessary" (15 Novcmbc.) "to decide against the special pleader. 
 Yor reasons quite suftice. I am not sure but that the banking house 
 mignt do. X will consider it in a walk." "Banking business impractic- 
 able" (17 November) "on account of the confinement: which would 
 stop the story, I foresee. I have taken, for the present at all events, 
 the proctor. I am wonderfully in harness, and nothing galls or frets." 
 ''Copperfield done" (.:o November) "after two days' very hard work 
 indeed; and I think a smashing number. His first dissipation I hope 
 will be found worthy of attention, as a piece of grotesque truth." "I 
 feel a great hope" (23 January. 1850) "that I shall be remembered by 
 little Em'ly, a good many years to come." "I begin to have my 
 doubts of being able to join you" (20 February), "for Copperfield runs 
 high, and must be done to-morrow. But I'll do it if possible, and strain 
 every nerve. Some beautiful comic love, I hope, in the number." 
 "Still undecided about Dora" (7 May), "but must decide to-day." 
 "I have been" (Tuesday. 20 August) "very hard at work these three 
 days, and have still Dora to kill. But with good luck, I may do it 
 to-morrow. Obliged to go to Shepherd's Bush to-day, and can con- 
 sequently do little this morning. Am eschewing all sorts of things that 
 present themselves to my fancy — coming in such crowds!" "Work in 
 a very decent state of advancement" (13 August) "domesticity not- 
 withstanding. I hope I shall have a splendid number. I feel the story 
 to its minutest point." "Mrs, Micawber is still" (15 August). "I regret 
 to say, in statu quo. Ever yours, Wilkins Micawber." The little girl 
 was born the next day. the i6th. and received the name of Dora 
 Annie. The most part of what remained of the year was passed away 
 from home. 
 
 The year following did not open with favourable omen, both the 
 child and its mother having severe illness. The former rallied, how- 
 ever, and "little Dora is getting on bravely, thank God!" was his 
 bulletin of the early part of February. Soon after, it was resolved to 
 make trial of Great Malvern for Mrs. Dickens; and lodgings were 
 taken there in March. Dickens and her sister accompanying her, and 
 the children being left in London. "It is a most beautiful place," he 
 wrote to me (15 March). "O Heaven, to meet the Cold Waterers (as 
 I did this morning when I went out for a shower-bath) dashing down 
 
 ai 
 
 '.\ 
 
 \V 
 
 w 
 
544 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 the hills, with severe expressions on their countenances, like men 
 doing matches and not exactly winning! Then, a young lady in a 
 grey polka going up the hills, regardless of legs; and meeting a 
 young gentleman (a bad case, I should say) with a light black silk 
 cap on under his hat, and the pimples of I don't know how many 
 douches under that. Likewise an old man who ran over a milk-child, 
 rather than stop! — with no neckcloth, on principle; and with his 
 mouth wide open to catch the morning air," He had to return to 
 London after the middle of March, for business connected with a 
 charitable Home established at Shepherd's Bush by Miss Coutts in 
 the benevolent hope of rescuing fallen women by testing their fitness 
 for emigration, frequently mentioned in his letters, and which largely 
 and regularly occupied his time for several years. On this occasion his 
 stay was prolonged by the illness of his father, whose health had been 
 failing latterly and graver symptoms were now spoken of. "I saw my 
 poor father twice yesterday," he v^Tote to me on the 27th, "the 
 second time between ten and eleven at night. In the morning I 
 thought him not so well. At night, as well as anyone in surh a 
 situation could be." Next day he was so much better tnat his son 
 went back to Malvern: but the end came suddenly. We were expecting 
 him at Knebworth, and I supposed that some accident had detained 
 him in Malvern; but at my return this letter waited me. "Devonshire 
 Terrace, Monday, thirty-first of March, 1851. . . . My poor father 
 died this morning at five and twenty minutes to six. They had sent 
 for me to Malvern, but I passed John on the railway. . . . Arrived 
 at eleven last night, and was in Keppel Street at a quarter past 
 eleven. He did not know me, nor anyone. He began tc sink at about 
 noon yesterday, and never rallied afterwards. I remained there until 
 he died — O so quietly. ... I hardly know what to do. I am going up 
 to Highgate to get the ground. Perhaps you may like to go, and I 
 should like it if you do. I will not leave h'^re before two o'clock, but I 
 must go down to Malvern again, at night. . . ." Mr. John Dickens 
 was laid in Highgate Cemetery on 5 April; and the stone placed over 
 him by the son who has made his name a famous one in England, bore 
 tribute to his "zealous, useful, cheerful spirit." What more is to be 
 said of him will be mc i becomingly said in speaking of David Copper- 
 fijsld. While the book was in course of being written, all that had been 
 best in him came more and more vividly back to its author's memory; 
 as time wore on, nothing else was remembered; and five years before 
 his own death, after using in one of his letters to me a phrase rather 
 out of the common with him, this was added: "I find this looks 
 like my poor father, whom I regard as a better man the longer 
 I live." 
 
 He was at this time under promise to take the chair at the General 
 Theatrical Fund on 14 April. Great efforts were made to relieve him 
 from the promise: but such special importance was attached to his 
 being present, ana the Fund so sorely then required help, that, no 
 change of day being found po isible for the actors who desired to 
 
 i h 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 545 
 
 ike men 
 idy in a 
 eeting a 
 lack silk 
 w many 
 Ik-child, 
 with his 
 eturn to 
 I with a 
 ^outts in 
 ir fitness 
 [1 largely 
 ision his 
 lad been 
 
 saw my 
 th, "the 
 jrning I 
 
 su'-h a 
 ; his son 
 xpecting 
 detained 
 vonshire 
 »r father 
 iiad sent 
 Arrived 
 ter past 
 at about 
 ere until 
 ^oing up 
 o, and I 
 :k, but I 
 Dickens 
 ced over 
 nd, bore 
 is to be 
 Copper- 
 lad been 
 nemory; 
 s before 
 ;e rather 
 lis looks 
 5 longer 
 
 General 
 eve him 
 d to his 
 that, no 
 sired to 
 
 attend, he yielded to the pressure put upon him; of which the 
 r^eult was to throw upon me a sad responsibility. The reader 
 will understand why, even at this distance of time, my allusion to 
 it is brief. 
 
 The train from Malvern brought him up only five minutes short of 
 the hour appointed for the dinner, and we first met that day at the 
 London Tavern. I never heard him to greater advantage than in the 
 speech that followed. His liking for this Fund was the fact of its not 
 confining its benefits to any special or exclusive body of actors, but 
 opening them undoubtingly to all; and he gave a description of the 
 kind of actor, going down to the innnitesimally small, not omitted 
 from such kind help, which had a half-pathetic humour in it that 
 makes it charming still. "In our Fund," he said, "the word exclusive- 
 ness is not known. We include every actor, whether he be Hamlet or 
 Benedict: the ghost, the bandit, or the court physician; or, in his one 
 person, the whole king's army. He may do the light business, or the 
 heavy, or the comic, or the eccentric. He may be the captain who 
 courts the young lady, whose uncle still unaccountably persists in 
 dressing himself in a costume one hundred years older than his time. 
 Or he may be the young lady's brother in the white gloves and 
 inexpressibles, whose duty in the family appears to be to listen to the 
 female members of it whenever they sing, and to shake hands with 
 everybody between all the verses. Or he may be the baron who gives 
 the fdte, and wi>o sits uneasily on the sofa under a canopy with the 
 baroness while the fete is going on. Or he may be the peasant at the 
 fete who conies on to the stage to swell the drinking chorus, and who, 
 it may hd observed, always turns his glass upside down before he 
 begins to drink out of it. Or he may be the clown who takes away the 
 doorstep of the house where the evening party is going on. Or he may 
 be the gentleman who issues out of the house on the faJse alarm, and 
 is precipitated into the area. Or, if an actress, she may be the fairy 
 who resides for ever in a revolving star with an occasional visit to a 
 bower or a palace. Or again, if an actor, he may be the armed head 
 of the witch's cauldron; or even that extraordinary witch concerning 
 whom I have observed in country places, that he is much less like 
 the notion formed from the description of Hopkins than the Malcolm 
 or Donalbain of the previous scenes. This society, in short, says, 
 ' Be you what you may, be you actor or actress, be your path in your 
 profession never so high or never so low, never so haughty or never so 
 humble, we offer you the means of doing good to yourselves, and of 
 doing good to your brethren.' " 
 
 Half an hour before he rose to speak I had been called out of the 
 room. It was the servant from Devonshire Terrace to tell me his child 
 Dora was suddenly dead. She had not been strong from her birth; 
 but there was just at this time no cause for special fear, when un- 
 expected convulsions came, and the frail little life nassed awav. Mv 
 decision had to be formed at once; and I satisfied myself that it would 
 be best to permit his part of the proceedings to close before the truth 
 
 33^ 
 
 ' ^1 
 
 . r 
 
 !',, 
 
546 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 was told to him. But as he went on, after the sentences I have quoted, 
 to speak of actors having to come from scenes and sickness, of 
 suffering, aye, even of death itself, to play their parts before us, my 
 part was very difficult. "Yet how often is it with all of us," he pro- 
 ceeded to nay, and I remember to this hour with what anguish I 
 listened t-* w<n<!., that had for myself alone, in all the crowded room, 
 thtir full 'ir ificance: "how often is it with all of us, that in our 
 several spheres we have to do violence to our feelings, and to hide our 
 hearts in carrying on this fight of life, if we would bravely discharge 
 in it our duties and responsibilities." In the disclosure that followed 
 when he left the chair, Mr. Lemon, who was present, assisted me; and 
 I left this good frici ) iili him next day, when I went myself to 
 Malvern and brought back Mrs. Dickens and her sister. The little child 
 lies in a grave at Highgate near that of Mr. and Mrs. John Dickens; 
 and on the stone which covers her is now written also her father's 
 name, and those of two of her brothers. 
 
 One more public discussion he took part in, before quitting London 
 for the rest of the summer; and what he said (it was a meeting, with 
 Lord Carlisle in the chair, in aid of Sanitary reform) very pregnantlv 
 illustrates what was remarked by me on a former page. He declared 
 his belief that neither education nor religion could do anything really 
 useful in social improvement until the way had been paved for their 
 ministrations by cleanliness and decency. He spoke warmly of the 
 services of Lord Ashley in connection with ragged schools, but he put 
 the case of a miserable child tempted into one of those schools out 
 of the noisome places in which his life was passed, and he asked what 
 a few hours' teaching could effect against the ever-renewed lesson of 
 a whole existence. "But give him, and his, a glimpse of heaven 
 through a little of its light and air; give them water; help them to be 
 clean; lighten the heavy atmosphere in which their spirits flag, and 
 which makes them the callous things they are; take the body of the 
 dead relative from the room where the living live with it, and where 
 such loathsome familiarity deprives death itself of awe; and then, but 
 not before, they will be brought willingly to hear of Him whose 
 thoughts were so much with the wretched, and who had compassion 
 for all human sorrow." He closed hy proposing Lord Ashley's health 
 as having preferred the higher ambition of labouring for the poor to 
 that of pursuing the career open to him In the service of the State; 
 and as having also had "the courage on all occasions to face the cant 
 which is the worst and commonest of all, the cant about the cant of 
 philanthropy." Lord Shaftesbury first dined with him in the following 
 year at Tavistock House. 
 
 Shortly after the Sanitary meeting, came the first Guild perform- 
 ances; and then Dickens left Devonshire Terrace, never to return to 
 it. With intervals of absence, chiefly at the Guild representations, he 
 stayed in his favourite Fort House by the sea until October, when 
 he took possession of Tavistock House. ... 
 
 It was not until the end of November, when he had settled himself 
 
! quoted, 
 cness, of 
 e us, my 
 ' he pro- 
 nguish I 
 sd room, 
 t in our 
 hide our 
 lischarge 
 followed 
 me; and 
 lyself to 
 :tle child 
 Dickens; 
 father's 
 
 London 
 ng, with 
 jgnantly 
 declared 
 ig really 
 for their 
 y of the 
 it he put 
 ools out 
 :ed what 
 [esson of 
 heaven 
 jm to be 
 lag, and 
 ly of the 
 id where 
 hen, but 
 n whose 
 apassion 
 s health 
 ! poor to 
 le State; 
 the cant 
 ; cant of 
 ollowing 
 
 jerform- 
 eturn to 
 tions, he 
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 w 
 
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 ■ 
 
 D 
 
 
 
 
 
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inh 
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 pag 
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 Die 
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 moi 
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 defi 
 Chv 
 var 
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 Oct 
 stra 
 Oh, 
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 insi 
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 moi 
 dis^ 
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 !___ 
 
 tree 
 fan 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 549 
 
 in his new London abode, that the book was begun (and as generally 
 happeued with the more important incidents of his life, though always 
 accidentally, begun on a Friday); but precedence is due, before any- 
 thing nt>re is said of Bleak House, to what remains to be said of 
 Cop ' ./'jtV. 
 
 It vas '.he last book written in Devonshire Terrace; and on the 
 page o^3i.'te is engraved a drawing by Maclise of this house where so 
 mr uy <. ' ' .ckens's masterpieces were composed, do e on the first 
 anriiverfiiy of the day when his daughter Kate was bom. 
 
 
 VI 
 
 "david copperfield" 
 
 1850 
 
 Dickens never stood so high in reputation as at the completion of 
 Copperfield. From the first it had surpassed in popularity, though not 
 in sale, all his previous books excepting Pickwick. "You gratify me 
 more than I can tell you," he wrote to Lytton, "by what you say 
 about Copperfield, because I hope myself that some heretofore 
 deficient qualities are there." If the power was not greater than in 
 Chuzzlewit, the subject had more attractiveness; there was more 
 variety of incident, with a freer play of character; and there was 
 withal a suspicion, which though" general and vague had sharpened 
 interest not a little, that underneath the fiction lay something of the 
 author's life. How much was not known by the world until he had 
 passed away. When engaged upon its close he had written thus (21 
 October, 1850): "I am within three pages of the shore; and am 
 strangely divided, as usual in such cases, between sorrow and joy. 
 Oh, my dear Forster, if I were to say half of what Copperfield makes 
 me feel to-night, how strangely, even to you, I should be turned 
 inside-out! I seem to be sending some part of myself into the 
 Shadowy World." 
 
 To be acquainted with English literature is to know that into its 
 most famous prose fiction autobiography has entered largely in 
 disguise, and that the characters most familiar to us in the English 
 novel had originals in actual life. Smollett never wrote a story that 
 was not in some degree a recollection of his own adventures; and 
 Fielding, who put something of his wife into all his heroines, had been 
 as fortunate in finding, not Trulliber only, but Parson Adams him- 
 self, among his living experiences. To come later down, there was 
 
 
 tixTjiixijxj xiau. nuX 
 
 i 
 
 % ■ 
 
 r 
 
 § 
 
 treasured up something to give minuter reality to the people of his 
 fancy; and we know exactly whom to look for in Dandie Dinmont 
 
I-* *i 
 
 -I? 
 
 550 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 and Jcnathar. Oldbuck, in the office of Alan Fairford and the sick- 
 room of Crystal Croftangry. We are to observe also that it is never 
 anything complete that is thus taken from life by a genuine writer, 
 but only leading traits, or such as may give greater finish; that the 
 fine artist will embody in his portraiture of one person his experiences 
 cf fifty; and that this would have been Fielding's answer to Trulliber 
 if he had objected to the pigsty, and to Adams if he had sought to 
 make a case of scandal out of the affair in Mrs. Slipslop's bedroom 
 Such questioning befell Dickens repeatedly in the course of his 
 \vritmgs. where he freely followed, as we have seen, the method thus 
 common to the masters in his art; but there was an instance of alleged 
 wrong m the course of Copperfield where he felt his vindication to be 
 hardly complete, and what he did thereupon was characteristic. 
 
 "I have had the queerest adventure this morning," he wrote {28 
 December, 1849) on the eve of his tenth number, "the receipt of the 
 enclosed from Miss Moucher! It is serio-comic, but there is no doubt 
 one IS wrong in being tempted to such a use of power." Thinking a 
 grotesque little oddity among hib acquaintance to be safe from 
 recognition he had done what Smollett did sometimes, but never 
 Fielding, and give" way, in the first outburst of fun that had broken 
 out around the fancy, to the temptation of copying too closely 
 peculiarities of figure and face amounting in effect to deformity He 
 was shocked at discovering the pain he had given, and a copy is 
 before me of the assurances by way of reply which he at once sent 
 to the complainant. That he was grieved and surprised beyond 
 meas.2re. That he had not intended her altogether. That all his 
 characters, being made up out of many people, were composite and 
 never individual. That the chair (for table) and other matters were 
 uncoubtedly from her, but that other traits were not hers at all- and 
 that m Miss Moucher's "Ain't I volatile " his friends had quite cor- 
 rectly recognised the favourite utterance of a different person, '^hat 
 he felt nevertheless he had done wrong, and would now do anything 
 to repair it. That he had intended to employ the character in an 
 unpleasant way, but he would, whatever the risk or inconvenience, 
 change it all, so that nothing but an agreeable impression should be 
 left. The reader will remember how this was managed, and that the 
 thirty-second chapter went far to undo what the twenty-second had 
 
 dt^:e , . 
 
 In the book that followed Copperfield, characters appeared having 
 resemblances in manner and speech to distinguished writers too vivid 
 to be mistaken by their personal friends. To Lawrence JSoythorn 
 under whom Landor figured, no objection was made; but Harold 
 Skimpole, recognisable for Leigh Hunt, led to much remark; the 
 difference being, that ludicrous traits were employed in the first to 
 enrich without impairing an attractive person in the tale, whereas to 
 the last was assigned a part in the plot which no fascinating foibles or 
 gaieties of speech could redeem from contempt. Though a want cf 
 consideration was thus shown to the friend " 
 
 •UrVlQ|Y» 
 
 
 
 •M ■*, 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 551 
 
 I I 
 
 ^hat 
 
 would be likely to recall to many readers, it is nevertheless very cer- 
 tain that the intention of Dickens was not at first, or at ariy tinij*, an 
 unkind one. He erred from thoughtlessness only. What led him to the 
 subject at all, he has himself stated. Hunt's philosophy of moneyed 
 obligations, always, though loudly, half jocosely proclaimed, and his 
 ostentations wilfulness in the humouring of that or any other theme 
 on which he cared for the time to expatiate, had so often seemed to 
 Dickens to be whimsical and attractive, that, wanting an "airy 
 quality" for the man he invented, this of Hunt occurred to him; and 
 "partly for that reason, and partly, he hts since often grieved to 
 think, for the pleasure it afforded to find « ielightful manner repro- 
 ducing itself under his hand, he yielded to the temptation of too often 
 making the character speak like his old friend." This apology was 
 made after Hunt's death,* and mentioned a revision of the first 
 sketch, so as to render it less like, at the suggestion of two oth^r 
 friends of Hunt. The friends were Procter (Barry Cornwall) and 
 myself; the feeling having been mine from the first that the likeness 
 was too like. Procter did not immediately think so, but a little 
 reflection brought him to that opinion. "You will see from the en- 
 closed," Dickens wrote (17 March, 1852), "that Procter is much of 
 my mind. I will nevertheless go through the character again in the 
 course of the afternoon, and soften down words here and there." 
 But before the day closed Procter had again written to him, and 
 next morning this was the result. "I have again gone over every part 
 of it very carefully, and I think I have made it much less like. I have 
 also changed Leonard to Harold. I have no right to give Hunt pain, 
 and I am so bent upon not doing it that I wish you would look at all 
 the proof once more, and indicate any particular place in which you 
 feel it particularly like. Whereupon I will alter the place." 
 
 Upon the whole the alterations were considerable, but the radical 
 wrong remained. The pleasant sparkling airy talk, which could not 
 be mistaken, identified with odious qualities a friend only known to 
 the writer by attractive ones; and for this there was no excuse. Per- 
 haps the only person acquainted with the original who failed to 
 recognise the copy, was the original himself (a common case); but 
 good-natured friends in time told Hunt everything, and painful 
 explanations followed, where notiiing was possible to Dickens but 
 what amounted to a friendly evasion of the points really at issue. 
 The time for redress had gone. I yet well remember with wh£.v eager 
 earnestness, on one of these occasions, he strove to set Hunt up again 
 in his own esteem. "Separate in your own mind," he said to him, 
 ' ' what you see of yourself from what other people tell you that they 
 see. As it has given you so much pain, 1 take it at its worst, and say 1 
 am deeply sorry, and that I fee) I did wrong in doing it. I should 
 otherwise have taken it at its best, and ridden off upon what I 
 strongly feel to be the truth, that there is nothing in it that should 
 
 1 ? 
 
 In a paper m All the Ysut Rouui, 
 
552 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ii ' 
 
 have given you pain. Everyone in writing must speak from points of 
 his experience, and so I of mine with you: but when I have felt it was 
 going too close I stopped myself, and the most blotted parts of my 
 MS. are those in which I have been striving hard to make the im- 
 pression I was writing from, Mwlike you. The diary-writing I took 
 from Haydon, not from you. I now first learn from yourself that you 
 ever set anything to music, and I could not have copied that from 
 you. The character is not you, for there are traits in it common to 
 fifty thousand people besides, and I did not fancy you would ever 
 recognise it. Under similar disguises my own father and mother are in 
 my books, and you might as well see your likeness in Micawber." 
 The distinction is that the foibles of Mr. Micawber and of Mrs. Nickle- 
 by, however laughable, make neither of them in speech or character 
 less lovable; and that this is not to be said of Skimpole's. The kindly 
 or unkindly impression makes all the difference where liberties are 
 taken with a friend; and even this entirely favourable condition will 
 rot excuse the practice to many, where near relatives are concerned. 
 
 For what formerly was said of the Micawber resemblances, Dickens 
 has been sharply criticised; and in like manner it was thought objec- 
 tionable in Scott that for the closing scenes of Crystal Croftangry he 
 should have found the original of his fretful patient at the death-bed 
 of his own father. Lockhart, who tells us this, adds with a sad sig- 
 nificance that he himself lived to see the curtain fall at Abbotsford 
 upon even such another scene, bat to no purpose will such objections 
 still be made. All great novelists will continue to use their experiences 
 of nature and fact, whencesoever derivable; and a remark made to 
 Lockhart by Scott himself suggests their vindication. "If a man will 
 paint from nature, he will be most likely to interest and amuse those 
 who are daily looking at it." 
 
 The Micawber offence otherwise was not grave. We have seen in 
 what way Dickens was moved or inspired by the rough lessons of his 
 boyhood, and the groundwork of the character was then undoubtedly 
 laid; but the rhetorical exuberance impressed itself upon him later, 
 and from this, as it expanded and developed in a thousand amusing 
 ways, the full-length figure took its great charm. Better illustration 
 of it could not perhaps be given than by passages from letters of 
 Dickens, written long before Micawber was thought of, in which this 
 peculiarity of his father found frequent and always agreeable 
 expression. Several such have been given in this work from time to 
 time, and one or two more may here be added. It is proper to preface 
 them by saying that no one could know the elder Dickens without 
 secretly liking him the better for these flourishes of speech, which 
 adapted themselves so readily to his gloom as well as to his cheerful- 
 ness, that it was difficult not to fancy they had helped him consider- 
 ably in both, and had rendered more tolerable to him, if also more 
 possible, the shade and sunshine of his chequered life. "If you should 
 have an opportunity, pendente lite, as my fathf r would observe — 
 indeed did on some memorable ancient occasions when he informed 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 553 
 
 me that the ban-dogs would shortly have him at bay"— Dickens 
 wrote m December 1847. "I have a letter from my father" (May 
 1841) "lamenting the fine weather, invoking congenial tempests, and 
 mformmg me that it will not be possible for him to stay Tiore than 
 another year in Devonshire, as he must then proceed to Paris to con- 
 solidate Augustus's French." "There has arrived." he writes from the 
 Peschiere m September 1844, "a characteristic letter for Kate from 
 my father. He dates it Manchester, and says he has reason to believe 
 that he will be in town with the pheasants, on or about the first of 
 October. He has been with Fanny in the Isle of Man for nearly two 
 months: finding there, as he goes on to observe, troops of friends, and 
 every description of continental luxury at a cheap rate." Describing 
 in the same year the departure from Genoa of an English physician 
 and acquaintance, he adds: "We are very sorry to lose the bei.sfit 
 of his advice— or, as my father would say, to be deprived, to a 
 certain extent, of the concomitant advantages, whatever they m?^' 
 be. resulting from his medical skill, such as it is, and his professional 
 attendance, in so far as it may be so considered." Thus also it 
 delighted Dickens to remember that it was of one of his connections 
 his father wrote a celebrated sentence; "And I must express my 
 tendency to believe that his longevity is (to say the least of it) 
 extremely problematical": and that it was to another, who had been 
 insisting somewhat obtrusively on dissenting and nonconformist 
 superiorities, he addressed wordiP which deserve to be no less cele- 
 brated; "The Supreme Being must be an entirely different individual 
 from what I have every reason to believe Him to be, if He would care 
 in the least for the society of your relations." There was a laugh in the 
 enjoyment of all this, no doubt, but with it much personal fondness; 
 and the feeling of the creator of Micawber, as be thus humoured and 
 remembered the foibles of his original, found its counterpart in that 
 of his readers for the creation itself, as its part was played ou+ in the 
 story. Nobody likes Micawber less for his follies; and D.ckens liked his 
 father more, the more he recalled his whimsical qualities. "The longer 
 I live, the better man I think him," he exc):iimed afterwards. The 
 fact and the fancy had united whatever was most grateful to him in 
 both. 
 
 it is a tribute to the generally healthful and manly tone 01 the 
 story of ^ypper field that such should be the outcome o^ the eccentrici- 
 ties 01 mis leading personage in it; and the juperirr:. in this respect 
 of Micawber over Skimpole is one of the many indications of the 
 inferiority of Bleak House to its predecessor. With leading resem- 
 ^•lancc 3 that make it difficult to say which characi. ■ best represents 
 the principle or no principle of imp-cuniosity, there cannot be any 
 doubt which has the advantage in moral and intellectual development . 
 I:. IS grnuine humour against personal satire. Between the worldly cir- 
 c -imstances of the two, there is nothing to chons- • but as vO everything 
 els<> xt Is the difference be tv\ een shabbiness ' greatness. Skimpole's 
 sunny talk might be exoected to olease s much 
 
 €*t3 iTJLaVCt TT L^lwl. i. 
 
 II 
 
 I* 
 
 f' ? f- 
 
 
 j II 
 
 If! 
 
 33! 
 
554 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 gorgeous speech, the design of both being to take the edge off poverty 
 But in the one we have no relief from attendant meanness or distress, 
 and we drop down from the airiest fancies into sordidness and pain; 
 whereas in the other nothing pitiful or merely selfish ever touches us. 
 At its lowest depth of what is worst, we never doubt that something 
 better must turn up; and of a man who sells his bedstead that he may 
 entertain his friend, we altogether refuse to think nothing but badly. 
 This is throughout the free and cheery style of Copperfield. The 
 masterpieces of Dickens s humour are not in it; but he has nowhere 
 given such variety of play to his invention, and the book is un- 
 approached among his writings for its completeness of effect and 
 uniform pleasantness of tone. 
 
 What has to be said hereafter of those writings generally, will 
 properly restrict what is said here, as in previous instances, mainly to 
 personal illustration. The Copperfield disclosures formerly made will 
 for ever connect the book with the author's individual story; but too 
 much has been assumed, from those revelations, of a full identity of 
 Dickens with his hero, and of a supposed intention that his own 
 character as well as parts of his career should be expressed in the 
 narrative. It is right to warn the reader as to this. He can judge for 
 himself how far the childish experiences are likely to have given the 
 turn to Dickens's genius; whether their bitterness had so burnt into 
 his nature, as, in the hatred of oppression, the revolt against abuse 
 of power, and the war with injustice under every form displayed in 
 his earliest books, to have reproduced itself only; and to what extent 
 mere compassion for his own childhood may ac^ nt for the strange 
 fascination always exerted over him by child ■ -ing and sorrow. 
 But, many as are the resemblances in Copp 's adventures to 
 
 portions of those of Dickens, and often as re£e<v ns occur to David 
 which no one intimate with Dickens could fail to recognise as but the 
 reproduction of his, it would be the greatest mista ke to imagine any- 
 thing like a complete identity of the fictitious novelist with the real 
 one, beyond the Hungerford scenes; or to suppose that the youth, 
 who then received his first harsh schooling in life, came out of it as 
 little harmed or hardened as David did. The language of the fiction 
 reflects only faintly the narrative of the actual fact; and the man 
 whose character it helped to form was expressed not less faintly in 
 the impulsive impressionable youth, incapable of resisting*the leading 
 of others, and only disciplined into self-control by the later griefs 
 of his entrance . into manhood. Here was but another proof how 
 thoroughly Dickens understood his calling, and that to weave fact 
 \ h fiction unskilfully would be only to make truth less true. 
 
 The character of the hero of the novel finds indeed his right place 
 in the story he is supposed to tell, rather by unlikeness than by 
 likeness to Dickens, even where intentional resemblance might seem 
 to be prominent. Take autobiography as a design to show that any 
 man's life may be as a mirror of existence to all men, and the 
 iidividual career becomes altogether secondary to the variety of 
 
f poverty 
 r distress, 
 and pain; 
 )uches us. 
 lomething 
 it he may 
 mt badly. 
 field. The 
 ; nowhere 
 ok is un- 
 ;fiect and 
 
 •ally, will 
 mainly to 
 made will 
 ■f, but too 
 ientity of 
 : his own 
 ed in the 
 judge for 
 given the 
 >urnt into 
 nst abuse 
 played in 
 lat extent 
 le strange 
 d sorrow, 
 ntures to 
 to David 
 13 but the 
 gine any- 
 ti the real 
 le youth, 
 it of it as 
 he fiction 
 
 the man 
 faintly in 
 le leading 
 iter griefs 
 •roof how 
 eave fact 
 rue. 
 ght place 
 
 than by 
 
 ight seem 
 
 that any 
 
 and the 
 'ariety of 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 555 
 
 experiences received and rendered back in it. This particular form in 
 imaginative literature has too often led to the indulgence of mental 
 analysis, metaphysics, and sentiment, all in excess: but Dickens was 
 carried safely over these allurements by a healthy judgment and 
 sleepless creative fancy; and even the method of his narrative is 
 more simple here than it generally is in his books. His imaginative 
 growths have less luxuriance of underwood, and the crowds of 
 external images always rising so vividly before him are more within 
 control. 
 
 Consider Copperfield thus in his proper place in the story, and 
 sequence as well as connection v/ill be given to the varieties of its 
 childish adventure. The first warm nest of love in which his vain 
 fond mother, and her quaint kind servant, cherish him; the quick- 
 following contrast of hard dependence and servile treatment; the 
 escape from that premature and dwarfed maturity by natural relapse 
 into a more perfect childhood; the then leisurely growth of emotions 
 and faculties into manhood; these are component parts of a character 
 consistently drawn. The sum of its achievement is to be a successful 
 cultivation of letters; and often as such imaginary discipline has been 
 the theme of fiction, there are not many happier conceptions of it. 
 The ideal and real parts of the boy's nature receive development in 
 the proportions which contribute best to the end desired; the readiness 
 for impulsive attachments that had put him into the leading of 
 others, has underneath it a base of truthfulness on which at last he 
 rests in safety; the practical man is the outcome of the fanciful youth; 
 and a more than equivalent for the graces of his visionary days, is 
 found in the active sympathies that life has opened to him. Many 
 experiences have come within its range, and his heart has had room 
 for all. Our interest in him cannot but be increased by knowing how 
 much he expresses of what the author had himself gone through; but 
 David includes far less than this, and infinitely more. 
 
 That the incidents arise easily, and to the very end connect them- 
 selves naturally and unobtrusively with the characters of which they 
 are apar*:, is to be said perhaps more truly of this than of any other of 
 Dickens's novels. There is a profusion of distinct and distinguishable 
 people, and a prodigal wealth of detail; but unity of drift or purpose 
 is apparent always, and the tone is uniformly right. By the course of 
 the events we learn the value of self-denial and patience, quiet 
 endurance of unavoidable iWs, strenuous effort against ills remediable; 
 and everything in the fortunes of the actors warns us, to strengthen 
 on? generous emotions and to guard the purities of home. It is easy 
 t- us to account for the supreme popularity of Copperfield, without 
 the addi ■'>n that it can hardly have had a reader, man or lad, who did 
 not discover that he was something of a Copperfield himself. Child- 
 hood and youth live again for all of us in its raarveWous boy-expe- 
 riences. Mr. Micawber's presence must not prevent my saying that it 
 does not take the lead of the other novels in humorous creation; but in 
 
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 object or incident without excluding or weakening its most enchant- 
 ing sentiment, it stands decidedly first. It is the perfection of English 
 mirth. We are apt to resent the exhibition of too much goodness, but 
 it is here so qualified by oddity as to become not merely palatable but 
 attractive; and even pathos is heightened by what in other hands 
 would only make it comical. That there are also faults in the book is 
 certain, but none that are incompatible with the most masterly 
 qualities; and a book becomes everlasting by the fact, not that faults 
 are not in it, but that genius nevertheless is there. 
 
 Of its method, and its author's generally, in the delineation ot 
 character, something will have to be said on a later page. The author's 
 own favourite people in it, I think, were the Peggotty group; and 
 perhaps he was not far wrong. It has been their fate, as with all the 
 leading figures of his invention, to pass their names into the language, 
 and become types; and he has nowhere given happier embodiment to 
 that purity of homely goodness, which, by the kindly and all- 
 reconciling influences of humour, may exalt into comeliness and even 
 grandeur the clumsiest forms of humanity. What has been indicated 
 in the style of the book as its greatest charm is here felt most strongly. 
 The ludicrous so helps the pathos, and the humour so uplifts and 
 refines the sentiment, that mere rude affection and simple manliness 
 in these Yarmouth boatmen, passed through the fires of unmerited 
 suffering and heroic endurance, take forms half-chivalrous, half- 
 sublime. It is one of the cants of critical superiority to make super- 
 cilious mention of the serious passages in this great v/riter; but the 
 storm and shipwreck at the close of Copperfield, when the body of the 
 seducer is flung dead upon the shore amid the ruins of the home he 
 has wasted and by the side of the man whose heart he has broken, 
 the one,as unconscious of what he had failed to reach as the other of 
 what he has perished to save, is a description that may compare with 
 the most impressive in the language. And to those who, knowing 
 Dickens best, know what realities his books were to him, the ex- 
 pression of his sense of suffering in composing such passages, will have 
 in it not a grain of pretence or affectation. "I have been tremendously 
 at work these two days" (15 September), "eight hours at a stretch 
 yesterday, and si>: hours and a half to-day, with the Ham and Steer- 
 forth chapter, which has completely knocked me over — utterly 
 defeated me." . . . 
 
 Of the heroines who divide so equally between them the impulse, 
 easily swayed, not disloyal but sorely distracted affections of the 
 hero, the spoilt f oolishm ss and tenderness of the loving little child- 
 wife, Dora, is more attrav tive than the too unfailing wisdom and self- 
 sacrificing goodness of the angel- wife, Agnes. The scenes of the 
 courtship and housekeeping are matchless; and the glimpses of 
 Doctors' Commons, opening those views, by Mr. Spenlow, of man's 
 vanity of expectation and inconsistency of conduct in neglecting the 
 sacred duty of making a will, on which he largely moralises the day 
 
 
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 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 557 
 
 David's domesticities. This was among the reproductions of personal 
 experience in the book; but it was a sadder knowledge that came 
 with the conviction some years later, that David's contrasts in his 
 earliest married life between his happiness enjoyed and his happiness 
 once anticipated, the "vague unhappy loss or want of something" 
 of which he so frequently complains, reflected also a personal expe- 
 rience which had not been supplied in fact so successfully as in 
 fiction. 
 
 ; r 111 
 
 : 
 
 I 
 
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BOOK SEVENTH 
 
 CONTINENT REVISITED 
 
 1852-6. mj. 40-43 
 
 I. "Bleak House" and "Hard Times." 
 II. Home Incidents. 
 
 III. In Switzerland and Italy. 
 
 IV. Three Summers at Boulogne. 
 V. Residence in Paris. 
 
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 "bleak house" and "hard times" 
 1852-6 
 
 These books were written between i 851 and 1854, when for a portion 
 of the time the authc^r was living abroad; and, reserving to another 
 section the home life that filled the same interval, some account of 
 both novels will be given here. Little Dornt, though begun in Paris, 
 was not finished until some time after the continental residence had 
 closed, <nd belongs therefore to a later division. David Copperfield 
 had be( i written between the opening of 1849 and October 1850, its 
 publication covering that time; and its sale, which has since taken 
 the 1' id of all his books but Pickwick, never then exceeding twenty- 
 five thousand. But though it remained thus steady for the time, the 
 popularity of the book added largely to the sale of its successor. 
 Bleak House was begun in his new abode of Tavistock House at the 
 end of November 185 1; was carried on, amid the excitements of the 
 Guild performances, through the following year; was finished at 
 Boulogne in the August of 1853; and was dedicated to "his friends 
 and companions in the Guild of Literature and Art." Hard Times was 
 planned and begun in the winter of 1853, amid the busy preparation 
 of Christmas theatricals for his children to be presently described; 
 was finished at Boulogne in the summer of 1854; and was dedicated to 
 Carlyle. 
 
 The autobiographical form of Copperfield was in some respect con- 
 tinued in Bleak House by means of extracts from the personal 
 relation of its heroine. But the distinction between the narrative 
 of David and the diary of Esther, like that between Micawber and 
 Skimpole, marks the superiority of the first to its successor. . . . 
 
 What in one sense is a merit, however, may in others be a defect, 
 and this book has suffered by the very completeness with which its 
 Chancery moral is worked out. The didactic in Dickens's earlier 
 novels derived its strength from being merely incidental to interest 
 of a higher and more permanent kind, and not in a small degree from 
 the playful sportiveness and fancy that lighted up its graver illus- 
 trations. Here it is of sterner stuff, too little relieved, and all- 
 pervading. The fog so marvellously painted in the opening chapter 
 has ha'-dly cleared away when there arises, in Jarndyce v. Jarndyce, 
 as bad an atmosphere to breathe in; and thenceforward to the end, 
 clinging round the people of the story as thev come or »q, in dreary 
 mist or in h.avy cloud, it is rarely absent. Dickens°has himself 
 
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 described his purpose to have been to dwell on the romantic side of 
 familiar things. But it is the romance of discontent and misery, with 
 a very restless dissatisfied moral, and is too much brought about by 
 agencies disagreeable and sordid. The Guppys, Wee vies, Snagsbys, 
 Chadbands, Krooks, and Smallweeds, even the Kenges, Vholeses, and 
 Tulkinghorns, are much too real to be pleasant; and the necessity 
 becomes urgent for the reliefs and contrasts of a finer humanity. 
 These last are not wanting; yet it must be said that we hardly escape, 
 even with them, into the old freedom and freshness of the author's 
 imaginative worMs, and that the too conscious unconsciousness of 
 Esther flings something of a shade on the radiant goodness of John 
 Jarndyce himself. Nevertheless there are very fine delineations in the 
 story. The crazed little Chancery lunatic, Miss Flite; the loud-voiced 
 tender-souled Chancery victim, Gridley; the poor good-hearted youth, 
 Richard, broken up in life and character by the suspense of the 
 Chancery suit on whose success he is to "begin the world," believin^ 
 himself to be saving money when he is stopped from squandering it! 
 and thinking that having saved it he is entitled to fling it away; 
 trooper George, with the Bagnets and their household, where the 
 most ludicrous points are more forcible for the pathetic touches 
 underlying them; the Jellyby interior, and its philanthropic strong- 
 minded mistress, placid and smiling amid a household muddle out- 
 muddling Chancery itself; the model of deportment, Turveydrop the 
 elder, whose relations to the young people, whom he so superbly 
 patronises by being dependent on them for everything, touch de*- 
 lightfuUy some subtle points of truth; the inscrutable Tulkinghorn, 
 and the immortal Bucket; all these, and especially the last, have 
 been added by this book to the list of people more intimately and 
 permanently known to us than the scores of actual familiar acquaint- 
 ance whom we see around us living and dying. . . . 
 
 . . . Dickens was encouraged and strengthened in his design of 
 assailing Chancery abuses and delays by receiving, a few days after 
 the appearance of his first number, a striking pamphlet on the subject 
 containing details so apposite that he took from them, withr t change 
 in any material point, the memorable case related in hib fifteenth 
 chapter. Anyone who examines the tract will see how exactly true is 
 the reference to it made by Dickens in his preface. "The case of 
 Gridley is in no essential altered from one of actual occurrence, made 
 public by a disinterested person who was professionally acquainted 
 with the whole of the monstrous wrong from beginning to end." The 
 suit, of which all particulars are given, affected a single farm, in value 
 not more than ;^i2oo, but all that its owner possessed in the world, 
 against which a bill had been filed for a ;^3oo legacy left in the will 
 bequeathing the farm. In reality there was only one defendant, but 
 in the bill, by the rule of the Court, there were seventeen; and, after 
 two years had been occupied over the seventeen answers, everything 
 had to begin over again because an eighteenth had been accidentally 
 omitted. "What a mockery ol justice this is," says Mr. Challinor, 
 
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 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
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 563 
 
 "the facts speak for themselves, and I can personally vouch for their 
 accuracy. The costs already incurred in reference to this ;^30o legacy 
 are not less than from ;^8oo to ;{9oo, and the parties are no forwarder. 
 Already near live years nave passed by, and the plaintiff would be 
 glad to give up his chance of the legacy if he could escape from his 
 liability to costs, while the defendants who own the little farm left 
 by the testator, have scarce any other prospect before them than 
 ruin." 
 
 II 
 
 HOME INCIDENTS 
 1853-4-5 
 
 The first number of Bleak House had appeared in March 1852, and 
 its sale was mentioned in the same letter from Tavistock House 
 ( 7 March) which told of his troubles in the tale at its outset, and of 
 other anxieties incident to the common lot and inseparable equally 
 from its joys and sorrows, through which his life was passing at the 
 time. "My Highgate journey yesterday was a sad one. Sad to think 
 how all journeys tend that way. I went up to the cemetery to look 
 for a piece of ground. In no hope of a Government bill, and in a foolish 
 dislike to leaving the little child shut up in a vault there, I think of 
 pitching a tent under the sky. . . . Nothing has taken place here: 
 but I believe, "every hour, that it must next hour. Wild ideas are upon 
 me of going to Paris — Rouen — Switzerland — somewhere — and writ- 
 ing the remaining two-thirds of the next No. aloft in some queer inn 
 room. I have been hanging over it, and have got restless. Want a 
 change I think. Stupid. We were at 30,000 when I last heard. ... I 
 am sorry to say that after all kinds of evasions, I am obliged to dine 
 at ^ ansdowne House to-morrow. But maybe the affair will come off 
 to-night and give me an excuse! 1 enclose proofs of No. 2. Browne 
 has done Skimpole, and helped to make him singularly unlike the 
 great original. Look it over, and say what occurs to you. . . . Don't 
 you think Mrs. Gaskell charming? With one ill-considered thing that 
 looks like a want of natural perception, I think it masterly." His last 
 allusion is to the story by a delightful writer then appearing in 
 Household V/ords; and of the others it only needs to say that the 
 family affair which might have excused his absence at the Lansdowne 
 dinner did not come off until four days later. On 13 March his last 
 child was born; and the boy, his seventh son, bears his godfather's 
 distinguished name, Edward Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 The inability to "grind sparks out of this dull blade," as he 
 characterised his present labour at Bleak House, still fretting him, he 
 
 Ti! i 
 
564 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 I 
 
 struck out a scheme for Paris. "I could not get to Switzerland very 
 well at this time of year. The Jura would be covered with snow. And 
 if I went to Geneva I don't know where I might not go to." It ended 
 at last in a flight to Dover; but he found time before he left, amid 
 many occupations and some anxieties, for a good-natured journey to 
 Walworth to see a youth rehearse who was supposed to have talents 
 for the stage, and he was able to gladden Mr. Toole's friends by 
 thin] ing favourably of his chances of success. "I remember what I 
 once myself wanted in that way," he said, "and I should like to 
 serve him." . . . 
 
 Before the year closed, the time to which his publishing arrange- 
 ments with Messrs. Bradbury and Evans were limited had expu-ed, 
 but at his suggestion the fourth share in such books as he might write, 
 which they had now received for eight years, was continued to them 
 on the understanding that the publishers' percentage should no 
 longer be charged in the partnership accounts, and with a power 
 reserved to himself to withdraw when he pleased. In the new year his 
 first adventure was an ovation in Birmingham, where a silver-gilL 
 salver and a diamond ring were presented to him, as well for eloquent 
 service specially rendered to the Institution, as in general testimony 
 of "varied literary acquirem<-nts, genial philosophy, and high moral 
 teaching." A great banquet allowed on Twelfth Night, made memor- 
 able by an offer to give a couple of readings from his books at the 
 following Christmas, in aid of the new Midland Institute. It might 
 seem to have been drawn from him as a grateful return for the 
 enthusiastic gieeting of his entertainers, but it was in his mind before 
 he left London. It was his first formal undertaking to read in public. 
 His eldest son had now left Eton, and the boy's wishes pointing at 
 the time to a mercantile career, he was sent to Leipzig for completion 
 of his education. At this date it seemed to me that the overstrain of 
 attempting too much, brought upon him by the necessities of his 
 weekly periodical, became first apparent in Dickens. Not unfrequently 
 a complaint strange upon his lips fell from him. " Hypochondriacal 
 whisperings tell me that I am rather overworked. The spring does 
 not seem to fly back again directly,, as it always did when I put my 
 own work aside, and had nothing else to do. Yet I have everything 
 to keep me going with a brave heart. Heaven knows !" Courage and 
 hopefulness he might well derive from the increasing sale of Bleak 
 House, which had risen to nearly forty th-^usand; but he could no 
 longer bear easily what he carried so lightly of old, and enjoyments 
 with work, were too much for him. "What with Bleak House and 
 Household Words and Child's History" (he dictated from week to 
 week the papers which formed that little book, and cannot be said 
 to have quite hit the mark with it), "and Miss Coutts's Home, and 
 the invitations to feasts and festivals, I really feel as if my head would 
 split like a fired shell if I remained here." He tried Brighton first, but 
 did not find it answer and retui-ned. A few days of unalloyed enjoy- 
 ment were afterwards given to the visit of his excellent American 
 
erland very 
 snow. And 
 ." It ended 
 i left, amid 
 . journey to 
 lave talents 
 friends by 
 ber what I 
 luld like to 
 
 ig arrange- 
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 should no 
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 3r eloquent 
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 3ome, and 
 ead would 
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 American 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 II |l: 
 
 565 
 
 friend Felton; and on 13 June he was again in Boulogne, thankin-r 
 heaven for escape from a breakdown. " If I had substituted anybody '1 
 knowledge of myself for my own, and lingered in London, I never 
 could have goi through." . . . 
 
 He completed Bleak House by the third week of August, and it was 
 resolved to celebrate the event by a two months' trip to Italy in 
 company with Mr. Wilkie Collins and Mr. Augustus Egg. The start 
 was to be made from Boulogne in the middle of October, when he 
 would send his family home; and he described the intervening weeks 
 as a fearful "reaction and prostration of laziness " only broken by 
 the Child's History. At the end of September he wrote: "I finished the 
 little History yesterday, and am trying to think of something for the 
 Christmas number. After which I shall knock off; having had quite 
 enough to do, small as it would have seemed to me at any other time 
 since I finished Bleak House." He added, a week before his departure' 
 "I get letters from Genoa and Lausanne as if I were going to stay in 
 each place at least a month. If I were to measure my deserts by 
 people's remembrance of me, I should be a prodigy of intolerability 
 Have recovered my Italian, which I had all but forgotten, and am 
 one entire and perfect chrysolite of idleness." 
 
 From this trip, of which the incidents have an interest independent 
 of my ordinary narrative, Dickens was home again in the middle of 
 December 1853, and kept his promise to his Birmingham friends by 
 reading in their Town Hall his Christmas Carol on the 27th, and his 
 Cricket on the Hearth on the 29th. The enthusiasm was great, and he 
 consented to read his Carol a second time, on Friday the 30th, if 
 seats were reserved for working men at prices within their means. 
 The result was an addition of between four and five hundred pounds 
 to the funds for establishment of the new Institute; and a prettily 
 worked flower-basket in silver, presented to Mrs. Dickens, com- 
 memorated these first public readings "to nearly six thousand people," 
 and the design they had generously helped. Other applications then 
 
 followed to such extent that limits to compliance had to be put. 
 He nevertheless soon found the question rising again with the same 
 importunity; his own position to it being always that of a man assent- 
 ing against his will that it should rest in abeyance. But nothing 
 further was resolved on yet. The readings mentioned came o£E as 
 promised, in aid of public objects; and besides others two years later 
 for the family of a friend, he had given the like liberal help to institutes 
 in Folkestone, Chatham, and again in Birmingham, Peterborough. 
 Sheffield, Coventry, and Edinburgh, before the question settled itselt 
 finally in the announcement for paid public readings issued by him 
 in 1858. ... 
 
 Then came the beginning of Nobody's Fault, as Little Dorrit con- 
 tinued to be called by him up to the eve of its publication; a flight to 
 Folkestone, to help his sluggish fancy; and his return to London in 
 October, to preside at a dinner to Thackeray on his going to lecture 
 in America. ... 
 
 t 
 
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566 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 Dickens went to Paris early in October, and at its close was brought 
 again to London by the sudden death of a friend, much deplored by 
 himself, and still more so by a distinguished lady who had his loyal 
 service at all times. An incident before his return to France is worth 
 brief relation. He had sallied out for one of his night walks, full of 
 thoughts of his story, one wintry rainy evening (8 November), and 
 "pulled himself up," outside the door of Whitechapel Workhouse, at 
 a strange sight which arrested him there. Against the dreary en- 
 closure of the house were leaning, in the midst of the down-pouring 
 rain and storm, what seemed to be seven heaps of rags: "dumb, wet, 
 silent horrors," he described them, "sphinxes set up against that dead 
 wall, and no one likely to be at the pains of solving them until the 
 General Overthrow." He sent in his card to the Master. Against him 
 there was no ground of complaint; he gave prompt personal attention; 
 but the casual ward was full, and there was no help. The rag-heaps 
 were all girls, and Dickens gave each a shilling. One girl, "twenty or 
 so," had been without food a day and night. "Look at me," she said, 
 as she clutched the shilling, and without thanks shuffled off. So with 
 the rest. There was not a single "thank you." A crowd meanwhile, 
 only less poor than these objects of misery, had gathered round the 
 scene; but though they saw the seven shillings given away they asked 
 for no relief to themselves, they recognised in t heir sad wild way the 
 other greater wretchedness, and made room in silence for Dickens to 
 walk on. 
 
 Not mote tolerant of the way in which laws meant to be most 
 humane are too often administered in England, he left in a day or 
 two to resume his Little Dorrit in Paris. But before his life there is 
 described, some sketches from his holiday trip to Italy with Mr. 
 Wilkie Collins and Mr. Augustus Egg, and from his three summer 
 visits to Boulogne, claim to themselves two intervening chapters. 
 
 iir 
 
 IN SWITZERLAND AND ITALY 
 1853 
 
 Before October closed, the travellers had reached Genoa, having 
 been thirty-one consecutive hours on the road from Milan. They 
 arrived in somewhat damaged condition, and took up their lodging 
 in the top rooms of the Croce di Malta, "overlooking the port and 
 sea pleasantly and airily enough, but it was no joke to get so high, 
 and the apartment is rather vast and faded."* The warmth of personal 
 greefting that here awaited Dickens was given no less to the friends 
 who accompanied him, and though the reader may not share in such 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 kvas brought 
 deplored by 
 ad his loyal 
 ace is worth 
 aiks, full of 
 smber), and 
 jrkhouse, at 
 dreary en- 
 >wn-pouring 
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 meanwhile, 
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 ■ Dickens to 
 
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 ree summer 
 chapters. 
 
 567 
 
 loa, having 
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 leir lodging 
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 of personal 
 the friends 
 tare in such 
 
 private confidences as would show the sensation created by his 
 reappearance, and the jovial hours that were passed among old 
 associates, he will perhaps be interested to know how far the inter- 
 vening years had changed the aspect of things and places made 
 pleasantly familiar to us in his former letters. The voyage thence 
 to Naples, written from the latter place, is too capital a description 
 to be lost. The steamer in which they embarked was "the new express 
 English ship," but they found her to be already more than full of 
 passengers from Marseilles (among them an old friend. Sir Emerson 
 Tennent, with his family), and everything in confusion. There were 
 no places at the captain's table, dinner had to be taken on deck, no 
 berth or sleeping accommodation was available, and heavy first-class 
 fares had to be paid. Thus they made their way to Leghorn, where 
 worse awaited them. The authorities proved to be not favourable to 
 the "crack" English-officered vessel (she had just been started for 
 the India mail); and her papers not being examined in time, it was 
 too late to steam away again that day, and she Jiad to lie all night 
 long off the lighthouse. "The scene on board beggars description. 
 Ladies on the tables; gentlemen under the tables; bedroom appliances 
 not usually beheld in public airing themselves in positions where 
 soup-tureens had been lately developing themselves; and ladies and 
 gentlemen lying indiscriminately on the open deck, arranged like 
 spoons on a sideboard. No mattresses, no blankets, nothing. Towards 
 midnight attempts were made, by means of awning and flags, to 
 make this latter scene remotely approach an Australian encampment; 
 and we three (Collins, Egg, and self) lay together on the bare planks 
 covered with our coats. We were all gradually dozing off, when a 
 perfectly tropical rain fell, and in a moment drowned the whole ship. 
 The rest of the n ^^ht we passed upon the stairs, with an immense 
 jumble of men and women. When anybody came 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, in 
 the morning, the first mate lent me his cabin to wash in — ^which I 
 afterwards lent to Egg and Collins. Then we, the Emerson Tennents, 
 the captain, the doctor, and the second officer, went off on a jaunt 
 together to Pisa, as the ship was to lie all day at Leghorn. The captain 
 was a capital fellow, but I led him, facetiously, such a life the whole 
 day, that I got most things altered at night. Emerson Tennent's son, 
 with the greatest amiability, insisted on turning out of his state- 
 room for me, and I got a good bed there. The store-room down by 
 the hold was opened for Collins and Egg; 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 a friend 
 of ours 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 armchair, and all-night-long fell head 
 foremost, once every five minutes, on Egg, who slept on the counter 
 
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568 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 I!,!; .,;; 
 
 SilH 
 
 >r 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 200 people — provided with boats, at the utmost 
 sf retch, 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 fellov/s who would cut off alone in the largest 
 boat, on the least alarm; the speed very high; and the running, thro' 
 all the narrow rocky channels. Thank God, however, here we are." 
 A whimsical postscript closed the an.asing narrative. "We towed 
 from Civita Vecchia, the entire Greek navy, I believe; consisting of 
 a little brig-of-war with no guns, fitted as a steamer, but disabled by 
 having burnt the bottoms of her boilers out, 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 ou board to put those valuables away, if he 
 hadn't worn them — which he consequently did, all night. Whenever 
 anything was wanted to be done, as slackening the tow-rope or any- 
 thing 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 in the most fa\ ourable circumstances. So 
 he did all the wrong things first, and the right thing always last. 
 The absence of any knowledge of anything but English on the part 
 of the officers and stewards was most ridiculous. I met an Italian 
 gentleman on the cabin steps yesterday morning, vainly endeavour- 
 ing 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 necessarv 
 to order away that boat of music you remember, the chief officer 
 (called 'aft' for the purpose, as 'knowing something of Italian') 
 delivered himself in this explicit and clear Italian 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.' " 
 
 At Naples some days were passed very merrily; going up Vesuvius 
 and into the buried cities, with Layard who had joined them, and 
 with the Tennents. Here a small adventure befell Dickens specially, 
 in itself extremely unimportant, but told by him with delightful 
 humour in a letter to his sister-in-law. The old idle Frenchman, to 
 whom all things are possible, with his snuff-box and dusty umbrella 
 and all the delicate and kindly observation, would have enchanted 
 Leigh Hunt, and made his way to the heart of Charles Lamb. After 
 mentioning Mr. Lowther, then English charge d'affaires in Naples, 
 as a very agreeable fellow who had been at the Rockingham play, 
 he alludes to a meeting at his house. "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 dinner- 
 less. I went in an open carriage from the hotel in all state, and the 
 
 
opening on 
 •me desolate 
 e or no sea, 
 I any I have 
 ; were, with 
 the utmost 
 nking what 
 ►eing chiefly 
 1 the largest 
 nning, thro' 
 ire we are." 
 "We towed 
 consisting of 
 disabled by 
 un. She was 
 • so; but the 
 never would 
 away, if he 
 :. Whenever 
 ope or any- 
 otentate, in 
 he couldn't 
 istances. So 
 always last, 
 on the part 
 t an Italian 
 endeavour- 
 5. And when 
 IS necessary 
 chief officer 
 of Italian') 
 le principal 
 3 run down, 
 about.' " 
 ip Vesuvius 
 [ them, and 
 IS specially, 
 1 delightful 
 nchman, to 
 ty umbrella 
 ; enchanted 
 .amb. After 
 ; in Naples, 
 gham play, 
 jly pleasant 
 e ridiculous 
 lack dinner - 
 i,te, and the 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 569 
 
 coachman to my surprise pulled up at the end of the Chiaja. 'Behold 
 the house,' says he, 'of II Signor Larthoor!'— at the same time 
 pointmg with his whip into the ssventh heaven where the early stars 
 were shining. 'But the Signor Larthorr,' says I, '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 :;s 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 T should think. I got into the strangest places among 
 the wildest Neapolitans; kitchens, washing-places, archways, stables, 
 vineyards; was baited by dogs, and answered, in profoundly un- 
 intelligible language, from behind lonely locked doors in cracked 
 female voices, quaking with fear; but could hear of no such English- 
 man, nor any Englishman. By and by, I came upon a polentashop 
 in the clouds, where an old Frenchman with an umbrella like a faded 
 tropical leaf (it had not rained in Naples for six weeks) was staring 
 at nothing at all, with a snuff-box in his hand. To hun 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 v/as 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 o'clock, and it was now getting on for seven. I went back 
 in a state of perspiration and misery not to be describ<;d, and without 
 the faintest hope of finding the spot. But as I was going farther 
 down to the lamp, I saw the strangest staurcase 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 house, 
 made the most of the whole story, and achieved much popularity.' 
 The best of it was that as nobody ever did nnd the place, Lowther 
 had put a servant at the bottom of the Sahta to wait 'for an English 
 gentleman'; but the servant (as he presently pleaded), deceived by 
 the moustache, had allowed the English gentleman to pass un- 
 challenged." 
 
 ^ From Naples they went to Rome, where they found Lockhart, 
 
 fearfully weak and broken, yet hopeful of himself too" (he died the 
 
 following year); smoked and drank punch with David Roberts, then 
 
 i t 
 
 ( ■ 
 
 1 
 
 M 
 
II 
 
 M 
 
 I 
 
 570 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 painting every day with Louis Haghe in St. Peter's; and took the old 
 walks. The Coliseum, Appian Way, and Streets of Tombs, seemed 
 desolate and grand as ever; but generally, Dickens adds, "I dis- 
 covered the Roman antiquities to be smaller than my imagination 
 in nine years had made them. The Electric Telegraph now goes like 
 a sunbeam through the cruel old heart of the Coliseum — a suggestive 
 thing to think about, I fancied. The Pantheon I thought even nobler 
 than of yore." The amusements were of course an attraction; and 
 nothing at the Opera amused the party of three English more, than 
 another party of four Americans who s 't behind them in the pit. 
 "All the seats are numbered arm-chairs, and you buy your number 
 at tho pay-place, and go to it with the easiest direction on the ticket 
 itself. We were early, and the four places of the Americans were on 
 the next row behind us— all together. After looking about them for 
 some time, and seeing the greater part of the seats empty (because 
 the audience generally wait in a caffd which is part of the theatre), 
 one of them said 'Waal I dunno — I expect we ain't no call to set so 
 nigh to one another neither — will you scatter Kernel, will you 
 scatter sir?' — Upon this the Kernel 'scattered* some twenty benches 
 off; and they distributed themselves (for no earthly reason apparently 
 but to get rid of one another) all over the pit. As soon as the overture 
 began, in came the audience in a mass. Then the people who had 
 got the numbers into which they had 'scattered,' had to get them 
 out; and as they understood nothing that was said to them, and 
 could make no reply but 'A-mericani,' you may imagine the number 
 of cocked hats it took to dislodge them. At last they were all got 
 back into their right places, except one. About an hour afterwards 
 when Moses {Moses in Egypt was the opera) was invoking the dark- 
 ness, and there was a dead silence all over the house, unwonted 
 sounds of disturbance broke out from a distant corner of the pit and 
 here and there a beard got up to look. 'What is it neow, sir?' said 
 one of the Americans to another; 'some person seems to be getting 
 along, again streeem.' 'Waal sir' he replied 'I dunno. But I xpect 'tis 
 the Kernel sir, a holdin on.' So it was. The Kernel was ignominiously 
 escorted back to his right place, not in the least disconcerted, and 
 in perfectly good spirits and temper." The opera was excellently 
 done, and the price of the stalls one and threepence English. At 
 Milan, on the other hand, the Scala was fallen from its old estate, 
 dirty, gloomy, dull, and the performance execrable. 
 
 Another theatre of the smallest pretension Dickens sougl t out 
 with avidity in Rome, and eagerly enjoyed. He had heard it said in 
 his old time in Genoa that the finest Marionetti were here; and now, 
 after great difficulty, he discovered the company in a sort of stable 
 attached to a decayed palace. "It was a wet night, and there was no 
 audience but a party of French officers and ourselves. We all sat 
 together. I never saw anything more amazing than the performance 
 — altogether only an hour long, but managed by as many as ten 
 people, for we saw them all go behind, at the ringing of a bell. The 
 
took the old 
 nbs, seemed 
 dds. "I dis- 
 imagination 
 ow goes like 
 a suggestive 
 even nobler 
 paction; and 
 I more, than 
 I in the pit. 
 our number 
 m the ticket 
 ans were on 
 )ut them for 
 5ty (because 
 the theatre), 
 :all to set so 
 el, will you 
 snty benches 
 
 I apparently 
 the overture 
 pie who had 
 to get them 
 > them, and 
 
 the number 
 were all got 
 r afterwards 
 ng the dark- 
 i, unwonted 
 the pit and 
 w, sir?' said 
 o be getting 
 
 I I xpect 'tis 
 nominiously 
 icerted, and 
 i excellently 
 
 English. At 
 s old estate, 
 
 sought out 
 ird it said in 
 re; and now, 
 ort of stable 
 there was no 
 . We all sat 
 performance 
 nany as ten 
 f a bell. The 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 571 
 
 saving of a young lady by a good fairy from the machinations of an 
 enchanter, coupled with the comic business of her servant PuJcinella 
 (the Roman Punch) formed the plot of the first piece. A scolding old 
 peasant woman, who always leaned forward to scold and put her 
 hands m the pockets of her apron, was incredibly natural. Pulcinella 
 so airy, so merry, so life-like, so graceful, he was irresistible. To see 
 him carrymg an umbrella over his mistress's head in a storm, talking 
 to a prodigious giant whom he met in the forest, and going to bed 
 with a poiAy were things never to be forgotten. And so delicr.te are 
 the hand" of the people who move them, that every puppet was an 
 Italian, and did exactly what an Italian does. It he pointed at any 
 object, if he saluted anybody, if he laughed, if he cried, he did it as 
 never Englishman did it since Britain first at Heaven's command 
 arose— arose— arose, etc. There was a ballet afterwards, on the same 
 scale, and we came away realiy quite enchanted with the delicate 
 drollery of the thing. French ofificers more than ditto.*' . . 
 
 From Rome they posted to Florence, and the last place visited 
 was lunn. where the travellers arrived on 5 December. . 
 
 IV 
 
 THREE SUMMERS AT BOULOGNE 
 
 1853, 1854. and 1856 
 
 '^.NS was in Boulogne, in 1853, from the middle of June to the 
 September, and for the next three months, as we have seen 
 witzerland and Italy. In the following year he went again 
 gne in June, and stayed, after finishing Hard Times, until 
 October. In February of 1855 he was for a fortnight in Paris 
 with Mr. Wilkie Collins; not taking up his more prolonged residence 
 there until the winter, ."rom November 1855 to the end of April 1856 
 he made the French capital his home, working at Little Dmrii during 
 all those months. Then, after a month's interval in Dover and Lon- 
 don, he took up his third summer residence in Boulogne, whither his 
 younger children had gone direct from Paris; and stayed unfi! 
 September, finishing Little Dorrit in London in the spring of 1857. 
 
 Of the first of thc^e visits, a few lively notes of humour and charac- 
 ter out of his letters will tell the story sufficiently. The second and 
 third had points of more attractiveness. Those were the years of the 
 French-English alliance, of the great exposition of English paintings 
 of the return of the troops from the Crimea, and of the visit of the 
 i nnce Consort to the Emperor; such interest as Dickens took in 
 these several matters appearing in his letters with the usual \''vidness, 
 and the story of his continental life coming out with amusing dis- 
 
 :! 
 
 , 
 
 » 
 
 r 
 
 • ! 
 
 ' 
 
IhMi VI 
 
 "f ■ 
 
 W 
 
 }!l 
 
 I 
 
 
 572 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 tinctnes:. :■ the successive pictures they paint with so much warmt' 
 and colour. Another chapter will be given tc Pakia. This deals only 
 with Boulogne. 
 
 For his first summer residence, in June 1853, he had taken a house 
 on the high ground near the Calais road; an odd Fionch place with 
 the strangest little rooms and halls, but standing in the midat of a 
 large garden, with wood and waterlail, a conservatory opening on a 
 great bank of roses, and paths and gates on one side to the ramparts, 
 on the other to the sea. Above all there was a capital proprietor and 
 landlord, by whom the cost ol keeping up gardens and wood (which 
 he called a forest) was defrayed, while he gave his tenant the whole 
 range of both and all the flowers for nothing, rsold him the garden 
 produce as it was v^^anted, and kept a cow m the estate to supply 
 the family milk. . . . 
 
 Then came a letter with his description of his landlord, lightly 
 sketched by him in print as M. Loyal-Devasseur, but here filled in 
 with the most altractiv touches his loving hard could give. "But 
 the landlord — M. Beauco.^rt — is wonderful. Every^ My here has two 
 surnames (I cannot concei>'e why), and M. Beaucourt, p.s he is always 
 called, is by rights M. Beavicourt-Mutuel. He is a portly jolly fellow 
 with a fine open face; lives on the hill behind, just outside the top 
 of the garden; and was a linen draper in the town, where he still has 
 a shop, but is supposed to have mortgaged his business and to be in 
 difficulties — all along ot this place, which he has planted with his 
 own hands; which he cultivates all day; and which he never on any 
 consideration speaks of but as "the property." He is extraordir :ily 
 popular in Boulogne (the people in the shops invariably brightening 
 up at the mention of his name, and congratulating us on being his 
 tenants), and really seems to deserve it. He is such a liberal fellow 
 that I can't bear to ask him for anything, since he instantly supplies 
 it whatever it is. The things he has done in respect of unreasonable 
 bedsteads and washing-stands, I blush to think of. I observed the 
 other day in one of the side gardens — there are gardens at each side 
 of the house too — a place where I thought the Comic Countryman" 
 (a name he was giving just then to'his youngest boy) "must infallibly 
 trip over, and make a little descent of a dozen feet. So I said 'M. 
 Beaucourt' — who instantly pulled off his cap and stood bareheaded — 
 'there are some spare pieces of wood lying by the cow-house, if you 
 would have the kindness to have one laid across here I think it would 
 be safer.' 'Ah, mon Dieu sir,' said M. Beaucourt, 'it must be iron. 
 This is not a portion of the property where you would like to see 
 wood.' 'But iron is so expensive,' said I, 'and it really is not worth 
 
 while ' 'Sir, pardon me a thousand times,' said M. Beaucourt, 
 
 'it shall be iron. Assuredly and perfectly it shall be iron.' 'Then 'A. 
 Beaucourt,' said I, 'I shall be glad to pay a moiety of ths cost.' 'Sir,' 
 said M. Beaucourt, 'Never!' Then to change the subject, he slided 
 from his firmness and gravity into a graceful conversational tone, 
 and said, 'In the moonlight last night, the flowers on the property 
 
 appe£ 
 propt 
 
hML n 
 
 nuch warmt' 
 lis deals only 
 
 ;aken a house 
 :h placo with 
 \e mid3t of a 
 opening on a 
 ;he ramparts, 
 roprietor and 
 wood (which 
 tnt the whole 
 n the garden 
 ite to supply 
 
 ilord, lightly 
 here filled in 
 d give. "But 
 here has two 
 s he is always 
 y jolly fellow 
 tside the top 
 re he still has 
 1 and to be in 
 ited with his 
 never on any 
 ;traordir :ily 
 / brightening 
 on being his 
 liberal fellow 
 ^ntly supplies 
 unreasonable 
 observed the 
 > at each side 
 ;)ountryman" 
 lust infallibly 
 30 I said 'M. 
 )areheaded — 
 house, if you 
 hink it would 
 nust be iron, 
 d like to see 
 is not worth 
 ;. Beaucourt, 
 )n.' 'Then A. 
 IS cost.' 'Sir,' 
 5ct, he slided 
 ational tone, 
 the property 
 
 T.h^ Life of Charles Dicksns 573 
 
 appeared, O hea^^ be bathing thenuehts in tfie sky. \ou like the 
 
 property?' 'M. Piaucourt.' said I, 'I am enchanted with it; I am more 
 than satisfied wiih everything,' 'And I sir,' said ^■.. Beaucourt, layine 
 hi3 cap upon nis breast, and kissing his hand— 'I cqualbM' Yesterdav 
 two blacksmiths came for a day's work, and put up'a good solid 
 liandsome bit of iron-railing, mortised into the stone parapet 
 1 f the extraordinary things in the ho ^.e defv description, the amazing 
 phenomena in the gardens never could have been dreamed of bv 
 anybody but a Frenchman bent upon one idea. E sides a portrait of 
 the house in the dining-room, there is a plan of the property in the 
 hall. It looks about the size of Irebnd; and to every one of the extra- 
 ordinary objects there is a reference v;ith some portentous name 
 I here are fitty-one such references, including the Cottage of Tom 
 Inumb. the Bridge of Austerlitz, the Bridge of Jena, the Hermitage, 
 the Bower of the Old Guard, the Labyrinth (I have no idea which is 
 which); and there ^s guidance to every room in the house as if it 
 wore a place on that stupendous scale that without such a clue you 
 must infallibly lose your way, and perhaps perish of starvation 
 between bedroom and bedroom." 
 
 On 3 Ju':, t'lere came a fresh trait of the good fellow of a landlord 
 "Fancy w.K . Beaucourt told me last night. When he 'conceived the 
 inspiration' of planting the property ten years ago, he wert over to 
 England to buy the trees, took a small cottage in the market-gardens 
 at Putney, lived there three months, held a symposium everv nig^t 
 attended by the principal gardeners of Fulham, Putney Kew an 
 Hammersmith (which he calls Hamsterdam), and wound up with a 
 supper at which the market-gardeners rose, clinked their glasses and 
 exclaimed with one accord (I quote him exactly) Vive Beaucourt' 
 He was a captain in the National Guard, and Cavaignac his general" 
 Brave Capitame Beaucourt! said Cavaignac, you must receive a 
 decoration. My General, said Beaucourt, No! It ::. enough for me 
 that I have done my duty. I go to lay the first stone of a house 
 upon a Property I have— that house shall be my decoration (Regard 
 that house!)" Addition to the picture came in a letter of 24 fuly 
 With a droll glimpse of Shakespeare at the theatre, and of the 
 Saturday's pig-market. . . . 
 
 "We went to the theatre last night, to see the Midsummer Night's 
 Dream— oi the Op^ra Comique. It is a beautiful little theatre now 
 with a very good company; and the nonsense of the piece was done 
 with a sense quite confounding in that connection. Willy Am Shay 
 Kes Peer; Sirzhon Foil Stayffe; Lor Lattimeer; and that celebrated 
 Maid of Honour to Queen Elizabeth, Meees Oleevesir- w-re the 
 principal characters. 
 
 "Outside the old to vn. aii army of workmen are (and have been 
 for a week or so, already) employed upon an immense building which 
 I supposed might be a Fort, or a xvlonastery. or a Barrack or other 
 something designed to last for ages. I find it is for the annual fair 
 which begins on the 5th of August and lasts a fortright. Almost 
 
 ; ■* 
 
 ! t 
 
I I 
 
 4: 
 
 U 
 ■ 
 
 574 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 every Sunday we have a ffite, where there is dancing in the open air, 
 and where immense men with prodigious beards revolve on little 
 wooden horses like Italian irons, in what we islanders call a round- 
 about, by the hour together. But really the good humour and cheer- 
 fulness are very delightful. Among the other sights of the place, there 
 is a pig-market every Saturday, perfectly insupportable in its 
 absurdity. An excited French peasant, male or female, with a deter- 
 mined young pig, is the most amazing spectacle. I saw a little Drama 
 enacted yesterday week, the drollery of which was perfect. Dram. 
 Pers. I. A pretty young woman with short petticoats and trim blue 
 stockings, riding a donkey with two baskets and a pig in each. 
 2. An ancient farmer in a blouse, driving four pigs, his four in hand, 
 with an enormous whip — and being drawn against walls and irtto 
 smoking shops by any one of the four. 3. A cart, with an old pig 
 (manacled) looking out of it, and terrifying six hundred and fifty 
 young pigs in the market by his terrific grunts. 4. Collector of Octroi 
 in an immense cocked hat, with a stream of young pigs running, night 
 and day, between his military boots and rendering accounts im- 
 possible. 5. Inimitable, confronted by a radiation of elderly pigs, 
 fastened each by one leg to a bunch of stakes in the ground. 6. John 
 Edmund Reade, poet, expressing eternal devotion to and admiration 
 of Landor, unconscious of approaching pig recently escaped from 
 barrow. 7. Priests, peasants, soldiers, etc." . . . 
 
 When leaving Paris for his third visit to Boulogne, at the beginning 
 of June 1S56, he had not written a word of the ninth number of his 
 new book, and did not expect for another month to "see land from 
 the running sea of Little Dorrit." He had resumed the house he first 
 occupied, the cottage or villa "des Moulineaux," and after dawdling 
 about his garden for a few days with surprising industry in a French 
 farmer garb of blue blouse, leathern belt, and military cap, which he 
 had mounted as "the only one for complete comfort," he wrote to 
 me that he was getting "Now to work again — ^to work! The story lies 
 before me, I hope, strong and clear. Not to be easily told; but nothing 
 of that sort is to be easUy done that / know of." At work it became 
 his habit to sit late, and then, putting off his usual walk until night, 
 to lie down among the roses reading until after tea ("middle-aged 
 Love in a blouse and belt"), when he went down to the pier. . . . 
 
 His own household had got into a small war, of which the com- 
 mander-in-chief was his man-servant "French," the bulk of the 
 forces engaged being his children, and the invaders two cats. Busi- 
 ness brought him to London on the hostilities breaking out, and on 
 his return after a few days the story of the war was told. "Dick," it 
 should be said, was a canary very dear both to Dickens and his eldest 
 daughter, who had so tamed to her loving hand its wild little heart 
 that it was become the most docile of companions. "The only thing 
 new in this garden is that war is raging against two particularly 
 tigerish and fearful cats (from the mill, I suppose), whicii are always 
 glaring in dark corners, after our wonderful little Dick. Keeping the 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 the open air, 
 Ive on little 
 all a round- 
 r and cheer- 
 place, there 
 table in its 
 irith a deter- 
 little Drama 
 :fect. Dram. 
 id trim blue 
 )ig in each, 
 our in hand, 
 Us and iilto 
 I an old pig 
 ed and fifty 
 :or of Octroi 
 nning, night 
 ccounts ini- 
 tlderly pigs, 
 md. 6. John 
 [ admiration 
 jcaped from 
 
 le beginning 
 imber of his 
 e land from 
 ouse he first 
 :er dawdling 
 in a French 
 ip, which he 
 he wrote to 
 he story lies 
 but nothing 
 k it became 
 until night, 
 middle-aged 
 pier. . . . 
 :h the com- 
 t)ulk of the 
 > cats. Busi- 
 out, and on 
 ,. "Dick," it 
 id his eldest 
 little heart 
 J only thing 
 particularly 
 I are always 
 [keeping the 
 
 575 
 
 house open at all points, it is impossible to shut them out, and they 
 hide themselves in the most terrific manner; hanging themselves up 
 behind draperies, like bats, and tumbling out in the dead of night 
 with frightful caterwaulings. Hereupon French borrows Beaucourt's 
 gun, loads the same to the muzzle, discharges it twice in vain and 
 throws himself over with the recoil, exactly like a clown. But at last 
 (while I was in town) he aims at the more ami-ble cat of the two 
 and shoots that animal dead. Insufferably elated by this victory he 
 IS now engaged from morning to night in hiding behind bushes to get 
 aim at the other. He does nothing else whatever. All the boys 
 encourage him and watch for the enemy— on whose appearance they 
 give an alarm which immediately serves as a warning to the creature 
 who runs awa> They are at this moment (ready dressed for church) 
 all lying on their stomachs in various parts of the garden. Horrible 
 whistles give notice to the gun what point it is to approach. I am 
 afraid to go out. lest I should be shot. Mr. Ploriiish says his prayers 
 at night in a wnisper, lest the cat should overhear him and take 
 offence. The tradesmen cry out as they come up the avenue, 'Me 
 voici! C'est moi— boulanger— ne tirez pas, Monsieur Franche!''lt is 
 like living in a state of siege; and the wonderful manner in which the 
 cat preserves the character of being the only person not much put 
 out by the intensity of this monomania, is most ridiculous." (6 July ) 
 . . . "About four pounds of powder and half a ton of shot have 
 been" ( 13 July) "fired off at the cat (and the public in general) during 
 the week. The finest thing is that immediately after I have heard 
 the noble sportsman blazing away at her in the garden in front. I 
 look out of my room door into the drawing-room, and am pretty sure 
 to see her coming in after the birds, in the calmest manner, by the 
 back window. Intelligence has been brought to me from a source on 
 which I can rely, that French has newly conceived the atrocious pro- 
 ject of tempting her into the coach-house by meat and kindness, and 
 there, from an elevated portmanteau, blowing her head off. This I 
 mean sternly to interdict, and to do so to-day as a work of piety." 
 
 An epidemic broke out in the town, affecting the children of severai 
 families known to Dickens, among them that of his friend Mr. 
 Gilbert A'Beckett; who, upon arriving from Paris, and finding a 
 favourite little son stricken dangerously, sank himself under an illness 
 from which he had been suffering, and died two days after the boy. 
 "He had for three days shown symptoms of rallying, and we had 
 some hope of his recovery; but he sank and died, and never even 
 knew that the child had gone before him. A sad, sad story." Dickens 
 meanwhile had sent his own children home with his wife, and the 
 rest soon followed. Poor M. Beaucourt was inconsolable. "The desola- 
 tion of the place is wretched. When Mamey and Katey went, Beau- 
 court came in and wept. He really is almost broken-hearted about it. 
 He had planted all manner of flowers for next month, and had thrown 
 down the spade and left off weeding the garden, so that it looks some- 
 thing like a dreary bird-cage with all manner of grasses and chicic- 
 
 1 
 
 ■ 1 %\ 
 
 i;-. I / 
 
 ;! 
 
 I t ' 
 
 t 
 
 1 
 
 1^ 
 
 1 
 
 
 j 
 
 \ ' 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 'J 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 "3 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 'i 
 
 
 ,^ 
 
 
 
 
 
576 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 weeds sticking through the bars and lying in the sand. 'Such a lost, 
 too, he says, 'for Monsieur Dickens!' Then he looks in at the kitchen 
 window (which seems to be his only relief), and sighs himself up the 
 hill home." ... ^ 
 
 The interval of residence in Paris between these two last visits to 
 Boulogne is now to be described. 
 
 -Ml 
 
 RESIDENCE IN PARIS 
 1855-6 
 
 In Paris Dickens's life was passed among artists, and in the exercise 
 of his own art. His associates were writers, painters, actors, or 
 musicians, and when he wanted relief from any strain of work he 
 found it at the theatre. The years since his last residence in the great 
 city had made him better known, and the increased attentions 
 pleased him. He had to he^p in preparing for a translation of his books 
 into French; and this, with continued labour at the story he had in 
 hand, occupied him as long as he remained. It will be all best to) 
 by extracts from his letters; in which the people he met, the theatr 
 he visited, and the incidents, public or private, that seemed to h . 
 worthy of mention, reappear with the old force and liveliness. 
 
 Nor is anything better worth preserving from them than cho 
 bits of description of an actor or a drama, for this perishable enjo , 
 ment has only so much as may survive out of such recollections tc 
 witness for itself to another generation; and an unusually high place 
 may be challenged for the subtlety and delicacy of what is said in 
 these letters of things theatrical, when the writer was especia / 
 attracted by a performer or a play. Frederic Lemaltre has never had 
 a higher tribute than Dickens paid to him during his few days' earlier 
 stay at Paris in the spring. 
 
 "Incomparably the finest acting I ever saw, I saw last night at 
 the Ambigu. They have revived that old piece, once immensely 
 popular in London under the n 'ne of Thirty Years of a Gambler's 
 Life. Old Lemaltre plays his famous character, and never did I see 
 anything, in art, so exaltedly horrible and awful. In the earlier acts 
 he was so well made up, and so light and active, that he really looked 
 sufficiently young. But in the last two, when he had grown old and 
 miserable, he did the finest things, I really believe, that are within 
 the power of acting. Two or three tinios a great cry of horror went 
 all round the house. When he met, in the inn yard, the traveller 
 whom he murders, and first saw his money, the manner in which the 
 crime came into his head— and eyes— was as truthful as it was 
 terrific." . , . 
 
 
nd. 'Such a losb 
 n at the kitchen 
 s himself up the 
 
 wo last visits to 
 
 I in the exercise 
 ters, actors, or 
 ain of work he 
 nee in the great 
 ised attentions 
 ion of his books 
 story he had in 
 be all best to) 
 et, the theatr 
 seemed to h . 
 liveliness, 
 jm than cho 
 irishable enjo^ 
 recollections tc 
 lally high place 
 what is said in 
 was especia y 
 ; has never had 
 3w days' earlier 
 
 V last night at 
 nee immensely 
 of a Gambler's 
 lever did I see 
 the earlier acts 
 le really looked 
 grown old and 
 hat are within 
 of horror went 
 '., the traveller 
 jr in which the 
 iful as it was 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 577 
 
 That was at the close of February. In October, Dickens's longer 
 residence began. He betook himself with his family, after two un- 
 successful attempts in the new region of the Rue Balzac and Rue 
 Lord Byron, to an apartment in the Avenue des Champs Elys6es. 
 Over him was an English bachelor with an establishment consisting 
 of an English groom and five English horses. "The concierge and his 
 wife told us that his name was Six, which drove me nearly mad until 
 we discovered it to be Sykes." . . . 
 
 At the first play he went to, the performance was stopped while 
 the news of th last Crimean engagement, just issued in a supplement 
 to the Moniteur, was read from the stage. "It made not the faintest 
 effect upon the audience; and even the hired claqueurs, who had been 
 absurdly loud during the piece, seemed to consider the war not at all 
 within their contract, and were as stagnant as ditc^ vater. The 
 theatre was full. It is quite impossible to see such apathy, and 
 suppose the war to be popular, whatever may be asserted to the 
 contrary." . . . 
 
 A piece of honest farce is a relief. "An uncommonly droll piece 
 with an original comic idea in it has been in course of representation 
 here. It is called Les Cheveux de wa Femme. A man who is dotingly 
 fond of his -wife, and who wishes to know whether she loved anybody 
 else before they were married, cuts off a lock of her hair by stealth, 
 ^and takes it to a great mesmeriser, who submits it to a clairvoyante 
 AVho never was wrong. It is discovered that the owner of this hair 
 ' iks been up to the most frightful dissipations, insomuch that the 
 o.lairvoyante can't mention half of them. The distracted husband 
 ^joes home to reproach his wife, and she then reveals that she wears 
 %. wig, and takes it off." . . . 
 
 ' At the house of that great artist, Madame Viardot, the sister 
 of Malibran, Dickens dined to meet George Sand, that lady having 
 appointed the day and hour for the interesting festival, which came 
 off duly on lo January. "I suppose it to be impossible to imagine 
 anybody more unlike my preconceptions than the illustrious Sand. 
 Just the kind of woman in appearance whom you might suppose to 
 be the Queen's monthly nurse. Chubby, matronly, swarthy, black- 
 eyed. Nothing of the blue-stocking about her, except a little final 
 way of settling all your opinions with hers, which I take to have been 
 acquired in the country, where she lives, and in the domination of a 
 small circle. A singularly ordinary woman in appearance and manner. 
 The dinner was very good and remarkably unpretending. Ourselves, 
 Madame and her son, the Scheffers, the Sartorises, and some Lady 
 somebody (from the Crimea last) who wore a species of paletot, and 
 smoked. The Viardots have a house away in the new part of Paris, 
 which looks exactly as if they had moved into it last week and were 
 going away next. Notwithstanding which, they had lived in it eight 
 
 j-CdiO. JL UC \J^J\Ji.a. 5,ll'_ Ti-ijr !?.«■„••.- ^ jj --■- J •• 
 
 with the family. Piano not even opened. Her husband is an extremely 
 good fellow, and she is as natural as it is possible to be." 
 
 337 
 
 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 • i 
 
 ■' 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 
 I li It 
 
 n 
 
 -i 
 
 
 I * 
 
 ■I 
 
 ^T 
 
 I 
 
578 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 > 
 11'-' 
 
 III 
 
 n,Sli^^^ .^'"'^^? ^^^ "'^^ *^ *^^^ f^^^ "measure of Madame 
 
 Dudevant in meeting her thus. He was not familiar with her writings 
 
 ^^^J^!:- T ""V 'PfJ^^^ "''^"S ^°^ «"^^ °f them as he knew. But no 
 disappo ntment, nothing but amazement, awaited him at a dinner 
 that followed soon after. Emile de Girardin gave a banquet in his 
 honour. His description of it. which he declare! to be strictly prosak 
 sounds a little Oriental, but not inappropriately so. "No i^an unl 
 o^?^^'^ "^l^u"^^ determination never to embellish or fancify such 
 accounts, could believe in the description I shall let off when we meet 
 w'thTrf f.' ^"'"S Girardin's-of the three gorgeous draw^n^!r?oms 
 SnhJ ron^''"'?"^ ^^^ f'^^^"^ ^^ ^^°^^"^ «^°"^^«' terminating in a 
 t^^nZr^r^^L "T^'S^""*"^ magnificence with two enoSnous 
 fnti J [ P^te^^^^s doors m it. looking (across an ante-chamber 
 f ul of clean plates) straight into the kitchen, with the cooks in Seir 
 The tphi^^K ^^P«,^ishing the dinner. From his seat in the midst of 
 the table, the host (like a Giant in a Fairy story) beholds the kitchen 
 and the snow-white tables, and the profound order ai^dsUenS there 
 prevailing^ Forth from the plate-glass doors issues the Banquet~the 
 ?rnfflri^''/"^ !"^'* "r" *^'*"^ ^y "^^^^^ ^t the present price of 
 
 pounds On^thf^^^^^^ ^'''"" '°'i'"f (^°^ '''^^' P^°Pl^) ^t leL five 
 laden wiSfh^fi^ ^'^ ground glass jugs of peculiar construction. 
 llT^y^A ^ ^^^?* ^'■'"'^^h ^^ Champagne and the coolest ice. With 
 «?.f! ^^.l''"'"'^ '!'''"^^ ^°^ W^"^ (previously unheard of in a good 
 state on ^iis continent . which would fetch two guineas a bottl^at 
 any sale. The dinner done. Oriental flowers in vasel of golden cobweb 
 are placed upon the board. With the ice is issued Brandy buried for 
 loo years. To that succeeds Coffee, brought by the broiher of one 
 of the convives from the remotest East, in exchange for an eaua! 
 quantity of Californian gold dust. The company befng returned to 
 the drawing-room-tables roll in by unseen agency laden with 
 
 ?if^K *ff ^'J""^ *^^ ^^"^^"^ «f the Saltan, and with cool drSikTn 
 vvhich the flavour of the Lemon arrived yesterday from ALeria 
 
 from Lisbon. That period past, and the guests reposing on Divans 
 worked with many-coloured blosspms. big table rolls in heavy with 
 massive furniture of silver, and breathing incense in ?he form o a 
 little present of Tea direct from China-tlble and aH. I behe^- bu? 
 cannot swear to it, and am resolved to be prosaic. All this tlm^ the 
 host perpetually repeats 'Ce petit d!ner-ci n 'est que pour fS^^^ 
 connaissance de Monsieur Dickens; il ne compte pas ce n'est rien ' 
 And even now I have forgotten to set down half oHt-L pafticuTar 
 
 at'chrktm.^. 'f '^'^'' ""'T ?".^^^"^ ^^^" '^'^ ^^^ «-«- in'^LglanJ 
 nra^ K, ^'"'^' f '^^"^ "^'th a celestial sauce in colour likl the 
 hltS^S f'^'^f °"'' ^?^ '^ substance like the blossom powdered and 
 bathed in dew. and called in the carte (carte in a gold frame like a 
 httle fish-slice_to be handed about) 'Homma^e a rillustrTS^rT^air 
 rnT-^^^T^'"'' ' ^S* ^^^^^trious man staggered out at the last drawing^ 
 room door, speechless with wonder, finally; and even at that moment 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 i of Madame 
 her writings, 
 cnew. But no 
 1 at a dinner 
 inquet in his 
 ictly prosaic, 
 No man un- 
 • fancify such 
 hen we meet, 
 a wing-rooms 
 linating in a 
 
 enormous 
 nte-chamber 
 ooks in their 
 the midst of 
 the kitchen, 
 silence there 
 anquet — the 
 sent price of 
 It least five 
 onstruction, 
 ist ice. With 
 of in a good 
 
 1 a bottle at 
 den cobweb 
 ', buried for 
 ther of one 
 or an equal 
 returned to 
 laden with 
 3l drinks in 
 )ra Algeria, 
 iiis morning 
 
 on Divans 
 heavy with 
 i form of a 
 )elieve; but 
 is time the 
 •ur faire la 
 n'est rien.' 
 
 particular 
 in England 
 iir like the 
 dered and 
 ame like a 
 'e ecrivain 
 t drawing- 
 it moment 
 
 579 
 
 his host, holding to his lips a chalice set with precious stones and 
 containing nectar distilled from the air that blew over the fields of 
 beans in bloom for fifteen summers, remarked 'Le diner que nous 
 avons eu, mon cher, n'est rien — il ne compte pas — il a 6t6 tout-i-fait 
 en famille — il faut diner (eu v6rite, diner) bientdt. Au plaisirl Au 
 re voir! Au diner!' " 
 
 The second dinner came, wonderful as the first; amoiig the com- 
 pany were Regnier, Jules Sandeau, and the new Director of the 
 Fran9ais; and his host again played LucuUus in the same style, with 
 success even more consummate. The only absolutely new incident 
 however was that "After dinner he asked me if I would come into 
 another room and smoke a cigar? and on my saying Yes, coolly 
 opened a drawer, containing about 5000 inestimable cigars in 
 prodigious bundles — just as the Captain of the Robbers in AH Baba 
 might have gone to a comer of the cave for bales of brocade. A little 
 man dined who was blacking shoes 8 years ago, and is now enor- 
 mously rich — the richest man in Paris — having ascended with 
 rapidity up the usual ladder of the Bourse. By merely observing that 
 perhaps he might come down again, I clouded so many faces as to 
 render it very clear to me that everybody present was at the same game 
 for some stake or other!" He returned to that subject in a letter a 
 few days later. "If you were to see the steps of the Bourse at about 4 
 in the afternoon, and the crowd of blouses and patches among the 
 speculators there assembled, all howling and haggard with specula- 
 tion, you would stand aghast at the consideration of what must be 
 going on. Concierges and peopie like that perpetually blow their 
 brains out, or fly into the Seine, '4 cause des pertes r la Bourse.' 
 I hardly ever take up a French paper without ligh ,-iig on such a 
 paragraph. On the other hand, thoroughbred horses without enc, 
 and red velvet carriages with white kid harness on jet black horses, 
 go by here all day long, and the pedestrians who turn to look at 
 them, laugh, and say, ' C'est la Bourse ! ' Such crashes must be staved 
 off every week as have not been seen since Law's time." . . . 
 
 Before Dickens left Paris in May he had completed the arrange- 
 ments for a published translation of all his books, and had sent over 
 two descriptions that the reader most anxious to follow him to a new 
 scene would perhaps be sorry to lose. A Duchess was murdered in the 
 Champs Elysees. "The murder over the way (the third or fourth 
 event of that nature in the Champs Elysees since we have been here) 
 seems to disclose the strangest state of things. The Duchess who is 
 murdered lived alone in a great house which was always shut up, 
 and passed her time entirely in the dark. In a little lodge outside 
 lived a coachman (the murderer), and there had been a long succes- 
 sion of coachmen who had been unable to stay there, and upon 
 whom, whenever they asked for their wages, she plunged out with an 
 
 
 
 
 never had anything to do, for the coach hadn't been driven out for 
 years; neither would she ever allow the horses to be taken out for 
 
 
41 
 
 ill >i 
 
 iffilBlli 
 
 580 The Lite of Charles Dickens 
 
 exercise. Between the lodge and the house, is a miserable bit of 
 f^f^^' ?i 'O'^^^^^^^ ^"h long rank grass, weeds, and nettles; and 
 m this the horses used to be taken out to swim— in a dead ween 
 Xlf i^^to^' "Pi° *?^^ liaunches. On the day of the murder there 
 
 ™® ^f ^"^r ^""^ ^f'^o"' ^^°"^ she ^^as separated), and rings at the 
 ^n^.' Sh P ""? °?^'' ?® «^^*^- '^'es* ^^^i ^o^<^'' says the Duke. 
 sif^J^^T ^t ^"^hf s« «'est plusP'-'C'est tro/ vrai. Monl 
 +^ f^! ~Z T^,^t °^»^"x/ says the Duke, and walks off deliberately, 
 to the great satisfaction of the assemblage." 
 
 The second description relates an occurrence in England of onlv 
 H/c?.^^^''^•J?''^'''T?^'^^*®' belonging to that wildly improbable 
 firf J , ?^'*'^^ ^^I""^. ^'^^^"^ ^^^^ys held, with Fielding, to be 
 (properly) closed to fiction. Only, he would add. critics should not be 
 
 ^o„M^^^ K ^^^"""u *^^* "^^^t h^^ "^^^^ happened to themselves 
 could not. by any human possibility, ever be supposed to have hap- 
 pened to anybody else. "B. was with me the other day. and, among 
 other things that he told me. described an extraordinary adventurt 
 n ?'t,, lu^* ^ P^^''^ "^o* ^ thousand miles from my 'property' at 
 Oadshill. three years ago. He lived at the tavern and was sketching 
 one day when art open carriage came by with a gentleman and lad? 
 m It. He was sitting in the same place working at the same sketch, 
 next day. when it came by again. So, another day, when the gentle- 
 man got out and mt-oduced himself. Fond of art; lived at the great 
 house yonder. whicL perhaps he knew; was an Oxford man and a 
 Devonshire squire, but not resident on his estate, for domestic 
 reasons; would be glad to see him to dinner to-morrow. He went and 
 
 Sl!??htT"^ °*^^' *?'°^l^ r^^ ^^^ ^ib^^^y- 'At your disposition.' 
 said the Squire, to whom he had now described himself and his pur- 
 suits. Use It for your writing and drawing. Nobody else uses it.' He 
 stayed in the house six months. The lady was a mistress, aged five- 
 and-twenty, and very beautiful, drinking her life away. The Squire 
 was drunken and utterly depraved and wicked; but an excellent 
 scholar, an admirable linguist, and a great theologian. Two other 
 mad visitors stayed the six months. One. a man well known in Paris 
 here who goes about the world with a crimson silk stocking in his 
 breast pocket, containing a tooth-brush .-.nd an immense quantity of 
 ready money The other, a college chum of the Squire's, now ruined- 
 "^'^L^"" /nsatiate thirst for drink; who constantly got up in the 
 middle of the night, crept down to the dining-room, and emptied all 
 the decanters. . B stayed on in the place, under a sort of 
 devihsh fascmation to discover what might come of it. . Tea or 
 coffee never seen in the house, and very seldom water. Beer, cham- 
 pa^e, and brandy, were the three drinkables. Breakfast: leg of 
 mutton, champagne, beer, and brandy. Lunch: shoulder of mutton 
 cnampagne, beer, and brandv. Dinnpr- A^r^^r,, ^«r,^^;..»ui_ j:_u 
 vbquure s income. ;^7ooo a year), champagne, beer, and brandy. The 
 oquire had married a woman of the town from whom he was now 
 
jrable bit of 
 
 nettles; and 
 
 I dead green 
 
 aurder there 
 
 p comes the 
 
 rings at the 
 
 s the Duke, 
 
 vrai, Mon- 
 
 ieliberately, 
 
 and of only 
 improbable 
 Iding, to be 
 lould not be 
 themselves 
 o have hap- 
 and, among 
 Y adventure 
 )roperty' at 
 IS sketching 
 m and lady 
 ime sketch, 
 the gentle- 
 it the great 
 man and a 
 •r domestic 
 e went, and 
 lisposition,' 
 nd his pur- 
 uses it.' He 
 , aged five- 
 The Squire 
 n excellent 
 Two other 
 ivn in Paris 
 king in his 
 quantity of 
 low ruined; 
 up in the 
 jmptied all 
 a sort of 
 . . Tea or 
 eer, cham- 
 ist: leg of 
 3f mutton, 
 
 andy. The 
 3 was now 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 581 
 
 separated, but by whom he had a daughter. The mother, to spite the 
 father, had bred the daughter in every conceivable vice. Daughter, 
 then 13, came from school once a month. Intensely coarse in talk,' 
 and always drunk. As they drove about the country in two open 
 carriages, the drunken mistress would be perpetually tumbling out 
 of one, and the drunken daughter perpetually tumbling out of the 
 other. At last the drunken mistress drank her stomach away, and 
 began to die on the sofa. Got worse and worse, and was always raving 
 about Somebody's where she had once been a lodger, and perpetually 
 shrieking that she would cut somebody else's heart out. At last she 
 died on the sofa, and, after the funeral, the party broke up. A few 
 months ago, B. met the man with the crimson silk stocking at 
 Brighton, who told him that the Squire was dead 'of a broken heart'; 
 that the chum was dead of delirium tremens; and that the daughter- 
 was heiress to the fortune. He told me all this, which I fully believe 
 to be true, without any embellishment— just in the off-hand way in 
 which I have told it to you." 
 
 Dickens left Paris at the end of April, and, after the summer in 
 Boulogne, which has been described, passed the winter in London, 
 giving to his theatrical enterprise nearly all the time that Little 
 Dorrit did not claim from htm. His book was finished in the following 
 sprmg; was inscribed to Clarkson Stanfield; and now claims to have 
 something said about it. The theatrical enterprise to be at the same 
 time related, with what it led to, will be found to open a new phase 
 in the life of Dickens. 
 
 r 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
tin 
 
II 
 
 BOOK EIGHTH 
 
 PUBLIC READER 
 
 1856-67. MT. 44-55 
 
 I. "Little Dorrit," and a Lazy Tour. 
 
 n. What Happened at this Time. 
 
 III. Gadshill Place. 
 
 IV. First Paid Readings. 
 
 V. "All the Year Round" and "Uncommercial Traveller." 
 VI. Second Series of Readings. 
 VII. Third Series of Readings. 
 
 1 
 
 ■5 I 
 
 583 
 
 i 
 
 
 a 
 
i ! 
 
 I'! f 
 
 

 I 
 
 "little dorrit," and a lazy tour 
 
 1855-7 
 
 Between Hard Times and Little Dorrit, Dickens's principal literary 
 work had been the contribution to Household Words oi two tales fS 
 Christmas (1854 and 1855) which his readings af^rwards made 
 wide^ popular, the Story of Richard Doubledick,* and BooTsa? 
 the Holly free Inn In the latter was related, with a charmine 
 naturalness and spirit the elopement, to gcc married at Gretna 
 Green, of two little children of the mature respective ages of eieht 
 and seven At Christmas 1855 came out the first number of Little 
 Dorrit, and m April 1857 the last. . . 
 
 The first number appeared in December 1855. and on its sale there 
 
 T.I^°/m ^rt''* ''^*^- ^'"^' ^"^''^ ^^^« ^^t^" even Bleak House out 
 of the field It IS a most tremendous start, and I am overjoyed at it"- 
 to which he added, writing from Paris on the 6th of the month 
 foJlowmg. Jiou know that they had sold 35.000 of number two on 
 new years' day." He was stOl in Paris on the day of the appearance 
 of that por ion of the tale by which it will always be most vividlv 
 remembered, and thus wrote on 30 January, 1856: "I have a erim 
 pleasure upon me to-night in thinking that the Circumlocution Office 
 sees the light, and m wondering what effect it will make But mv 
 head really stings with the visions of the book, and I am soins as 
 we French say to disembarrass it by plunging out into some of the 
 strange places I glide into of nights in these latitudes." The Cu-cumlo- 
 cution heroes led to the Society scenes, the Hampton Court dowager- 
 sketches, and Mr. Gowan; all parts of one satire levelled against ore- 
 vailing political and social vices. Aim had been taken, in the course 
 of It, at some living originals, disguised sufiiciently from recognition 
 
 * The framework for this sketch was a graphic description, also done bv 
 Dickens, of the celebrated Charity at Rochester founded in the sixteenth r^nfMr,^ 
 by Richard Watts, "for six poor'travellers, who, nofbeSg ^^Jes Jr PrSt^ 
 may receive gratis for one night, lodging, entertainment, trd fourpence Sch^' 
 A quaint monument to Watts is the most prominent object on thTwaU of th*^ 
 south-west Jansept of the cathedral, and unierneath it k iow placed a bras^thSs 
 nLT^r Tl!u''^?^ Dickens. Bom at Portsmouth, seventh of FebnSt 1812 
 Died at Gadshill Place by Rochester, th of June 1870. Buried in wStminste; 
 Abbey. To connect his memory with the scenes in which his earHest and hff latest 
 years were passed, and with the associations of Rochester Cathedral an^ .•fc^Ijfu 
 Douiiioou which extended over ail his hie, this Tablet, with the sanction of the 
 Dean and Cnapter, is placed by his Executors." «»"vnuu oi me 
 
 1 
 
 i '■ 
 
 337* 
 
 585 
 
 
586 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 to enable him to make his thrust more sure; but there was one excep- 
 tion self-revealed. "I had the general idea," he wrote while engaged 
 on the sixth number, "of the Society business before the Sadleir 
 affair, but I shaped Mr. Merdie himself out of that precious rascality. 
 Society, the Circumlocution Office, and Mr, Gowan, are of course 
 three parts of one idea and design. Mr. Merdle's complaint, which 
 you will find in the end to be fraud and forgery, came into my mind 
 as the last drop in the silver cream-jug on Hampstead Heath. I shall 
 beg, when you have read the present number, to inquire whether you 
 consider 'Bar' an instance, in reference to K F, of a suggested likeness 
 in not many touches?" The likeness no one could mistake; and, 
 though that particular Bar has since been moved into a higher and 
 happier sphere, Westminster Hall is in no danger of losing "the 
 insinuating Jury-droop, and persuasive double eye-glass," by which 
 this keen observer could express a type of character in half a dozen 
 words. 
 
 Of the other portions of the book that had a strong personal 
 interest for him I have spoken on a former page, and I will now only 
 add an allusion of his own. "There are some things in Flora in 
 number seven that seem to me to be extraordinarily droll, with 
 something serious at the bottom of them after all. Ah, well I was 
 there not something very serious in it once? I am glad to think cf 
 being in the country with the long summer mornings as I approach 
 number ten, where I have finally resolved to make Dorrit rich. 
 It should be a very fine point in the story. . . . Nothing in Flora 
 made me laugh so much as the confusion of ideas between gout 
 flying upwards, and its soaring with Mr. F. to another sphere" 
 (7 April). . . . 
 
 Shortly after the date of his letter he was in L-ondon on business 
 connected with the purchase of Gadshill Place, and he went over to 
 the Borough to see what traces were left of the prison of which his 
 first impression was taken in his boyhood, which had played so 
 important a part in this latest novel, and every brick and stone of 
 which he had been able to rebuild in his book by the mere vividness 
 of his marvellous memory. "Went to the Borough yesterday morning 
 before going to Gadshill, to see if I could find any ruins of the 
 Marshalsea. Found a great part of the original building — now 
 'Marshalsea Place.' Found the rooms that have been in my mind's 
 eye in the story. Found, nursing a very big boy, a very small boy, 
 who, seeing me standing on the Marshalsea pavement, looking about, 
 told me how it ail used to be. God knows how he learned it (for he 
 kvas a world too young to know anything about it), but he was right 
 enough. , . . There is a room there — still standing, to my amaze- 
 ment — that I think of taking! It is the room through which the 
 ever-memorable signers of Captain Porter's petition filed ofi in 
 my boyhood." "The spikes are gone, and the wall is lowered, and 
 anybody can go out now who likes to go, and is not bed-ridden; 
 and I said to the boy, 'Who lives there?' and he said, Jack Fithick.' 
 
 M 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 587 
 
 me exccp- 
 e engaged 
 le Sadleir 
 
 rascality. 
 
 of course 
 nt, which 
 
 my mind 
 th. I shall 
 lether you 
 id likeness 
 ake; and, 
 ligher and 
 ising "the 
 
 by which 
 If a dozen 
 
 J personal 
 1 now only 
 I Flora in 
 Iroll, with 
 well! was 
 
 think cf 
 approach 
 
 arrit rich. 
 
 1 in Flora 
 veen gout 
 r sphere" 
 
 n business 
 nt over to 
 which his 
 played so 
 d stone of 
 
 vividness 
 y morning 
 ins of the 
 ling — now 
 ny mind's 
 5mall boy, 
 ing about, 
 . it (for he 
 
 was right 
 ly amaze- 
 which the 
 led ofi in 
 vered, and 
 ed-ridden; 
 k Pithick.' 
 
 'Who is Jack Pithick?' I asked him. And he said. 'Joe Pithkk's 
 uncle ' " . . . 
 
 Kia book was finished soon after at Gadshill Place, to be presently 
 described, which he had purchased the previous year, and takek 
 possession of in February; subscribing him«jeli, in the letter announc- 
 ing the fact, as "the Kentish Freeholder on his native heath, his name 
 Protection." The new abode occupied him in variou-- ^ays in the 
 early part of the summer; and Hans Andersen the L -ris had just 
 arrived upon a visit to him there, when Douglas Jerrold's unexpected 
 death befell. It was a shock to everyone, and an especial grief to 
 Dickens. Jerrold's wit, and the bright shrewd intellect that had so 
 many triumphs, need no celebration from me; but the keenest of 
 satirists was one of the kindliest of men, and Dickens had a fondness 
 for Jerrold as genuine as his admiration for him. . . . 
 
 A plan for a theatrical performance and a reading by Dickens, on 
 behalf of Jerrold's dependent, was carried to its close with vigour, 
 promptitude, and success. In addition to the performances named, 
 there were others in the country also organised by Dickens, in whkh 
 he took active personal part; and the result did not fall short of his 
 expectations. The sum was invested ultimately for our friend's 
 unmarried daughter who now receives, under direction of the Court 
 of Chancery, the income of it until lately paid by myself, the last 
 surviving trustee. 
 
 So passed the greater part of +^^ summer, and when the country 
 performances were over at the e ^ of August I had this intimation. 
 "I have arranged with Collins that he and I will start next Monday 
 on a ten or twelve days' expedition to out-of-the-way places, to do 
 (in inns and coast-comers) a little tour in search of an article and in 
 avoidance of railroads. I must get a good name for it, and I propose 
 it in five articles, one for the beginning of every number in the 
 October part." Next day: "Our decision is for a foray upon the fells 
 of Cumberland; I having discovered in the books some promising 
 moors and bleak places thereabout." Into the lake-country they went 
 accordingly; and The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices, contributed 
 to Household Words, related the trip. But his letters had descriptive 
 touches, and some whimsical experiences, not in the published account- 
 Looking over the Beauties of England and Wales before he left 
 London, his ambition was fired by mention of Carrick Fell, "a gloomy 
 old mountain 1500 feet high," which he secretly resolved to go up. 
 "We came straight to it yesterday" (9 September). "Nobody goes 
 up. Guides have f rgotten it. Master of a little inn, excellent north- 
 countryman, volunteered. Went up, in a tremendous rain. C. D. beat 
 Mr. Porter (name of landlord) in half a mile. Mr. P. done up in no 
 time. Three neve^heless went m. Mr. P. again leading; C. D. and C." 
 (Mr. Wilkie Collins) "following. Rain terrific, black mists, darkness 
 of night. Mr. P. agitated. C. D. confident. C. (a long way down in 
 perspective) submissive All wet through. No poles. Not so much as 
 
 I 
 
 4 
 
 i 
 
 ix waiiCing-stiCiC iii the paiLy. 
 
 xvciiuu uiu s>uiriuii( 'AX aDOur one m lCc 
 
588 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 r 
 
 day. Dead darkness as of night. Mr. P. (excellent fellow to the last) 
 uneasy. C. D. produces compass from pocket. Mr. P. reassured 
 Farm-house where dog-cart was left, N.N.W. Mr. P. complimentary' 
 Descent commenced. C. D. with compass triumphant, until compass 
 with the heat and wet of C. D.'s pocket, breaks. Mr. P. (who never 
 had a compass), inconsolable, confesses he has not been on Carrick 
 Fell for twenty years, and he don't know the way down. Darker and 
 darker. Nobody discernible, two yards off, by the other two. Mr P 
 makes suggestions, but not way. It becomes clear to C. D. and to C. 
 that Mr. P. is going round and round the mountain, and never 
 commg down. Mr. P. sits on angular granite, and says he is 'just fairly 
 doon. C. D. revives Mr. P. with laughter, the only restorative in the 
 company, Mr. P. again complimentary. Descent tried once more 
 Mr. P. worse and worse. Council of war. Proposals from C. D. to go 
 slap down.' Seconded by C. Mr. P. objects, on account of precipice 
 called The Black Arches, and terror of the countryside. More 
 wandering. Mr. P. terror-stricken, but game. Watercourse, thunder- 
 ing and roaring, reached. C. D. suggests that it must run to the river 
 and had best be followed, subject to all gymnastic hazards. Mr p' 
 opposes, but gives in. Watercourse followed accordingly Leaps 
 splashes, and tumbles, for two hours. C. lost. C. D. whoops. Cries for 
 assistance, from behind. C. D. returns. C. with horribly sprained 
 ankle, lying in rivulet !" 
 
 All the danger was over when Dickens sent his description- but 
 great had been the trouble in binding up the sufferer's ankle and 
 getting him painfully on. shoving, shouldering, carrying alternately 
 till terra firma was reached. "We got down at last in the wildest 
 place, preposterously out of the course; and, propping up C against 
 stones, sent Mr. P. to the other side of Cumberland for dog-cart so 
 got back to his mu. and clinnged. Shoe or stocking on the bad foot 
 out of the question. Foot bundled up in a flannel waistcoast C D 
 carrying. C. melodramatically (Wardour to the life!) everywhere* 
 into and out of carriages; up and down stairs; to bed; every step' 
 And so to Wigton. got doctor, and here we are!! A pretty business 
 we flatter ourselves!" ... ^ j 
 
 On their way home the friends were at Doncaster, and this was 
 Dickens s first experience of the St. Leger and its saturnalia. His com- 
 panion had by this time so far recovered as to be able, doubled-up to 
 walk with a thick stick; in which condition, "being exactly like the 
 gputy admural in a comedy I have given him that name." The impres- 
 sions received from the race-week were not favourable. It was noise 
 and turmoil all day long, and a gathering of vagabonds from all parts 
 of the racing earth. Every bad face that had ever caught wickedness 
 from an innocent horse had its representative in the streets; and as 
 Dickens, like Gulliver looking down upon his fellow-men after coming 
 Irom the horse-country, looked down into Doncaster High Street from 
 his iiiu -Window, he seemed to see everywhere a then notorious per- 
 sonage who had jugt poisoned his betting-companion. "Everywhere I 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 :o the last) 
 reassured. 
 limentarj\ 
 1 compass, 
 who never 
 on Carrick 
 )arker and 
 ivo. Mr. P. 
 . and to C. 
 and never 
 'just fairly 
 tive in the 
 nee more. 
 '. D. to go 
 f precipice 
 ide. More 
 , thunder- 
 > the river, 
 ds. Mr. P. 
 ly. Leaps, 
 i. Cries for 
 ' sprained 
 
 ption; but 
 ankle and 
 ternately, 
 le wildest 
 C. against 
 >g-cart, so 
 ! bad foot 
 ast. C. D. 
 srywhere; 
 /ery step, 
 business, 
 
 this was 
 His com- 
 led-up, to 
 y like the 
 le impres- 
 was noise 
 I all parts 
 ickedness 
 s; and as 
 ;r coming 
 reet from 
 ious per- 
 ywhere I 
 
 589 
 
 see the late Mr. Palmer with his betting-book in his hand. Mr. Palmer 
 sits next me at the theatre; Mr. Palmer goes before me down the 
 street; Mr. Palmer follows rae into the chemist's shop where I go 
 to buy rose-water after breakfast, and says to the chemist 'Give us 
 soom sal volatile or soom damned thing o' that soort, in wather — my 
 head's bad !' And I look at the back of his bad head repeated in long, 
 long lines on the race course, and in the betting-stand and outside the 
 betting-rooms in the town, and I vow to God that I can see nothing 
 in it but cruelty, covetousness, calculation, insensibility, and low 
 wickedness." 
 
 Even a half-appalling kind of luck was not absent from my friend's 
 experiences at the race course, when, what he called a "wonderful, 
 paralysing, coincidence" befell him. He bought the card; facetiously 
 wrote down three names for the winners of the three chief races (never 
 in his life having heard or thought of any of the horses, except that 
 the winner of the Derby, who proved to be nowhere, had been men- 
 tioned to him); "and, if you can believe it without your hair standing 
 on end, those three races were won, one after another, by those three 
 horses! ! !" That was the St. I^eger Day, of which he also thought it 
 noticeable, that, though the losses were enormous, nobody had won, 
 for there was nothing but grinding of teeth and blaspheming of ill- 
 luck. Nor had matters mended on the Cup-day, after which celebra- 
 tion "a groaning phantom " lay in the doorway of his bedroom and 
 howled all night. The landlord came up in the morning to apologise, 
 ' 'and said it was a gentleman who had lost ;^i5oo or ;^2ooo; and he had 
 drunk a deal afterwards; and then they put him to bed, and then he — 
 took the 'orrors, and got up, and yelled till morning." Dickens might 
 well believe, as he declared at the end of his letter, that if a boy with 
 any good in him, but with a dawning propensity to sporting and 
 betting, were but brought to the Doncaster races soon enough, it 
 would cure him. 
 
 II 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED AT THIS TIME 
 1857-8 
 
 An unsettled feeling greatly in exces" f what was usual with Dickens, 
 more or less observable since his first residence at Boulogne, became 
 ai :his time almost habitual, and the satisfactions which home should 
 have supplied, and which indeed were essential requirements of his 
 nature, he had failed to find in his home= He had not the alternative 
 that under this disappointment some can discover in what is called 
 society. It did not suit him, and he set no store by it. No man was 
 
 I S 
 
'I i 
 
 V n 
 
 590 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 11*84 
 
 better fitted to adorn any circle he entered, but beyond that of f-'^nds 
 and equals he rarely passed. He would take as much pains to keep 
 ©ut of the houses of the great as others take to get into them. Not 
 always wisely, it may be admitted. Mere contempt for toadyism and 
 fliunkeyism was not at all times the prevailing motive with him which 
 he supposed it to be. Beneath his horror of those vices of Englishmen 
 in his own rank of life, there was a still stronger resentment at the 
 social inequalities that engender them, of which he was not so 
 conscious and to which he owned less freely. Not the less it served 
 secretly to justify what he might otherwise have had no mind to. 
 To say he was not a gentleman would be as true as to say he was not 
 a writer; but if anyone should assert his occasional preference for 
 what was even beneath his level over that which was above it, this 
 would be difficult of disproof. It was among those defects of tempera- 
 ment for which his early trials and his early successes were account- 
 able in perhaps equal measure. He was sensitive in a passionate 
 degree to praise and blame, which yet he made for the most part a 
 point of pride to assume indifference to; the inequalities of rank which 
 he secretly resented took more galling as well as glaring prominence 
 from the contrast of the necessities he had gone through with the 
 fame that had come to him; and when the forces he most affected to 
 despise assumed the form of barriers he could not easily overlap, he 
 was led to appear frequently intolerant (for he very seldom was really 
 so) in opinions and language. His early sufferings brought with them 
 the healing powers of energy, will, and persistence, and taught him 
 the inexpressible value of a determined resolve to live down difficul- 
 ties; but the habit, in small as in great things, of renunciation and 
 self-sacrifice, they did not teach; and, by his sudden leap into a 
 world-wide popularity and influence, he became master of everything 
 that might seem to be attainable in life, before he had mastered what 
 a man must undergo to be equal to its hardest trials. 
 
 Nothing of all this has yet presented itself to notice, except in 
 occasion.- 1 forms of restlessness and desire of change of place, which 
 were themselves, when his books were in progress, so incident as well 
 to the active requirements of his fancy as to call, thus far, for no other 
 explanation. Uj io the date of the' completion of Copper field he had 
 felt himself to be in possession of an all-sufficient resource. Against 
 whatever might befall he had a set-off in his imaginative creations, a 
 compensation derived from his art that never failed him, because 
 there he was supreme. It was the world he could bend to his will, and 
 make subserve to all his desires. He had otherwise, underneath his 
 exterior of a singular precision, method, and strictly orderly arrange- 
 ment in all things, and notwithstanding a temperament to which 
 home and home interests were really a necessity, something in com- 
 mon with those eager, impetuous, somewhat overbearing natures, 
 that rush at existence without heeding the cost of it, and are not more 
 ready to accept and make the most of its enjoyments than to be 
 easily and quickly overthrown by its burdens. But the world he had 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 591 
 
 ,tof f-'^nds 
 ins to keep 
 them. Not 
 idyism and 
 him which 
 englishmen 
 lent at the 
 i^as not so 
 ivS it served 
 o mind to. 
 he was not 
 ference for 
 ove it, this 
 )f tempera- 
 ■e account- 
 passionate 
 lost part a 
 rank which 
 )rominence 
 h with the 
 affected to 
 jverlap, he 
 . was really 
 with them 
 aught him 
 vn diflficul- 
 iation and 
 sap into a 
 everything 
 tered what 
 
 except in 
 ace, which 
 ent as well 
 Dr no other 
 leld he had 
 ;e. Against 
 reations, a 
 n, because 
 is will, and 
 ;rneath his 
 ly arrange- 
 : to which 
 ng in com- 
 ig natures, 
 e not tnoTP. 
 ;han to be 
 )rld he had 
 
 called into being had thus far borne him safely through these perils. 
 He had his own creations always by his side. They were living, 
 speaking companions. With them only he was everywhere 
 thoroughly identified. He laughed and wept with them; was as 
 much elated by their fun as cast down by their grief; and brought to 
 the consideration of them a belief in their reality as well as in the 
 influences they were meant to exercise, which in every circumstance 
 sustained him. 
 
 It was during the composition of Little Dorrit that I think he firsl 
 fblc a certain strain upon his invention which brought with it other 
 misgivings. In a modified form this was present during the later 
 portions of Bleak House, of which not a few of the defects might be 
 traced to the acting excitements amid which it was written; but the 
 succeeding book made it plainer to him; and it is remarkable that ia 
 the interval between them he resorted for the first and only time in 
 his life to a practice, which he abandoned at the close of his next and 
 last story published in the twenty-number form, of putting down 
 written "Memoranda" of suggestions for characters or incidents by 
 way of resource to him in his writing. Never before had his teeming 
 fancy seemed to want such help; the need being less to contribute to 
 its fulness than to check its overflowing; but it is another proof that 
 he had been secretly bringing before himself, at least, the possibility 
 that what had ever been his great support might some day desert 
 him. It was strange that he should have had such doubt, and he 
 would hardly have confessed it openly; but apart from that wonder- 
 ful world of his books, the range of his thoughts was not always pro- 
 portioned to the width and largeness of his nature. His ordinary circle 
 of activity, whether in likings or thinkings, was full of such surprising 
 animation, that one was apt to believe it more comprehensive than it 
 really was; and again and again, when a wide horizon might seem to 
 be ahead of him he would pull up suddenly and stop short, as though 
 nothing lay beyond. For the tine, though each had its term and 
 change, he was very much a man of one idea, each having its turn of 
 absolute predominance; and this was one of the secrets of the 
 thoroughness with which everything he took in hand w s done. As to 
 the matter of his writings, the actual truth was that his creative 
 genius never really failed him. Not a few of his inventions of character 
 and humour, up to the very close of his life, his Marigolds, Lirripers, 
 Gargerys, Pips, Sapseas and many others, were as fresh and fine as in 
 his greatest day. He had however lost the free and fertile method of 
 the earlier time. He could no longer fill a wide-spread canvas with the 
 same facility and certainty as of old; and he had frequently a quite 
 unfounded apprehension of some possible breakdown, of which the 
 end might be at any moment beginning. There can accordingly, 
 from time to time, intervals of unusual impatience aud restlessness, 
 strange to me in connection with his home; his old pursuits were too 
 often laid aside for other excitements and occupations; he joined a 
 public political agitation, set on foot by administrative reformers; h§ 
 
 ■L>-1 
 
592 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ,H 
 
 got up various quasi-public private theatricals, in which he took the 
 leading place; and though it was but part of his always generous devo- 
 tion in any friendly duty to organise the series of performances on his 
 friend Jerrold's death, yet the eagerness with which he flung himself 
 into them, so arranging them as to assume an amount of labour in 
 acting and travelling that might have appalled an experienced 
 comedian, and carrying them on week after week unceasingly in 
 London and the provinces, expressed but the craving which still had 
 possession of him to get by some means at some change that 
 should make existence easier. What was highest in his nature had 
 ceased for the time to be highest in his life, and he had put himself 
 at the mercy of lower accidents and conditions. The mere effect of 
 the strolling wandering ways into which this acting led him could 
 not be other than unfavourable. But remonstrance as yet was 
 unavailing. 
 
 To one very earnestly made in the early autumn of 1857, in which 
 opportunity was taken to compare his recent rush up Carrick Fell 
 to his rush into other difficulties, here was the reply. "Too late to say, 
 put the curb on, and don't rush at hills- -the wrong man to say it to. 
 T have now no relief but in action. I am become incapable of rest. I 
 am quite confident I should rust, break, and die, if I spar, i myself. 
 Much better to die, doing. What I am in that way, nature made me 
 first, and my way of life has of late, alas ! confirmed. I must accept the 
 drawback — since it is one — with the powers I have; and I must hold 
 upon the tenure prescribed to me." Something of the same sad feeling, 
 it is right to say, had been expressed from time to time, in connection 
 also with home dissatisfactions and misgivings, through the three 
 years preceding; but I attributed it to other causes, and gave little 
 attention to it. During his absences abroad for the greater part of 
 1854, '55, and '56, while the elder of his children were growing out of 
 childhood, and his books were less easy to him than in his earlier man- 
 hood, evidences presented themselves in his letters of the old "un- 
 happy loss or want of something" to which he had given a pervading 
 prominence in Copperfield. In the first of those years he made express 
 allusion to the kind of experience which had been one of his descrip- 
 tions in that favourite book, and', mentioning the drawbacks of his 
 present life, had first identified it with his own: "the so happy and 
 yet so unhappy existence which seeks its realities in unrealities, and 
 finds its dangerous comfort in a perpetual escape from the disappoint- 
 ment of heart around it." 
 
 JLater in the same year he thus wrote from Boulogne: "I have had 
 dreadful thoughts of getting away somewhere altogether by myself. 
 If I could have managed it, I think possibly I might have gone to the 
 P)a'eennees (you know what I mean that word for, so I won't 
 rewrite it) for six months ! I have put the idea into the perspective of 
 .six months but have not abandoned it. I have visions of livinsy for 
 half a year or so, in all sorts of inaccessible places, and opening a new 
 book therein. A floating idea of going up above the snow-line in 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 593 
 
 he took the 
 erous devo- 
 inces on his 
 ling himself 
 )f labour in 
 jxperienced 
 easingly in 
 ch still had 
 liange that 
 nature had 
 put himself 
 sre effect of 
 I him could 
 ,s yet was 
 
 17, in which 
 Warrick Fell 
 late to say, 
 to say it to. 
 le of rest. I 
 n J myself, 
 re made me 
 t accept the 
 [ must hold 
 sad feeling, 
 connection 
 ti the three 
 gave little 
 iter part of 
 wing out of 
 earlier man- 
 le old "un- 
 1 pervading 
 ade express 
 his descrip- 
 )acks of his 
 happy and 
 jalities, and 
 disappoint- 
 
 'I have had 
 • by myself, 
 gone to the 
 so I won't 
 rspective of 
 3f livinp' for 
 ening a new 
 now-line in 
 
 Switzerland, and living in some astonishing convent, hovers about 
 me. If Household Words could be got into a good train, in short, I 
 don't know in what strange place, or at what remote elevation above 
 the level of the sea, I might fall to work next. Restlessness, you will 
 say. Whatever it is, it is always driving me, and I cannot help it. I 
 have rested nine or ten weeks, and sometimes feel as if it had been a 
 year — though I had the strangest nervous miseries before I stopped. 
 If I couldn't walk fast and far, I should just explode and perish." 
 Again, four months later he wrote: "You will hear of me in Paris, 
 probably next Sunday, and I may go on to Bordeaux. Have general 
 ideas of emigrating in the summer to th«f» mountain-ground between 
 France and Spain. Am altogether in & . .hevslled state of mind — 
 motes of new books in the dirty air, miseries of older growth, threaten- 
 ing to close upon me. Why is it, that as with poor David, a sense 
 comes always crushing on me now, when I fall into low spirits, as of 
 one happiness I have missed in life, and one friend and companion 
 I have never made?" 
 
 Early in 1856 (20 January) the notion revisited him of writing a 
 book on solitude. "Again I am beset by my former notions of a book 
 whereof the whole story shall be on the top of the Great St. Bernard. 
 As I accept and reject ideas for Little Dorrit, it perpetually comes back 
 to me. Two or three years hence, perhaps you'll find me living with 
 he Monks and the Dogs a whole winter — among the blinding snows 
 that fall about that monastery I have a serious idea that I shall do 
 it, if I live." He was at this date in Paris; and during the visit to him 
 of Macready in the following April, the self-revelations were resumed. 
 The great actor was then living in retirement at Sherborne, to 
 which he had gone on quitting the stage; and Dickens gave 
 favourable report of his enjoyment of the change to his little holiday 
 at Paris. . . . 
 
 It would be unjust and uncandid not to admit that these and othej 
 similar passages in the letters th?.t extended over the years while he 
 lived abroad, had served in some degree as a preparation for what 
 came after his return to England in the following year. It came with 
 a great shock nevertheless; because it told plainly what before had 
 never been avowed, but only hinted at more or less obscurely. The 
 opening reference is to the reply which had been made to a previous 
 expression of his wish for some confidences as in the old time. I give 
 only what is strictly necessary to account for what followed, and even 
 this with deep reluctance. "Your ' tter of yesterday was so kind and 
 hearty, and sounded so gently tJae many chords we have touched 
 together, that I cannot leave it unanswered, though I have not much 
 (to any purpose) to say. My reference to 'confidences' was merely 
 to the relief of saying a word of what has long been pent up in my 
 mind. Poor Catherine and I are not made for each other, and there is 
 no help for it= It is not only that she makes me uneasy and unhappy, 
 but that I make her so too — and much more so. She is exactly what 
 you know, in the way of being amiable and complying; but we are 
 
 I 
 
 'J: 
 
 ^l*-'' 
 
594 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 I) f^ g J 
 
 strangely ill-assorted for the bond there is between us. God knows she 
 would have been a thousand times happier if she had married another 
 kmd of man, and that her avoidance of this destiny would have been 
 at least equally good for us both. I am often cut to the heart by think- 
 ing what a pity it is, for her own sake, that I ever fell in her way; and 
 if I were sick or disabled to-morrow, I know how sorry she would be 
 and how deeply grievec myself, to think how we had lost each other! 
 But exactly the same incompatibility would arise, the moment I was 
 well again; and nothing on earth could make her understand me, or 
 suit us to each other. Her temperament will not go with mine.' It 
 mattered not so much when we had only ourselves to consider, but 
 reasons hav« been growing since which make it all but hopeless'that 
 we should even try to struggle on. What is now befalling me I have 
 seen steadily coming, ever since the days you remember when Mary 
 was born; and I know too well that you cannot, and no one can, help 
 me. Why I have e\^en written I hardly know; but it is a miserable sort 
 of comfort that you should be clearly aware how matters stand. The 
 mere mention of the fact, without any complaint or blame of any 
 sort, is a relief to my present state of spirits— and I can get this only 
 from you, because I can speak of it to no one else." In the same tone 
 was his rejoinder to my reply. "To the most part of what you say— 
 Amen ! You are not so tolerant as perhaps you might be of the way- 
 ward and unsettled feeling which is part (I suppose) of the tenure on 
 which one holds an imaginative life, and which I have, as you ought 
 to know well, often only kept down by riding over it like a dragoon- 
 but let that go by. I make no maudlin complaint. I agree with you 
 as to the very possible incidents, even not less bearable than mine, 
 that might and must often occur to the married condition when it is 
 entered into very young. I am always deeply sensible of the wonderful 
 exercise I have of life and its highest sensations, and have said to my- 
 self for years, and have honestly and truly felt. This is the drawback 
 to such a career, and is not to be complained of. I say it and feel it 
 now as strongly as ever I did; and. as I told you in my last, I do not 
 with that view put all this forward. But the years have not made it 
 easier to bear for either of us; and, for her sake as well as mine, the 
 wish will force itself upon me that something might be done. I know 
 too well it is impossible. There is the fact, and that is all one can say. 
 Nor are you to suppose that I disguise from myself what might be 
 urged on the other side. I clajm no immunity from blame. There is 
 plenty of fault on my side. I dare say, in the way of a thousand 
 uncertainties, caprices, and difficulties of disposition; but only 
 one thing will alter all that, and that is, the end which alters 
 everjrthing." 
 
 It will not seem to most people that there was anything here which 
 in happier circumstances might not have been susceptible of consider- 
 ate adjustment; but all the circumstances were unfavourable, and the 
 moderate middle course which the admissions in that letter might 
 wisely have prompted and wholly justified, was unfortunately not 
 
od knows she 
 tried another 
 lid have been 
 art by think- 
 her way; and 
 ihe would be, 
 it each other, 
 loment I was 
 stand me, or 
 dth mine. It 
 consider, but 
 lopeless that 
 ig me I have 
 r when Mary 
 )ne can, help 
 liserable sort 
 s stand. The 
 lame of any 
 get this only 
 le same tone 
 it you say — 
 ! of the way- 
 he tenure on 
 is you ought 
 a dragoon — 
 ■ee with you 
 i than mine, 
 )D when it is 
 le wonderful 
 J said to my- 
 le drawback 
 t and feel it 
 ist, I do not 
 not made it 
 as mine, the 
 one. I know 
 one can say. 
 at might be 
 ne. There is 
 a thousand 
 ; but only 
 vhich alters 
 
 I here which 
 of consider- 
 ,ble, and the 
 letter might 
 unately not 
 
 awTTiTrii'ii 
 
 BiMitaaai^KwJ 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 595 
 
 taken. Compare what before was said of his temperament, with what 
 is there said by himself of its defects, and the explanation will not be 
 difficult. Every counteracting influence against '■he one idea which 
 now predominated over him had been so weakei.od as to be almost 
 powerless. His elder children were no longer children; his books had 
 lost for the time the importance they formerly had over every other 
 consideration in his life; and he had not in himself the resource that 
 such a man, judging him from the surface, might be expected to have 
 had. Not his genius only, but his whole nature, was too exclusively 
 made up of sympathy for, and with, the real in its most intense form, 
 to be sufficiently provided against failure in the realities around him. 
 There was for him no " city of the mind " against outward ills, for 
 inner consolation and shelter. It was in and from the actual he still 
 stretched forward to find the freedom and satisfaction of an ideal, and 
 by his very attempts to escape the world he was driven back into the 
 thick of it. But what he would have sought there, it supplies to none; 
 and to get the infinite out of anything so finite, has broken many a 
 stout heart. 
 
 At the close of that last letter from Gadshill (5 September) was 
 this question — "What do you think of my paying for this place, by 
 reviving that old idea of some readings from my books. I am strongly 
 tempted. Think of it." The reasons against it had great force, and 
 took, in my judgment, greater from the time at which it was again 
 proposed. The old ground of opposition remained. It was a substitu- 
 tion of lower for higher aims; a change to commonplace from more 
 elevated pursuits; and it had so much of the character of a public 
 exhibition for money as to raise, in the question of respect for his 
 calling as a writer, a question also of respect for himself as a gentle- 
 man. This opinion, now strongly reiterated, was referred ultimately 
 to two distinguished ladies of his acquaintance, who decided against 
 it. Yet not without such momentary misgiving in the direction of 
 "the stage," as pointed strongly to the danger, which, by those who 
 took the opposite view, was most of all thought incident to the 
 particular time of the proposal. It might be a wild exaggeration to 
 fear that he was in danger of being led to adopt the stage as a calling, 
 but he was certainly about to place himself within reach of not a 
 few of its drawbacks and disadvantages. To the full extent he per- 
 haps did not himself know, how much his eager present wish to 
 become a public reader was but the outcome of the restless domestic 
 discontents of the last four years; and that to indulge it, and the 
 unsettled habits inseparable from it, was to abandon every hope of 
 resettling his disordered home. There is nothing, in its application 
 to so divine a genius as Shakespeare, more affecting than his expressed 
 dislike to a profession, which, in the jealous self-watchfulness of his 
 noble nature, he feared might hurt his mind. The long subsequent 
 
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 and generous associations of the histrionic art, have not weakened 
 the testimony of its greatest name against its less favourable 
 
 !■• 1 
 
 ■ri 
 
ll 
 
 596 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 
 i; 
 
 
 r ! 1 
 
 influences; against the laxity of habits it may encourage; and its 
 public manners, bred of public means, not always compatible with 
 home feUcities and duties. But, freely open as Dickens was to counsel 
 in regard of his books, he was, for reasons formerly stated, less 
 accessible to it on points of personal conduct; and when he had 
 neither self-distrust nor self-denial to hold him back, he would push 
 persistently forward to whatever object he had in view. 
 
 An occurrence of the time hastened the decision in this case. An 
 enterprise had been set on foot for establishment of a hospital for 
 sick children; a large old-fashioned mansion in Great Ormond Street, 
 with spacious garden, had been fitted up with more than thirty 
 beds; during the four or five years of its existence, outdoor and 
 indoor relief had been afforded by it to nearly fifty thousand children, 
 of whom thirty thousand were under five years of age; but, want of 
 funds having threatened to arrest the merciful work, it was resolved 
 to try a public dinner by way of charitable appeal, and for president 
 the happy choice was made of one who had enchanted everybody 
 with the joys and sorrows of little children. Dickens threw himself 
 into the service heart and soul. There was a simple pathos in his 
 address from the chair quite startling in its effect at such a meeting; 
 and he probably never moved any audience so much as by the strong 
 personal feeling with which he referred to the sacrifices made for the 
 Hospital by the very poor themselves: from whom a subscription 
 of fifty pounds, contributed in single pennies, had come to the 
 treasurer during almost every year it had been open. The whole 
 speech, indeed, is the best oi "he kind spoken by him; and two little 
 pictures from i-^, one of the misery he had witnessed, the other of 
 the remedy he had found, should not be absent from the picture of 
 his own life. 
 
 "Some years ago, being in Scotland, I went with one of the most 
 humane members of the most humane of professions, on a morning 
 tour among some of the worst lodged inhabitants of the old town of 
 Edinburgh. In the closes and wynds of that picturesque place (I am 
 sorry to remind you what fast friends picturesqueness and typhus 
 often are) , we saw more poverty and sickness in an hour than many 
 people would believe in, in a lifeV Our way lay from one to another 
 of the most wretched dwellings, reeking with horrible odours; shut 
 out from the sky and from the air, mere pits and dens. In a room in 
 one of these places, where there was an empty porridge-pot on the 
 cold hearth, a ragged woman and some ragged children crouching 
 on the bare ground near it — and, I remember as I speak, where the 
 very light, refracted from a high damp-stained wall outside, came in 
 trembling, as if the fever which had shaken everything else had 
 shaken even it — there lay, in an old egg-box which the mother had 
 begged from a shop, a little feeble, wan, sick child. With his little 
 wasted face, and his little hot worn hands folded over his breast, and 
 his little bright attentive eyes, I can see him now, as I have seen him 
 for several years, looking steadily at us. There he lay in his small 
 
ige; and its 
 patible with 
 IS to counsel 
 stated, less 
 tien he had 
 would push 
 
 [lis case. An 
 hospital for 
 lond Street, 
 than thirty 
 mtdoor and 
 nd children, 
 )ut, want of 
 v^as resolved 
 or president 
 I everybody 
 rew himself 
 ithos in his 
 I a meeting; 
 y the strong 
 lade for the 
 subscription 
 jme to the 
 The whole 
 id two little 
 :he other of 
 e picture of 
 
 of the most 
 1 a morning 
 old town of 
 place (I am 
 and typhus 
 than many 
 I to another 
 dours; shut 
 n a room in 
 -pot on the 
 1 crouching 
 :, where the 
 de, came in 
 ig else had 
 mother had 
 th his little 
 breast, and 
 ve seen him 
 n his small 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 597 
 
 (rail box, which was not at all a bad emblem of the small body Irora 
 which he was slowly parting— there he lay, quite quiet, quite patient, 
 saying never a word. He seldom cried, the mother said; he seldom 
 complained; 'he lay there, seemin' to woonder w' at it was a' aboot.' 
 (}od knows, I thought, as I stood 'coking at hJm, he had his reasons 
 for wondering . . . Many a poor child, sick and neglected, I have 
 seen since that time in London; many have I also seen most affection- 
 ately tended, in unwholesome houses and hard circumstances where 
 recovery was impossible: but at all such times I have seen my little 
 drooping friend in his egg-box, and he has always addressed his 
 dumb wonder to me what it meant, and why, in the name of a gracious 
 God, such things should be! . . . But, ladies and gentlemen," 
 Dickons added, "such things need not be, and will not be, if this 
 company, which is a drop of the life-blood of the great compassionate 
 public heart, will only accept the means of rescue and prevention 
 which it is mine to offer. Within a quarter of a mile of this place where 
 I speak, stands a once courtly old house, where blooming children 
 were bom, and grew up to be men and women, and married, and 
 brought their own blooming children back to patter up the old oak 
 staircase which stood but the other day, and to wonder at the old 
 oak carvings on the chimney-pieces. In the airy wards into which the 
 old state drawing-rooms and family bedchambers of that house are 
 now converted, are lodged such small patients that the attendant 
 nurses look like reclaimed giantesses, and the kind medical practi- 
 tioner like an amiable Christian ogre. Grouped about the little lov/ 
 tables in the centre of the rooms, are such tiny convalescents that 
 they seem to be playing at having been ill. On the doll's beds are 
 such diminutive creatures that each poor sufferer is supplied with its 
 trays of toys; and, looking round, you may see how the little tired 
 flushed cheek has toppled over half the brute creation on its way 
 into the ark ; or how one little dimpled arm has mowed down (as I 
 saw myself) the whole tin soldiery of Europe. On the walls of these 
 rooms are graceful, pleasant, bright, childish pictures. At the beds' 
 heads, hang representations of the figure of Him who was once a 
 child Himself, and a poor one. But alas! reckoning up the number of 
 beds that are there, the '"^sitor to this Child's Hospital will find 
 himself perforce obliged to stop at very little over thirty; and will 
 learn, with sorrow and surprise, that even that small number, so 
 forlornly, so miserably diminutive compared with this vast London, 
 cannot possibly be maintained unless the Hospital be made better 
 known. I limit myself to saying better known, because I will not be- 
 liev. -^pt in a Christian community of fathers and mothers, and 
 broth- rs and sisters, it can fail, being better Jaiown, to be well and 
 richly endowed." It was a brave and true prediction. The Child's 
 Hospital has never since known want. That night alone added greatly 
 more than three thousand pounds to its funds, and Dickens put the 
 crown to his good work by reading on its behalf, shortly afterwards, 
 his Christmas Carol; when the sum realised, and the urgent demand 
 
 I 'I 
 
598 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 that followed for a repetition of the pleasure given by the reading, 
 bore down further opposition to the project of his engaging publicly 
 in such readings for himself. 
 
 The Child's Hospital night was 9 February, its reading was 
 appointed for 15 April, and, nearly a month before, renewed efforts 
 at remonstrance had been made. "Your view of the reading matter," 
 Dickens replied, "I still think is unconsciously taken from your own 
 particular point. You don't seem to me to jet out of yourself in con- 
 sidering it. A word more upon it. You are not to think I have made up 
 my mind. If I had, why should I rot say so? I find very great diffi- 
 culty in doing so because of what you urge, because I know the 
 question to be a balance of doubts, and because I most honestly feel 
 in my innermost heart, in this matter (as in all others for years and 
 years), the honour of the calling by which I have always stood most 
 conscientiously. But do you quite consider that the public exhibition 
 of oneself takes place equally, whosoever may get the money.^ And 
 have you any idea that at this moment — this very time — half the 
 publix. at least supposes me to be paid? My dear F., out of the twenty 
 or five-andr twenty letters a week that I get about readings, twenty 
 will ask at what price, or on what terms, it can be done. The only 
 exceptions, in truth, are when the correspondent is a clergyman, 
 or a banker, or the member for the place in question. Why at this 
 very time half Scotland believes that I am paid for going to Edin- 
 burgh! — Here is Greenock writes to me, and asks could it be done 
 for a hundred pounds? There is Aberdeen writes, and states the capa- 
 city of its hall, and says, though far less profitable than the very large 
 hall in Edinburgh, is it not enough to come on for? W. answers such 
 letters continually. ( — At this place enter Beale. He called here yester- 
 day morning, and then wrote to ask if I would see him to-day. I 
 replied 'Yes,' so here he came in. With long preface called to know 
 whether it was possible to arrange anything in the way of readings 
 for this autumn — say six months. Large capital at command. Could 
 produce partners, in such an enterprise, also with large capital. 
 Represented such. Returns would be enormous. Would I name a 
 sum? a minimum sum that I required to have, in any case? Would 
 I look at it as a Fortune, and in^no other point of view? I shook my 
 head, and said, my tongue was tied on the subject for the present; I 
 might be more communicative at another time. Exit Beale in con- 
 fusion and disappointment.) — You will be happy to hear that at one 
 on Friday, the Lord Provost, Dean of Guild, Magistrates, and Council 
 of the ancient city of Edinburgh will wait (in procession) on their 
 brother freeman, at the Music Hall, to give him hospitable welcome. 
 Their brother freeman has been cursing their stars and his own, ever 
 since tlie solemn notification to this effect." But very grateful, when 
 it came, was the enthusiasm of the greetmg, and welcome the gift 
 of the silver wassail-bowl which followed the reading of the Carol. 
 "i had no opportunity of asking anyone's advice in Edinburgh," he 
 wrote on his return. "The crowd was too enormous, and the excite- 
 
•asa 
 
 11 —"" 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 the reading, 
 ging publicly 
 
 reading was 
 levved efforts 
 iing matter," 
 am your own 
 urself in con- 
 lave made up 
 ■y great difti- 
 
 I know the 
 honestly feel 
 "or years and 
 s stood most 
 lie exhibition 
 money? And 
 ne — half the 
 if the twenty 
 ings, twenty 
 le. The only 
 I clergyman, 
 Why at this 
 ing to Edin- 
 d it be done 
 tes the capa- 
 he very large 
 mswers such 
 1 here yester- 
 im to-day. I 
 lied to know 
 T of readings 
 mand. Could 
 irge capital. 
 Id I name a 
 case? Would 
 
 I shook my 
 he present; I 
 Jeale in con- 
 r that at one 
 , and Council 
 on) on their 
 ble welcome, 
 lis own, ever 
 ateful, when 
 9me the gift 
 )f the Carol. 
 nburgh," he 
 d the excite- 
 
 599 
 
 ment in it much too great. But my determination is all but taken. 
 I must do something, or I shall wear my heart away. I can see no 
 better thing to do that is half so hopeful in itself, or half so well 
 suited to my restless state." 
 
 What is pointed at in those last words had been taken as a ground 
 of objection, and thus he turned it into an argument the other way. 
 During all these months many sorrowful misunderstandings had 
 continued in his home, and the relief sought from the misery- had but 
 the effect of making desperate any hope of a better understanding. 
 "It becomes necessary," he wrote at the end of March, "with a view 
 to the arrangements that would have to be begun next month if I 
 decided on the readings, to consider and settle the question of the 
 Plunge. Quite dismiss fiom your mind any reference whatever to 
 present circumstances, at home. Nothing can put them right, until 
 we are all dead and buried and risen. It is not, with me, a matter of 
 will or trial, or sufferance, or good humour, or making the best of it, 
 or making the worst of it, any longer. It is all despairingly over. 
 Have no lingering hope of, or for, me in this association. A dismal 
 failure has to be borne, and there an end. Will you then try to think 
 of this reading project (as I do) apart from all personal likings and dis- 
 likings, and solely with a view to its effect on that particular relation 
 (personally affectionate and like no other man's) which subsists 
 Detween me and the public? I want your most careful consideration. 
 If you would like, when you have gone over it in your mind, to dis- 
 cuss the matter with me and Arthur Smith (who would manage the 
 whole of the Business, which I should never touch); we will make an 
 appointment. But I ougnt to add that Arthur Smith plainly says, 
 'Of the immense return in money, I have no doubt. Of the Dash into 
 the new position, however, I am not so good a judge.' I enclose you a 
 rough note of my project, as it stands in my mind." 
 
 Mr. Arthur Smith, a man possessed of many qualities that justified 
 the confidence Dickens placed in him, might not have been a good 
 judge of the "Dash" into the new position, but no man knevv better 
 every disadvantage incident to it, or was less likely to be disconcerted 
 by any. His exact fitness to manage the scheme successfully, made 
 him an unsafe counsellor respecting it. Within a week from this time 
 the reading for the Charity was to be given. "They have let," Dickens 
 wrote on g April, "five hundred stalls for the Hospital night; and as 
 people come every day for more, and it is out of the question tp 
 make more, they cannot be restrained at St. Martin's Hall from 
 taking down names for other readings." This closed the attempt at 
 further objection. Exactly a fortnight after the reading for the 
 children's hospital, on Thursday, 29 April, came the first public 
 reading, for his own benefit; and before the next month was over, 
 this launch into a new life had been followed by a change in his old 
 home. Thenceforward he and his wife lived apart. The eldest son 
 went with his mother, Dickens at o. e giving effect to her expressed 
 wish in this respect; and the other children remained with himself. 
 
 i-'li 
 
6oo 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 M 
 
 h 
 
 their intercourse with Mrs. Dickens being left entirely to themselves. 
 It was thus far an arrangement of a strictly private natur*?, and no 
 decent person could have had excuse for regarding it in any other 
 light, if pubic attention had not been unexpectedly invited to it by 
 a printed statement in Household Words. Dickens was stung into 
 this by some miserable gossip at which in ordinary circumstances no 
 man would more determinedly have been silent; but he had now 
 publicly to show himself, at stated times, as a public entertainer, 
 and this, with his name even so aspersed, he found to be impossible. 
 All he would concede to my strenuous resistance against such a 
 publication, was an offer to suppress it, if, upon reference to the opin- 
 ion of a certain distinguished man (still living), that opinion should 
 prove to be in agreement with mine. Unhappily it fell in with his own, 
 and the publication went on. It was followed by another statement, 
 a letter subscribed with his name, which got into print without his 
 sanction; nothing publicly being known of it (I was not among those 
 who had read it privately) until it appeared in the New York Tribune. 
 It had been addressed and given to Mr. Arthur Smith as an authority 
 for correction of false rumours and scandals, and Mr. Smith had given 
 a copy of it, with like intention, to the Tribune correspondent in 
 London. Its writer referred to it always afterwards as his "violated 
 letter." 
 
 The course taken by the author of this book at the time of these 
 occurrences, will not be departed from here. Such illustration of 
 grave defects in Dickens's character as the passage in his life affords, 
 I have not shrunk from placing side by side with such excuses in 
 regard to it as he had unquestionable right to claim should be put 
 forward also. How far what remained of his story took tone or colour 
 from it, and especially from the altered career on which at the same 
 time he entered, will thus be sufficiently explained; and with any- 
 thing else the public have nothing to do. 
 
 Ill 
 
 GADSHILL PLACE 
 1856-70 
 
 "I WAS better pleased with Gadshill Place last Saturday," he wrote 
 to me from Paris on 13 February, 1856, "on going down there, 
 even than I had prepared myself to be. The country, against every 
 disadvantage of season, is beautiful; and the house is so old-fashioned, 
 cheerful, and comfortable, that it is really pleasant to look at. The 
 
 
 
 twenty ycara, so i 
 have not the heart to turn him out. He is to remain till Lady Day 
 
) themselves, 
 tur*?, and no 
 in any other 
 ited to it by 
 s stung into 
 imstances no 
 he had now 
 entertainer, 
 impossible, 
 ^inst such a 
 i to the opin- 
 •inion should 
 Arith his own, 
 !r statement. 
 ; without his 
 among those 
 ^ork Tribune. 
 an authority 
 th had given 
 jspondent in 
 lis "violated 
 
 ime of these 
 lustration of 
 s life affords, 
 h excuses in 
 lould be put 
 )ne or col<v;:. 
 at the saaiu 
 d with any- 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 6oi 
 
 /," he wrote 
 down there, 
 gainst every 
 d-fashioned, 
 look at. The 
 y years, so I 
 11 Lady Day 
 
 next year, when I shall go in, please God; make my alterations; 
 furnish the house; and keep it for myself that summer." Returning 
 to England through the Kentish country with Mr. Wilkie Collins m 
 July, other advantages occurred to him. "A railroad opened from 
 Rochester to Maidstone, which connects Gadshill at once with the 
 whole sea coast, is certainly an addition to the place, and an enhance- 
 ment of its value. By and by we shall have the London, Chatham and 
 Dover, too; and that will bring it within an hour of Canterbury and 
 an hour and a half of Dover. I am glad to hear of your havi.-'g been 
 in the neighbourhood. There is no healthier (marshes avoided), 
 and none in my eyes more beautiful. One of these days I shall 
 show you some places up the Medway with which you will be 
 charmed." 
 
 The association with his youthful fancy that first made the p? ce 
 attractive to him has been told; and it was with wonder he had heard 
 one (lay, from his friend and fellow-worker at Household Words, Mr. 
 W. H. Wills, that not only was the house for sale to which he had so 
 often looked wistfully, but that the lady chiefly interested as its 
 owner had been long known and much esteemed by himself. Such 
 curious chances led Dickens to the saying he so frequently repeated 
 about the smallness of the world; but the close relation often found 
 thus existing bet\/een things and persons far apart, suggests not so 
 much the smallness of the world as the possible importance of the 
 least things done in it, and is better explained by the grander 
 teaching of Carlyle, that causes and effects, connecting e\ ery 
 man and thing with every other, extend through all space and 
 time. 
 
 It was at the close of 1855 the negotiation for its purchase be^an. 
 "They wouldn't," he wrote (25 November), "take ;^i70o for the 
 Gadshill property, but 'finally' wanted ;^i8oo. I have finally offere I 
 ;/;i750. It will require an expenditure of about ;^3oo more before 
 yielding ;^ioo a year." The usual discovery of course awaited him 
 that this first estimate would have to be increased threefold. "The 
 changes absolutely necessary" (y February, 1856) "will take a thou- 
 sand pounds; which sum I am always resolving to squeeze out of this, 
 grind out of that, and wring out of the other; this, that, and the other 
 generally all three declining to come up to the scratch for the pur- 
 pose." "This day," he wrote on 14 March, "I have paid the purchase- 
 money for Gadshill Place. After drawing the cheque (1790) I turned 
 round to give it to Wills, and said, 'Now isn't it an extraordinary 
 thing — look at tlxe Day — Friday! I have been nearly drawin 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.' " He had no 
 thought at this time of reserving the place wholly for himself, or of 
 making it his own residence except at intervals of summer. He 
 looked upon it as an investment only. "You will hardly know Gads- 
 hill again," he wrote in January 1858, "I am impro^dng it so much 
 
 yet I have no interest in the place." But continued ownership 
 
 I 
 
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 !-♦; 
 
 ; 'f 
 
 M 
 
 1 ' 
 
 £1 
 
 602 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 brought increased liking; he took more and more interest in his own 
 improvements, which were just the kind of occasional occupation 
 and resource his life most wanted in its next seven or eight years; 
 and any further idea of letting it he soon abandoned altogether. It 
 only once passed out of his possession thus, for four months in 1859; 
 in the following year, on the sale of Tavistock House, he transferred 
 to it his books and pictures and choicer furniture; and thenceforward 
 varied only by houses taken from time to time for the London season, 
 he made it his permanent family abode. Now and then, even during 
 those years, he would talk of selling it; and on his final return from 
 America, when he hdd sent the last of his sons out into the world, 
 he really might have sold it if he could then have found a house in 
 London suitable to him, and such as he could purchase. But in this 
 he failed; secretly to his own satisfaction, as I believe; and thereupon, 
 in that last autumn of his life, he projected and carried out his most 
 costly addition to Gadshill. Already of course more money had been 
 spent upon it than his first intention in buying it would have justified. 
 He had so enlarged the accommodation, improved the grounds and 
 offices, and added to the land, that, taking also into account this 
 closing outlay, the resen'^ed price placed upon the whole after his 
 death more than quadrupled what he had given in 1856, for the 
 house, shrubbery, and twenty years' lease of a meadow field. It was 
 then purchased, and is now inhabited, by his eldest son. 
 
 Its position has been described, and a history of Rochester pub- 
 lished a hundred years ago quaintly mentions the principal interest 
 of the locality. "Near the twenty-seventh stone from London is 
 Gadshill, supposed to have been the scene of the robbery mentioned 
 by Shakespeare in his play of Henry I V.; there being reason to think 
 also that it was Sir John Falstaff, of truly comic memory, who under 
 the name of Oldcastle inhabited Cooling Castle, of which the ruins 
 are in the neighbourhood. A small distance to the left appears on an 
 eminence the Hermitage, the seat of the late Sir Francis Head, Bart.; 
 and close to the road, on a small ascent, is a neat building lately 
 erected by Mr. Day. In descending Strood Hill is a fine prospect of 
 Strood, Rochester, and Chatham, ^which three towns form a continued 
 street extending above two miles in length." It had been supposed 
 that "the neat building lately erected by Mr. Day" was that which 
 the great novelist made famous; but Gadshill Place had no existence 
 until eight years after the date of the history. The good rector who 
 so long lived in it told me, in 1859, that it had been built eighty years 
 before by a well-known character in those parts, one Stevens, grand- 
 father-in-law of Henslow the Cambridge professor of botany. Stevens, 
 who could only with much difficulty manage to write his name, had 
 begun life as ostler at an inn; had become husband to the landlord's 
 widow; then a brewer; and finally, as he subscribed himself on one 
 occasion, "mare" of Rochester. Afterwards the house was inhabited 
 by Mr. Lynn (from some of the members of whose family Dickens 
 made his purchase; and, before the Rev. Mr. Hindle became its tenant 
 
at in his own 
 
 1 occupation 
 
 eight years; 
 
 dtogether. It 
 
 iths in 1859; 
 
 e transferred 
 
 enceforward 
 
 ndon season, 
 
 even during 
 
 return from 
 
 the world, 
 d a house in 
 . But in this 
 d thereupon, 
 out his most 
 Ley had been 
 ive justified, 
 grounds and 
 iccount this 
 ole after his 
 856, for the 
 field. It was 
 
 Chester pub- 
 ipal interest 
 
 1 London is 
 Y mentioned 
 son to think 
 ', who under 
 ch the ruins 
 )pears on an 
 Head, Bart.; 
 ilding lately 
 
 prospect of 
 a continued 
 en supposed 
 ) that which 
 no existence 
 [ rector who 
 eighty years 
 vens, grand- 
 ny. Stevens, 
 s name, had 
 le landlord's 
 Qself on one 
 IS inhabited 
 lily Dickens 
 ae its tenant 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 60^. 
 
 IS 
 
 it was inhabited by a Macaroni parson named Townshend, whose 
 liorses the Prince Regent bought, throwing into the bargain a box of 
 much desired cigars. Altogether the place had notable associations 
 even apart from those which have connected it with the masterpieces 
 of English humour. "This House, Gadshill Place, stands on the 
 summit of Shakespeare's Gadshill, ever memorable for its association 
 with Sir Jo in Falstaff in his noble fancy. But, my lads, my lads, to- 
 morrow morning, by four o'clock, early at Gadshill/ there are pilgrims 
 going to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with 
 fat purses; I have vizards for you all; you have horses for yourselves." 
 Illuminated by Mr. Owen Jones, and placed in a frame on the first- 
 floor landing, these words were the greeting of the new tenant to his 
 visitors. It was his first act of ownership. . . . 
 
 On abandoning his notion, after the American readhigs, of exchang- 
 ing Gadshill for London, a new staircase was put up from the hill; a 
 parquet floor laid on the first landing; and a conservatory built, open- 
 ing into both drawing-room and dining-room, "glass and iron," as he 
 described it, "brilliant but expensive, with foundations as of an 
 ancient Roman work of horrible solidity." This last addition had 
 long been an object of desire with him; though he would hardly even 
 now have given himself the indulgence but for the golden shower from 
 America. He saw it first in a completed state on the Sunday before 
 his death, when his younger daughter was on a visit to him. "Well, 
 Katey," he said to her, "now you see positively the last improve- 
 ment at Gadshill"; and everyone laughed at the joke against himself. 
 The success of the new conservatory was unquestionable. It was the 
 remark of all around him that he was certainly, from this last of his 
 improvements, drawing more enjoyment than from any of its pre- 
 decessors, when the scene for ever closed. 
 
 Of the course of his daily life in the country there is not much to 
 be said. Perhaps there was never a man who changed places so much 
 and habits so little. He was always methodical and regular; and passed 
 his life from day to day, divided for the most part bet^ en working 
 and walking, the same wherever he was. The only exception was when 
 special or infrequent visitors were with him. When such friends as 
 Longfellow and his daughters, or Charles Eliot Norton and his wife, 
 came, or when Mr. Fields brought his wife and Professor Lowell's 
 daughter, or when he received other Americans to whom he owed 
 special courtesy, he would compress into infinitely few days an 
 enormous amoant of sight-seeing and country enjoyment, castles, 
 cathedrals, and fortified lines, lunches and picnics among cherry 
 orchards and hop-gardens, excursions to Canterbury or Maidstone 
 and their beautiful neighbourhoods, Druid Stone and Blue Bell Hill. 
 "All the neighbouring country that could be shown in so short a 
 time," he wrote of the Longfellow visit, "they saw. I turned out a 
 couple of postilions in the old red jackets of the old red royal 
 Dover road for our ride, and it was like a holiday ride in England 
 fifty years ago." For Lord Lytton he did the same, for the Emerson 
 
 
 wl 
 
6o4 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 "i 
 
 
 M 
 
 i 
 
 
 Tennents, for Mr. Layard and Mr. Helps, for Lady Molesworth 
 and the Higginses (Jacob Omnium), and such other less frequent 
 visitors. 
 
 Excepting on such particular occasions however, and not always 
 even then, his mornings were reserved wholly to himself; and he 
 would generally preface his morning work (such was his love of order 
 in everything around him) by seeing that all was in its place in the 
 several rooms, visiting also the dogs, stables, and kitchen garden, and 
 closing, unless the weather was very bad indeed, with a turn or two 
 round the meadow before settling to his desk. His dogs were a great 
 enjoyment to him; and, with his high road traversed as frequently as 
 any in England by tramps and wayfarers of a singularly undesirable 
 description, they were also a necessity. There were always two, of the 
 mastifif kind, but latterly the number increased. His own favourite 
 was Turk, a noble animal, full of affection and intelligence, whose 
 death by a railway accident, shortly after the Staplehurst catastrophe, 
 caused him great grief. Turk's sole companion up to that date was 
 Linda, puppy of a great St. Bernard brought over by Mr. Albert Smith, 
 and grown into a superbly beautiful creature. After Turk there was an 
 interval of an Irish dog. Sultan, given by Mr. Percy Fitgzerald; a cross 
 between a St. Bernard and a bloodhound, built and coloured like a 
 lioness and of splendid proportions, but of such indomitably aggres- 
 sive propensities, that, after breaking his kennel-chain and nearly 
 devouring a luckless little sister of one of the servants, he had to be 
 killed. Dickens always protested that Sultan was a Fenian, for that 
 no dog, not a secretly sworn member of that body, would ever have 
 made such a point, muzzled as he was, of rushing at and bearing down 
 with fury anything in scarlet with the remotest resemblance to a 
 British uniform. Sultan's successor was Don, presented by Mr. 
 Frederick Lehmann, a grand Newfoundland brought over very young, 
 who with Linda became parent to a couple of Newfoundlands, that 
 were still gambolling about their master, huge, though hardly out of 
 puppydom, when they lost him. He had given to one of them the 
 name of Bumble, from having observed, as he described it, "a 
 peculiarly pompous and overbearing manner he had of appearing to 
 mount guard over the yard when he was an absolute infant." Bumble 
 v/as often in scrapes. Describing to Mr. Fields a drought in the 
 summer of 1868, when thei- poor supply of ponds and surface w^lls 
 had become waterless, he wrote: " I do not let the great dogs swini in 
 the canal, because the people have to drink of it. But when they get 
 into the Medway, it is hard to get them out again. The other day 
 Bumble (the son, Newfoundland dog) got into difficulties among some 
 floating timber, and became frightened. Don (the father) was stand- 
 ing by me, shaking off the wet and looking on carelessly, when all of 
 a sudden he perceived something amiss, and went in with a bound and 
 brought Bumble out by the ear. The scientific way in which he towed 
 {iim along was chufiiiing." . . . 
 
 Round Cobham skirting the park and village, and passing the 
 
amiWiianaiii 
 
 Molesworth 
 less frequent 
 
 d not always 
 iself; and he 
 love of order 
 1 place in the 
 1 garden, and 
 1, turn or two 
 were a great 
 frequently as 
 J undesirable 
 js two, of the 
 wn favourite 
 gence, whose 
 catastrophe, 
 hat date was 
 Ubert Smith, 
 there was an 
 erald; a cross 
 loured like a 
 tably aggres- 
 1 and nearly 
 he had to be 
 lian, for that 
 lid ever have 
 rearing down 
 nblanee to a 
 ited by Mr. 
 r very young, 
 idlands, that 
 tiardly out of 
 of them the 
 ;ribed it, "a 
 appearing to 
 .nt." Bumble 
 )ught in the 
 surface wells 
 dogs switti in 
 hen they get 
 ae other day 
 among some 
 r) was stand- 
 r, when all of 
 a bound and 
 ich he towed 
 
 The Life of Chartes Dickens 
 
 605 
 
 [>eather Bottle famous in the page of Pickwick, was a favourite walk 
 with Dickens. By Rochester and the Medway, to the Chatham Lines, 
 was another. He would turn out of Rochester High Street through 
 The Vines (where some old buildings, from one of which called 
 Restoration House he took Satis House for Great Expectations, had a 
 curious attraction for him), would pass round by Fort Pitt, and com- 
 ing back by Frindsbury would bring himself by some cross fields 
 again into the high road. Or, taking the other side, he would walk 
 through the marshes to Gravesend, return by Chalk church, and stop 
 always to have greeting with a comical old monk who for some in- 
 comprehensible reason sits carved in stone, cross-legged with a jovial 
 pot, over the porch of that sacred edifice. To another drearier church- 
 yard, itself forming part of the marshes beyond the Medway, he often 
 took friends to show them the dozen small tombstones of various 
 sizes adapted to the respective ages of a dozen small children of one 
 tamily which he made part of his story of Great Expectations, though, 
 with the reserves always necessary in copying nature not to overstep 
 her modesty by copying too closely, he makes the number that 
 appalled little Pip not more than half the reality. About the whole of 
 this Cooling churchyard, indeed, and the neighbouring castle ruins, 
 there was a weird strangeness that -aade it one of his attractive walks 
 in the late year or winter, when fro-.i Higham he could get to it across 
 country over the stubble fields; and, for a shorter summer walk, he 
 was not less fond of going round the village of Shorn and sitting on a 
 hot afternoon in its pretty shaded churchyard. But, on the whole, 
 though Maidstone had also much that attracted him to its neighbour- 
 hood, the Cobhani neighbourhood was certainly that which he had 
 greatest pleasure in; and he would have taken oftener than he did the 
 walk through Cobham park and woods, which was the last he enjoyed 
 before his life suddenly closed upon him, but that here he did not like 
 his dogs to follow. 
 
 Don now has his home with Lord Darnley, and Linda lies under 
 one of the cedars at Gadshill. 
 
 I ' I 
 
 passing the 
 
6o6 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 s 
 
 i 5 
 
 IV 
 
 FIRST PAID READINGS 
 1858-9 
 
 Dickens gave his paid public readings successively, with not long 
 intervals, at four several dates; in 185&-9, in 1861-3, in 1866-7, and 
 in 1868-70; the first series under Mr. Arthur Smith's management, the 
 second under Mr. Headland's, and the third and fourth, in America as 
 well as before and after it, under that of Mr. George Dolby, who, 
 excepting in America, acted for the Messrs. Chappell. The references 
 in the present chapter are to the first series only. 
 
 It began with sixteen nights at St. Martin's Hall, the first on 
 29 April, the last on 22 July, 1858; and there was afterwards a pro- 
 vincial tour of eighty-seven readings, beginning at Clifton on 2 
 August, ending at Brighton on 13 November, and taking in Ireland 
 and Scotland as well as the principal English cities: to which were 
 added, in London, three Christmas readings, three in January, with 
 two in the following month; and, in the provinces in the month of 
 October, fourteen, beginning at Ipswich and Norwich, taking in Cam- 
 bridge and Oxford, and closing with Birmingham and Cheltenham. 
 The series had comprised altogether 125 readings when it ended on 
 27 October, 1859; and without the touches of character and interest 
 afforded by his letters written while thus employed, the picture of the 
 man would not be complete. 
 
 Here was one day's work at the opening which will show something 
 of the fatigue they in Ived even at their outset. ' ' On Friday we came 
 from Shrewsbury to Chester; saw all right for the evening; and then 
 went to Liverpool. Came back from Liverpool and read at Chester. 
 Left Chester at 11 at night, after the reading, and went to London. 
 Got to Tavistock House at 5 a.m. on Saturday, left it at a quarter past 
 10 that morning, and came down here" (Gadshill: 15 August, 1858). 
 
 The "greatest personal affection and respect" had greeted him 
 everywhere. Nothing could have been "more strongly marked or 
 warmly expressed"; and the readings had "gone" quite wonderfully. 
 What in this respect had most impressed him, at the outset of his 
 adventures, was Exeter. "I think they were the finest audience I ever 
 read to; I don't think I ever read in some respects so well; and Inever 
 beheld anything like the personal affection which they poured out 
 upon me at the end. I shall always look back upon it with pleasure." 
 He often lost his voice in these early days, having still to acquire the 
 art of husbanding it: and in the trial to recover it would .^"a.in v-'asts 
 its power. ' ' I think I sang half the Irish melodies to myself as I walked 
 about, to test it." 
 
mSm 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 607 
 
 dth not long 
 1866-7, and 
 agement, the 
 n America as 
 Dolby, who, 
 he references 
 
 the first on 
 wards a pro- 
 31ifton on 2 
 ag in Ireland 
 1 which were 
 inuary, with 
 he month of 
 king in Cam- 
 Cheltenham. 
 
 it ended on 
 and interest 
 >icture of the 
 
 w something 
 day we came 
 ng; and then 
 I at Chester. 
 ; to London, 
 quarter past 
 gust, 1858). 
 greeted him 
 ■ marked or 
 ivonderfuliy. 
 )utset of his 
 iience I ever 
 and I'never 
 poured out 
 h pleasure." 
 I acquire the 
 
 [ as I walked 
 
 An audience of two thousand three hundred people (the largest he 
 had had) greeted him at Liverpool on his way to Dublin, and, besides 
 the tickets sold, more than two hundred pounds in money was taken 
 at the doors. This taxed his business staff a little. "They turned away 
 hundreds, sold all the books, rolled on the ground of my room knee- 
 deep in checks, and made a perfect pantomime of the whole thing." 
 (20 August.) He had to repeat the reading thrice. 
 
 It was the first time he had seen Ireland, and Dublin greatly sur- 
 prised him by appearing to be so much larger and more populous than 
 he had supposed. He found it to have altogether an unexpectedly 
 thriving look, being pretty nigh as big, he first thought, as Paris; of 
 which some places in it, such as the quays on the river, reminded him. 
 Half the first day he was there, he took to explore it; walking till tired, 
 and then hiring a car. "Power, dressed for the character of Tedy the 
 Tiler, drove me: in a suit of patches, and with his hat unbrushed for 
 twenty years. Wonderfully pleasant, light, intelligent, and careless." 
 A letter to his eldest daughter makes humorous addition. "The man 
 who drove our jaunting car yesterday hadn't a piece in his coat as big 
 as a penny roll . . . but he was remarkably intelligent and agreeable, 
 v/ith something to say about everything. When we got into the 
 Phoenix Park, he looked round him as if it were his own, and said 
 That's a Park sir, av ye plase!' I complimented it, and he said 
 'Gintlemen tills me as they iv bin, sir, over Europe and never see a 
 Park aqualling ov it. Yander's the Vice-regal Lodge, sir; in thim two 
 corners lives the two Sicretaries, wishing I was thim sir. There's air 
 here, sir, av yer plase! There's scenery here sir! T jre's mountains 
 thim sir!' " The number of common people he saw in his drive, also 
 "riding about in cars as hard as they could split," brought to his re- 
 collection a more distant scene, and but for the dresses he c.ould have 
 thought himself on the Toledo at Naples. 
 
 In respect of the number of his audience, and their reception of 
 him, Dublin was one of his marked successes. He came to have some 
 doulDt of their capacity of receiving the pathetic, but of their quick- 
 ness as to the humorous there could be no question, any more than 
 of their heartiness. He got on wonderfully well with the Dublin people 
 and the Irish girls outdid the American in one particular. He wrote 
 to his sister-in-law: "Every night since I have been in Ireland, they 
 have beguiled my dresser out of the bouquet from my coat; and yester- 
 day morning, as I had showered the leaves from my geranium in 
 reading Little Domhey, they mounted the platform after I was gone, 
 and picked them all up as a keepsake." The Boots at Morrison's ex- 
 pressed the general feeling in a patriotic point of view, "He was 
 waiting for me at the hotel door last night. 'Whaat sart of a hoose 
 sur?' he asked me. 'Capital.' 'The Lard be praised fur the 'onor o' 
 Dooblin!' " Within the hotel, on getting up next morning, he had a 
 
 ■•••-••■£,•-«'• "• - -...-• ». ,., .. ,:?.„.., ..,_, i.-«^-^v/a\^vt, cs. xxi.(.xv 
 
 boy of the ripe age of six, which he presented, in his letter to his 
 sister-in-law, as a colloquy between Old England and Young Ireland 
 
 r\'f 
 
 i I 
 
 1 W 
 
 i 1 
 

 608 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 inadequately reported for want of the "imitation" it required for its 
 full effect. "I am sitting on the sofa, writing, and find him sittmg 
 
 beside me. 
 
 "Old England. Holloa old chap. 
 
 "Young Ireland. Hal— loo! . , ' . „ 
 
 •Old England (in his delightful way). What a nice old fellow you 
 are. I am very fond of little boys. 
 
 "Young Ireland. Air yes? Ye'r right. 
 
 "Old England. What do you learn, '>ld fellow? ^.,j. ^ 
 
 '•■ Young Ireland (v - - \tent on Old England, and always childish 
 except in his brogue. . x wureds of three siUibils-and wureds 
 
 of two sillibils— and wureds of one sillibil. , . ,, , 
 
 "Old England (cheerfully). Get out, you humbug! \ou learn only 
 words of one syllable. ^u ^ i. • *.i 
 
 "Young Ireland (laughs heartily). You ma> say that it is mostly 
 
 wureds of one sillibil. 
 
 "Old England. Can you write? 
 
 "Young Ireland. Not yet. Things comes by deegrays. 
 
 "Old England. Can you cipher? 
 
 "Young Ireland (very quickly). Whaat's that? 
 
 "Old England. Can you make figures? 
 
 "Young Ireland. I can make a nought, which is not asy, being 
 
 roond. . ^ c j 
 
 "Old England. I say, old boy! Wasn't it you I saw on Sunday morn- 
 ing in the hall, in a soldier's cap? You Icnow!— In a soldier's cap.^ 
 
 •' Young Ireland (cogitating deeply). Was it a very good cap? 
 
 "Old England. Yes. 
 
 "Young Ireland. Did it fit ankommon? 
 
 "Old England. Yes. 
 
 ' ' Young Ireland. Dat was me ! ' 
 
 The last night in Dublin was an extraordinary scene. \ou can 
 hardly imagine it. All the way from the hotel to the Rotunda (a mile), 
 I had to contend against the stream of people who were turned away 
 When I got there, they had broken the glass in the pay-boxes, and 
 \/ere offering £5 freely for a stall. Half of my platform had to be taken 
 down and people heaped in among the ruins. You never saw such a 
 scene " " Ladies stood all night with uheir chins against my platform, 
 he wrote to his daughter. "Other ladies sat all night upon my steps. 
 We turned away people enough to make immense houses for a week. 
 But he would not return a^ .r his other Irish engagements. I have 
 positively said No. The work is too hard. It is not like doing it m 
 one easy room, and always the same room. With a different place 
 every night and a different audience with its own peculiarity every 
 night it is a tremendous strain ... I seem to be aiways either m a 
 railway carriage or reading, or going to bed; and I get so knocked up 
 
 •^ _. ° r _4._ j._ _-_,„_» Kf!" 'f fhq+- then T orr» +n T->pr1 at; a 
 whenevei' l nave a miiiute tu remcmoci it, xhav tist-u . -,>- 
 
 matter of course." . . ^, ,. » ^ 
 
 Belfast he liked quite as much as Dublin m another way. A fine 
 
quired for its 
 d him sitting 
 
 Id fellow you 
 
 ways childish 
 —and wureds 
 
 ou learn only 
 
 t it is mostly 
 
 ot asy, being 
 
 Sunday morn- 
 dier's cap? 
 3od cap? 
 
 ne. "You can 
 tunda(amile), 
 5 turned away, 
 ay-boxes, and 
 ad to be taken 
 rer saw such a 
 my platform," 
 pon my steps. 
 3S for a week." 
 lents. "I have 
 ike doing it in 
 different place 
 :uliarity every 
 a,ys either in a 
 so knocked up 
 "o to bed as 3 
 
 r way. "A fine 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 609 
 
 place with a rough people; everything looking prospeious; the rail- 
 way ride from Dublin quite amazing in the order, neatness, and clean- 
 ness of all you see; every cottage looking as if it had been whitewashed 
 the day before; and many with charming gardens, prettily kept with 
 bright flowers." The success, too, was quite as great. "Enormous 
 audiences. We turn away half the town. I think them a better audi- 
 ence on the whole than Dublin; and the personal affection is some- 
 thing overwhelming. I wish you and the dear girls" (he is writing to 
 his sister-in-law) ' ' could have seen the people look at me in ic street; 
 or heard them ask me, as I hurried to the hotel after the reading last 
 night, to 'do me the honour to shake hands Misther Dickens and God 
 bless you sir; not ounly for the light you've been to me this night, but 
 for the light you've been in mee house sir (and God love your face!) 
 this many a year!' " He had never seen men "go in to cry so undis- 
 guisedly," as they did at the Belfast Dombey reading; "and as to the 
 Boots and Mrs. Gamp it was just one roar with me and them. For they 
 made me laugh so, that sometimes I could not compose my face to go 
 on." His greatest trial in this way however was a little later at 
 Harrogate— "the queerest place, with the strangest people in it, 
 leading the oddest lives of dancing, newspaper-reading, and tables 
 d'hote"— where he noticed, at the same reading, embodiments 
 respectively of the tears and laughter to which he has moved his 
 fellow-creatures so largely. "There was one gentleman at the Little 
 Dombey yesterday morning" (he is still writing to his sister-in-law) 
 'who exhibited — or rather concealed — the profoundest grief. After 
 crying a good deal without hiding it, he covered his face with both 
 his hands and laid it down on the back of the seat before him, and 
 really shook with emotion. He was not in mourning, but I supposed 
 him to have lost some child in old time. . . . There was a remark- 
 ably good fellow too, of thirty or so, who found something so very 
 ludicrous in Toots that he could not compose himself at all, but 
 laughed until he sat wiping his eyes with his handkerchief; and when- 
 ever he felt Toots coming again, he began to laugh and wipe his eyes 
 afresh; and when Toots came once more, he gave a kind of cry, as 
 if it were too much for him. It was uncommonly droll, and made me 
 laugh heartily." 
 
 At Harrogate he read twice on one day (a Saturday), and had to 
 engage a special engine to take him back that night to York, which, 
 having reached at one o'clock in the morning, he had to leave, 
 because of Sunday restrictions on travel, the same morning at half- 
 past four, to enable him to fulfil a Monday's reading at Scarborough. 
 Such fatigues became matters of course; but their effect, not noted 
 at the time, was grave. Here again he was greatly touched by the 
 personal greeting. "I was brought very near to what I sometimes 
 dream may be my Fame," he wrote to me in October from York, 
 "when a lady whose face I had never seen stopped me yesterday in 
 the street, and said to me, Mr. Dickens, will you let me touch the hand, 
 that has filled my house with many friends." ... 
 
 338 
 
 r 
 
 f 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
6io 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 m% 1 
 
 The reception that awaited him at Manchester had very special 
 warmth m it. occasioned by an adverse tone taken in the comment 
 of one of the Manchester daily papers on the letter which by a breach 
 of confidence had been then recently printed. "My violated letter" 
 Dickens always called it {ante, 600). "When I came to Manchester 
 on Saturday I found seven hundred stalls taken! When I went into 
 the room at night 2500 people had paid, and more were being turned 
 away from every door. The welcome they gave me was astounding 
 in Its affectionate recognition of the late trouble, and fairly for once 
 unmanned me. I never saw such a sight or heard such a sound When 
 they had thoroughly done it. they settled down t oenjoy themselves- 
 and certainly did enjoy themselves most heartily to the last minute '' 
 Nor. for the rest of his English tour, in any of the towns that remained 
 had he reason to complain of any want of hearty greeting At 
 Sheffield great crowds in excess of the places came. At Leeds the hall 
 overflowed in half an hour. At Hull the vast concourse had to be 
 addressed by Mr. Smith on the gallery stairs, and additional readings 
 had to be given, day and night, "for the people out of town and for 
 the people 1 'own." 
 
 The net profit to himself, thus far, had been upwards of three 
 hundred pounds a week; but this was nothing to the success in Scot- 
 land, where his profit in a week, with all expenses paid, was five 
 hundred pounds. The pleasure was enhanced, too, by the presence 
 of his two daughters, who had joined him over the Border At first 
 the look of Edinburgh was not promising. "We began with for us a 
 poor room. . . . ^' it the effect of that reading (it was the Chimes) 
 was immense; and on the next night, for Little Dombey, we had a full 
 .00m. It is our greatest triumph everywhere. Next night [Poor 
 Fraveller, Boots, and Gamp) we turned away hundreds upon hundreds 
 of people; and last night, for the Carol, in spite of advertisements in 
 the morning that the tickets were gone, the people had to be got in 
 through such a crowd as rendered it a work of the utmost dififculty 
 to keep an alley into the room. They were seated about me on the 
 platform, put into the doorway of the waiting-room, squeezed into 
 every conceivable place, and a multitude turned away once more 
 I think I am better pleased with what was done in Edinburgh than 
 with what has been done anywhere, almost. It was so completely 
 taken by storm, and carried in spite of itself. Mary and Katev have 
 been infinitely pleased and interested with Edinburgh. We are iust 
 going to sit down to dinner and therefore I cut my missive short. 
 Travelling, dinner, reading, and everything else, come crowding 
 together into this strange life." ^ 
 
 Then came Dundee: "An odd place," he wrote, "like Wappine, 
 with high rugged hills behind it. We had the strangest journey here- 
 bits of sea, and bits of railroad, alternately; which carried nay mind 
 back to travelhng^in America. The room is an immense new one, 
 t^.onging to ^oxu xviniiaird, and Lord Panmure, and some others d 
 that sort. It looks something between the Crystal Palace and West- 
 
I very special 
 the comment 
 h by a breach 
 olated letter" 
 o Manchester 
 n I went into 
 being turned 
 IS astounding 
 airly for once 
 sound. When 
 y themselves; 
 last minute," 
 ^at remained, 
 greeting. At 
 -eeds the hall 
 se had to be 
 onal readings 
 town and for 
 
 irds of three 
 xess in Scot- 
 aid, was five 
 the presence 
 rder. At first 
 ith, for us, a 
 the Chimes) 
 we had a full 
 night {Poor 
 >on hundreds 
 "tisements in 
 to be got in 
 3st difficulty 
 it me on the 
 jueezed into 
 once more, 
 iburgh than 
 > completely 
 Katey have 
 We are just 
 issive short, 
 le crowding 
 
 e Wapping, 
 imey here — 
 sd my mind 
 se new one, 
 ne others ot 
 e and West- 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 6ii 
 
 mmster Hall (I can't imagine who wants it in this place), and has 
 never been tried yet for opeaking in. Quite disinterestedly of course, I 
 hope It will succeed." The people he thought, in respect of taste and 
 mtelhgence, below any other of his Scotch audiences; but they woke 
 up surprisingly, and the rest of his Caledonian tour was a succession 
 of triumphs. "At Aberdeen we were crammed to the street twice in 
 one day. At Perth (where I thought when I arrived, there literally 
 could be nobody to come) the gentlefolk came posting in from thirty 
 miles round, and the whole town came besides, ai>d filled an immense 
 hall. They were as full of perception, fire, and enthusiasm as any 
 people I have seen. At Glasgow, where I read three evenings a-d 
 one morning, we took the prodigiously large sum of six hundred 
 pounds! And this at the Manchester prices, which are lower than St. 
 Martin's Hall. As to the effect— I wish you could have seen them after 
 Lilian died in the Chimes, or when Scrooge woke in the Carol and 
 talked to the boy outside the window. And at the end of Doml^y 
 yesterday afternoon, in the cold light of day, they all got up, after a 
 short pause, gentle and simple, and thundered and waved their hats 
 with such astonishing heartiness and fondness that, for the first time 
 in all my public career, they took me completely off my legs, and I 
 saAv the whole eighteen hundred of them reel to one side as if a shock 
 from without had shaken the hall. Notwithstanding which, I must 
 confess to you, I am very anxious to get to the end of my readings, 
 and to be at home again, and able to sit down and think in my own 
 study. There has been only one thing quite without alloy. The dear 
 girls have enjoyed themselves immensely, and their trip with me has 
 been a great success." 
 
 The subjects of his readings during this first circuit were the Carol, 
 the Chimes, the Trial in Pickwick, the chapters containing Paul 
 Dombey, Boots at the Holly Tree Inn, the Poor Traveller (Captain 
 Doubledick), and Mrs. Gamp: to which he continued to restrict 
 himself through the supplementary nights that closed in the autumn 
 of 1859. Of these the most successful in their uniform effect upon his 
 audiences were undoubtedly the Carol, the Pickwick scene, Mrs. 
 Gamp, and the Dombey — the quickness, variety, and completeness of 
 his assumption of character, having greatest scope in these. Here, I 
 think, more than in the pathos or graver level passages, his strength 
 lay; but this is entitled to no weight other than as an individual 
 opinion, and his audiences gave him many reasons for thinking 
 differently. . , , 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 
 ,1 
 
 n\ 
 
 il 
 
6l2 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 li 
 
 
 "all the year round" and "uncommercial traveller" 
 
 1859-61 
 
 In the interval before the close of the first circuit of readings, painful 
 personal disputes arising out of the occurrences of the previous year 
 were settled by the discontinuance of Household Words, and the 
 establishment in its place of All the Year Round. The disputes turned 
 upon matters of feeling exclusively, and involved no charge on either 
 side that would render any detailed reference here other than gravely 
 out of place. The question into which the difference ultimately re- 
 solved itself was that of the respective rights of the parties as pro- 
 prietors of Household Words; and this, upon a bill filed in Chancery, 
 was settled by a winding-up order, under which the property was sold.' 
 It was bought by Dickens, who, even before the sale, exactly fulfilling 
 a previous announcement of the proposed discontinuance of the 
 existing periodical and establishment of another in its place, precisely 
 similar but under a different title, had started All the Year Round. 
 It was to be regretted perhaps that he should have thought it neces- 
 sary to move at all, but he moved strictly within his rights. 
 
 To the publishers first associated with his great success in litera- 
 ture, Messrs. Chapman and Hall, he now returned for the issue of the 
 remainder of his books; of which he always in future reserved the 
 copyrights, making each the subject of such arrangement as for the 
 time might seem to him desirable. In this he was met by no difficulty; 
 and indeed it will be only proper to add, that, in any points affecting 
 his relations with those concerned in the production of his books, 
 though his resentments were easily and quickly roused, they were 
 never very lasting. The only f^ir rule therefore was, in a memoir 
 of his life, to confine the mention of such things to what was strictly 
 necessary to explain its narrative. This accordingly has been done; 
 and, in the several disagreements it has been necessary to advert 
 to, I cannot charge myself with having in a single instance over- 
 stepped the rule. Objection has been made to my revival of the early 
 differences with Mr, Bentley. But silence respecting them was incom- 
 patible with what absolutely required to be said, if the picture of 
 Dickens in his most interesting time, at the outset of his career in 
 letters, was not to be omitted altogether; and, suppressing every- 
 thing of mere temper that gathered round the dispute, use was made 
 of those letters only containing the young writer's urgent aooeal to 
 t>e absolved, rightly o: wrongly, from engagements he had too 
 j)recipitately entered into. Wrongly, some might say, because the 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 613 
 
 kVELLER' 
 
 ings, painful 
 revious year 
 •ds, and the 
 putes turned 
 rge on either 
 ihan gravely 
 timately re- 
 rties as pro- 
 n Chancery, 
 rty was sold. 
 :tly fulfilling 
 ance of the 
 ce, precisely 
 /ear Round. 
 ?ht it neces- 
 hts. 
 
 !ss in litera- 
 issue of the 
 eserved the 
 it as for the 
 10 difficulty; 
 its affecting 
 I his books, 
 , they were 
 1 a memoir 
 was strictly 
 been done; 
 ^ to advert 
 tance over- 
 of the early 
 was incom- 
 5 picture of 
 is career in 
 sing every- 
 B was made 
 t aooeal to 
 ie had too 
 lecause the 
 
 law was undoubtedly on Mr. Bentley's side; but all subsequent 
 reflection has confirmed the view I was led strongly to take at the 
 time, that in the facts there had come to be involved what the law 
 could not afford to overlook, and that the sale of brain-work can 
 never be adjusted by agreement with the same exactness and 
 certainty as that of ordinary goods and chattels. Quitting the subject 
 once for all with this remark, it is not less incumbent on me to say 
 that there was no stage of the dispute in which Mr. Bentley, holding 
 as strongly the other view, might not think it to have sufficient 
 justification; and certainly in later years there was no absence of 
 friendly feeling on the part of Dickens to his old publisher. This 
 already has been mentioned;and on the occasion of Hans Andersen's 
 recent visit to Gadshill, Mr. Bentley was invited to meet the cele- 
 brated Dane. Nor should I omit to say, that, in the year to whicn 
 this narrative has now arrived, his prompt compliance with an inter- 
 cession made to him for a common friend pleased Dickens greatly. 
 
 At the opening of 1859, bent upon such a successor to Household 
 Words as should carry on the associations connected with its name, 
 Dickens was deep in search of a title to give expression to them. 
 "My determination to settle the title irises out of my knowledge that 
 I shall never be able to do anything ior the work until it has a fixed 
 name; also out of my observation that the same odd feeling afiects 
 everybody else." He had proposed to himself a title that, as in 
 Household Words, might be capable of illustration by a line from 
 Shakespeare; and alighting upon that wherein poor Henry the Sixth 
 is fain to solace nis captivity by the fancy, that, like birds encaged 
 he might soothe himself for loss of liberty "at last by notes of house- 
 hold harmony," he for the time forgot that this might hardly be ac- 
 cepted as a happy comment on the occurrences out of which the 
 supposed necessity had arisen of replacing the old by a new house- 
 hold friend. "Don't you think," he wrote on 24 January, "this is 
 a good name and quotation? I have been quite delighted to get hold 
 of it for our title. 
 
 "Household Harmony. 
 
 'At last by notes of Household Harmony.' — Shakespeare.'* 
 
 He was at first reluctant even to admit the objection when stated 
 to him. "I am afraid we must not be too particular about the possi- 
 bility of personal references and applications: otherwise it is manifest 
 that I never can write another book. I could not invent a story of any 
 sort, it is quite plain, incapable of being twisted into some such 
 nonsensical shape. It would be wholly impossible to turn one through 
 half a dozen chapters." Of course he yielded, nevertheless; and much 
 consideration followed over sundry other titles submitted. Reviving 
 none of those formerly rejected, here were a few of these now rejected 
 in their turn. The Hearth. The Forge. The Crucible. The Anvil 
 
 u>- 
 
6i4 
 
 The Life of Chides Dickens 
 
 I r 
 
 OP THE Time. Charles Dickens's Own. Seasonable Leaves. 
 Evergreen Leaves. Home. Home-Music. Change. Time and 
 Tide. Twopence. English Bellc. Weekly Bells. The Rocket. 
 Good Humour. Still the great want was the line adaptable from 
 Shakespeare, which at last exultingly he sent on 28 January. "I am 
 dining early, before reading, and write literally with my mouth full. 
 But I have just hit upon a name that I think really an admirabkj 
 one — especially with the quotation before it, in the place where our 
 present H. W. quotation stands. 
 
 ** * The story of our lives, from year to year.' — Shaksspeare, 
 
 All the Yeak Round. 
 A weekly journal conducts ^ by Charles Dickens." 
 
 With the same resolution and en*. , other things necessary to the 
 adventure were as promptly done. I have taken the new office," 
 he wrote from Tavistock House on 21 February; "have got workmen 
 in; have ordered the paper; settled with the printer; and am getting 
 an immense system of advertising ready. Blow to be struck on the 
 1 2th of March. . . . Meantime I cannot please myself with the 
 opening of my story" (the Tale of Two Cities, which All the Year 
 Round was to start with), "and cannot in the least settle at it or take 
 to it. ... I wish you would come and look at what I flatter myself 
 is a rather ingenious account to which I have turned the Stanfield 
 scenery here." He had placed the Lighthouse scene in a single frame; 
 had divided the scene of the Frozen Deep into two subjects, a British 
 man-of-war and an Arctic sea, which he had also framed; and the 
 schoolroom that had been the theatre was now hung with sea-pieces 
 by a great painter of the sea. To believe them to have been but the 
 amusement of a few mornings was difficult indeed. Seen from the 
 due distance there was nothing wanting to the most masterly and 
 elaborate art. 
 
 The first number oiAll the Year Round appeared on 30 April, and 
 tne result of the first quarter's Recounts of the sale will tell every- 
 thing that noeds to be said of a success that went on without inter- 
 mission to the close. "A word before I go back to Gadshill," he wrote 
 froni Tavistock House in July, "which I know you will be glad to 
 receive. So well has All the Year Round gone that it was yesterday 
 able to repay me, with five per cert, interest, all the money I 
 advanced for its establishment (paper, print etc. all paid, down to the 
 last number), and yet to leave a good ;^5oo balance at the banker's!" 
 Beside the opening of his Tale of Two Cities its first number had con- 
 tained another piece of his writing, the "Poor Man and his Beer"; 
 as to which an interesting note has been sent me. The Rev. T. B. 
 Lawes, of Rothamsted, St Albans, had been associated upon a 
 sanitary commission with Mr. Henry Austin, Dickens's brother-in- 
 law and counsellor in regard to all such matters in his own houses, 
 
n 
 
 E Leaves. 
 Time and 
 E Rocket. 
 •table from 
 ary. "I am 
 mouth full, 
 admirable 
 where our 
 
 f#. 
 
 I* 
 
 • 
 
 sary to the 
 ew office," 
 t workmen 
 am getting 
 uck on the 
 I with the 
 // the Year 
 t it or take 
 tter myself 
 e Stanfield 
 igle frame; 
 s, a British 
 d; and the 
 I sea-pieces 
 en but the 
 1 from the 
 isterly and 
 
 April, and 
 tell every- 
 tiout inter- 
 " he wrote 
 be glad to 
 
 yesterday 
 money I 
 own to the 
 banker's!" 
 sr had con- 
 his Beer"; 
 lev. T. B. 
 d upon a 
 )rother-in- 
 ra houses, 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 615 
 
 or in the houses of the poor; and this connection led "o Dickens's 
 knowledge of a club that Mr. Lawcs had established at Rolhumated, 
 which he became eager to recommend as an example } other country 
 neighbourhoods. The club had been set on foot to enabie the agri- 
 cultural labourers of the p. i sh to have their beer and pipes inde- 
 pendent e* the public-house; and the description of it, says Mr. 
 Lawes, "was the occupation of a drive between this place (Rotham- 
 sted) and L jndon, twenty-five miles, Mr Dickens refusing the offer 
 of a bed, and saying that he could arrange his ideas on the jouriiey. 
 In the course of our conversation I mentioned that the labourers 
 were very jealcus of the small tradesmen, blacksmiths and others, 
 holding allotm t-gardens; but that the latter did so indirectly by 
 paying higher i its to the labourers for a share. This circumstance 
 is not forgotten ..i the verses on the Blacksmith in the same number, 
 composed by Mr. Dickens and repeated to me while he was walking 
 about, and which close the mention of his gains with allusion to 
 
 A share (concealed) in the poor man's field, 
 Which adds to the poor man's store." 
 
 It is pleasant to be able to add that the club was still flourishing when 
 I received Mr. Lawes's letter, on 18 December, 1871. 
 
 The periodical thus established was in all respects, save one, so 
 exactly the counterpart of what it replaced, mat a mention of this 
 point of difference is the only description of it called for. Besides his 
 own three- volume stories of the Tale of Two Cities and Great Expecta- 
 tions, Dickens admitted into it other stories of the same length by 
 writsrs of character and name, of which the authorship was avowed. 
 It published tales of varied merit and success by Plr. Edmund Yates; 
 Mr. Percy Fitzgerald, and Mr. Charles Lever. Mr. Wilkie Co' 'ns 
 contributed to it his Woman in White, No Name, and Moonstone, the 
 first of which had -x pre-eminent success; Mr. Reade his Hard Cash- 
 and Lord Lytton his Strange Story. Conferring about the lati^ 
 Dickens passed a week at Knebworth, accompanied by his daughter 
 and sister-in-law, in the summer of 1861, as soon as he had closed 
 Great Expectations; and there met Mr. Arthur Helps, with whom and 
 Lord Orford he visited the so-called "Hermit" near Stevenage, 
 whom he described as Mr. Mopes in Tom Tiddler's Ground. With his 
 great brotusr-artist he thoroughly enjoyed himself, as he invariably 
 did; ana reported him as "in better health and spirits than I have 
 seen him in, in all these years — a little weird occasionally regarding 
 magic and spirits, but always fair and frank under opposition. "le 
 was brilliantly talkative, anecdotical, and droll; he looked young and 
 well; laughed heartily; and f'njoyed with great zest some games we 
 played. In his artist-character and talk, he was full of interest and 
 matter, saying the subtlest and finest things — but that he never fails 
 in. I enjoyed myself immensely, as we all did." 
 
 In All the Year Round, as in its predecessor, the tales for Christmas 
 
 rjl^' 
 
 H 
 
 t. 
 
 i 'Il 
 
 !:«f 
 
!*«' %\ 
 
 i: .1- 
 
 If 
 
 tf'i 
 
 *^,' 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 6i6 
 
 wf^^'inTn- V°''*'''"^^u^?* "^^^^ ^ surprisingly increased popu- 
 lanty. and Dickens never had such sale for any of his writings as for 
 his Christmas pieces m the latter periodical. It had reached before he 
 died, to nearly three hundred thousand. The first was called the 
 Haunted House, ^nd had a small mention of a true occurrence in his 
 boyhood which IS not included in the bitter record on a former pa^e 
 I was taken home, and there was debt at home as well as death and 
 we had a sale there My own little bed was so superciliously looked 
 upon by a power unknown to me hazily called The Trade, that a brass 
 coal-scuttle, a roasting-jack, and a bird-cage were obliged to be nut 
 into It to make a lot of it. and then it went for a song. So^I heard men 
 tronea and I wondered what song, and thought what a dismal ?ong 
 
 The Uncommercial Traveller papers, his two serial stories, and his 
 Christmas tales were all the contributions of any importance made 
 by Dickens to ^// the Year Round; but he reprinted in?t° on theTom- 
 pletion of his first story, a short tale called Hunted DownZritten^r 
 a newspaper m America called the New York Ledger 
 
 VI 
 
 SECOND SERIES OF READINGS 
 186I-3 
 
 Ai^ue end of the first year of residence at Gadshill it was the remark 
 of Dickens that nothing had gratified him so much as the confidence 
 with which his poorer neighbours treated him. He had tested gener- 
 ally their worth and good conduct, and they had been encourafedTn 
 any illness or trouble to resort to him for help. There was pleasait 
 indication of the feeling thus awakened, wh^n. in the summer c 
 i860, his younger daughter Kate was married to Charles Alston 
 Collins, brother of the novelist, and younger son of the painter and 
 academician, who might have found, if spared to witness that summer 
 morning scene, subjects not unworthy of his delightful pencil in many 
 a rustic group near Gadshill. All the villagers had turned out I 
 
 th«TftI^ oSlr^w ' T^f^ *^^ carriages could hardly get to and from 
 the little church for the succession o£ triumphal arches they had to 
 
 S^S^f'f?!? K, 7^^?"'*\''''^''P^^*^^ ^y ^i"^' and when the /m 
 dejote of the blacksmith in the lane, whose enthusiasm had smuggled 
 
 ?.t,?^^ T°f «^f" ^,f "°^ ^^^ ?^" ^'''^^' exploded upon him at the 
 
 ovaSI;^ ^""^ ^^ "'^'' "^^^ ^^^'* ^° *^^e^ aback at an 
 
 The first portion of tiiis second series was planned by Mr. Arthur 
 
■WT,!1 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 617 
 
 Smith, but he only superintended the six readings in London which 
 opened it. These were the first at St. James's Hall (St. Martin's Hall 
 having been burnt since the last readings there), and were given in 
 March and April 1861. "We are all well here and flourishing," he 
 wrote to me from Gadshill on 28 April. "On the iSth I finished the 
 readings as I purposed. We had between seventy and eighty pounds 
 in the stalls, which, at four shillings apiece, is something quite unpre- 
 cedented in these times. . . . The result of the six was, that, after pay- 
 ing a large staff of men and all other charges, and Arthur Smith's 
 ten per cent, on the receipts, and replacing everything destroyed in 
 the fire at St. Martin's Hall (including all our tickets, country baggage, 
 check-boxes, books, and a quantity of gas-fittings and what not), 1 
 got upwards of ;^5oo. A very great result. We certainly might ha'v 
 gone on through the season, but I am heartily glad to be concentrated 
 on my story." 
 
 It had been part of his plan that the provincial readings should 
 not begin until a certain interval after the close of his story of Great 
 Expectations. They were delayed accordingly until 28 October, from 
 which date, when they opened at Norwich, they went on with the 
 Christmas intervals to be presently named to 30 January, 1862, when 
 they closed at Chester. Kept within England and Scotland, they took 
 in the border town of Berwick, and, besides the Scotch cities, com- 
 prised the contrasts and varieties of Norwich and Lancaster, Bury St. 
 Edmunds and Cheltenham. Carlisle and Hastings, Plymouth and 
 Birmingham, Canterbury and Torcjuay, Preston and Ipswich, Man- 
 chester and Brighton, Colchester and Dover, Newcastle and Chester. 
 They were followed by ten readings at the St. James's Hall, between 
 13 March and 27 June, 1862; and by four at Paris in January 1863, 
 given at the. Embassy in aid of the British Charitable Fund. The 
 second series had thus in the number of the readings nearly equalled 
 the first, when it closed at London in June 1863 with thirteen readings 
 in the Hanover Square Rooms; and it is exclusively the subject of 
 such illustrations or references as this chapter will supply. 
 
 On Great Expectations closing in June 1861, Bulwer Lytton, at 
 Dickens's earnest wish, took his place in All the Year Round with the 
 Strange Story; and he then indulged himself in idleness for a little 
 while. "The subsidence of those distressing pains in my face the 
 moment I had done my work, made me resolve to do nothing in that 
 way for some time if I could help it." But his "doing nothing" was 
 seldom more than a figure of speech, and what it meant in this case 
 was soon told. "Every day for two or three hours, I practise my new 
 readings, and (except in my office work) do nothing else. With great 
 pains I have made a continuous narrative out of Copperfield, that I 
 think will reward the exertion it is likely to cost me. Unless I am much 
 mistaken, it will t very valuable in London. I have also done 
 Nicholas NicP^eby at the Yorkshire school, and hope I have got 
 something droll out of Squeeis, John Browdie, & Co. Also, the 
 Bastille prisoner from the Tale of Two Cities. Also, the Dwarf from 
 
 338* 
 
 'kit' 
 
 lii 
 
 'Si 
 
 m 
 
 % 
 
 ■■si 
 
 ! I 
 US'-' 
 
6i8 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 fr 
 
 one of our Christmas numbers." Only the first two were added to the 
 list for the present circuit. . . . 
 
 His mention of Newcastle, which he had taken on his way to 
 Edinburgh, reading two nights there, should be given. "At Newcastle, 
 against the very heavy expenses, I made more than a hundred guineas 
 profit. A finer audience there is not in England, and I suppose them to 
 be a specially earnest people; for, while they can laugh till they shake 
 the roof, they have a very unusual sympathy with what is pathetic 
 or passionate. An extraordinary thing occurred on the second night. 
 The room was tremendously crowded and my gas-apparatus fell down. 
 There was a terrible wave among the people for an instant, and God 
 knows what destruction of life a nsh to the stairs would have caused. 
 Fortunately a lady in the froii- of the stalls ran out towards me, 
 exactly in a place where I knew that the whole hall could see her. So 
 I addressed her, laughing, and half-asked and half-ordered her to sit 
 down again; and, in a moment, it was all over. But the men in attend- 
 ance had such a fearful sense of what might have happened (besides 
 the real danger of Fire) that they positi- jly shook the boards I 
 stood on, with their trembling, when they came up to put things 
 right. I am proud to record that the gasman's sentiment, as delivered 
 afterwards, was, 'The more you want of the master, the more you'll 
 find in him.' With which complimentary homage, and with the wind 
 blowing so that I can hardly hear myself write, I conclude." . . . 
 
 Two brief extracts from letters will sufficiently describe the 
 London readings. "The money returns have been quite astounding. 
 Think of ;^ 190 a night! The effect of Copperfield exceeds all the expec- 
 tations which its success in the country led me to form. It seems to 
 take people entirely by surprise. If this is not new to you, I have not 
 a word of news. The rain that raineth every day seems to have washed 
 news away or got it under water." That was in April. In June he 
 wrote: "I finished my readings on Friday night to an enormous hall — 
 nearly ;^2oo. The success has been throughout complete. It seems 
 almost suicidal to leave off with the town so full, but I don't like to 
 depart from my public pledge. A man from Australia is in London 
 
 ready to pay ;^io,ooo for eight months there. If " It was an If 
 
 that troubled him for some time, and led to agitating discussion. . . . 
 It closed at once when he clearly saw that to take any of his family 
 with him, and make satisfactory arrangements for the rest during 
 such an absence, would be in^possible. By this time also he began to 
 find his way to the new story, and better hopes and spirits had 
 returned. . . . 
 
jj^g^ 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 619 
 
 is way to 
 ■Newcastle, 
 ed guineas 
 se them to 
 ;hey shake 
 s pathetic 
 and night, 
 fell down. 
 , and God 
 ve caused, 
 ^^ards me, 
 see her. So 
 . her to sit 
 in attend- 
 d (besides 
 
 boards I 
 )ut things 
 ; delivered 
 lore you'll 
 I the wind 
 e " 
 
 cribe the 
 itounding. 
 the expec- 
 ; seems to 
 '. have not 
 VQ. washed 
 1 June he 
 ous hall — 
 
 It seems 
 a't like to 
 n London 
 was an If 
 ssion. . . . 
 [lis family 
 :st during 
 
 began to 
 nrits had 
 
 VII 
 
 THIRD SERIES OF READINGS 
 1864-7 
 
 The sudden death of Thackeray on the Christmas eve of 1863 was 
 a painful shock to Dickens. It would not become me to speak, when 
 he has himself spoken, of his relations with so great a writer and so 
 old a friend. 
 
 "I saw him first, nearly twenty-eight years ago, when he proposed 
 to become the illustrator of my earliest book. I saw him last, shortly 
 before Christmas, at the Athenaeum Club, when he told me that he 
 had been in bed three days . . . and that he had it in his mind to try 
 a new remedy which he laughingly described. He was cheerful, and 
 looked very bright. In the night of that day week, he died. The long 
 interval between these two periods is marked in my remembrance of 
 him by many occasions when he was extremely humorous, when he 
 was irresistibly extravagant, when he was softened and serious, when 
 
 he was charming with children No one can be surer than I, of the 
 
 greatness and goodness of his heart. ... In no place should I take it 
 upon myself at this time to discourse of his books, of his refined know- 
 ledge of character, of his subtle acquaintance with the weaknesses of 
 human nature, of his delightful playfulness as an essayist, of his 
 quaint and touching ballads, of his mastery over the English 
 language. . . . But before me lies all that he had written of his latest 
 story . . . and the pain I have felt in perusing it has not been deeper 
 than the conviction that he was in the healthiest vigour of his powers 
 when he worked on this last labour. . . . The last words he corrected 
 in print were ' And my heart throbbed with an exquisite bliss.' God 
 grant that on that Christmas Eve when he laid ais head back on his 
 pillow and threw up his arms as he had been wont to do when very 
 weary, some consciousness of duty done, and of Christian hope 
 throughout life humbly cherished, may have caused his own heart so 
 to throb, when he passed away to his Redeemer's rest. He was found 
 peacefully lying as above described, composed, undisturbed, and to 
 all appearance asleep." * 
 
 Other griefs were with Dickens at this time, and close upon them 
 came the too certain evidence that his own health was yielding to the 
 overstrain which had been placed upon it by the occurrences and 
 anxieties of the few preceding years. His mother, whose infirm health 
 had been tending for more than two years to the close, died in 
 September 1863; and on his own birthday in the following February 
 
 * From the Cornhill Magazine for February 1864. 
 
 
620 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 he had tidmgs of the death of his second son Walter, on the last dav 
 of the old year, in the officers' hospital at Calcutta; to which he had 
 been sent up invalided from his station, on his way home. He was a 
 lieutenant m the 26th Native Infantry regiment, and had been doing 
 
 duty with the 42 nd Highlanders ^ 
 
 The old year ended and the new one opened sadly enough The 
 death of Leech in November affected Dickens very much, and a 
 severe attack of illness in February put a broad mark between his 
 past life and what remained to him of the future. The lameness now 
 began m his left foot which never afterwards wholly left him which 
 was attended by great suffering, and which baffled experienced 
 physicians. He had persisted in his ordinary exercise during heavy 
 snowstorms, and to the last he had the fancy that the illness was 
 merely local. But that this was an error is now certam; and it is more 
 than probable that if the nervouc danger and disturbance it implied 
 had been correctly appreciated at the time, its warning might have 
 been of priceless value to Dickens. Unhappily he never thought of 
 husbandmg his strength except for the purpose of making fresh 
 demands upon it, and it was for this he took a brief holiday in France 
 during the summer. "Before I went away," he wrote to his daughter 
 •I had certainly worked myself into a damagedstate. But the moment 
 I got away, I began, thank God, to get well. I hope to profit by this 
 experience, and to make future dashes from my desk before I want 
 them." At his return he was in the terrible railway accident at Staple- 
 hurst, on a day which proved aften^-ards more fatal to him; and it was 
 with shaken nerves but unsubdued energy he resumed the labour to 
 be presently described. He was beset by nervous apprehensions which 
 the accident had caused to himself, not lessened by his generous 
 anxiety to assuage the severer sufferings inflicted by it on others- his 
 foot also troubled him more or less throughout the autumn; and that 
 he should nevertheless have determined, on the close of his book to 
 undertake a series of readings involving greater strain and fatigue 
 than any hitherto, was a startling circumstance. He had perhaps 
 become conscious, without owning it even to himself, that for exer- 
 tion of this kind the time left hijn was short; but, whatever pressed 
 him on, his task of the next three years, self-imposed, was to make the 
 most money in the shortest time without any regard to the physical 
 labour to be undergone. The very letter announcing his new engage- 
 ment shows how entirely unfit he was to enter upon it. 
 
 "For some time," he wrote at the end of February 1866 "I have 
 been very unwell. F. B. wrote me word that with such a pulse as I de- 
 scribed, an examination of the heart was absolutely necessary. 'Want 
 of muscular power in the heart,' B. said. 'Only remarkable irritability 
 of the heart,' said Doctor Brinton of Brook Street, who had been 
 called into consultation. I was not disconcerted; for I knew well 
 beforehand that the effect could not possibly be without the one 
 cause at the bottom of it, of some degeneration of some function of 
 the heart. Of course I am not so foolish as to suppose that all my work 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 621 
 
 can have been achieved without some penalty, and I have noticed 
 for some time a decided change in my buoyancy and hopefulness — in 
 other words, in my usual 'tone.' But tonics have already brought me 
 round. So I have accepted an offer, from Chappells of Bond Street, of 
 ;^5o a night for thirty nights to read 'in England, Ireland, Scotland, 
 or Pari3'; they undertaking all the business, paying all personal 
 expenses, travelling and otherwise, of myself, John" (his office 
 servant) "and my gasman; and making what they can of it. . . ." 
 
 The success ever5rwhere went far beyond even the former successes. 
 A single night at Manchester, when eight hundred stalls were let, two 
 thousand five hundred and sixty-five people admitted, and the receipts 
 amounted to more than three hundred pounds, was followed in nearly 
 the same proportion by all the greater towns; and on 20 April the out- 
 lay for the entire venture was paid, leaving all that remained, to the 
 middle of the month of June, sheer profit. . . . 
 
 One memorable evening he had passed at my house in the interval, 
 when he saw Mrs. Carlyle for the last time. Her sudden death followed 
 shortly after, and near the close of April he had thus written to me 
 from Liverpool. "It was a terrible shock to me, and poor dear Carlyle 
 has been in my mind ever since. How often I have thought of the un- 
 finished novel. No one now to finish it. None of the writing women 
 come near her at all." This was an allusion to what had passed at their 
 meeting. It was on 2 April, the day when Mr. Carlyle had delivered his 
 inaugural address as Lord Rector of Edinburgh University, and a 
 couple of ardent words from Professor Tyndall had told her of the 
 triumph just before dinner. She came to us flourishing the telegram 
 in her hand, and the radiance of her enjoyment of it was upon her all 
 the night. Among other things she gave Dickens the subject for a 
 novel, from what she had herself observed at the outside of a house 
 in her street; of which the various incidents were drawn from the 
 condition of its blinds and curtains, the costumes visible at its 
 windows, the cabs at its door, its visitors admitted or rejected, its 
 articles of furniture delivered or carried away; and the subtle serious 
 humour of it all, the truth in trifling bits of character, and the gradual 
 progress into a half-romantic interest, had enchanted the skilled 
 novelist. She was well into the second volume of her small romance 
 before she left, being as far as her observation then had taken her; but 
 in a few days exciting incidents were expected, the denouement 
 could not be far off, and Dickens was to have it when they met again. 
 Yet it was to something far other than this amusing little fancy his 
 thoughts had carried him, when he wrote of no one being capable to 
 finish what she might have begun. In greater things this was still 
 more true. None could doubt it who had come within the fascinating 
 influence of that sweet and noble nature. With some of the highest 
 gifts of intellect, and the charm of a most varied knowledge of books 
 and things, there was something " beyond, beyond=" No one who 
 knew Mrs. Carlyle could replace her loss when she had passed away. 
 
 The same letter which told of his uninterrupted success to the last. 
 
622 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 II? 
 
 
 told me also that he had a heavy cold upon him, and was "very 
 tired and depressed." Some weeks before the first batch of readings 
 closed, Messrs. Chappell had already tempted him with an offer for 
 fifty more nights to begin at Christmas, for which he meant, as he 
 then said, to ask them seventy pounds a night. ' ' It would be unreason- 
 able to ask anything now on the ground of the extent of the late 
 success, but I am bound to look to myself for the future. The 
 Chappells are speculators, though of the worthiest and most honour- 
 able kind. They make some bad speculations, and have made a very 
 good one in this case, and will set this against those. I told them 
 when we agreed: 'I offer these thirty readings to you at fifty pounds 
 a night, because I know perfectly well beforehand that no one in 
 your business has the least idea of their real worth, and I wish to prove 
 It/ The sum taken is £^720:' The result of the fresh negotiation 
 though not completed until the beginning of August, may be at once 
 described. "Chappell instantly accepts my proposal of forty nights at 
 sixty pounds a night, and every conceivable and inconceivable ex- 
 pense paid. To make an even sum, I have made it forty- two nights 
 for ;^25oo. So I shall now try to discover a Christmas number [he 
 means the subject for one], and shall, please Heaven, be quit of the 
 whole series of readings so as to get to work on a new story for our 
 proposed new series of All the Year Round early in the spring The 
 readings begin probably with the New Year." These were fair designs, 
 but the fairest are the sport of circumstance, and though the subject 
 for Christmas was found, the new series of All the Year Round never 
 had a new story from its founder. With whatever consequence to him- 
 self the strong tide of the readings was to sweep on to its full. The 
 American war had ceased, and the first renewed offers from the 
 States had been made and rejected. Hovering over all, too, were other 
 sterner dispositions. "I think," he wrote in September, "there is 
 some strange influence in the atmosphere. Twice last week I was 
 seized in a most distressing manner— apparently in the heart; but, 
 I am persuaded, only in the nervous system. ' ' 
 
 In the midst of his ovations such checks had not been wanting. 
 "The police reported officially," he wrote to his daughter from 
 Liverpool on 14 April, "that three thousand people were turned away 
 from the hall last night. . . , Except that I can not sleep, I really 
 think myself in very much better training than I had anticipated. 
 A dozen oysters and a little champagne between the parts every night, 
 seem to constitute the best restorative I have ever yet tried." "Such 
 a prodigious demonstration last night at Manchester." he wrote to 
 the same correspondent twelve days later, "that I was obliged 
 (contrary to my principle in such cases) to go back. I am very tired 
 to-day; for it v/ould be of itself ver>' hard work in that immense place, 
 if there were not to be added eighty miles of railway and late hours 
 to boot." "It has been very heav^ work," he wrote to his sister-in- 
 law on II May from Clifton, "getting up at 6.30 each mornine after 
 a heavy night, and I am not at all well to-day. We had a tremendous 
 
 hall at B 
 a most r 
 instead o^ 
 Went ba< 
 if they lii 
 another '. 
 severe a ] 
 to do an] 
 no better 
 as it was 
 was also ( 
 felt most 
 Everyt 
 nothing < 
 tion, or t 
 deen {16 
 There w£ 
 ourselves 
 and wash 
 later he ^ 
 got a lov( 
 verse of \ 
 gloomy a 
 we are gc 
 The last 
 24 May, i 
 America. 
 
 The lei 
 the follow 
 seemed t 
 evening" 
 You hav( 
 as their r( 
 I have lee 
 ing after 
 everythir 
 ous; corr 
 possessioi 
 ation. Fir 
 I learnt 1 
 with exac 
 . . ." Six 
 excellenci 
 cile me t( 
 him. "It 
 subject. I 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 623 
 
 hall at Birmingham last night, ;^23o odd, 2,100 people; and I made 
 a most ridiculous mistake. Had Nickleby on my list to finish with, 
 instead of Trial. Read Nickleby with great go, and the people remained. 
 Went back again at 10 o'clock, and explained the accident: but said 
 if they liked I would give them the Trial. They d^d like; — and 1 had 
 another half-hour of it, in that enormous place. ... I have so 
 severe a pain in the ball of my left eye that it makes it hard for me 
 to do anything after 100 miles' shaking since breakfast. My cold is 
 no better, nor my hand either." It was his left eye, it will be noted, 
 as it was his left foot and hand; the irritability or faintness of heart 
 was also of course on the left side; and it was on the same left side he 
 felt most of the effect of the railway accident. 
 
 Everything was done to make easier the labour of travel, but 
 nothing could materially abate either the absolute physical exhaus- 
 tion, or the nervous strain. "We arrived here," he wrote from Aber- 
 deen {16 May), "safe and sound between 3 and 4 this morning. 
 There was a compartment for the men, and a charming room for 
 ourselves furnished with sofas r id easy chairs. We had also a pantry 
 and washing-stand. This can .age is to go about with us." Two days 
 later he wrote from Glasgow. "We halted at Perth yesterday, and 
 got a lovely walk there. Until then I had been in a condition the re- 
 verse of flourishing; half strangled with my cold, and dyspeptically 
 gloomy and dull; but, as I feel much more like myself this morning, 
 we are going to get some fresh air aboard a steamer on the Clyde." 
 The last letter during his country travel was from Portsmouth on 
 24 May, and contained these words: "You need have no fear about 
 America." 
 
 The letter which told me of the close of his English readings [in 
 the following year] had in it no word of the further enterprise, yet it 
 seemed to be in some sort a preparation for it. "Last Monday 
 evening" (14 May) "I finished the 50 readings with great success. 
 You have no idea how I have worked at them. Finding it necessary, 
 as their reputation widened, that they should be better than at first, 
 I have learnt them all, so as to have no mechanical drawback in look- 
 ing after the words. I have tested all the serious passion in them by 
 everything I know; made the humorous points much more humor- 
 ous; corrected my utterance of certain words; cultivated a self- 
 possession not to be disturbed; and made myself master of the situ- 
 ation. Finishing with Domhey (which I had not read for a long time), 
 I learnt that, like the rest; and did it to myself, often twice a day, 
 with exactly the same pains as at night, over and over and over again. 
 ..." Six days later brought his reply to a remark, that no degree of 
 excellence to which he might have brought his readings could recon- 
 cile me to what there was little doubt would soon be pressed upon 
 him. "It is curious" (20 Mav^ "that vou should touch the American 
 subject, because I must confess that my mind is in a most disturbed 
 
 
624 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 state about it. That the people there have set themselves on having 
 the readings, there is no question. Every mail brings me proposals, 
 and the number of Americans at St. James's Hall has been surprising! 
 A certain Mr. Grau, who took Ristori out, and is highly responsible, 
 wrote to me by the last mail (for the second time) saying that if I 
 would give him a word of encouragement he would come over 
 immediately and arrange on the boldest terms for any number I 
 chose, and would deposit a large sum of money at Coutts's. Mr. 
 Fields writes to me on behalf of a committee of private gentlemen at 
 Boston who wished for the credit of getting me out. who desired to 
 hear the readings and did not want profit, and would put down as a 
 guarantee /io,ooo--also to be banked here. Every American specu- 
 lator who comes to London repairs straight to Dolby, with similar 
 proposals. And, thus excited, Chappells, the moment this last series 
 was over, proposed to treat for America!" Upon the mere question 
 of these various offers he had little difficulty in making up his mind. 
 If he went at all, he would go on his own account, making no com- 
 pact with anyone. Whether he should go at all, was what he had to 
 determine. 
 
 One thing with his usual sagacity he saw clearly enough. He must 
 make up his mind quickly. "The Residential election would be in 
 the autumn of next yeai , They are a people whom a fancy does not 
 hold long. They are bent upon my reading there, and they believe 
 (on no foundation whatever) that I am going to read there. If I ever 
 
 go, the time would be when the Christmas number goes to press " 
 
 Then there came that which should have availed to dissuade, far 
 more than any of the arguments which continued to express my 
 objection to the enterprise. "I am laid up," he wrote on 6 August, 
 "with another attack in my foot, and was on the sofa all last night 
 in tortures. I cannot bear to have the fomentations taken off for a 
 moment. I was so ill with it on Sunday, and it looked so fierce, that I 
 came up to Henry Thompson. He has gone into the case heartily, 
 and says that there is no doubt the complaint originates in the action 
 of the shoe, in walking, on an enlargement in the nature of a bunion. 
 Erysipelas has supervened upon the injury; and the object is to avoid 
 a gathering, and to stay the erysipelas where it is. Meantime I am 
 on my back and chafing. ... I didn't improve my foot by going 
 down to Liverpool to see Dolby off, but I have little doubt of its 
 yielding to treatment, and repose." A few days later he was chafing 
 still; the accomplished surgeon he consulted having dropped other 
 hints that somewhat troubled him. "I could not walk a quarter of a 
 mile to-night for ;^5oo. I make out so many reasons against supposing 
 it to be gouty that I really do not think it is." 
 
 So momentous in my judgment were the consequences of the 
 American journey to him that it seemed right to preface thus much 
 of the inducements and temptations that led to it. My own part in 
 the discussion was that of steady dissuasion throughout: though this 
 might perhaps have been less persistent if I could have reconciled 
 
 myself to 
 readings \ 
 had by tl 
 enterprise 
 The rer 
 there was 
 Lord Lyt 
 
in having 
 proposals, 
 irprising. 
 ponsible, 
 that if I 
 •me over 
 lumber I 
 :ts's. Mr. 
 ;lemen at 
 esired to 
 own as a 
 m specu- 
 1 similar 
 ist series 
 question 
 lis mind, 
 no com- 
 e had to 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 625 
 
 m^' 
 
 myself to the belief, which I never at any time did, that public 
 readings were a worthy employment for a mau of his genius. But it 
 had by this time become clear to me that nothing could stay the 
 enterprise. . . . 
 
 The remaining time was given to preparations; on 2 November 
 there was a Farewell Banquet in the Freemasons' Hall over which 
 Lord Lytton presided; and on the 9th Dickens sailed for Boston. 
 
 .ia 
 
 He must 
 lid be in 
 does not 
 T believe 
 If I ever 
 ess. . . ," 
 lade, far 
 iress my 
 August, 
 LSt night 
 ofiE for a 
 e, that I 
 heartily, 
 le action 
 bunion, 
 to avoid 
 ne I am 
 >y going 
 t)t of its 
 i chafing 
 ;d other 
 rter of a 
 ipposing 
 
 } of the 
 is much 
 part in 
 usfh this 
 conciled 
 
BOOK NINTH 
 AMERICA REVISITED 
 
 1867-8. JET. 55-6 
 
 T. November and December, 1867, 
 II. January to April, 1868. 
 
 627 
 
 ik 
 
 B 
 
 
I ( 
 
 
 It is the 
 incidents 
 that only 
 letters wi 
 On tht 
 where h(< 
 first lette 
 all to tha 
 saleable, 
 for twelv 
 r ench tl 
 *ur calcu 
 not been 
 the old gi 
 his settin 
 greeting ^ 
 before, a 
 himself li 
 He hac 
 profit of 
 seven do] 
 omen in 
 severity, 
 changes, 
 work is ( 
 everythir 
 invitatioi 
 New Yor! 
 more tha 
 these spe( 
 profits, w 
 them — n( 
 move ! — c 
 300 tirke 
 these wor 
 sale of th 
 a Wednea 
 
!* 
 
 AMERICA: NOVEMBER AND DECEMBER 
 
 1867 
 
 It is the intention of this and the following chapter to narrate the 
 incidents of the visit to America m Dickens's own language, and in 
 that only. They will consist almost exclusively of extracts from his 
 letters written home, to members of hi.« family and to myself. 
 
 On the night of Tuesday, 19 Novemb«r, he arrived at Boston, 
 where h«< took up his residence at the Par er House Kotel; and his 
 first letter (21st) stated that the tickets 1 r the first four readings, 
 all to that time issued, had been sold immedia ely on their becoming 
 saleable. "A^ .nmense train of people waited in the freezing street 
 for twelve houri. and passed into the office in their turns, as at a 
 French theairt . The receipts alreadv taken for these nights exceed 
 our calculation hy more than ;^25o.' Up to the last moment, he had 
 not been able to clear off wholly a shade of 1 isgiving that some of 
 the old grudges might make themselves felt; but hnin the instant of 
 his setting foot in Boston not a vestige of such iear remained. The 
 greeting was to the full as extraordinary as that of twenty -five years 
 before, and was given now, as then, to the man who had made 
 himself Ihe most popular writer in th country. ... 
 
 He had written, the day before he ieit, that he was making a 'ear 
 profit of thirteen hund ed pounds English a week, even allowing 
 seven dollars to the pound; bu: words were added having no good 
 omen in them, that the weather was taking a turn of even i .nusuki! 
 severity, and that he found the clii. te, in the suddenne .. if its 
 changes, "and the wide leaps they take," excessively tryin/j. "The 
 work is of course rather trying too; but the sound position that 
 everything must be subservient to it enables me to keep aiocf from 
 invitations. To-morrow," ran the close of the letrer, "we rrove to 
 New York. We cannot beat the speculators in our tickets. W^ ^jell no ' 
 more than six to any one person for the course of four readings; but 
 these speculators, who sell at greatly increased prices and make large 
 profits, will employ any number of men to buy. One of the chief of 
 them — now living in this house, in order that he may move as we 
 move ! — can put on 50 people in any place we go to; and thus he gets 
 300 tickets into his own hands." Almost while Dickens was writing 
 these words an eyewitness was describing to a Philadelphia petper the 
 sale of the New York tickets = Tho pav-place was to open at nine on 
 a Wednesday morning, and at midnight of Tuesday a long line of s^cc- 
 
 629 
 
 k 
 
 m 
 
 I 
 
l?j 
 
 630 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ulators were assembled in queue; at two in the morning a few honest 
 buyers had begun to arrive; at five there were, of ah classes, two 
 lines of not less than 800 each; at eight there were at least 5000 per- 
 sons in the two lines; at nine each line was more than three-quarters 
 of a mile in length, and neither became sensibly shorter during the 
 whole morning. "The tickets for the course were all sold before noon. 
 Members of families relieved each other in the queues; waiters flew 
 across the streets and squares from the neighbouring restaurant, to 
 serve parties who were taking their breakfast in the open December 
 air; while excited men offered five and ten dollars for the mere per- 
 mission to exchange places with other persons standing nearer the 
 head of the line !" 
 
 The effect of the reading in New ^^ork corresponded with this 
 marvellous preparation, and Dickeiio characterised his audience 
 as an unexpected support to him; in its appreciation quick and un- 
 failing, and highly demonstrative in its satisfactions. On 11 Decem- 
 ber he wrote to his daughter: ". . . We have not yet had in it less 
 than ;^43o per night, alio ving for the depreciated currency ! I send 
 i:3ooo to England by this packet. From all parts of the States, 
 applications and offers continually come in. We go to Boston next 
 Saturday for two more readings, and come back here on Christmas 
 Day for four more. I am not vet bound to go elsewhere, except three 
 times, each time for two nights, to Philadelphia; thinking it wisest to 
 keep free for the largest places. I have had an action brought against 
 me by a man who considered himself injured (and really may have been) 
 in the matter of his tickets. Personal service bein^ necessary, I was 
 politely waited on by a marshal for that purpose^ whom I received 
 with the greatest courtesy, apparently very much to his amazement. 
 The action was handsomely withdrawn next day, and the plaintiff 
 paid his own costs. ..." 
 
 The time had now come when the course his readings were to take 
 independently of the two leading cities must be settled, and the 
 general tour made out. His agents' original plan was that they should 
 be m New York every week. "But I say No. By the loth of January 
 I shall have read to 35,000 people in that city alone. Put the readings 
 out of the reach of all the peopte behind them, for the time. It is 
 that one of the popular peculiarities which I most particularly notice, 
 that they must not have a thing too easily. Nothing in the country 
 lasts long; and i, thing is prized the more, the less easy it is made. 
 Reflecting therefore that I shall want to close, in April, with farewell 
 readmgs here and in New York, I am convinced that the crush and 
 pressure upon these necessary to their adequate success is only to be 
 got by absence; and that the best thing I can do is not to give either 
 city as much read' ig as it wants now, but to be independent of both 
 while both are most enthusiastic. ..." 
 
 An incident at Boston should have mention before he resumes 
 his readings in New York. In the interval since he was first in America, 
 the Harvard professor of chemistry, Dr. Webster, whom he hud at 
 
 II 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 631 
 
 that visit met among the honoured men who held chairs in their 
 Cambridge University, had been hanged for the murder, committed 
 in his laboratory in the college, of a friend who had lent him money, 
 portions of whose body lay concealed under the lid of the lecture- 
 room table where the murderer continued to meet his students. 
 "Being in Cambridge," Dickens wrote to Lord Lytton, "I thought I 
 would go over the Medical School, and see the exact localities where 
 Professor Webster did that amazing murder, and worked so hard to 
 rid himself of the body of the murdered man. (I find there is of course 
 no rational doubt that the Professor was always a secretly cruel man.) 
 They were horribly grim, Brivate, cold, ctnd quiet; the identical 
 furnace smelling fearfully (sc ne anatomical broth in it I suppose) as 
 if the body were still there; jars of pieces of sour mortality standing 
 about, like the forty robbers in A li Baba after being scalded to death; 
 and bodies near ns ready to be carried in to next morning's lecture. 
 At the house where I afterwards dined I heard an amazing and fear- 
 ful story; told by one who had been at a dinner-party of ten or a 
 dozen, at Webster's, less than a year before the murder. They 
 began rather uncomfortably, in consequence of one of the guests 
 (the victim of an instinctive antipathy) starting up with the sweat 
 pouring dovvrn his face, and crying out, 'O Heaven! There's a cat 
 somewhere in the room!' The (at was found and ejected, but they 
 didn't get on very well. Left with their wine, they were getting on a 
 little better; when Webster suddenly told the servants to turn the 
 gas off and bring in that bowl of burning minerals which he had 
 prepared, in order that the company might see how ghastly they 
 looked by its weird light. All this was done, and every man was 
 looking, horror-stricken, at his neighbour; when Webster was seen 
 bending over the bowl with a rope round his neck, holding up the end 
 of the rope, with his head on one side and iiis tongue lolled out, to 
 represent a hanged man!" 
 
 Dickens read at Boston on 23 and 24 December, and on Christmas 
 Day t-avelled back to New York where he was to read on the 26th. 
 The last words written before he left were of illness. "The low action 
 of the heart, or whatever it is, has inconvenienced me greatly this last 
 week. On Monday night, after the reading, I was laid upon a bed, in a 
 very faint and shady state; and on the Tuesday I did not get up till the 
 afternoon," But what in reality was less grave took outwardly the 
 form of a greater distress; and the effects of the cold which had struck 
 him in travelling to Boston, as yet rot known to his English friends, 
 appear most to have alarmed those about him. x depart from my rule 
 in this narrative, otherwise strictly observed, in singling out one of 
 those friends for mention by name; but a business connection with 
 the readings, as we" ■"* untiring offices of personal kindness and sym- 
 pathy, threw Mr. Fields in+^'^ closer relations with Dickens from 
 arrival to departure, than any other person had; and his description 
 
 
 .i*-t-^A T3^„i-,», „. 
 
 ^t ■L.'u~ i:x: _x v.^-ij-u :-. ,..u;„v. "Pvc _ 
 
 went through the rest of the labour he had undertaken, will be a sad 
 
 
 I "■.. 
 
 ^'n 
 
 I 
 
 WP^' 
 
632 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 :i 
 
 I1 1. 
 
 though fit prelude to what the following chapter has to tell. "He went 
 from Boston to New York carrying with him a severe catarrh con- 
 tracted in our climate. He was quite ill from the effects of the disease; 
 but he fought courageously against them. . . . His spirit was wonder- 
 ful, and, although he lost all appetite and could partake of very little 
 food, he was always cheerful and ready for his work when the evening 
 came round. A dinner was tendered to him by some of his literary 
 friends in Boston; but he was so ill the day before that the banquet 
 had to be given up. The strain upon his strength and nerves was very 
 great during all the months he remained, and only a man of iron will 
 could have accomplished what he did. He was accustoned to talk and 
 write a good deal about eating and drinking, but I have rarely seen a 
 man eat and drink less. He liked to dilate in imagination over the 
 brewing of a bowl of punch, but when the punch was ready he drank 
 less of it than anyone who might be present. It was the vSentiment of 
 the thing and not the thing itself that engaged his attention. J scarcely 
 saw him eat a hearty meal during his whole stay. Both at Parker's 
 hotel in Boston, and at the Westminster in New York, everything was 
 arranged by the proprietors for his comfort, and tempting dishss to 
 piqi:.3 his invalid appetite were sent up at different hours of the day; 
 but the influenza had seized him with masterful power, and held the 
 strong man down till he left the country." 
 
 When he arrived in New York on the evening of Christmas Day he 
 found a letter from his daughter. Answering her next day he told her: 
 "I wanted it much, for I had a frightful cold (English colds are nothing 
 to those of this country) and was very miserable. ... It is a bad 
 country to be unwell and travelling in. You are one of, say, a hundred 
 people in a heated car with a great stove in it, all the little windows 
 being closed; and the bumping and banging about are indescribable, 
 the atmosphere detestable, the ordinary motion all but intolerable." 
 The following day this addition was made to the letter. "I managed to 
 read last night, but it was as much as I could do. To-day I am so very 
 unwell that I have sent for a doctor. He has just been, and is in doubt 
 whether I shall not have to stop reading for a while." 
 
 His stronger will prevailed, and he went on without stopping. On 
 the last day of the year he announced to us that though he had been 
 very low he was getting right again; that in a couple of days he should 
 have accomplished a fourth of the entire readings; and that the first 
 month of the new year would see him through Philadelphia and Balti- 
 more, as well as through two more nights ir. Boston. He also preprred 
 his English friends for the startling intelligence they might shc-./y 
 expect, of four readings coming off in a church, before an audience of 
 two thousand people accommodated in pews, and with himself 
 emerging from a \'estiy. 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 633 
 
 II 
 
 JANUARY TO APRIL 
 
 1868 
 
 The reading on 3 January closed a fourth of the entire series, and on 
 that day Dickens wrote of the trouble brought on them by the 
 "speculators," which to some extent had affected unfavourably the 
 three previous nights in New Yoik. When adventurers bought up the 
 best places, the public resented it by refusing the worst; to prevent 
 it by first helping themselves, being the last thing they ever thought 
 of doing. "We try to withhold the best seats from the speculators, but 
 the unaccountable thing is that the great mass of the public buy of 
 them (prefer it), and the rest of the public are injured if we have not 
 got those very seats to sell them. We have now a travelling staff of 
 six men, in spite of which Dolby, who is leaving me to-day to sell 
 tickets in Philadelphia to-morrow morning, will no doubt get into a 
 tempest of difficulties. Of course also, in such a matter, as many 
 obstacles as possible are thrown in an Englishman's way; and he may 
 himself be a little injudici' s into the bargain. Last night, for instance, 
 he met one of the ' usheis ' (who show people to their seats) coming 
 in with one of wur men. It is against orders that anyone employed in 
 front should go out during the reading, and he took this man to task 
 in the British manner. Instantly, the free and independent usher put 
 on his hat and walked off. Seeing which, all the other free and inde- 
 pendent ushers (some twenty in number) put on their hats and walked 
 off; leaving us absolutely devoid and destitute of a staff for to-night. 
 One has since been improvised: but itwas a small matter to raise a stir 
 and ill-will about, especially as one of our men was equally in fault; 
 and really there is little to be done at night. American people are so 
 accustomed to take care of themselves, that one of these immense 
 audiences will fall into their places with an ease amazing to a 
 frequenter of St. James's Hall; and the certainty with which they are 
 all in, before I go on, is a very acceptable mark of respect. Our great 
 labour is outside; and we have been obliged to bring our staff up to 
 six, besides a boy or two, by employment of a regular additional 
 clerk, a B- ^tonian. The speculators buying the front seats (we have 
 found instances of this being done by merchants in good position) the 
 public won't have the back seats; return their tickets; write and print 
 volumes on the subject; and deter others from coming. You are not to 
 suppose that this prevails to any great extent, as our lowest house 
 here has been ;^3«jo; but it does hit us. There is no doubt about it. 
 Fortunateiy I saw the danger when the trouble began, and changed 
 the list at the right time. . . . You may get an idea of the staff's work, 
 
 

 I J -i 
 
 
 * 
 
 B^Hf ' 
 
 
 
 
 ^^m 
 
 634 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 by what is in hand now. They are preparing, numbering, and stamp- 
 ing, 6000 tickets for Philadelphia, and Sooo tickets for Brooklyn. The 
 moment those are done, another 8000 tickets will be wanted for Balti- 
 more, and probably another 6000 for Washington: and all this in addi- 
 tion to the correspondence, advertisements, accounts, travelling, and 
 
 the nightly business of the readings four times a week I cannot get 
 
 rid of this intolerable cold ! My landlord invented for me a drink of 
 brandy, rum, and snow, called it a 'Rocky Mountain Sneezer,' and 
 said it was to put down all less effectual sneezing; but it has not yet 
 had the effect. Did I tell you that the favourite drink before you get 
 up is an Eye-opener? There has been another fall of snow, succeeded 
 by a heavy thaw." 
 
 The day after (the 4th) he went back to Boston, and next day 
 wrote to me: "I am to read here on Monday and Tuesday, return to 
 New York on Wednesday, and finish there (except the farewells in 
 April) on Thursday and Friday. The New York reading of Doctor 
 Marigold made really a tremendous hit. The people doubted at first, 
 having evidently not the least idea what could be done with it, and 
 broke out at last into a perfect chorus of delight. At the end they made 
 a great shout, and gave a rush towards the platform as if they were 
 going to carry me off. It puts a strong additional arrow into my quiver. 
 Another extraordinary success has been Nickleby and Boots at the 
 Holly Tree (appreciated here in Boston, by the by, even more than 
 Copperfield); and think of our last New York night bringing £e^0Q 
 English into the house, after making more than the necessary deduc- 
 tion for the present price of gold ! The manager is always going about 
 with an immense bundle that looks like a sofa-cushion, but is in 
 reality paper-money, and it had risen to the proportions of a sofa on 
 the morning he left for Philadelphia. Well, the work is hard, the 
 climate is hard, the life is hard: but so far the gain is enormous. My 
 cold steadily refuses to stir an inch. It distresses me greatly at times, 
 though it is always good enough to leave me for the needful two hours! 
 I have tried allopathy, homoeopathy, cold things, warm things, sweet 
 things, bitter things, stimulants, narcotics, all with the same result. 
 Nothing will touch it." 
 
 In the same letter, light was thrown on the ecclesiastical mystery. 
 "At Brooklyn I am going to read in Mr. Ward Beecher's chapel: the 
 only building there available for the purpose. You must understand 
 that Brooklyn is a kind of sleeping-place for New York, and is sup- 
 posed to be a great place in the money way. We let the seats pew by 
 pew ! the pulpit is taken down for my screen and gas ! and I appear out 
 of the vestry in canonical form ! These ecclesiastical entertainments 
 come off on the evenings of the i6th, 17th, 20th, and 21st of the 
 present month." His first letter after returning to New York 
 (9 January) made additions to the Brooklyn picture. "Each evening 
 an enormous ferry-boat will convey me and my state-carriage (not to 
 mention halx a dozen wagons and any number of people and a few 
 score of horses) across the river to Brooklyn, and will bring me back 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 635 
 
 again. The sale of tickets there was an amazing scene. The noble army 
 of speculators are now furnished (this is literally true, and I am quite 
 serious) each man with a straw mattress, a little bag of bread and 
 meat, two blankets, and a bottle of whisky. With this outfit, they 
 lie down in line on the pavement the whole of the night before the 
 tickets are sold: generally taking up their position at about 10. It 
 being severely cold at Brooklyn, they made an immense bonfire in 
 the street — a narrow street of wooden houses — which the police 
 turned out to extinguish. A general fight then took place; from which 
 the people farthest off in the line rushed bleeding when they saw any 
 chance of ousting others nearer the door, put their mattresses in the 
 spots so gained, and held on by the iron rails. At 8 in the morning 
 Dolby appeared with the tickets in a portmanteau. He was immedi- 
 ately saluted with a roar of Halloa! Dolby! So Charley has let you 
 have the carriage, has he, Dolby? How is he, Dolby.? Don't drop the 
 tickets, Dolby I Look alive, Dolby, etc., in the midst of which he pro- 
 ceeded to business, and concluded (as usual) by giving universal dis- 
 satisfaction. He is now going off upon a little journey to look over the 
 ground and cut back again. This little journey (to Chicago) is twelve 
 hundred miles on end, by railway, besides the back again !" It might 
 tax the Englishman, but was nothing to the native American, It was 
 part of his New York landlord's ordinary life in a week, Dickens told 
 me, to go to Chicago and look at his theatre there on a Monday; to 
 pelt back to Boston and look at his theatre there on a Thursday; and 
 to come rushing to New York on a Friday, to apostrophise his 
 enormous ballet. . . . 
 
 His testimony as to improved social habits and ways was expressed 
 very decidedly. "I think it reasonable to expect that as I go west- 
 ward, I shall find the old manners going on before me, and may tread 
 upon their skirts mayhap. But so far, I have had no more intrusion or 
 boredom than I have when I lead the same life in England. I write 
 this in an immense hotel, but I am as much at peace in my own rooms, 
 and am left as wholly undisturbed, as if I were at the Station Hotel in 
 York. I have now read in New York city to 40,000 people, and am 
 quite as well known in the streets there as I am in London. People 
 will turn back, turn again and face me, and have a look at me, or will 
 say to one another, 'Look here! Dickens coming!' But no one ever 
 stops me or addresses me. Sitting reading in the carriage outside the 
 New York post office while one of the staff was stamping the letters 
 inside, I became conscious that a few people who had been looking at 
 the turn-out had discovered me within. On my peeping out good- 
 humouredly, one of them (I should say a merchant's book-keeper) 
 stepped up to the door, took off his hat, and said in a frank way: 
 'Mr. Dickens, I should very much like to have the honour of shaking 
 hands with you' — and, that done, presented two others. Nothing 
 could be more quiet or less intrusive. In the railways cars, if I see 
 anybody who clearly wants to speak to me, I usually anticipate the 
 wish by speaking myself. If I am standing on the brake outside (to 
 
 u 
 
636 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ■ 
 
 avoid the intolerable otove), people getting down will say with a 
 smile: As I am taking my departure. Mr. Dickens, and can't troublo 
 you for more than a moment. I should like to take you by the hanH 
 sir.' And so we shake hands and go our vays. ... Of course many of 
 my impressions come through the readings. Thus I find the peoD?e 
 lighter and more aumorous than formerly; and there must be a erSt 
 deal of innocent imagination among every class, or they never could 
 pet with such extraorainary pleasure as they do. the Boots's storv of 
 the elopement of the two little children. They seem to see the 
 children; and the women set up a shrill undercurrent of half-pitv and 
 half-pleasure that IS quite affecting. To-night's reading is my 26th- bu 
 as all the Philadelphia ti.Kets for four more are sold? as well as four 
 at 1 ooklyn. you must assume that I am at— say— my :15th reading 
 
 rij^nf. ri ff '° ^k"**''" ^".^"^'^^^ ^°^^ ^^°'"°° «dd; and I roughiv 
 calculate that on this number Dolby will have another thousand 
 pounds profit to pay me. These figures are of course between ourselves 
 at present; but are they not magnificent? . . ." 
 
 Then came as evci, the constant shadow that still attended him 
 the slave in the chariot of his triumph. "The work is very severe' 
 There is now no chance of my being rid of this American catarrh untii 
 I embark for England. It is very distressing. It likewise happens, not 
 seldom, that I am so dead beat when I come off that they lav me 
 down on a sofa after I have been washed and dressed, and I lie there 
 extremely faint, for a quarter of an hour. In that time I rallv and 
 come right.'' One week later from New York, where he had become 
 due on the i6th for the first of his four Brooklyn readings he wrote to 
 his sister-in-law. ''My cold sticks to me. and iLn scarcely eLggerate 
 what I undergo from sleeplessness. I rarely take any breakfast but 
 an egg and a cup of tea— not even toast or bread and butter. Mv 
 small dinner at 3. and a little quail or some such light thing when I 
 come home at night is my daily fare; and at the hall I have estab- 
 lished the custom of takmg an egg beaten up in sherry before going 
 in, and another between the parts, which I think pulls me up . 
 
 Baltimore and Washington were the cities in which he was now' 
 on quitting New York, to read for the first time; and as to the latter 
 some doubts arose He was at Philadelphia on 23 January, when he 
 wrote: The worst of it is. that everybody one advises with has a 
 monomania respecting Chicago. 'Good heavens, sir,' the great Phila- 
 deiphia authority said to me this morning, 'if you don't read in 
 Chicago the people will go into fits !' Well, I answered, I would rather 
 they went into fits than I did. But he didn't seem to see it at all " 
 
 To ^^yfelf he wrote from Philadelphia, beginning with a thank 
 Heaven that he had struck off Canada and the West, for he found the 
 wear and tear'-enormous." "Dolby decided that the croakers were 
 wrong about Washington, and went on: the rather as his raised 
 prices, which he put finally at three dollars each, gave satisfaction. 
 Fields is so confident about Boston, that mv remain in rr Hc+ i«^i.,^». 
 m all, 14 more readings there. I don't know how many more we'might 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 ^37 
 
 not have had here (where I have had attentions otherwise that have 
 been very grateful to me), if we had chosen. Tickets are now being 
 resold at ten dollars each. At Baltimore I had a charming little 
 theatre, and a very apprehensive impulsive audience. It is remarkable 
 to see how the Ghost of Slavery haunts the town; and how the 
 shambling, untidy, evasive, and postponing Irrepressible proceeds 
 about his free work, going round and round it, instead of at it. The 
 melancholy absurdity of giving these people votes, at any rate at 
 present, would glare at one out of every roll of their eyes, chuckle in 
 their mouths, and bump in their heads, if one did not see (as one can- 
 not help seeing in the country) that their enfranchisement is a mere 
 party trick to get votes. Being at the Penitentiary the other day (this, 
 while we mentior tes), and looking over the books, I noticed that 
 almost every man iiad been 'pardoned' a day or two before his time 
 was up. Why? Because if he had served his time out, he would have 
 been ipso facto disfranchised. So, this form of pardon is gone through 
 to save his vote; and as every officer of the prison holds his place only 
 in right of his party, of course his hopeful clients vote for the party 
 that has let them out! When I read in Mr. Beecher's church at 
 Brooklyn, we found the trustees had suppressed the fact that a 
 certain upper gallery holding 150 was 'the Coloured Gallery.' On the 
 first night not a soul could be induced to enter it; and it was not until 
 it became known next day that I was certainly not going to read 
 there more than four times, that we managed to fill it. One night at 
 New York, on our second or third row, there were two well-dressed 
 women with a tinge of colour — I should say, not even quadroons. 
 But the holder of one ticket who found his seat to be next them, 
 demanded of Dolby 'What he meant by fixing him next to those two 
 Gord darmed cusses of niggers?' and insisted on being supplied with 
 another good place. Dolby firmly replied that he was perfectly certain 
 Mr. Dickens wtDuld not recognise such an objection on any account, 
 but he could have his money back if he chose. Which, after some 
 squabbling, he had. In a comic scene in the New York Circus one 
 night, when I was looking on, four white people sat down upon a form 
 in a barber's shop to be shaved. A coloured man came as the fifth 
 customer, and the four immediately ran away. This was much laughed 
 at and applauded. In the Baltimore Penitentiary, the white prisoners 
 dine on one side of the room, the coloured prisoners on the other; and 
 no one has the slightest idea of mixing them. But it is indubitably the 
 fact that exhalations not the most agreeable arise from a number 
 of coloured people got together, and I was obliged to beat a quick 
 retreat from their dormitory. I strongly believe that they will die out 
 of this country fast. It seems, looking at them, so manifestly absurd 
 to suppose it possible that they can ever hold tb ir own against a 
 restless, shifty, striving, stronger race." 
 On 4 February he wrote to me from Washing^ in: It will be no 
 
 „_v.v.-.a V.-4 5.ii-_- iuiu vi a T viviiiig px&vskC UCLCUi i^ -..iiw VwiV ill bCX CS LXX J Ij 
 
 close of bis lotter is given. Its anecdote of President Lincoln was 
 
 
 «l 
 
 t 1 
 
 I 
 
 m^ 
 
638 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 
 II {{,'. 
 
 |3 'i 
 
 1; ! ; 
 r » 
 II I 
 
 ^^K'Jli&L 
 
 repeatedly told by Dickens after his return, and I am under no 
 necessity to withhold from it the authority of Mr. Sumner's name 
 I am gomg to-morrow to see the President, who has sent to me 
 twice. I dmed with Charles Sumner last Sunday, against my rul'»- 
 and as I had stipulated for no party, Mr. Secretary Stanton was the 
 only other guest, besides his own secretary. Stanton is a man with a 
 very remarkable memory, and extraordinarily familiar with my 
 ^ u j' •• * ^^ ^"^ Sumner having been the first two public men 
 at the dymg President's bedside, and having remained with him until 
 he breathed his last, we fell into a very interesting conversation after 
 dinner, when, each of them giving his own narrative separately '•the 
 usual discrepancies about details of time were observable. Then Mr 
 Stanton told me a curious little story which wUl form the remaindei 
 of this short letter. 
 
 "On the afternoon of the day on which the President was shot 
 there was a cabinet council at which he presided. Mr. Stanton' 
 being at the time commander-in-chief of the Northern troops that 
 were concentrated about here, arrived rather late. Indeed they were 
 waiting for him. and on his entering the room the President broke 
 off m something he was saying, and remarked: 'Let us proceed to 
 business, gentlemen.' Mr. Stanton then noticed, with great surprise 
 that the President sat with an air of dignity in his chair instead of 
 lollmg about it m the most ungainly attitudes, as his invariable 
 custom was; and that instead of telling irrelevant or questionable 
 stones, he was grave and calm, and quite a different man. Mr. 
 btanton, on leaving the council with the Attorney-General, said to 
 him. That is the most satisfactory cabinet meeting I have attended 
 ft)r many a long day! What an extraordinary change in Mr. Lincoln!' 
 JJ}^.f^^^^^^y-General replied, 'We all saw it, before you came in. 
 While we were waiting for you, he said, with his chin down on his 
 breast. Gentlemen, something very extraordinary is going to hap- 
 pen, and that very soon." ' To which the Attorney-General had ob- 
 served. Something good, sir, I hope?' when the President answered 
 very gravely: I don't know; I don't know. But it will happen, and 
 Shortly too ! As they were all impressed by his manner, the Attorney- 
 GeneraJ took him up again: 'Have you received any information, sir. 
 not yet disclosed to us?' 'No,' answered the President: 'but I have 
 had a dream. And I have now had the same dream three times. 
 Once on the night preceding the Battle of Bull Run. Once, on the 
 ?'S Ij^^^s'^^r.^'^'^^ another (naming a battle also not favourable 
 .i?^- u. °^^- P^® ^^^" ^^"^ ^" ^^s breast again, and he sat reflecting. 
 Might one ask the nature of this dream, sir?' said the Attorney- 
 General. Well, replied the President, without lifting his head or 
 changing his attitude. 'I am on a great broad rolling river—and I 
 am in a boat--and I drift— and I drift!— but this is not business'- 
 suddenly raising his face and looking round the table as Mr. Stanton 
 entered, let us proceed to business, gentlemen.' Mr. Stanton and the 
 Awiuxuuy-v^nerai said, as they walked on together, it would be 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 639 
 
 curious to notice whether anything ensued on this; and they agreed to 
 notice. He was shot that night." . . . 
 
 Dickens's last letter from America rvas written to his daughter 
 Mary from Boston on 9 April, the day before his sixth and last 
 farewell night. "I not only read last Friday when I was doubtful of 
 being able to do so, but read as I never did before, and astonished 
 the audience quite as much as myself. You never saw or heard such 
 a scene of excitement. Longfellow and all the Cambridge men have 
 urged me to give in. I have been very near doing so, but feel stronger 
 to-day. I cannot tell whether the catarrh may have done me any 
 lasting injury in the lungs or other breathing organs, until I shall 
 have rested and got home. I hope and believe not. Consider the 
 weather! There have been two snowstorms since I wrote last, and 
 to-day the town is blotted out in a ceaseless whirl of snow and wind. 
 Dolby is as tender as a woman, and as watchful as a doctor. He never 
 leaves me during the reading, now, but sits at the side of the platform, 
 and keeps his eye upon me all the time. Ditto George the gasman, 
 steadiest and most reliable man I ever employed. ..." 
 
 In New York, where there were five farewell nights, three thousand 
 two hundred and ninety-eight dollars were the receipts of the last, on 
 20 April; those of the last at Boston, on the 8th, having been three 
 thousand four hundred and fifty-six dollars. But, on earlier nights in 
 the same cities respectively, these sums also had been reached; and 
 indeed, making allowance for an exceptional night here and there, 
 the receipts varied so wonderfully little, that a mention of the high- 
 est average returns from other places will give no exaggerated 
 impression of the ordinary receipts throughout, excluding fractions 
 of dollars, the lowest were New Bedford ($1640), Rochester (S1906), 
 Springfield ($1970), and Providence ($2140). Albany and Worcester 
 averaged something less than S2400; while Hartford. Buffalo. Balti- 
 more, Syracuse, Newhaven, and Portland rose to $2600. Washington's 
 last night was $26iv), no night there having less than $2500. Phila- 
 delphia exceeded Washington by $300, and Brooklyn went ahead of 
 Philadelphia by $200. The amount taken at the four Brooklyn 
 readings was 11,128 dollars. 
 
 The New York public dinner was given at Delmonico's, the hosts 
 were more than two hundred, and the chair was taken by Mr. Horace 
 Greeley. Dickens attended with great difficulty, and spoke in pain. 
 But he used the occasion to bear his testimony to the changes of 
 twenty-five years; the rise of vast new cities; growth in the graces and 
 amenities of life; much improvement in the press, essential to every 
 other advance; and changes in himself leading to opinions more 
 deliberately formed. He promised his kindly entertainers that no 
 copy of his Notes or his Chuzzlewit, should in future be issued by him 
 without accompanying mention of the changes to which he had 
 referred that night; of the politeness, delicacy, sweet temper, hospit- 
 ality, and consideration in all ways for which he had to thank them; 
 and of his gratitude for the respect shown, during all his visiti 
 
640 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 to the privacy enforced upon him by the nature of his work and the 
 condition of his health. 
 
 He had to leave the room before the proceedings were over. On 
 tlie following Monday he read to his last American audience, telling 
 them at the close that he hoped often to recall them, equally by his 
 winter fire and in the green summer weather, and never as a mere 
 public audience but as a host of personal friends. He sailed two days 
 later in the Russia, and reached England in the first week of May 
 1868. ' 
 
 339 
 
ark and the 
 
 re over. On 
 nee, telling 
 lally by his 
 r as a mere 
 )d two days 
 sek of May 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 BOOK TENTH 
 SUMMING UP 
 
 1868-70. /ET. 56-8 
 
 Last Readings 
 Last Book 
 
 HI. Personal Characteristics 
 
 iy 
 
 339 
 
 64T 
 
V-:' V.:8 
 
n' 
 
 Pill 
 
 LAST READINGS 
 
 1868-70 
 
 
 Favourable weather helped Dickens pleasan ly home. He had 
 profited greatly by the sea voya^^e, perhaps more greatly by its 
 repose; and on 25 May he described himself to his Boston friends as 
 brown beyond belief, and causing the f;Teat»ist disappointment in 
 all quartc -s by looking so well. "My doctor v^as quite broken down 
 in spirits on seeing me for the first time last Saturday. Good Lord ! 
 seven years younger ! said the doctor, recoiling." That he gave all the 
 credit to "those fine days at sea," and none to the 'est from such 
 labours as he had passed through, the close of the letter too sadly 
 showed. "We are already settling — think of this! the details of my 
 farewell course of readings." 
 
 Even on his way out to America that enterprise was in hand. 
 From Halifax he had written to me: "I told the Chappells that when 
 I got back to England, I would have a series of far'?well readings in 
 town and country; and then read No More. They at once offer in 
 writing to pay all expenses whatever, to pay the ten per cent, for 
 management, and to pay me, for a series of 75, six thousand pounds." 
 The terms were raised and settled before the first Boston readings 
 closed. The number was to be a hundred: and the payment, over and 
 above expenses and percentage, eight thoi'sand pounds. Such a 
 temptation undoubtedly was great; and though it was a fatal mistake 
 which Dickens committed in yielding to it, it was not an ignoble one. 
 He did it under nc excitement from the Amer :an gains, of which 
 he knew nothing when he pledged himself to che enterprise. No man 
 could care essentially less for mere money than he did. But the neces- 
 sary provision for many sons was a constant anxiety; he was proud 
 of what the readings had done to abridge this care; and the very 
 strain of them under which it seems that his health had first given 
 way, and which he always steadily refused to connect especially with 
 them, had also broken the old confidence of being at all times avail- 
 able for his higher pursuit. What affected his health only he would 
 not regard as part of the question either way. That was to be borne 
 as the lot more or less of all men; and the more thorough he could 
 make his feeling of independence, and of ability to rest, by what was 
 now in hand, the better his final chances of a perfect recovery would 
 be. That was the spirit in which he entered on this last engagement. 
 It was an opportunity offered for making a particular work reaiiy 
 
 643 
 
 iS^i 
 
 
 mt 
 
 

 644 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 which with a pardonable cxultatirhTilSvl't^r* •^^'^"'^■"'•'■''' 
 
 I r.n^iibn money. Atter all. we were obliged to call in the aiH ^f o 
 money-changer, to determine what he should pay as 1 is share of th^ 
 t!^?^h-^°'' °^ conversion into gold. With this^deduSion made ? 
 
 /^n'^^ r A *° ^"^y- ^'3.000 received from the Chappells Tnrl 
 
 ^20.000 from America. V/hat I had made by them before T^nl 
 only ascertain by a long examination of Coutts's books I .ho n 
 
 S thft m^L"°' VT f^'f ^^°'^°°^ ^- I "mlmb'^ttt'/mat 
 A? hur SrS?h ^Th" *^'/''^ ^^^'''^ ^"^ ^°""*^ campaign with^oo? 
 
 nrris:ft'oifo.^'^;^^^ ^-^ --y^^^^^ p^^^-- th:n?e:fmt^,^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 He had scarcely begun these last readings than he was hp<,.f k 
 
 impression would not be so horrible as ?oke^n^h;^" whether the 
 time, is what I cannot satisfy n\yJfuponVhTd^^^^^ 
 It is in three short parts: i. mere Fa mn sets Nn^h r? ^1 ^^'''^• 
 watch Nancy. .. Th^ scene on London'S^e ^3''^t^^^^ 
 Claypole from his sleep to tell his perverted storv to Q^i ^ ^ lu 
 Murder, and the Murderer's sense o^fbdngLunted^ti ^h"^ l^^ 
 aiid cut about the text with great care'lnl itl^v ^^'p^^^^^.f^it:^, 
 to-day referred the boolc and the question to the SpSs as lo 
 largely interested." I had a strong di.slike to this prSf less nor 
 haps on the ground which ought to have been taken & the ph^ska; 
 exertion it would invol . , than becau :,c such a sublec^seemed^to b^^^^ 
 altogether out of the province of reading; and it wis resoled that 
 
 ^ TarS Sair^ ^'°^^!^'/ ""'IVi '"^^^^^ P^varaudtufefn 
 01. jamcss i-iail. ... We might have atrrP^^H " 1,^ ^„ - 
 
 ■ <j 
 
g of it will 
 quisiticns, 
 
 ts squared 
 lOunted to 
 le aid of a 
 lare of the 
 1 made, I 
 'as ;^2888; 
 
 per cent, 
 ay of our 
 
 ;^i3.ooo. 
 
 gold was 
 i or so o, 
 ?agement 
 K'O years, 
 >ells, and 
 . I could 
 I should 
 t I made 
 "^ith poor 
 Ives; but 
 
 bargain 
 £60; and 
 
 3set by a 
 
 s. Chap- 
 
 ment to 
 
 in Man- 
 
 mounce- 
 
 n Oliver 
 
 t or not. 
 
 y carry- 
 
 ther the 
 
 another 
 
 ; think? 
 
 le on to 
 
 1 ro 'ses 
 
 and the 
 
 idapted 
 
 . I have 
 
 Is as so 
 
 ess per- 
 
 •hysical 
 
 d to be 
 
 1, that, 
 
 enco in 
 t„ '<j 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 645 
 
 if 
 
 differ about it very well, because we only wanted to find oul the truth 
 if we could, and because it was quite understood that I wanted to 
 leave behind me the recollection of something very passionate and 
 dramatic, done with simple means, if the art would justify the 
 theme." Apart from mere personal considerations, the whole question 
 lay in these last words. It was impossible for me to admit that the 
 effect to be produced w .3 legitimate, or such as it was desirable to 
 associate with the recolk-:tion of his readings. . , . 
 
 The second portion of the enterprise opened with the New Year; 
 and thi Sikes and Nancy scenes, everywhere his prominent subject, 
 exacted the most terrible physical exertion from him. In January 
 he was at Clifton, where he had given, he told his sister-in-law, 
 "by far the best Murder yet done"; while at the same date he wrote 
 to his daughter: "At Clifton on Monday night we had a contagion of 
 fainting; and yet the place was not hot. I should think we had from 
 a dozen to twenty ladies taken out stiff and rigid, at various times! 
 It became quite ridiculous." He was afterwards at Cheltenham. 
 "Macready is of opinion that the Murder is two Macbeths. He de- 
 clares that he heard every word of the reading, but I doubt it. Alas ! 
 he is sadly infirm." On the 27th he wrote to his daughter from Tor- 
 quay that the place into which they had put him to read, and where a 
 pantomine had been played the night before, was something between 
 a Methodist chapel, a theatre, a circus, a riding-school, and a cow- 
 house. That day lie wrote to me from Bath: "Lr,ndor's ghost goes 
 along the silent streets here before me. . . . The place looks to me 
 like a cemetery which the Dead have succeeded in rising and taking. 
 Having built streets of their old gravestones, they wander about 
 scantly trying to 'look alive.' A dead failure." 
 
 In the second week of February he was in London, under engage- 
 ment to return to Scotland (which he had just left) after the usual 
 weekly reading at St. James's Hall, when there was a sudden inter- 
 ruption. "My foot has turned lame again !" was his announcement to 
 me on the 15th. . . . 
 
 A few days' rest again brought so much relief, that, against tlie 
 urgent entreaties of members of his family as well as other friends, 
 he was in the railway carriage bound for Edinburgh on the morning 
 of 20 February, accompanied by Mr. Chappell himself. "I came down 
 lazily on a sofa," he wrote to me from Edinburgh next day, "hardly 
 changing my position the whole way. The railway authorities had 
 do'.ie all sorts of things, and I was more comfortable than on the 
 sofa at the hotel. The foot gave nie no uneasiness, and 'as been 
 quiet and steady all night." He was nevertheless under the necessity, 
 two days later, of consulting Mr. Syme; and he told his daughter 
 that this great authority had warned him against over-fatigue in the 
 readings, and given him some slight remedies, but otherwise reported 
 him in "just perfectly splendid condition." . . . 
 
 The whole of that March month he went on with the scenes from 
 Oliver Twist. "The foot goes famously," he wrote to his daughter. 
 
 'K 
 
 ■ 
 
646 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 
 I feel the fatigue in it (four Murders in one week) but not overmuch 
 It merely aches at night, and so does the other, sympathetically I 
 suppose. . . . The end was near. A public dinner had been piven 
 hmi in Liverpool on 10 April, with Lord Dufterin in the chair and a 
 reading was due from him in Preston on the 22nd of that month 
 But on Sunday the i8th we had ill report of him from Chester and 
 on the 2ist he wrote from Blackpool to Jiis sister-in-law: "I have 
 come to this Sea-Beach Hotel (charming) for a day's rest. I am much 
 better than I was on Sunday; but shall want careful looking to to 
 get through the readings. My weakness and deadness are all on 'the 
 K 5 t'J'"'} '{ ^ ^°"'* ^°°^ ^* anything I try to touch with my left 
 hand I don t know where it is. I am in (secret) consultation with 
 trank Beard who says that I have given him indisputable evidences 
 of overworK which he could wish to treat immediately; and so I have 
 telegraphed for him. I have had a delicious walk by the sea to-dav 
 and I sleep soundly, and have picked up amazingly in appetite. Mv 
 foot IS greatly better too, and I wear my own boot." Next day was 
 appointed for the reading at Preston; and from that place hr wrote 
 to me, while waiting the arrival of Mr. Beard: "Don't say auythin- 
 about It, but the tremendous, severe nature of this work is a httl° 
 shaking mc. At Chester last Sunday I found myself extremely giddv 
 and extremely uncertain of my sense of touch, both in the left lee 
 and the left hand and arms. . . . Don't say anything in the Gad's 
 direction about my being a little out of sorts. I have broached the 
 matter of course; but very lightly. Indeed there is no reason for 
 broaching it otherwise." 
 
 Even to the close of that letter he had buoyed himself up with 
 the hope that he might yet be "coached" and that the readin<xs 
 need not be discontinued. But Mr. Beard stopped them at once, and 
 brought his patient to London. On Friday morning tho 2^r 1 the 
 same envelope brought me a note from himself to say that he' was 
 well enough, but tired; in perfectly good spirits, not at Mi uneasy 
 and writing this himself that 1 should have i! under his own hand' 
 with a note from lus eldest son to say that his father apoeared to 
 him to b ; very ill, and that a consultatio.x had been appointed with 
 bir Ihomat. Watson. ... ^ 
 
 ^^f'i'M^m^- 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 647 
 
 II 
 
 LAST BOOK 
 1869-70 
 
 The last book undertaken by Dickens was to be published in illus- 
 trated monthly lumbers, of the old form, but to close with the 
 twelfth.* It closed, unfinished, with the sixth number, which was 
 itself underwritten by two pages. 
 
 His first fancy for the tale was expressed in a letter in the middle 
 of July. "What shoul' you think of the idea of a story beginning in 
 this way?— Two peopie, boy and girl, or very young going apart 
 froK one another, pledged to be married after many years — at the 
 end of the book. The interest to arise out of the tracing of their 
 separate ways, and the impossibility of teUing what will be done 
 with that impending fate." This was laid aside; but it left a marked 
 trace on the story as afterwards designed, in the position of Edwin 
 Drood and his betrothed. 
 
 I first heard of the later design in a letter dated "Friday the 6th 
 of August 1869," in which after speaking, with the usual unstinted 
 praise he bestowed always on what moved him in others, of a little 
 tale he had received frv his journax, he spoke of the change that had 
 occurred to him for tne new tale by himself. "I laid aside the fancy I 
 told you of, and have a very curious and new idea for my new story 
 Not a communicable idea (or the interest of the book would be gone) 
 but a very strong one, though difficult to work." The story, I learnt 
 immediately afterward, was to be that of the murder of a nephew 
 by his uncle; the originality of which was to consist in the review of 
 the murderer's career by himself at the cJose, when its temptations 
 were to be dwelt upon as if, not he the culprit, but some other man, 
 were the tempted. The last chapters were to be written in the con- 
 dem ned cell, to which his wickedness, all elaborately elicited from him 
 
 * In drawing the agreement for the publication, Mr. Oxivry had, by Dickens's 
 wish, inserted a clause thought to be altogether needless, but found to be sadly 
 pertinent. It was the first time such a clause had been inserted in one of his igree- 
 ments. "That if the said Charles Dickens shall die during the composition ot the 
 said work of the Mystery of Edwin Drood, or shall otherwise become incapable 
 of completing the said work for publication in twelve monthly numbers as agreed, 
 it shall be referred .0 John Forster, Esq., one of Her Majesty's Cf.r; nissioners Ji 
 Lunacy, or in the case of his death, incapacity, ot refusal to act, Ihen to such 
 person as shall be named by Her Majesty's Attorney-General for the time beine;, 
 to determine the amount which shall be repaid by the said Charles Dickens, his 
 executors or administrators, to the said Frederic Chapman as a fair compensation 
 for so much of the said work as shall not have been completed for pubKcation." 
 Th*^ =:uTn to hfi raid at once for zs.ooo copies was £7500; publisher and authcn: 
 sharing equally in the profit of all sales beyond that impression. . . . 
 
 W 
 'l.| 
 
 I. 
 
648 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 oViilTtt:rn::S^i^^^^^^^^ inm Discovery by the murderer 
 
 hard upon cZZ:S::^'^,^^^ ^^^ object was to follow 
 was to be baffled till towards thfrnt I ^^?f °^"-y of the murderer 
 which had resisted hTcoSo.fvP .^ .' ^!?' ^^ ""^^"^ °^ "^ S^^d ring 
 thrown the body not onlv the -f' °^ ^' '" ^'^'^ ^"*° ^^^^^ he had 
 but the localit/'of the crime and thr"''^""'^ ''^' '° ^^ ^^^"t^«^^' 
 much was told to mrbefore anv of Ih k" T^'" committed it. So 
 will be recollected thnf fi^ ^ ^. , ^^'Z ^°°^' ^^^ written; and it 
 betrothed o^yi? t dr enr'^fm^nr \''''''' *° ^^ ^^^^^ *« ^^ 
 with him froni their last SeXw Rolf'* °"; ^^' ^^°"8^* ^^^v 
 Crisparkle the sistor ^f t n ?'^ ^"""^^ *° "^^^-y Tartar, and 
 
 have^.eri:hed intsist^iJ^K^^^^^^^^ '^"^^f ' ^ ^^-"k' "o 
 
 murderer. ^^^^^"^g lartar hnally to unmask and seize the 
 
 destntc'eXwTitrf^^^^^^ --" P-'ts of the 
 
 no hint or prepamfon fo^th^ i^n f numbers; there was 
 
 advance; an^d tLTr^ma nedtt:rn\vLTlL"^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^ 
 written of the book bv Thack^r^t .t ^ ^""^ himself so sadlv 
 evidence of matured d^esiinsne^^^^^^ ^^^*^- ^^^e 
 
 planned never to be executed rolds o?f h. ^"^?"^P^f ^^^d, intentions 
 be traversed, ^oals shinhi^ Tn fufr / *^°"^^t marked out never to 
 wanting her^. IttJ^U^lur^^^t^^^^^ '" ^^ ^^^^^^^' ^^^ 
 
 theless to give promise of a muc^gSr boo^^^^^^^^^^^^ ""T'' 
 
 predecessor. "I hope his hnnV ic fi^Li? S .. *^^" ^^^ immediate 
 
 ihe news of his death was flashed to A^'"^'' ^yp^e Longfellow when 
 his most beautiful works if nSfl^J^^T'"''- " ^" certainly one of 
 too sad to think the ^enh.i^^^^^^ 
 
 incomplete." Some of it? ch.r^l " ^''"'J"' ^^"'^' ^"^ left it 
 in its description^ hhim/^n.T' ""'^ *°"^^^^ ^^*^ subtlety, and 
 was wantinfto ?he reaiTtv^ "^^^^^^ ^t its best. Not a line 
 
 the most widdy con ra tld and^" T. ""'T'' ^^'T^^ ^'^^'^' ^^ P^^^^« 
 cathedral town and the lurirn J ^''"'7''}^'^^^^^ vividness the lazy 
 old lightness and buovLcv of?nZ^^^ ^"^- ^°"^«thing like the 
 
 the hSmour; the scenes of the rhnT '?'''^' §^^'^ ^ "^^^ freshness to 
 had both noveX and n?4tv of^^^^^^^^^^ her lucldess betrothed 
 
 in chambers wSi hS c erk^a^,d th. f ^' '"^ ^^.''''' ^"'^ ^^- Grewgious 
 Sapsea. and the blusLr ne nh L!>f ^^'.^^vaiters, the conceited fool 
 rate comedy jLs TwiSfnn ^^ ?^^^^^ were first- 
 
 -nd the lodging 10^^^^^^^ MLwn''^'^''l °^ ^^''' ^a Creeby; 
 
 Twnikleton but a so^r^ a^/coun o^^^^^^^^^^^ though she gave iVl4 
 T^dgers in her veins -T ^.. \ ^^^"^ }'^^°'^' ^^^^ that of Mrs. 
 boarding-s..ool he mistress ^^ '"^ '^'^>^ ^^^" *° ^ ^^^ g^nt^^^l 
 of about your ow \gf o/it nSv be '-''' ^ '"^^ than Vourself, 
 a poorness of blood fiovved from X i f "^t .y^^'" younger, and 
 my life." IVas evefanS^^ I'f ^"" *^^°"Sb 
 
 gentility.? y^^^i^S oeiter said of a school-fare of starved 
 
 The last page of ig:<^z£i»:i2 n^^-j ,..p .-x. . ^, ^ 
 
 i~6 ^ux.?2 ^,„^,^ ,,ao wxiiten in tlie Chalet in the 
 
e murderer 
 s to follow 
 e murderer 
 a gold ring 
 lich he had 
 ; identified 
 tted it. So 
 en; and it 
 iven to liis 
 ight away 
 artar, and 
 think, to 
 seize the 
 
 :ts of the 
 there was 
 lapters in 
 f so sadly 
 3ath. The 
 ntentions 
 : never to 
 ;hed, was 
 ed nevcr- 
 nmediate 
 ow when 
 ly one of 
 would be 
 d left it 
 ety, and 
 ot a hne 
 of places 
 the lazy 
 like the 
 hness to 
 strothed 
 "cwgious 
 ted foo] 
 ire first- 
 Creeby; 
 ive Miss 
 of Mrs. 
 genteel 
 ourself, 
 er, and 
 hrough 
 starved 
 
 in the 
 
 The Life ot Charles Dickens 
 
 649 
 
 afternoon of his last day of consciousness. The MS. more startlingly 
 showed him how unsettled the habit he most prized had become, in 
 the clashing of old and new pursuits. "When I had written" (22 
 December, 1869) "and, as I thought, disposed of the first two Num- 
 bers of my story, Clowes informed me to my horror that they were, 
 together, twelve printed pages too short! II Consequently I had to trans- 
 pose a chapter from number two to number one, and remodel number 
 two altogether! This was the more unlucky, that it came upon me at 
 the time when I was obliged to leave the book, in order to get up the 
 readings" (the additional twelve for which Sir Thomas Watson's 
 consent had been obtained); "quite gone out of my mind since I left 
 them off. However, I turned to it and got it done, and both numbers 
 are now in type. Charles Collins has designed an excellent cover." 
 It was his wish that his son-in-law should have illustrated the story; 
 but this not being practicable, upon an opinion expressed by Mr! 
 Millais which the result thoroughly justified, choice was made of 
 Mr. S. L. Fildes. 
 
 This reference to the last effort of Dickens's genius had been 
 written as it thus stands when a discovery of some interest was made 
 by the writer. Within the leaves of one of Dickens's other manuscripts 
 were found some deta,ched slips of his writing, on paper only half the 
 size of that used for the tale, so cramped, underlined, and blotted as 
 to be nearly illegible, which on close inspection proved to be a scene 
 in which Sapsea the auctioneer is introduced as the principal figure, 
 among a group of characters new to the story. The explanation of 
 it perhaps is. that having become a little nervous about the course of 
 the tale, from a fear that he might have plunged too soon into the 
 incidents leading on to the catastrophe, such as the Datchery assump- 
 tion in the fifth number (a misgiving he had certainly expressed to 
 his sister-in-law), it had occurred to him to open some fresh veins of 
 character incidental to the interest, though not directly part of it. 
 and so to handle them in connection with Sapsea as a little to sus- 
 pend the final development even wliile assisting to strengthen it. 
 Before beginning any number of a serial, he used, as we have seen 
 in former instances, to plan briefly what he intended to put into it 
 chapter by chapter; and his first number-plan of Drood had the fol- 
 lowing: "Mr. Sapsea. Old Tory jackass. Connect Jasper with him. 
 (He will want a solemn donkey by and by)"; which was effected by 
 bringing together both Durdlej and Jasper, for connection with 
 Sapsea, in the matter of the epitaph for Mrs. Sapsea's tomb. The 
 scene now discovered might in this view have been designed to 
 strengthen and carry forward that element in the tale; and other- 
 wise it very sufficiently expresses itself. It would supply an answer, 
 if such were needed, to those who have asserted that the hopeless 
 decadence of Dickens as a writer had set in before his death. Amon" 
 the lines last written by him, these are the very last we can ever 
 
 339* 
 
 m 
 
650 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 hope to receive; and they seem to me a delightful specimen of th^ 
 
 Kist^TaThav'^ 'r ^" ^'' P"'"^' ^"^ *^^ rar^eS which a^; 
 novelist can have, of revealing a character by a touch H^r« 
 
 are a couple of people. Kimber and Peartree not known to 
 us before, whom we read off thoroughly in a dozen words Jd 
 as to Sapsea himself, auctioneer aid Mayor of Soist^ham it 
 are face to face with what before we only dimly realised «n^ 
 ""^ ^7jhV°^^"'° j^^^^«^' '" his business pulp^ %>la4nToff th^ 
 
 How Mr. Sapsea Ceased to be a Member 
 
 OF THE Eight Club 
 
 Told by himself 
 
 .1 L^l^K "^ *"" *^^^ ^^"^ ^^''' ^ proceeded by a circuitous route toth^ 
 club It bemg our weekly night of meeting. I found that we mustered 
 
 Ei^hi" Club'fve- ^' -^.'■^r-"-d -^- the denominltion'ft^^ 
 Eight C ub We were eight m number; we met at eight o'clock 
 during eight months of the year; we played eieht l^mJt\^ T 
 handed cribbage. at eightpen'ce ihe gamerlr^frugTsup^r wa^ 
 composed of eight rolls, eight mutton chops, eight^pork 5^1^^ 
 eight baked potatoes, eight man-ow- bones, with eLhrtoIstsS 
 eight bottles of ale. There may. or may not b^a cfrtain h.^n 
 of colour in the ruling idea of^this (toLopt a pLase of ou^^^^^^^^^^ 
 ueighbours) reunion. It was a little idea of mine ^ 
 
 the name of Kimber By profession, a dancing-master. A common 
 
 Si the S "'' °' "'"' "'^"^ ^^^'^'"*^ °^ ^^g-^y - ^nowSdg; 
 
 •Anrttij'iftff. !^?. Cl"b-room, Kimber was making the remark; 
 And he still half-beheves him to be very high in the Churc^i ' 
 I lAf^^^^ hangmg up my hat on the eighth peg bv the door 
 
 I caught Kimber's visual ray. H^ lowered it.\nd passed a remark 
 
 Z^^tZ '^^T u *^^" "^°°"- ^ ^'^ "«t t^ke particular notke of 
 this at the moment, because the world was often pleased to be a Tift?; 
 shy of ecclesiastical topics in my presence For I felt thpH 
 picked out (though perhaps onl(^ ^through acldden^e tcH 
 S aruVclTand lUrXhT' r'^' ' ^^^L '"^ glorious t^nSitidon' 
 min^d's- ?ut fown t"it?s'm'fnri ThTewV 'rfn' *° '>' ^^^^^^- 
 
 "Another member of the Eight Club was P^rfr^^- ^-..^ 
 of the Royal College of Surgeo'ns, uT P^r^::T:ott::Z?^i: 
 
 - - X- — 0-— "wva^vci -.iicy wanx mm. and is not the parish 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 651 
 
 doctor. Mr. Peartree may justify it to the grasp of hts mind thus to do 
 his republican utmost to bring an appointed officer into contempt. 
 Suffice it that Mr. Peartree can never justify it to the grasp of 
 mine. 
 
 "Between Peartree and Kimber there was a sickly sort of feeble- 
 minded alliance. It came under my particular notice when I sold off 
 Kimber by auction. (Goods taken in execution.) He was a widower 
 in a white under- waistcoat, and slight shoes with bows, and had two 
 daughters not ill-looking. Indeed the reverse. Both daughters taught 
 dancing in scholastic establishments for Young Ladies — had done so 
 at Mrs. Sapsea's; nay, Twinkleton's — and both, in giving lessons, 
 presented the unwomanly spectacle of having little fiddles tucked 
 under their chins. In spite of which, the younger one might, if I am 
 correctly informed — 1 will raise the veil so far as to say I know she 
 might — have soared for life from this degrading taint, but for having 
 the class of mind allotted to what I call the common herd, and 
 being so incredibly devoid of veneration as to become painfully 
 ludicrous. 
 
 "When 1 sold off Kimber without reserve, Peartree (as poor as he, 
 can hold together) had several prime household lots knocked down 
 to him. 1 am not to be blinded; and of course it was as plain to me 
 what he was going to do with them; as it was that he was a brown 
 hulking sort of revolutionary subject who had been in India with the 
 soldiers, and ought (for the sake of society) to have his neck broke. 
 I saw the lots shortly afterwards in Kimbcr's lodgings — through the 
 window — and I easily made out that there had been a sneaking 
 pretence of lending them till better times. A man with a smaller 
 knowledge of the world than myself might have been led to suspect 
 that Kimber had held back money from his creditors, and fraudulently 
 bought the goods. But, besides that I knew for certain he had no 
 money. I knew that this would involve a species of forethought not 
 to be made compatible with the frivolity of a caperer, inoculating 
 other people with capering, for his bread. 
 
 "As it was the first time I had seen either of those two since the 
 sale, I kept myself in what I call Abeyance. When selling him up, I 
 had delivered a few remarks — shall I say a little homily? — concern- 
 ing Kimber, which the world did regard as more than usually worth 
 notice. I had come up into my pulpit, it was said, uncommonly like — 
 and a murmur of recognition had repeated his ( 1 will not name whose) 
 title, before I spoke. I had then gone on to say that all present would 
 find, in the first page of the catalogue that was lying before them, in 
 the last paragraph before the first lot, the following words: 'Sold in 
 pursuance of a writ of execution issued by a creditor.' I had then 
 proceeded to remind my friends, that however frivolous, not to say 
 contemptible, the business by which a man got his goods together, 
 still his goods were as dear to him, and as cheap to society (if sold 
 without reserve), as though his pursuits had been of a ciiaracter 
 that would bear serious contemplation. 1 had then divided my text 
 
 M 
 
 11 
 
652 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 t 
 
 f if I may be allowed so to call it) into three heads: firstly. Sold- secondly 
 In pursuance of a writ of execution; thirdly, Issued by a creditor' 
 with a few moral reflections on each, and winding up with. 'Now to 
 the first lot in a manner that was complimented when I afterwards 
 mingled with my hearers. '^ 
 
 "So. not being certain on what terms I and Kimber stood I was 
 grave. I was chilling. Kimber. however, moving to me, I moved to 
 Kimber. (I was the creditor who had isssued the writ. Not that ,t 
 matters.) "- 
 
 '"I was alluding Mr. Sapsea.' said Kimber. *to a stranger who 
 entered into conversation with me in the street as I came to the Club 
 He had been speaking to you just before, it seemed, by the church 
 yard; and though you had told him who you were, I could hardJv 
 persuade him that you were not high in the Church ' 
 " 'Idiot!' said Peartree. 
 "'Ass!' said Kimber. 
 
 " 'Idiot and Ass!' said the other five members. 
 ^ " 'Idiot and Ass, gentlemen.' I remonstrated, looking around me 
 are strong expressions to apply to a young man of good appearance 
 and address. My generosity was roused; I own it. 
 
 " 'You'll admit that he must be a Fool.' said Peartree 
 " 'You can't deny that he must be a Blockhead.' said Kimber 
 "Their tone of disgust amounted to being offensive. Why should 
 the young man be so calumniated? What had he done' He had onJv 
 made an innocent and natural mistake. I controlled my generous 
 indignation, and said so. 
 
 " 'Natural?' repeated Kimber. 'He's a Natural!' 
 "The remaining six members of the Eight Club laughed unani- 
 mously. It stung me. It was a scornful laugh. My anger was roused 
 in behalf of an absent, friendless stranger. I rose (for I had been 
 sitting down) . 
 
 " 'Gentlemen.' I said with dignity, 'I will not remain one of this 
 Club allowing opprobrium to be cast on an unoffending person in his 
 absence. I will not so violate what I call the sacred rites of hospi- 
 tality. Gentlemen, until you knt)w how to behave yourselves better 
 I leave you. Gentlemen, until then I withdraw, from this place or 
 meeting, whatever personal qualifications I may have brought into 
 It. Gentlemen, until then you cease to be the Eight Club, and must 
 make the 1 'jst you can of becoming the Seven.' 
 
 "I put on my hat and retired. As I went downstairs 1 distinctly 
 heard them give a suppressed cheer. Such is the power of demeanour 
 and knowledge of mank id. I had forced it out of them 
 
 'II 
 
 "Whom should I meet in the street, within a few yards of the door 
 : txa^. xi^n rvxicxt Ziic V.1UW \vii3 iiciu, Dut the seiisame young man 
 
653 
 
 will add so 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 whose cause 1 had felt it my duty so warmly — and I 
 disinterestedly — to take up. 
 
 " ' Is it Mr. Sapsea,' he said doubtfully, 'or is it ' 
 
 " 'It is Mr. Sapsea,' I replied. 
 
 " 'Pardon me, Mr. Sapsea; you appear warm, sir.' 
 
 " 'I have been warm,' I said, 'and on your account.' Having 
 stated the circumstances at some length (my generosity almost fwer- 
 powered him), I asked him his name. 
 
 " 'Mr. Sapsea,' he answered, looking down, 'your penetration is so 
 acute, your glance into the souls of your fellow men is so penetrating, 
 that if I was hardy enough to deny that my name is Poker, what 
 would it avail me?" 
 
 "I don't know that 1 had quite exactly made out to a fraction 
 that his name was Poker, but I daresay I had been pretty near 
 doing it. 
 
 " 'Well, well,' said 1, trying to put him at his ease by nodding my 
 head in a soothing way. ' Your name is Poker, and there is no harm in 
 being named Poker.' 
 
 " 'Oh Mr. Sapsea!' cried the young man, in a very well-behaved 
 manner. 'Bless you for those words!' He then, as if ashamed of having 
 given way to his feelings, looked down again. 
 
 " 'Come, Poker,' said I, let me hear more about you. Tell 
 me. Where are you going to. Poker? and where do you come 
 from?' 
 
 " 'Ah Mr. Sapsea!' exclaimed the young man. 'Disguise from you is 
 impossible. You know already that I come from somewhere, and am 
 going somewhere else, if 1 was to deny it, what would it avail 
 me?' 
 
 " 'Then don't deny it,' was my remark. 
 
 " 'Or,' pursued Poker, in a kind of despondent rapture, 'or if I 
 was to deny that I came to this town to see and hear you, sir, what 
 would it avail me? Or if I was to deny ' " 
 
 The fragment ends there, and the hand that could alone have com- 
 pleted it is at rest for ever. 
 
 'hi 
 
 jmeanour 
 
 Some personal characteristics remain tor illustration before the 
 end is briefly told. 
 
654 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 III 
 
 PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS 
 1836-70 
 
 Objection has been taken to this biography as likely to disappoint 
 
 Its readers ,n not making them "ta'k to Dickens as Boswell makes 
 
 them talk to Johnson. But where u ill the blame lie if a man takes up 
 
 Pickwick and IS disappumted to find that he is not reading Rasselas^ 
 
 A book must be judged for what it aims to be. and not for what it 
 
 cannot by possibility be. I suppose so remarkable an author as 
 
 Dickens hardly ever lived who carried so little of authorship into 
 
 ordinal ■ social intercourse. Potent as the sway of his writings was 
 
 oyer hi i, it expressed itself in other ways. Traces or triumphs of 
 
 literary labour, displays of conversational or other personal prc- 
 
 domii anco, were no part of the influence he exerted over friends To 
 
 them he was only the pleasaiitest of companions, with whom thev 
 
 forgot that he had ever written anything, and felt only the charm 
 
 which a nature of such capacity for supreme enjoyment causes everv- 
 
 one around it to enjoy. His talk was unaffected and natural never 
 
 bookish in the smallest degree. He was quite up to the average of 
 
 well-read men; but as there was no ostentation of it in his writing so 
 
 neither was there in his conversation. This was so attractive because 
 
 so keenly observant, and lighted up with so many touches of humorous 
 
 fancy; but. with every possible thing to give relish to it. there were 
 
 not many things to bring away. . . . 
 
 A dislike of all display was rooted in him; and his objection to 
 posthumous honours, illustrated by the instructions in his will 
 was very strikingly expressed two years before his death, v,-hen Mr' 
 Thomas Fairbairn asked his help to a proposed recognition of Rajah 
 ±5rooke s services by a memorial !n Westminster Abbey "I am verv 
 strongly impelled" (24 June, 186S) "to comply with any request of 
 yours But these posthumous honours of committee, subscriptions 
 and Westminster Abbey are so profoundly unsatisfactory in mv eves 
 that—plainly— I would rather have nothing to do with them in any 
 case. My daughter and her aunt unite with me in kindest regards to 
 Mrs Fairbairn, and I hope you will believe in the possession of mine 
 until I am quietly buried without any memorial but such as I have 
 set up in my lifetime." Asked a year later (August 1869) to say some- 
 thing on the inauguration of Leigh Hunt's bust at his grave in Kensal 
 Oreen he told the committee that he had a very strong objection to 
 speech-making beside graves. "I do not expect or wish my feelings 
 in this wise to guide other men; still, it is so serious with me and the 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 655 
 
 idea of ever being the subject of such a ceremony myself is ho repug- 
 nant to my soul, that 1 must (iecline to officiate." 
 
 His aversion to every f( rm of what is called patronage of literature 
 was part of the same feeling. A few month.s earlier he had received 
 an application for support to such a scheme from a person assuming 
 a title to which he had no pretension, but which appeared to sanction 
 the request. "I beg to be excused," was his reply, "from complying 
 with the request you do me the honour to prefer, simply because I 
 hold the opinion that there is a great deal too much patronage in 
 England. The better the design, the less (as I think) should it seek 
 such adventitious aid, and the more composedly should it rest on its 
 own merits." This was the belief Southey held; it extended to the 
 support by way of patronage given by such societies as the Literary 
 Fund, which Southey also strongly resisted; and it survived the 
 failure of the Guild whereby it was hoped to establish a system of self- 
 help, under which men engaged in literary pursuits might l>e as proud 
 to receive as to give. Though there was no project of his life into 
 which he flung himself with greater eagerness than the Guild, it was 
 not taken up by the class it was meant to benefit, and every renewed 
 exertion more largely added to the failure. There is no room in these 
 pages for th( story, which will add its chapter some day to the 
 vanity of human wishes; but a passage from a letter to Bulwer 
 Lytton at its outset will be some measure of the height from which the 
 writer fell, when all hope for what he had so set his heart upon ceased. 
 "I do, devoutly believe that this plan carried by the support which 1 
 trust will be given to it, will change the status of the literary man in 
 England, and make a revolution in his position which no government, 
 no p Dwer on earth but his own, could ever effect. I have implicit con- 
 fidence in the scheme — so splendidly begun — if we carry it out with 
 a steadfast energy. 1 have a strong conviction that we hold in our 
 hands the peace and honour of men of letters for centuries to come, 
 and that you are destined to be their best and most enduring bene- 
 factor. . . . Oh what a procession of new years may walk out of all this 
 for the class we belong to, after we are dust." 
 
 These views about patronage did not make him more indulgent to 
 the clamour with which it is so often invoked for the ridiculously small. 
 "You read that life of Clare?" he wrote (15 August, 1865). "Did you 
 ever see such preposterous exaggeration of small claims? And isn't 
 it expressive, the perpetual prating of him in the book as the Poet? 
 So another Incompetent used to write to the ll-iterary Fund when I 
 was on the committee: 'This leaves the Poet at his divine mission in a 
 corner of the single room. The Poet's father is wiping his spectacles. 
 The Poet's mother is weaving.' — Yah!" . . . 
 
 Of his ordinary habits of activity I have sp«.,.:en, and they were 
 doubtless carried too far. In youth it was all well, but he did not 
 make allowance for years. This has had abundant illustration, but 
 will admit of a few words more. To all men who dc much, rule and 
 order are essential; method in everything was Pickens's peculiarity: 
 

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656 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 Wb„te /e was among tSt' to"o«e;"totslZ:r: h^'dSS 
 som whired you by the Bell and Horns at Brompton and th^r^ 
 
 behind Holborn, in Borougl, courts and passages in atvwhfrffnr 
 ^leys about tl>e poorer lodging-houses, in p^oL worichous^ 
 ragged-schools poLce-coarts, rag-shops, chandlers' shops and Ijl 
 Ttirinl SudT '°^ *'^ ^'"^ ^'^"^^ keen cbser^ation^a^d' 
 
 P^.^r^?w';l:^rot' ^ Tn f^J'°^^l '«"-^- ."^° ""^ 
 F^enc Len,anro got up forTl^^pTrt SVer^'c^^S tStStS 
 ache, tod me m a railway carriage the other day, that we had no 
 ant.qu,hes m heretical England. 'None at all,' I safd ' You hav» ^^e 
 ships, however.'- 'Yes: a few.' 'Are they strong? • ■Well ' said l"'^,^r 
 cw^i,? ?'"*"*'■■ ™/. '"*''"'^= "* the'^ ghost rf Neton • A kTh 
 sS oke Tm^t' him^r?'?*^' "n 'T^^^'y delighted with tht 
 
 a^tt^a-fh^-^^^^^^^ 
 
 Of enjoyment his least important little notes are often worS ore^ 
 serving fake one small instance. So freely had he admSd a tafe fold 
 by his tnend and solicitor Mr. Frederic Ouvry that he had to r^n u 
 tea humorous proposal for publication of it.^nhfsovvn manner^ n 
 his own periodical. "Your modesty is equal to your meri? 1 think 
 yoiir way of describing that rustic courtship in Sle 'life quitt 
 matchless. . A cheque for^iooo is lying with the publisher/Wew^ould 
 vil mgly make It more, but that we find our law^charges so exxeed 
 
 ^^^u^l^' ^'' ^^"^" ^^^« «^«° examples now and^then of what 
 he called his conversational triumphs. "I Lve distinguish^ myS' 
 
s, was his 
 njoyment 
 jpensable, 
 sala is an 
 genferous 
 described 
 it inclem- 
 mberwell 
 tnersmith 
 "A ban. 
 md there 
 direction 
 I forth at 
 he York- 
 ;k wall of 
 n Sisters 
 1, under- 
 i way up 
 e in the 
 jghfares. 
 k streets 
 /harfs or 
 khouses^ 
 and ail 
 ;ion and 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 657 
 
 "An old 
 mage of 
 le tooth- 
 had no 
 ve some 
 
 I, 'your 
 French 
 ith this 
 ! with a 
 Bd as to 
 umour- 
 lis kind 
 th pre- 
 ale told 
 
 reply 
 iner, in 
 
 1 think 
 , quite 
 3 would 
 Jxceed- 
 f what, 
 lyself" 
 
 (28 April, 1861) "in two respects lately. I took ayoung lady, unknown, 
 down to dinner, and, talking to her about the Bishop of Durham's 
 Nepotism in the matter of Mr. Cheese, I found she was Mrs. Cheese. 
 And I expatiated to the member for Marylebone, Lord Fermoy, 
 generally conceiving him to be an Irish member, on the contemptible 
 character of the Marylebone constituency and Marylebone repre- 
 sentation." . . . 
 
 m 
 
 !!1 
 
BOOK ELEVENTH 
 THE CLCSE 
 
 1870. ^T. 58 
 
 I. Last Days 
 II. Westminster Abbey 
 
 41 
 
 659 
 
The si 
 He rec 
 been d 
 trying 
 nation 
 cile th 
 healthi 
 in Sepi 
 Institu 
 as it vi 
 habit ( 
 politic, 
 illimitt 
 with n 
 hardly 
 ment c 
 
 Hel 
 Londo; 
 Office 1 
 houses 
 quarte: 
 Johnsc 
 with hi 
 had no 
 in Fun 
 more t 
 and th< 
 den, w; 
 Mr. Fi€ 
 made c 
 mouth 
 as we I 
 
 Hef 
 Octobe 
 nights 
 taken f 
 even w 
 
LAST DAYS 
 
 1869-70 
 
 The summer and autumn of 1869 were passed quietly at Gadshill. 
 He received there, in June, the American friends to whom he had 
 been most indebted for unwearying domestic kindness at his most 
 trying time in the States. In August, he was at the dinner of the Inter- 
 national boat race; and, in a speech that might have gone far to recon- 
 cile the victors to changing places with the vanquished, gave the 
 healths of the Harvard and the Oxford crews. He went to Birmingham, 
 in September, to fulfil a promise that he would open the session of the 
 Institute; and there, after telling his audience that his invention, such 
 as it was, never would have served him as it had done, but for the 
 habit of commonplace, patient, drudging attention, he declared his 
 political creed to be infinitesimal faith in the people governing and 
 illimitable faith in the People governed. In such engagements as these, 
 with nothing of the kind of strain he had most to dread, there was 
 hardly more movement or change than was necessary to his enjoy- 
 ment of rest. 
 
 He had been able to show Mr. Fields something of the interest of 
 London as well as of his Kentish home. He went over its General Post 
 Office with him, took him among its cheap theatres and poor lodging- 
 houses, and piloted him by night through its most notorious thieves' 
 quarter. Its localities that are pleasantest to a lover of books, such as 
 Johnson's Bolt Court and Goldsmith's Temple Chambers, he explored 
 with him; and, at his visitor's special request, mounted a staircase he 
 had not ascended for more than thirty years, to show the chamber 
 in Furnival' > Inn where the first page of Pickwick was written. One 
 more book, unfinished, was to close what that famous book began; 
 and the original of the scene of its opening chapter, the opium-eater's 
 den, vyas the last place visited. "In a miserable court at night," says 
 Mr. Fields, "we found a haggard old woman blowing at a kind of pipe 
 made of an old ink-bottle; and the words that Dickens puts into the 
 mouth of this wretched creature in Edwin Drood, we heard her croon 
 as we leaned over the tattered bed in which she was lying." . . . 
 
 He finished his first number of Edwin Drood in the third week of 
 October, and on the 26th read it at my house with great spirit. A few 
 nights before we had seen together at the Olympic a little drama 
 taken from his Copperfield, which he sat out with more than patience, 
 even with something of enjoyment; and another pleasure was given 
 
 661 
 
662 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 him that night by its author. Mr. Halliday, who brought into the bov 
 another dramatist. Mr Robertson, to whom Dickens^ who then first 
 saw him. said that to himself the charm of his little comecHes was 
 their unassummg form." which had so happily shown that ' "eal wif 
 could afford to put off any airs of pretension to it." He was at Gadshq 
 till the close of the year; coming .p for a few special occasions such 
 as Procter's eighty-second birthday; and at my house on New Year's 
 Eve he read to us a fresh number of his Edwin Drood. Yet thise verv 
 last days of December had not been without a reminder of theJave 
 warnings of April. The pains in somewhat modified form had returned 
 m ooth his left hand and his left foot a few days before we met Tid 
 they were troubling him still on that day. But he made so li^h? nf 
 them himself; so little thought of connoting theSwith the un 
 certainties of touch and tread of which they were really part and 
 read with such an overflow of humour Mr. Honeythunder's bSrous 
 philanthropy; that there was no room. then, for anything bSeniov 
 ment. His only allusion to an effect from his illness was hif mentbn o 
 
 1 7hT''';'^1^ f'^^'^? ^^^"^ ^^ ^^^ *° ^^il^ay travel. Th s had 
 decided him to take a London house for the twelve last readings ^n 
 
 ttVnTL^t rHyt Pi^lf &acT^ ''^ ^^^ ^--^ ^^- ^"- gS^ 
 
 we^rlt^rupV^iXi^lt^^^^ 
 
 given m each week to the close of January^nd the remainrg erh? 
 on each of the eight Tuesdays following. Nothing was said of a|. Idnd 
 of apprehension as the time approached; but. with a curious absence 
 of the sense of danger, there was certainly both distrust Ld fear 
 Sufficient precaution was supposed to have been taken by arranl: 
 
 attendant Mr F. C Beard; but this resolved itself, not into anv 
 
 measure of safety, the case admitting of none short of stopping the 
 
 readmgaltogether. but simply into ascertainment of the exact amount 
 
 o strain and pressure, which, with every fresh exertion, he was 
 
 placing on those vessels of the brain where the Preston trouble Ton 
 
 surely had revealed that danger lay. No supposed force ?nreser^^^ no 
 
 dommant strength of will, can turn aside the penalties sternly exacted 
 
 for disregard of such laws of life as were here plainly overlook and 
 
 though no one may say that it was not already too late for any but 
 
 the fatal issue, there will be no presumption in believing that life might 
 
 been stopped '"""^ ^'""^ prolonged if these readings could hive 
 
 "I am a little shaken," he wrote on 9 Januaiy. "by my journev to 
 
 Birmmgnam to give away the Institution's prizes on Twelfth Night 
 
 ?n"rV T"^' ^ ^^'*: ^"^'."^twithstandingLowe's worryingschlme 
 for collecting a year's taxes in a lump, which they tell me is dimaging 
 books, pictures, music, and theatres beyond precedent, our 'let' at St 
 &'\^ /' enormous." He opened with Copperfield and the 
 Pickwick Trtal- and I may briefly mention, from the notes taken ' 
 
 oy 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 663 
 
 Mr. Beard and placed at my disposal, at what cost of exertion to him- 
 self he gratified the crowded audiences that then and to the close made 
 these evenings memorable. His ordinary pulse on the first night was 
 at 72; but never on any subsequent night was lower than 82, and had 
 risen on the later nights to more than 100. After Copperfield on the 
 first night it went up to 96, and after Marigold on the second to 99; 
 but on the first night of the Sikes and Nancy scenes (Friday, 
 21 January) it went from 80 to 112, and on the second night 
 (i February) to 118. From this, through the six remaining nights, it 
 ne\-er was lower than no after the first piece read; and after the third 
 and fourth readings of the Oliver Twist scenes it rose, from 90 to 124 
 on 15 February, and from 94 to 120 on 8 March; on the former occa- 
 sion, after twenty minutes' rest, falling to 98, and on the latter, after 
 fifteen minutes' rest, falling to 82. His ordinary pulse on entering the 
 room, during these last six nights, was more than once over 100, and 
 never lower than 84; from which it rose, after Nickleby on 22 February, 
 to 112. On 8 February, when he read Dombey, it had risen from 91 to 
 114; on I March, after Copperfield, it rose from 100 to 124; and wher.. 
 he entered the room on the last night it was at 108, having risen only 
 two beats more when the reading was doie. The pieces on this occa- 
 sion were the Christmas Carol, followed by the Pickwick Trial; and 
 probably in all his life he never read so well. On his return from the 
 States, where he had to address his effects to audiences composed of 
 immense numbers of people, a certain loss of refinement had been 
 observable; but the old delicacy was now again delightfully manifest 
 and a subdued tone, as well in the humorous as the serious portions, 
 gave something to all the reading as of a quiet sadness of farewell. 
 The charm of this was at its height when he shut the volume of Pick- 
 wick and spoke in his own person. He said that for fifteen years he 
 had been reading his own books to audiences whose sensitive and 
 kindly recognition of them had given him instruction and enjoyment 
 in his art such as few men could have had; but that he nevertheless 
 thought it well now to retire upon older associations, and in future to 
 devote himself exclusively to the calling which had first made him 
 known. "In but two short weeks frcr^. this time I hope that you may 
 enter, in your own homes, on a new series of readings at which my 
 assistance will be indispensable; but from these garish lights I vanish 
 now for evermore, with a heartfelt, grateful, respectful, affectionate 
 farewell." The brief hush of silence as he moved from the platform; 
 and the prolonged tumult of sound that followed suddenly, stayed 
 him, and again for another moment brought him back; will not be 
 forgotten by any present. 
 
 Little remains to be told that has not in it almost unmixed pain 
 and sorrow. Hardly a day passed, while the readings went on or after 
 they closed, unvisited by some effect or other of the disastrous excite- 
 ment shown by the notes of Mr. Beard. On 23 January, when for the 
 last time he met Carlyle, he came to us with his left hand in a sling; 
 
 on f rcuiuai}', wiicii lic paaocU 'viLn da iiiS last Dii Liiutiy, UllU Oil Cne 
 
664 
 
 TYke Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 25th, when he read the third number of his novel, the hand was still 
 swollen and painful; and on 21 March, when he read admirably hi^; 
 fourth number, he told us that as he came along, walking up the 
 length of Oxford Street, the same incident had recurred as on, the day 
 of a former dinner with us, and he had not been able to read, all the 
 way, more than the right-hand half of the names over the shops 
 Yet he had the old fixed persuasion that this was rather the efiect of 
 a medicine he had been taking than of any grave cause, and he still 
 strongly believed his other troubles to be exclusively local. Eight 
 days later he wrote: "My uneasiness and hemorrhage, after having 
 quite left me, as I supposed, has come back with an aggravated irrit- 
 ability that it has not yet displayed. You have no idea what a state 
 I am m to-day from a sudden violent rush of it; and yet it has not the 
 slightest effect on my general health that I know of." This was a dis- 
 order which troubled him in his earlier life; and during the last five 
 years, in his intervals of suffering from other causes, it had from time 
 to time taken aggravated form. 
 
 His last public appearances were in April. On the 5th he took the 
 chair for the newsvendors, whom he helped with a genial address in 
 which even his apology for little speaking overflowed with irre- 
 pressible humour. He would try, he said, like Falstaff, "but with a 
 modification almost as large as himself," less to speak himself than 
 to be the cause of speaking in others. "Much in this manner they 
 exhibit at the door of a sn jff-shop the effigy of a Highlander with an 
 empty mull in his hand, who, apparently having taken all the snuff 
 he can carry, and discharged all the sneezes of which he is capable, 
 politely invites his friends and patrons to step in and try what they 
 can do in the same line." On the 30th of the same month he returned 
 thanks for "Literature" at the Royal Academy dinner. ... 
 
 We met for the iast time on Sunday, 22 May, when I dined with 
 him m Hyde Park Place. The death of Mr. Lemon, of which he heard 
 that day, had led his thoughts to the crowd of friendly companions 
 m letters and art who had so fallen from the ranks since we played Ben 
 Jonson together that we were left almost alone. "And none beyond 
 his sixtieth year," he said, "very few 'even fifty." It is no good to talk 
 of it, I suggested. "We shall not think of it the less," was his reply; 
 and an illustration much to the point was before us, afforded by an 
 mcident deserving remembrance in this story. Not many weeks 
 before, a correspondent had written to him from Liverpool describing 
 himself as a self-raised man, attributing his prosperous career to 
 what Dickens's writings had taught him at its outset of the wisdom of 
 kindness, and sympathy for others; and asking pardon for the liberty 
 he took in hoping that he might be permitted to offer some acknow- 
 ledgment of what not only had cheered and stimulated him through 
 all his life, but had contributed so much to the success of it. The 
 letter enclosed ;^5oo. Dickens was greatly touched by this; and told 
 the writer, in sending back his cheque, that he would certainly have _ 
 taken it if he had not been, though not a man of fortune, a orosnerous ■ 
 
 I 
 I 
 
The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 665 
 
 man himself; but that the letter, and the spirit of ita offer, had so 
 gratified hjm, that if the writer pleased to send him any small 
 memorial of it in another form he would gladly receive it. The 
 memorial soon came. A richly worked basket of silver, inscribed 
 "from one who has been cheered and stimulated by Mr. Dickens's 
 writings, and held the author among his first rememorances when he 
 became prosperous," was accompanied by an extremely handsome 
 silver centrepiece for the table, of which the design was four figures 
 representing the Seasons. But the kindly donor shrank from sending 
 Winter to one whom he would fain c^-'.nect with none save the 
 brighter and milder days, and he had struck the fourth figure from 
 the design. "I never look at it," said Dickens, "that I don't think 
 most of the Winter," The gift had yet too surely foreshadowed the 
 truth, for the winter was never to come to him. 
 
 A matter discussed that day with Mr. Ouvry was briefly resumed 
 in a note of 29 May, the last I ever received from him; which followed 
 me to Exeter, and closed thus. "You and I can speak of it at Gads 
 by and by. Foot no worse. But no better." The old trouble was upon 
 him when we parted, and this must have been nearly the last note 
 written before he quitted IxDndon. He was at Gadshill on 30 May; 
 and I heard no more imtil the telegram reached me at Launceston 
 on the night of 9 June, which told me that the "by and by" was 
 not to come in this world. 
 
 The few days at Gadshill had been given wholly to work on his 
 novel. He had been easier in his foot and hand; and though he was 
 suffering severely from the local hemorrhage before named, he made 
 no complaint of illness. But thp'-c v s observed in him a very unusual 
 appearance of fatigue. "I d very weary." He was out with 
 
 his dogs for the last time .- •. 6 June, when he walked with 
 
 his letters into Rochester 'v the 7th, after his daughter 
 
 Mary had left on a visit to te, not finding himself equal 
 
 to much fatigue, he drove . Wood with his sister-in-law, 
 
 there dismissed the carriage, au^ :d round the park and bad:. 
 
 He returned in time to put up in his new conservatorv ^onie Chinese 
 lanterns sent from London that afternoon; and the whole of the 
 evening, he sat with Miss Hogarth in the dining-room that he might 
 see their effect when lighted. More than once he then expressed his 
 satisfaction at having finally abandoned all intention of exchanging 
 Gadshill for LondoTi ; and this he had done more impressively some 
 days before. While he lived, he said, he should wish his name to be 
 more and more associated with the place; and he had a notion that 
 when he died he should like to lie in the little graveyard belonging 
 to the Cathedral at the foot of the Castle wall. 
 
 On 8 June he passed all the day writing in the Chalet. He came 
 over for luncheon; and, much against his usual custom, returned to 
 his desk. In the sentences he was then writing, he imagines such a 
 brilliant rooming as had risen with that 8 June shining on the old 
 city of Rochester. He sees in surpassing beauty, with the lusty ivy 
 
666 
 
 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 m 
 
 gleaming in the sun, and the rich trees v. x ing in the balmy air its 
 antiquities and its ruins; its Cathedral and Castle. But his fancy 
 then, is not with the stern dead forms of either; but with that which 
 makes warm the cold stone tombs of centuries, and lights them up 
 with flecks of brightness, "fluttering there like wings." To him on 
 that sunny summer morning, the changes of glorious light from 
 moving boughs, the songs of birds, the scents from garden, woods 
 and fields, have penetrated into the Cathedral, have subdued its 
 earthy odour, and are preaching the Resurrection and the I-ife. 
 
 He was late in leaving the Chalet; but before dinner, which was 
 ordered at six o'clock with the intention of walking afterwards in the 
 lanes, he wrote some letters, among them one to his friend Mr 
 Charles Kent appointing to see him in London next day; and dinner 
 was begun before Miss Hogarth saw, with alarm, a singular expres- 
 sion of trouble and pain in his face. "For an hour," he then told her 
 "he had h ^en very ili"; but he wished dinner to go on. The.o were the 
 only really coherent words uttered by him. They were followed by 
 some, that fell from him disconnectedly, of quite other nu.tters; of 
 an approaching sale at a neighbour's house, of whether Macready's 
 son was v/ith his father at Cheltenham, and of his own intention to 
 go immediately to London; but at these latter he had risen, and his 
 sister-in-law's help alone preveited him from falling wher- he stood. 
 Her effort was then to get him on the sofa, but after a slight struggle 
 he sank heavily on his left side. "On the ground" were the last words 
 he spoke. It was now a little over ten minutes past six o'clock. His 
 two daughters came that night v/ith Mr. F. Beard, who had also 
 been telegraphed for, and whom they met at the station. His eldest 
 son arrived early next morning, and .^^as joined in the evening (too 
 late) by his younger son from Cambridge. All possible medical aid 
 had been summoned. The surgeon of the neighbourhood was there 
 from the first, and a physician from London was in attendance as 
 well as Mr. Beard. But human help was unavailing. There was 
 effusion on the brain; and though stertorous breathing continued all 
 night, and until ten minutes past 'six o'clock on the evening of 
 Thursday, 9 June, there had never been a gleam of hope during the 
 twenty-four hours. He had lived four months beyond his 58th year. 
 
 'X1 
 
 h 
 
The Life of Charles Dick' 
 
 667 
 
 n 
 
 WEETMINSTER ADOEY 
 1S70 
 
 The excitement and sorrow at his death are within the mcmorv of 
 all. Before the news of it even reached the remoter parts of England, 
 it '^d been flashed across Europe; was known in the distant con- 
 tinents of India, Australia, and America; and not in English-speaking 
 communities only, but in every country of the civilis'^d earth, had 
 awakened grief and sympathy. In his own land it was as if a personal 
 bereavement had befallen everyone. Her Majesty the Queen tele- 
 graphed 'rom Balmoral "her deepest regret at the sad news of 
 Charles Dickens's death"; and this was the sentiment alike of all 
 classes of her people. There was not an Fr„''^h journal that did not 
 give it touching and noble utterance; ano 2V*e. Times took the lead in 
 suggesting that the only fit resting-place ior the remains of a man so 
 dear to England was the Abbey in which the most illustrious English- 
 men are laid. 
 
 With the expression thus given to a general wish, the Dean of 
 Westminster lost no t ne in showing ready compliance; and on the 
 morning of the day when it appeared was in communication with the 
 family and the executors. The public homage of a burial in the Abbey 
 had to be reconciled with his own instructions to be privately buried 
 without previous announcement of time or place, and without 
 monument or memorial. He would himself have preferred to lie in 
 the sma'l graveyard under Rochester Castle wall, or in the little 
 churches of Cobham or Shornc; but all these were found to be closed; 
 and the desire of the Dean and Chapter of Rochester to lay him in 
 their Cathedral had been entertained, when the Dean of Westminster's 
 request, and the considerate kindness of his generous assurance that 
 there should be only such ceremonial as would strictly obey all 
 injunctions of privacy, made it a grateful duty to accept that offer. 
 The spot already had been chosen by the Dean; and before midday 
 on the followhig morning, Tuesday, 14 June, with knowledge of those 
 only who took part in the buiial, all was done. The solemnity had not 
 lost by the simplicity. Nothing so grand or so touching could have 
 accompanied it, as the stillness and the silence of the vast cathedral. 
 Then, later in the day and all the following day, erne • nbidd^ti 
 mourners in such crowds, that the Dean had to request permission to 
 keep open the grave until Thursday; but after it was closed they did 
 not cease to come, and "all day long," Doctor Stanley wrote on the 
 17th, "there was a constant pressure to the spot, and many flowers 
 were strewn upon it by unknown hands, xnany tears shed from un- 
 
 
668 The Life of Charles Dickens 
 
 known eyes." He alluded to this in the impressive funeral discourse 
 dehvered by him m the Abbey on the morning of Sunday the ?qth 
 pointing to the fresh flowers that then had been newlv thiowMas 
 they still are thrown in this fourth year after the death), and ryi^"' 
 M Sxr^^ii^'^^.T"^'^ thenceforward be a sacred one with both thf 
 ^n^J^u-^ ^f *^ T' "-' *^^* °^ '^' representative of the literature 
 not of this island only, bu ■ of all who speak our English tongue '' 
 The stone placed upon it is inscribed ^ 
 
 Charles Dickens 
 
 Born February the Seventh, 1812 
 
 Died June the Ninth, 1870 
 
 The highest associations of both the arts he loved surround him 
 where he lies. Next to him is Richard Cumberland. Mrs Pr ? 
 f. mvxn r?.""'^''.* looks down upon him, and immediately behind 
 IS David Garrick's. Nor is the actor's delightful art more worthilv 
 represented than the nobler genius of the author. Facing the^avl 
 and on its left a^d right, are the monuments of Chaucer sSS' 
 SPEARE and Dryden. the three immortals who did most to cr'eate and 
 
 undyU n^mT'"' '" "'^'' ''"^^^"^ ^^^^^^^ ^^« ^-- -' "er 
 
 "44 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 THE WILL OF CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 "I, Charles Dickens, of Gadshill Place, Higham in the county of 
 Kent, hereby revoke all my former Wills and Codicils and declare 
 this to be my last Will and Testament. I give 'he sum of ;^iooo free 
 of legacy duty to Miss Ellen Lawless Ternan, late of Houghton Place, 
 Ampthill Square, in the county of Middlesex. I give the sum of 
 ;^I9 19 o to my faithful servant Mrs. Anne Cornelius. I give the sum 
 of ;^i9 19 o to the daughter and only child of the said Mrs. Anne 
 Cornelius. I give the sum of ;^i9 19 o to each and every domestic 
 servant, male and female, who shall be in my employment at the 
 time of my decease, and shall have been in my employment for a not 
 less period of time than one year. I give the sum of ;^iooo free of 
 legacy duty to my daughter Mary Dickens. I also give to my said 
 daughter an annuity of ;^3oo a year, during her life, if she shall so 
 long continue unmarried; such annuity to be considered as accruing 
 from day to day, but to be payable half-yearly, the first of such half- 
 yearly payments to be made at the expiration of six months next 
 after my decease. If my said daughter Mary shall marry, such annuity 
 shall cease; and in that case, but in that case only, my said daughter 
 shall share with my other children in the provision hereinafter made 
 for them. I give to my dear sister-in-law Georgina Hogarth the sum 
 of ;^8ooo free of legacy duty. I also give to the said Georgina Hogarth 
 all my personal jewellery not hereinafter mentioned, and all the little 
 familiar objects from my writing-table and my room, and she will 
 know what to do with those things. I also give to the said Georgina 
 Hogarth all my private papers whatsoever and wheresoever, and I 
 leave her my grateful blessing as the best and truest friend man ever 
 had. I give to my eldest son Charles my library of printed books, and 
 my engravings and prints; and I also give to my son Charles the silver 
 salver presented to me at Birmingham, and the silver cup presented 
 to me at Edinburgh, and my shirt studs, shirt pins, and sleeve 
 buttons. And I bequeath unto my said son Charles and my son 
 Henry Fielding Dickens, the sum of ;^8ooo upon trust to invest the 
 same, and from time to time to vary the investments thereof, and 
 to pay the annual income thereof to my wife during her life, and after 
 her decease the said sum of ;^8ooo and the investments thereof shall 
 be in trust for my children (but subject as to my daughter Mary to 
 the proviso hereinbefore contained) who being a son or sons shall 
 have attained or shall attain the age of twenty-one years, or being a 
 
 rlqiirrli+pr r\v rl o n orh for c oVl'^lI Tioxria q<-foir>p#1 <-»f oVi^ill n4-4'r,^.-. 4.V.^J. - ~i» 
 
 669 
 
fiH 
 
 ^70 Appendix 
 
 '''' ^^Ff^u'''''fI "*^ied, in equal shares if more than one. I give mv 
 wateh (the gold repeater presented to me at Coventry), and I give The 
 chains and seals and all appendages I have worn with it, to my dear 
 and trusty fnend John Forster, of Palace Gate House. Kensin^on 
 ^ the county of Middlesex aforesaid; and I also give to the said John 
 Forster such manuscripts of my published works as may be in mv 
 possession at the time of my decease. And I devise and bequea^J 
 all my real and personal estate (except such as is vested in me as " 
 
 Toh%or.Srfh^''^.""*^ *^" '^^ ^"^^^^"^ «°g^^th ^^ the said 
 ii^^.? ? ' ^^^1 ^^'''\ executors, administrators, and assigns 
 respectively, upon trust that they the said Georgina Hogarth and 
 John Forster. or the survivor of them or the executors o7aSistra 
 tors of such survivor, do and shall, at their, his. or her uncontrolled 
 and irresponsible direction, either proceed to an immediate sa?e or 
 conversion into money of the said real ^nd personal estate (including 
 ^L^^^ ,?^*1' ?^ ^^^^' .^"^ postpone any sale or conversion Tto 
 
 rthT^^'ilnf • ^ *'""" °' *'™'' ^' ^^'y' ^'' ^^ '^^ «^^» think fit. and 
 in the meant me may manage and let the said real and personal 
 estate (including my copyrights), in such manner in all respects as I 
 myself could do if I were living and acting therein; it befn ' my fn 
 tention that the trustees or trustee for the time being of this mv WUl 
 shall have the fullest power over the said real andVersonafLSe 
 which I can give to them. him. or her. And I DECLAREVat? unS the 
 said real and personal estate shall be sold and converted inio money 
 the rents and annual income thereof respectively shall be Daid and 
 applied to the person or persons in the manner and for the purposes 
 
 fm^ .r ^^"^ ^°' ^^^'^- *^" ^"^"^^^ i"^°"^« °f the monies^toS 
 froni the sale or conversion thereof into money would be oavable nr 
 applicable under this my Will in case the same Lre soldVcon^^^^^^^ 
 into money^ And I declare that my real estate shall for the purp?^^^^ 
 of this my Will be considered as converted into personalty upon my 
 decease. And I declare that the said trustees or trustee forX time 
 
 th^^'ht n^A'^f ' Z''^ ^''? °"' ^^ *^« "^°"i^« ^hi^^h shall comedo 
 IrZ' ^i ' .^"^ ^^''^^' ""^^^ °^ ^y ^i^tue of this my Will and the 
 trusts thereof pay my just debts, funeral and testamentary expenses 
 
 fhlnf '''1; n^^ ^ ''^''Y^'' *^^* *^^ «^id trust funds?r so much 
 thereof as shall remain after answering the purposes aforesaid ar" 
 the annual income thereof, shall be in trust for all my S?en (but 
 
 ?±S Vr^^ ^^"^^*^^ ^^^^ *^ *h« P^°^i«° herdnblre con- 
 the a^e oTtl^/"^ ^ '°" °' '^""'^^.^^^ ^^^^ attained or shall attain 
 havelttpinL *r°>f l^'ff' ^"? ^'^"^ ^ daughter or daughters shall 
 have attained or shall attain that age or be previously married in 
 equal shares if more than one. Provided always, that as regards 
 my copyrights and the produce and profits thereof, my Sd daS 
 
 rSncTto'h.^'^"^^^^ '^' ?.r ^'^^ hereinbefore c'^SLInedTith 
 she I^^Vr^i!^' '^^1 \hare with my other children therein whether 
 she be married or not. And I devise the estates vested in ine at my 
 
 mongagee unto the use of the said Georgina 
 
 decease 
 
 13 a LX usicc ur 
 
Appendix 
 
 671 
 
 Hogarth and John Forster, their heirs and assigns, upon the trusts 
 and subject to the equities affecting the same respectively. And I 
 APPOINT the said Georgina Hogarth and John Forster executrix 
 and executor of this my Will, and Guardians of the persons of my 
 children during their respective minorities. And lastly, as I have 
 now set down the form of words which my legal advisers assure me 
 are necessary to the plain objects of this my Will, I solemnly enjoin 
 my dear children always to remember how much they owe to the 
 said Georgina Hogarth, and never to b*" wanting in a grateful and 
 affectionate attachment to her, for they .aiow well that she has been, 
 through all the stages of their growth and progress, their ever useful 
 self-denying and devoted friend. And I desire here simply to record 
 the fact that my wife, since our sepaiation by consent, has been in 
 the receipt from me of an annual income of ;^6oo, while all the great 
 charges of a numerous and expensive family have devolved wholly 
 upon myself. I emphatically direct that I be buried in an inexpensive, 
 unostentatious, and strictly private manner; that no public announce- 
 ment be made of the time or place of my burial; that at the utmost 
 not more than three plain mourning coaches be employed; and that 
 those who attend my funeral wear no scarf, cloak, black bow, long 
 hat-band, or other such revolting absurdity. I direct that my name 
 be inscribed in plain English letters on my tomb, without the addition 
 of 'Mr.' or 'Esquire.' I conjure niy friends on no account to make me 
 the subject of any monument, memorial, or testimonial whatever. 
 I rest my claims to the remembrance of my country upon my pub- 
 lished works, and to the remembrance of my friends upon their 
 experience of me in addition thereto. I commit my soul to the mercy 
 of God through our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, and I exhort my 
 dear children humbly to try to guide themselves by the teaching of 
 the New Testament in its broad spirit, and to put no faith in any 
 man's narrow construction of its letter here or there. In witness 
 whereof I the said Charles Dickens, the testator, have to this my last 
 Will and Testament set my hand this 12th day of May in the year of 
 our Lord 1869. 
 
 "Charles Dickens. 
 
 "Signed published and declared by the^ 
 above-named Charles Dickens the testator as 
 and for his last Will and Testament in the 
 presence of us (present together at the same 
 time) who in his presence at his request and 
 in the presence of each other have hereunto 
 subscribed our names as witnesses. 
 
 "G. Holsworth, 
 
 "26 Wellington Street, Strand. 
 
 "Henry Walker. 
 
 "26 Wellington Street, Strand. 
 
 I 
 
672 
 
 Appendix 
 
 
 "I, Charles Dickens of Gadshill Place near Rochester in the 
 county of Kent Esquire declare this to be a Codicil to my last Will 
 and Testament which Will bears date the 12th day of May 1869. 
 I GIVE to my son Charles Dickens the younger all my share and 
 interest in the weekly journal called All the Year Round, which is 
 now conducted under Articles of Partnership made between me and 
 William Henry Wills and the said Charles Dickens the younger, and 
 all my share and interest in the stereotypes stock and other effects 
 belonging to the said partnership, he defraying my share of all debts 
 and liabilities of the said partnership which may be outstanding at 
 the time of my decease, and in all other respects I confirm my said 
 Will, In witness whereof I have hereimto set my hand the 2nd day 
 of June in the year of our Lord 1870. 
 
 "Charles Dickens. 
 
 "Signed and declared by the said Charles' 
 Dickens, the testator as and for a Codicil to 
 his Will in the presence of us present at the 
 same time who at his request in his presence 
 and in the presence of each other hereunto 
 subscribe our naiiies as witnesses. 
 
 "G. liOLSWORTH, 
 
 "26 Wellington Street, Strand. 
 
 "H. V/ALKER, 
 
 "26 Wellington Street, Strand." 
 
 The real and personal estate — taking the property bequeathed by 
 the last codicil at a valuation of something less than two years' 
 purchase; and of course before payment of the legacies, the (incon- 
 siderable) debts, and the testamentary and other expenses,— 
 amounted as nearly as may be calculated, to ;^93,oco. 
 
 1 
 
 Made and Printed in Great Britain by 
 Hazell, Watson tS- Viney, Ltd., London and Aylesbury 
 
iter in the 
 y last Will 
 May 1869. 
 share and 
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 «n me and 
 unger, and 
 :her effects 
 )f all debts 
 tanding at 
 m my said 
 le 2nd day 
 
 >ICKENS. 
 
 eathed by 
 wo years' 
 he (incon- 
 tpenses, — 
 
 1