Chapter V: Part 5

Tuesday came Miss Dodge and Mrs. Hawthorne, Julian, and Rose.
The reading was quite as remarkable, tho’ more quiet than that
of the night before. As usual, we went to speak to him at his
request after it was over. Found him in the best of spirits,
but very tired. “You can’t think,” he said, “what resolution it
requires to dress again after it is over!”

_Monday, December 9._—Left home at 8 A.M. for New York. The
day was clear and cold, the journey somewhat long, but on the
whole extremely agreeable. We only had each other to plague
or amuse, as the case might be, and we had the new Christmas
story of Dickens and Wilkie Collins (called “No Thoroughfare”)
to read, and so by sufficient attention to the peculiarities
or follies or troubles of our neighbors and some forgetfulness
of our own, we came to the Westminster Hotel at night, in
capital spirits but _rather_ frozen physically. We had scant
time to dress and dine and to go to the Dickens reading. We
accomplished it, nevertheless. Saw the rapturous enthusiasm,
heard the “Carol” far better read than in Boston, because the
applause was more ready and he felt stimulated by it. Afterward
Mr. D. sent for us to come to his room. He was fatigued, of
course, but we sat at table with him and after a while he began
to feel warmer as vigor returned. He brought out his jewels for
us to see—a pearl Count D’Orsay once wore, set with diamonds,
etc.—laughed and talked about the way we dress and other bits
of nonsense suggested by the time, all turned towards the fine
light of Charles Dickens’s lovely soul and returning with a
fresh gleam of beauty. We left early lest we should overfatigue
him.

_Wednesday, December 11._—At four Dickens came to dinner in
our room with Eythinge and Anthony, his American designer and
engraver. Afterward we went to the “Black Crook” together, and
then home to the hotel, where we sat talking until one o’clock.
There is nothing I should like so much to do as to set down
every word he said in that time, but much must go down to
oblivion....

He talked of actors and acting—said if a man’s Hamlet was a
sustained conception, it was not to be quarrelled with; the
only question was, what a man of melancholy temperament would
do under such circumstances. Talked of Charles Reade and the
greatness of “Griffith Gaunt,” and the pity of it that he did
not stand on his own bottom instead of getting in with Dion
Boucicault, etc., etc. But after dinner he unbent, and while we
were in the box at the theatre showed how true his sympathies
were with the actors, was especially careful to make no sound
which could hurt their feelings by apparent want of attention.
The play was very dull, so we sat and talked. He told me that
no ballet dancer could have pretty feet, and one dreadful thing
was they could never wash them, as water renders the feet
tender and they must become horny. He asked about Longfellow’s
sorrow again and expressed the deepest sympathy, but said he
was like a man purified by suffering.

We had punch in our room after the play, when he laughed till
the tears ran down his cheeks over Bob Sawyer’s party and
the remembrance of the laughter he had seen depicted on the
faces of people the night before. Jack Hopkins was such a
favorite with J. that D. made up the face again and went over
the necklace story until we roared aloud. At length he began
to talk of Fechter and to describe the sensitive character of
the man. He saw him first quite by accident in Paris, having
strolled into a little theatre there one night. He was making
love to a woman, and so elevated her as well as himself by the
sentiment in which he enveloped her that they trod into purer
ether and in another sphere quite lifted out of the present.
“‘By heavens!’ I said, ‘a man who can do this can do anything!’
I never saw two people more purely and instantly elevated by
the power of love. The manner in which he presses the hem of
the dress of Lucy in the ‘Bride of Lammermoor’ is something
surpassing speech and simply wonderful. The man has a thread
of genius in him which is unmistakable, yet I should not call
him a man of genius exactly, either.” Mr. Dickens described him
as a man full of plans for plays, one who had lost much money
as a manager, too. He was apt to come down to Gad’s Hill with
his head full of plans about a play which he wished Mr. Dickens
to write out and which Fechter would act in the writing-room,
using Mr. Dickens’s small pillow for a baby in a manner to make
the latter feel, if Fechter were but a writer, how marvellous
his powers of representation would be. “I, who for so many
years have been studying the best way of putting things, felt
utterly amazed and distanced by this man.”

Before the end of our talk Mr. Dickens became penetrated by
the memory of his friend and brought him before us in all the
warmth of ardent sympathy. Fechter is sure to come to this
country: we are sure to have the happiness of knowing him (if
we all live), and in that event I shall consider last night as
the beginning of a new friendship.

_Sunday, December 22._—Another week has gone. We are again at
home in our dear little nook by the Charles, and tonight the
lover of Christmas comes to have dinner with us. We had a merry
time last Sunday, and after we had separated the hotel must
needs take fire—to be sure, I had been packing and was in my
first sleep and knew nothing distinctly of it; but it was an
escape all the same and Mr. Dickens rushed out to help, as he
always seems to do....

At night came Mr. Dickens and Mr. Dolby, Mr. Lowell and Mabel,
Mr. and Mrs. Dorr, to dinner. It was really a beautiful
Christmas festival, as we intended it should be for the love of
this new apostle of Christmas. Mr. Dickens talked all the time,
as he always will do, generously, when the moment comes that he
sees it is expected, of Sir Sam. Baker, of Froude, of Fechter
again, this time as if he did not know the man, but spoke
critically as if he were a stranger, seeing Lowell’s face when
his name was mentioned, which inclined itself sneeringly.

We played games at table afterward, which turned out so queerly
that we had storms of laughter.

What a shame it is to write down anything respecting one’s
contact with Charles Dickens and have it so slight as my
accounts are; but the subtle turns of conversation are so
difficult to render—the way in which he represents the woman
who will not on any account be induced to look at him while
he is reading, and at whom he looks steadily, endeavoring
to compel the eyes to move—all these queer turns are too
delicate to be set down. I thought I should have had a
convulsion of laughter when Mrs. Dorr said Miss Laura Howe
sat down in her (Mrs. D.’s) room and wrote out a charade in
such an unparalleled and brilliant manner that nobody could
have outshone her—not even the present company. “In the same
given time, I trust?” said Dickens. “No, no,” said the lady,
persistently.

_December 31._—The year goes out clear and cold. The moon was
marvellously bright last night, and every time I woke there she
was with her attendant star looking freshly in upon us sleeping
mortals in her eternal, unwearied way. We received a letter
from Charles Dickens yesterday, saying he was coming to stay
with us when he returns. What a pleasure this will be to us! We
anticipate his coming with continual delight! To have him as
much as we can, at morning, noon, and night.

This letter, long preserved in an American copy of “A Christmas Carol” on the shelves of the Charles Street library, throws a light of its own on the physical handicaps with which Dickens was struggling through all this time.

WESTMINSTER HOTEL, NEW YORK

_Sunday, Twenty-Ninth December, 1867_

MY DEAR FIELDS:—

When I come to Boston for the two readings of the 6th and 7th I
shall be alone, as Dolby must be selling elsewhere. If you and
Mrs. Fields should have no other visitor, I shall be very glad
indeed on this occasion to come to you. It is very likely that
you may have some one with you. Of course you will tell me so
if you have, and I will then reëmbellish the Parker House.

Since I left Boston last, I have been so miserable that I
have been obliged to call in a Dr.—Dr. Fordyce Barker, a very
agreeable fellow. He was strongly inclined to stop the Readings
altogether for some few days, but I pointed out to him how we
stood committed, and how I must go on if it could be done.
My great terror was yesterday’s Matinée, but it went off
splendidly. (A very heavy cold indeed, an irritated condition
of the uvula, and a restlessly low state of the nervous system,
were your friend’s maladies. If I had not avoided visiting, I
think I should have been disabled for a week or so.)

I hear from London that the general question in society is,
what will be blown up next by the Fenians.

With love to Mrs. Fields, Believe me,

Ever affectionately yours,

And hers,

CHARLES DICKENS

_Saturday night, January 4._—All in readiness. Mr. Dickens
arrived punctually with Mr. Osgood at half-past nine. Hot
supper was soon in order and we put ourselves at it. The dear
“chief” was in the best of good humor in spite of a cold which
hangs about him and stuffs up head and throat, only leaving him
for two hours at night when he reads. ’Tis something to be in
first-rate mood with such a cold....

The Readings have been so successful in New York he cannot fail
to be pleased, and he does not fail to show it. Kate Field, New
Year’s Eve, placed a basket of flowers on his table; he had
seen her bright eyes and sensitive face, he said. I was glad
for Kate, because he wrote her a little note, which pleased
her, of course.

_Wednesday, January 8_, 12 A.M.—I take up the pen again, having
bade our guest a most unwilling farewell. Last night he read
“Copperfield” and the Trial from “Pickwick.” It was an enormous
house, packed in every extremity, receipts in gold about
five hundred and ten pounds!! He was pleased, naturally, and
read marvellously well even for him. He was somewhat excited
and a good deal tired when he returned, and in spite of a
light supper and stiff glass of punch, which usually contains
soporific qualities, he could not sleep until near morning. He
has been in the best of spirits during this visit—when he came
downstairs last night to take a cup of coffee before leaving,
he turned to J., saying, “The hour has almost come when I to
sulphurous and tormenting gas must render up myself!” He has
been afflicted with catarrh, which comes and goes and distracts
him with a buzzing in his head. It usually leaves him for the
two reading hours. This is convenient, but it probably returns
with worse force.

Sunday night dinner went off brilliantly. Longfellow, Appleton,
Mr. and Mrs. Thaxter came to meet “the chief” and ourselves.
Unfortunately there was one empty seat which Rowse, the artist,
had promised to fill, but was ill at the last and could
not—curiously enough we had asked Osgood, Miss Putnam, and Mr.
Gay besides, all kept away by accident when they would have
given their eyes to come. In the course of the day he had been
to see (with O. W. H.) the ground of the Parkman murder which
has lately been so clearly described by Sir Emerson Tennent in
“All the Year Round”; in the evening the talk turned naturally
enough that way, when, after much surmise with regard to the
previous life of the man, Mr. Longfellow looked up and with an
assured, clear tone, said: “Now I have a story to tell! A year
or two before this event took place Dr. Webster invited a party
of gentlemen to a dinner at this house, I believe to meet some
foreigner who was interested in science. The doctor himself was
a chemist, and after dinner he had a large bowl placed in the
centre of the table with some chemical mixture in it which he
set on fire after turning the lamp low. A lurid light came from
the bowl which caused a livid look upon the faces of those who
sat round the table, and while all were observing the ghastly
effect, Dr. Webster rose and, pulling a bit of rope from
somewhere about his person, put it around his neck, reached his
head over the bowl to heighten the effect, hung it on one side,
and lolled his tongue out to give the appearance of a man who
had been hanged!!! The whole scene was terrible and ghastly in
the extreme, and, remembered in the light of what followed, had
a prescience frightful to contemplate.”[26]

Appleton did not talk as much as usual, and we were rather
glad; but Mrs. Thaxter’s story took strong hold on Dickens’s
fancy, and he told me afterward that when he awaked in the
night he thought of her. I have seldom sat at dinner with a
gentleman more careful and fine in his choice and taste of
food and drink than C. D. The idea of his ever passing the
bounds of temperance is an absurdity not to be thought of for a
moment. In this respect he is quite unlike Mr. Thackeray, who
at times both ate and drank inordinately, and without doubt
shortened his life by his carelessness in these particulars.
John Forster, C. D.’s old friend, is quite ill with gout and
some other ails, so C. D. writes him long letters full of
his experiences. We breakfast at half-past nine punctually,
he on a rasher of bacon and an egg and a cup of tea, always
preferring this same thing. Afterward we talk or play with the
sewing-machine or anything else new and odd to him. Then he
sits down to write until one o’clock, when he likes a glass
of wine and biscuit, and afterward goes to walk until nearly
four, when we dine. After dinner, reading days, he will take
a cup of strong coffee, a tiny glass of brandy, and a cigar,
and likes to lie down for a short time to get his voice in
order. His man then takes a portmanteau of clothes to the
reading hall, where he dresses for the evening. Upon our return
we always have supper and he brews a marvellous punch, which
usually makes us all sleep like tops after the excitement. The
perfect kindliness and sympathy which radiates from the man
is, after all, the secret never to be told, but always to be
studied and to thank God for. His rapid eyes, which nothing
can escape, eyes which, when he first appears upon the stage,
seem to interrogate the lamps and all things above and below
(like exclamation points, Aldrich says), are unlike anything
before in our experience. There are no living eyes like them,
swift and kind, possessing none of the bliss of ignorance, but
the different bliss of one who sees what the Lord has done and
what, or something of what, he intends. Such charity! Poor man!
He must have learned great need for that.... He is a man who
has suffered, evidently. Georgina Hogarth he always speaks of
in the most affectionate terms, such as “she has been a mother
to my children,” “she keeps the list of the wine cellar, and
every few days examines to see what we are now in want of.”

I hardly know anything more amusing than when he begs not
to be “set a-going” on one of his readings by a quotation
or otherwise, and [it is] odd enough to hear him go on,
having been so touched off. He has been a great student of
Shakespeare, which appears often in his talk. His love of
the theatre is something which never pales, he says, and the
people who go upon the stage, however poor their pay or hard
their lot, love it, he thinks, too well ever to adopt another
vocation of their free will. One of the oddest sights a green
room presents, he says, is when they are collecting children
for a pantomime. For this purpose the prompter calls together
all the women in the ballet and begins giving out their names
in order, while they press about him, eager for the chance
of increasing their poor pay by the extra pittance their
children will receive. “Mrs. Johnson, how many?” “Two, sir.”
“What years?” “Seven and ten.” “Mrs. B.”—and so on until the
requisite number is made up. He says, where one member of
a family obtains regular employment at the theatre, others
are sure to come in after a time; the mother will be in the
wardrobe, children in pantomime, elder sisters in the ballet,
etc.

When we asked him to return to us, he said he must be loyal to
“the show,” and, having three or four men with him, ought to be
at an hotel where he could attend properly to the business. He
never forgets the needs of those who are dependent upon him, is
liberal to his servants (and to ours also), and liberal in his
heart to all sorts and conditions of men.

I have one deeply seated hope, that he will read for the Freed
people before he leaves the country; and I cannot help thinking
he will....

For more than a month from the time of this entry Dickens was carrying the triumph of his readings into other cities than Boston. There he had left a faithful champion in the person of Mrs. Fields, who wrote in her diary on January 26, 1868: “It is odd how prejudiced people have allowed themselves to become about Dickens. I seldom make a call where his name is introduced that I do not feel the injustice done to him personally, as if mankind resented the fact that he had excited more love than most men.” As his return to Boston drew near, she wrote, February 18th: “We are anticipating and doorkeeping for the arrival of our friend. Whatever unpleasant is said of Charles Dickens I take almost as if said against myself. It is so hard to help this when you love a friend.” On February 21st there is the entry: “We go to Providence tonight to hear ‘Dr. Marigold.’ I have been full of plans for next week, which is to be a busy season with us of company.”

_Saturday, February 22._—We have heard “Marigold”! To be
sure, the audience was sadly stupid and unresponsive, but we
were penetrated by it.... What a night we had in Providence!
Our beds were comfortable enough, for which we were deeply
thankful; but none of the party slept, I believe, except Mr.
Dolby, and his rest was inevitably cut short in the morning
by business. I believe I lay awake from pure pleasure after
such a treat. Hearing “Marigold” and having supper afterward
with the dear great man. We played a game at cards which was
most curious—indeed, something more—so much more that I have
forgotten to be afraid of him.

In writing the chapter, “Glimpses of Emerson,” in “Authors and Friends,” Mrs. Fields drew freely upon the entry that here follows in its fullness.

_Tuesday morning, February 25._—Somewhat fatigued. The
“Marigold” went off brilliantly. He never read better nor was
more universally applauded. Mr. Emerson came down to go, and
passed the night here; of course we sat talking until late,
he being much surprised at the artistic perfection of the
performance. It was queer enough to sit by his side, for when
his stoicism did at length break down, he laughed as if he must
crumble to pieces at such unusual bodily agitation, and with
a face on as if it hurt him dreadfully—to look at him was too
much for me, already full of laughter myself. Afterward we all
went in to shake hands for a moment.

When we came back home Mr. Emerson asked me a great many
questions about C. D. and pondered much. Finally he said, “I am
afraid he has too much talent for his genius; it is a fearful
locomotive to which he is bound and can never be free from it
nor set at rest. You see him quite wrong, evidently; and would
persuade me that he is a genial creature, full of sweetness
and amenities and superior to his talents, but I fear he is
harnessed to them. He is too consummate an artist to have a
thread of nature left. He daunts me! I have not the key.”

When Mr. Fields came in he repeated, “Mrs. Fields would
persuade me he is a man easy to communicate with, sympathetic
and accessible to his friends; but her eyes do not see
clearly in this matter, I am sure.” “Look for yourself, dear
Mr. Emerson,” I answered, laughing, “and then report to me
afterward.”

While we were enjoying ourselves in this way, a great change
has come to the country. The telegram arrived during the
Reading bringing the news of the President’s impeachment,
126 against 47. Since Johnson is to be thrust out, and since
another revolution is upon us (Heaven help us that it be a
peaceful one), we can only be thankful that the majority is
so large. Mr. Dickens’s account of the ability of Johnson,
of his apparent integrity and of his present temperance, as
contrasted with the present (reported) failures of Grant in
this respect, have made me shudder, for I presume Grant is
inevitably the next man. Mrs. Agassiz was evidently pleased
with the appearance of General Grant and his wife. She liked
their repose of manner and ease; but I think this rather a
shallow judgment because poise and ease of manner belong to
the coarsest natures and to the finest; in the latter it is
conquest; and this is why these qualities have so high a place
in the esteem of man; but it is likewise the gift of society
people who neither feel nor understand the varied natures with
whom they come in contact.

Longfellow is at work on a tragedy, of which no words are
spoken at present. Today Mr. Dickens does not go out; he is
writing letters home. Yesterday he and J. walked seven miles,
which is about their average generally....

_February 27._—Longfellow’s birthday. Last night Dickens
went to a supper at Lowell’s and J. passed the evening with
Longfellow. L.’s tragedy comes on apace. He looks to Fechter
to help him. Dickens has doubtless done much to quicken him to
write. He has two nearly finished in blank verse, both begun
since this month came in. J. returned at half-past eleven,
bringing an unread newspaper in his pocket which L. had lent
him, telling him to read something to me about Dickens and
return. Ah me! We could have cried as we read! It was the
saddest of sad letters, written at the time the separation from
his wife took place. The gentleman to whom he wrote it has died
and the letter has stolen into print. I only hope the poor man
may never see it.

Tonight he reads “Carol” and “Boots” and sups here with
Longfellow afterward.

An entry in Mrs. Fields’s diary about two years later indicates with some clearness that she overestimated the sympathy between Longfellow and Dickens. After a visit from Longfellow, she wrote, May 24, 1870:—

When Mr. L. talks so much and so pleasantly, I am curiously
reminded of Dickens’s saying to Forster, who lamented that he
did not see Longfellow upon his return to London, “It was not
a great loss this time, Forster; he had not a word to say for
himself—he was the most embarrassing man in all England!” It
is a difference of temperament which will never let those two
men come together. They have no handle by which to take hold of
each other. Longfellow told a gentleman at his table when J.
was present that Dickens saved himself for his books, there was
nothing to be learned in private—he never talked!!

To return to Dickens in Boston:—

_Sunday, March 1._—What a week we have had! I feel utterly
weary this morning, although I _did_ start up with exceeding
bravery and walked four miles just after breakfast, in order
to see that the flowers were right at church and to ask some
people to dinner today who could not, however, come. The air
was very keen and exciting and I did not know I was tired until
I came back and collapsed. Our supper came off Thursday, but
_without_ Dickens. His cold had increased upon him seriously
and he was really ill after his long, difficult reading.
But Longfellow was perfectly lovely, so easily pleased and
so deeply pleased with my little efforts to make this day a
festival time. Dickens and Whittier both sent affectionate and
graceful notes when they found they really could not come. Our
company stayed until two A.M., Emerson never more talkative and
good. He is a noble purifier of the social atmosphere, always
keeping the talk simple as possible but up to the highest pitch
of thought and feeling.

Friday, the Dana girls, Sallie and Charlotte, passed the night
with us and went to the reading and shook hands with Mr.
Dickens afterward. They were perfectly happy when they went
away yesterday....

[The walking match between Dolby and Osgood to which the
following paragraph refers has already been mentioned. The
elaborately humorous conditions of the contest, drawn up by
Dickens, are printed in “Yesterdays with Authors.” “We have had
such a funny paper from Dickens today,” Mrs. Fields had written
in her diary, on February 5th, “that it can only describe
itself—Articles drawn up arranging for a walk and dinner upon
his return here, as if it were some fierce legal document.”]

I had barely time yesterday, after the girls left, to dress
and prepare some flowers and some lunch and make my way in
a carriage, first to the Parker House at Mr. Dickens’s kind
request, to see if all the table arrangements were perfect for
the dinner. I found he had done everything he could think of
to make the feast go off well and had really left nothing for
me to suggest, so I turned about and drove over the mill-dam,
following Messrs. Dickens, Dolby, Osgood, and Fields, who
had left just an hour before on a walking match of six miles
out and six in. This agreement was made and articles drawn
up several weeks ago, signed and sealed in form by all the
parties, to come off without regard to the weather. The wind
was blowing strong from the north-west, very cold, and the snow
blowing, too. They had turned and were coming back when I came
up with them. Osgood was far ahead and, after saluting them all
and giving a cheer for America, discovering too that they had
refreshed on the way, I drove back to Mr. Osgood, keeping near
him and administering brandy all the way in town. The walk was
accomplished in precisely two hours forty-eight minutes. Of
course Mr. Dickens stayed by his man, who was beaten out and
out. They were all exhausted, for the snow made the walking
extremely difficult, and they all jumped into carriages and
drove home with great speed to bathe and sleep before dinner.

At six o’clock we were assembled, eighteen of us, for dinner,
looking our very best (I hope)—at least we all tried for that,
I am sure—and sat punctually down to our elegant dinner. I
have never seen a dinner more beautiful. Two English crowns
of violets were at the opposite ends of the table and flowers
everywhere arranged in perfect taste. I sat at Mr. Dickens’s
right hand and next Mr. Lowell. Mrs. Norton sat the other side
of our host, and he divided his attention loyally between us.
He talked with me about Spiritualism as it is called, the
humbug of which excites his deepest ire, although no one could
believe more entirely than he in magnetism and the unfathomed
ties between man and man. He told me many curious things about
the traps which had been laid by well-meaning friends to bring
him into “spiritual” circles. But he said, “If I go to a
friend’s house for the purpose of exposing a fraud in which she
believes, I am doing a very disagreeable thing and not what she
invited me for. Forster and I were invited to Lord Dufferin’s
to a little dinner with Home. I refused, but Forster went,
saying beforehand to Lord Dufferin that Home would have no
spirits about if he came. Lord Dufferin said, ‘Nonsense,’ and
the dinner came off; but they were hardly seated at table when
Home announced that there was an adverse influence present and
the spirits would not appear. ‘Ah,’ said Forster, ‘my spirits
in this case were clearer than yours, for they told me before I
came that there would be no manifestations tonight.’”

Speaking of dreams, he said he was convinced that no man
(judging from his own experience, which could not be altogether
singular, but must be a type of the experience of others),
he believed no writer, neither Shakespeare nor Scott nor any
other who had ever invented a character, had ever been known
to dream about the creature of his imagination. It would be
like a man’s dreaming of meeting himself, which was clearly an
impossibility. Things exterior to oneself must always be the
basis of our dreams. This talk about characters led him to say
how mysterious and beautiful the action of the mind was around
any given subject. “Suppose,” he said, “this wine-glass were a
character, fancy it a man, endue it with certain qualities, and
soon fine filmy webs of thoughts almost impalpable coming from
every direction, and yet we know not from where, spin and weave
around it until it assumes form and beauty and becomes instinct
with life....”

Mr. Lowell asked him some question in a low voice about the
country, when I heard him say presently that it was very much
grown up, indeed he should not know oftentimes that he was not
in England, things went on so much the same and with very few
exceptions (hardly worth mentioning) he was let alone precisely
as he would have been there.

He loves to talk of Gad’s Hill and stopped joyfully from other
talk to tell me how his daughter Mary arranged his table with
flowers. He speaks continually of her great taste in combining
flowers. “Sometimes she will have nothing but water-lilies,” he
said, as if the memory were a fragrance.

Some one has said, “We cannot love and be wise.” I will gladly
give away the inconsistent wisdom, for Jamie and I are truly
penetrated with grateful love to C. D.

_Wednesday, March 3._—Mr. Dickens came over last night with
Messrs. Osgood and Dolby, to pass the evening and have a little
punch and supper and a merry game with us....

They left punctually before eleven, having promised the driver
they would not keep him waiting in the cold. Jamie has every
day long walks with him. He has told him much regarding the
forms and habits of his life. He is fond of “Gad’s Hill,” and
his “dear daughters” and their aunt, Miss Hogarth, make his
home circle. What a dear one it is to him can be seen whenever
his thought turns that way; and if his letters do not come
punctually, he is in low spirits. He is a great actor and
artist, but above all a great and loving and well-beloved man.
(This I cling to in memory of Mr. Emerson’s dictum.)

I am deep in Carlyle’s history and every little thing I hear
chimes in with that. After _the_ dinner (at the Parker) the
other night, Mr. Dickens thought he would take a warm bath;
but, the water being drawn, he began playing the clown in
pantomime on the edge of the bath (with his clothes on) for the
amusement of Dolby and Osgood; in a moment and before he knew
where he was, he had tumbled in head over heels, clothes and
all. A second and improved edition of “Les Noyades,” I thought.
Surely this book is a marvel of thought and labor. Why, why
have I left it unknown to myself until now? I fear, unlike
Lowell, it is because I could not read eighteen uninterrupted
hours without apoplexy or some other ’exy, which would destroy
what power I have forever.

_March 6._—Mr. Dickens dined here last night without company
except Messrs. Dolby and Osgood and Howells. We had a very
merry time. They had been to visit the Cambridge Printing
Office in the afternoon and had been shown so many things that
“the chief” said he began to think he should have a bitter
hatred against any mortal who undertook to show him anything
else in the world, and laughed immoderately at J.T.F.’s
proposition to show him the new fruit house afterward. We all
had a game of Nincomtwitch and separated rather early because
we were going to a party; and as C. D. shook me by the hand to
say good-bye, he said he hoped we would have a better time at
this party than _he_ ever had at any party in all _his_ life.
A part of the dinner-time was taken up by half guess and half
calculation of how far Mr. Dickens’s manuscript would extend
in a single line. Mr. Osgood said 40 miles. J. said 100,000
(!!). I believe they are really going to find out. C. D. said
_he_ felt as if it would go farther than 40 miles, and was
inclined to be “down” on Osgood until he saw him doing figures
in his head after a fearful fashion. All this amusing talk
served to give one a strange, weird sensation of the value of
words over time and space; these little marks of immeasurable
value covering so slight a portion of the rough earth! Howells
talked a little of Venice, thought the Ligurians lived better
than the Venetians. C. D. said they ate but little meat when
_he_ lived in Genoa; chiefly “pasta” with a good soup poured
over it....

He leaves Boston today, to return the first of April, so I will
end this poor little surface record here, hoping always that
the new sheet shall have something written down of a deeper,
simpler, and more inseeing nature.

On the return of Dickens to Boston, Mrs. Fields dined with him at the Parker House, March 31, 1868, and, commenting on his lack of “talent” for sleeping, wrote in her diary:—

I remember Carlyle says, “When Dulness puts his head upon
his mattresses, Dulness sleeps,” referring to the apathetic
people who went on their daily habits and avocations in Paris
while men were guillotined by thousands in the next street.
Mr. Dickens talked as usual, much and naturally—first of the
various hotels of which he had late experience. The one in
Portland was particularly bad, the dinner, poor as it was,
being brought in small dishes, “as if Osgood and I should
quarrel over it,” everything being very bad and disgusting
which the little dishes contained.

At last they came to the book, “Ecce Homo,” in which Dickens
can see nothing of value, any more than we. He thinks
Jesus foresaw and guarded as well as he could against the
misinterpreting of his teaching, that the four Gospels are
all derived from some anterior written Scriptures—made up,
perhaps, with additions and interpolations from the “Talmud,”
in which he expressed great interest and admiration. Among
other things which prove how little the Gospels should be taken
literally is the fact that _broad phylacteries_ were not in
use until some years after Jesus lived, so that the passage in
which this reference occurs, at least, must only be taken as
conveying the spirit and temper, not the actual form of speech,
of our Lord. Mr. Dickens spoke reverently and earnestly, and
said much more if I could recall it perfectly.

Then he came to “spiritualism” again, and asked if he had ever
told us his interview with Colchester, the famous medium. He
continued that, being at Knebworth one day, Lytton, having
finished his dinner and retired to the comfort of his pipe,
said: “Why don’t you see some of these famous men? What a
pity Home has just gone.” (Here Dickens imitated to the
life Lytton’s manner of speaking, so I could see the man.)
“Well,” said D., “he went on to say so much about it that
I inquired of him who was the next best man. He said there
was one Colchester, if possible better than Home. So I took
Colchester’s address, got Charley Collins, my son-in-law, to
write to him asking an interview for five gentlemen and for
any day he should designate, the hour being two o’clock. A day
being fixed, I wrote to a young French conjuror, with whom
I had no acquaintance but had observed his great cleverness
at his business before the public, to ask him to accompany
us. He acceded with alacrity. Therefore, with poor Chauncey
Townshend, just dead, and one other person whom I do not at
this moment recall, we waited upon Mr. Colchester. As we
entered the room, I leading the way, the man, recognizing me
immediately, turned deadly pale, especially when he saw me
followed by the conjuror and Townshend, who, with his colored
imperial and beard and tight-fitting wig, looked like a member
of the detective police. He trembled visibly, became livid
to the eyes, all of which was visible in spite of paint with
which his face was covered to the eyes. He withdrew for a few
minutes, during which we heard him in hot discussion with his
accomplice, telling him how he was cornered and trying to
imagine some way in which to get out of the trap, the other
evidently urging him to go through with it now the best way he
could. He returned, therefore, and placed himself with his back
to the light, while it shone upon our faces. We sat awhile in
silence until he began, insolently turning to me: ‘Take up the
alphabet and think of somebody who is dead, pass your hands
over the letters, and the spirit will indicate the name.’ I
thought of Mary and took the alphabet, and when I came to M, he
rapped; but I was sure that I had unconsciously signified by
some movement and determined to be more skilful the next time.

For the next letter, therefore, he went on to H, and then asked
me if that was right. I told him I thought the spirits ought
to know. He then began with some one else, but doing nothing
he became hotter and hotter, the perspiration pouring from his
face, until he got up, said the spirits were against him, and
was about to withdraw. I then rose and told him that it was the
most shameless imposition, that he had got us there with the
intent to deceive and under false pretences, that he had done
nothing and could do nothing. He offered to return our money—I
said the fact of his taking the money at all was the point. At
last the wretch said, turning to the Frenchman, ‘I did tell
you one name, Valentine.’ ‘Yes,’ answered the young conjuror,
with a sudden burst of English, ‘Yes, but I showed it to you!’
indicating with a swift movement of the hand how he had given
him a chance.” Then it was all up with Colchester, and more
scathing words than those spoken by Dickens to him have been
seldom spoken by mortal.

It was the righteous anger of one trying to avenge and help the
world. Mr. Dickens always seems to me like one who, working
earnestly with his eyes fixed on the immutable, nevertheless
finds to his own surprise that his words place him among the
prophets. He does not arrogate a place to himself there; indeed
he is singularly humble (as it seems to us) in the moral
position he takes; but for all that is led by the Divine Hand
to see what a power he is and in an unsought-for manner finds
himself among the teachers of the earth. He says nowhere is
a man placed in such an unfair position as at church. If one
could only be allowed to get up and state his objections, it
would be very well, but under the circumstances he declines
being preached to.

A few days later Mrs. Fields heard Dickens read the “Christmas Carol” for the last time in Boston.

_Such_ a wonderful evening as it was!! We were on fire with
enthusiasm and in spite of some people who went with us ...
looking, as C. D. said, as if they were sorry they had come,
they were really filled with enthusiasm, and enjoying as fully
as their critical and crossed natures would allow. He himself
was full of fun and put in all manner of queer things for our
amusement; but what he put in, involuntarily, when he turned
on a man who was standing staring fixedly at him with an opera
glass, was almost more than we could bear. The stolidity of
the man, the fixed glass, the despairing, annihilating look of
Dickens were too much for our equanimity.

_Thursday._—Anniversary of C. D.’s marriage day and of John
Forster’s birthday. C. D. not at all well, coughing all the
time and in low spirits. Mr. Dolby came in when J. was there in
the morning to say there were two gentlemen from New Bedford
(friends of Mr. Osgood’s) who wished to see him. Would he allow
them to come in? “No, I’ll be damned if I will,” he said, like
a spoiled child, starting up from his chair! J. was equally
amused and astonished at the outburst, but sleeplessness,
narcotics, and the rest of the crew of disturbers have done
their worst. My only fear is he may be ill. However, they had a
walk together towards noon and he revived, but coughed badly in
the evening. I think, too, only $1300 in the house was bad for
his spirits!

_April 7._—Dickens ... told Jamie the other day in walking
that he wrote “Nicholas Nickleby” and “Oliver Twist” at the
same time for rival magazines from month to month. Once he was
taken ill, with both magazines waiting for unwritten sheets. He
immediately took steamer for Boulogne, took a room in an inn
there, secure from interruption, and was able to return just in
season for the monthly issues with his work completed. He sees
now how the work of both would have been better done had he
worked only upon one at a time.

After the exertion of last evening he looked pale and
exhausted. Longfellow and Norton joined with us in trying
to dissuade him from future Readings after these two. He
does not recover his vitality after the effort of reading,
and his spirits are naturally somewhat depressed by the
use of soporifics, which at length became a necessity....
“Copperfield” was a tragedy last night—less vigor but great
tragic power came out of it.

_April 8._—In spite of a deluge of rain last night there was a
large audience to hear Dickens, and Longfellow came as usual.
He read with more vigor than the night before and seemed
better.... The time approaches swiftly for our flight to New
York. We dread to leave home and would only do it for _him_,
besides, the pleasure must be much in the fact of trying to
do something rather than in really doing anything, for I fear
he will be too ill and utterly fatigued to care much about
anything but rest.

_Friday, April 10._—Left home at eight o’clock in the morning,
found our dearly beloved friend C. D. already awaiting us, with
two roses in his coat and looking as fresh as possible. It was
my first ride in America in a compartment car. Mr. Dolby made
the fourth in our little party and we had a table and a game of
“Nincom” and “Casino” and talked and laughed and whiled away
the time pleasantly until we arrived here at the Westminster
Hotel in time for dinner at six. I was impressed all day long
with the occasional languor which came over C. D. and always
with the exquisite delicacy and quickness of his perception,
something as fine as the finest woman possesses, which combined
itself wondrously with the action of the massive brain and the
rapid movement of those strong, strong hands. I felt how deeply
we had learned to love him and how hard it would be for us to
part.

At dinner he gave us a marvellous description of his life as
a reporter. It seems he invented (in a measure) a system of
stenography for himself; this is to say he altered Gurney’s
system to suit his own needs. He was a very young man, not yet
20, when at seven guineas a week he was engaged as reporter
on the “Morning Chronicle,” then a very large and powerful
paper. At this period the present Lord Derby, then Mr. Stanley,
was beginning his brilliant career, and O’Connell, Shiel, and
others were at the height of their powers. Wherever these men
spoke a corps of reporters was detailed to follow them and
with the utmost expedition forward verbatim reports to the
“Chronicle.” Often and often he has gone by post-chaise to
Edinburgh, heard a speech or a part of it (having instructions,
whatever happened, to leave the place again at a certain hour,
the next reporter taking up his work where he must leave it),
and has driven all the way back to London, a bag of sovereigns
on one side of his body and a bag of slips of paper on the
other, writing, writing desperately all the way by the light of
a small lamp. At each station a man on horseback would stand
ready to seize the sheets already prepared and ride with them
to London. Often and often this work would make him deadly
sick and he would have to plunge his head out of the window
to relieve himself; still the writing went steadily forward
on very little slips of paper which he held before him, just
resting his body on the edge of the seat and his paper on the
front of the window underneath the lamp. As the station was
reached, a sudden plunge into the pocket of sovereigns would
pay the postboys, another behind him would render up the
completed pages, and a third into the pocket on the other side
would give him the fresh paper to carry forward the inexorable,
unremitting work.

At this period there was a large sheet started in which all
the speeches of Parliament were reported verbatim in order
to preserve them for future reference—a monstrous plan which
fell through after a time. For this paper it was especially
desired to have a speech of Mr. Stanley accurately reported
upon the condition of Ireland, containing suggestions for
the amelioration of the people’s suffering. It was a very
long and eloquent speech and took many hours in the delivery.
There were eight reporters upon the work, each to work
three-quarters of an hour and then to retire to write out his
portion and be succeeded by the next. It happened that the
roll of reporters was exhausted before the speech came to an
end and C. D. was called in to report the last portions, which
were very eloquent. This was on Friday, and on Saturday the
whole was given to the press and the young reporter ran down to
the country for a Sunday’s rest. Sunday morning had scarcely
dawned “when my poor father, who was a man of immense energy,
surprised me by making his appearance. The speech had come into
Mr. Stanley’s hands, who was most anxious to have it correctly
given in order to have it largely circulated in Ireland, and he
found it all bosh, hardly a word right, except at the beginning
and the end. Sending immediately to the office, he had obtained
my sheets, at the top of which, according to custom, the name
of the reporter was written, and, finding the name of Dickens,
had immediately sent in search of me. My father, thinking this
would be the making of me, came immediately, and I followed him
back to London. I remember perfectly the look of the room and
of the two gentlemen in it as I entered—Mr. Stanley and his
father. They were extremely courteous, but I could see their
evident surprise at the appearance of so young a man. For a
moment as we talked I had taken a seat extended to me in the
middle of the room. Mr. Stanley told me he wished to go over
the whole speech, and if I was ready he would begin. Where
would I like to sit? I told him I was very well where I was
and we would begin immediately. He tried to induce me to sit
elsewhere or more comfortably, but at that time in the House
of Commons there was nothing but one’s knees to write upon and
I had formed the habit of it. Without further pause then he
began, and went on hour after hour to the end, often becoming
very much excited, bringing down his hand with violence upon
the desk near which he stood and rising at the end into great
eloquence.

“In these later years we never meet without that scene
returning vividly to my mind, as I have no doubt it does to his
also, but I, of course, have never referred to it, leaving him
to do so if he shall ever think fit.

“Shiel was a small man with a queer high voice and spoke very
fast. O’Connell had a fine brogue which he cultivated, and
a magnificent eye. He had written a speech about this time
upon the wrongs of Ireland, and, though he repeated it many,
many times during three months when I followed him about the
country, I never heard him give it twice the same, nor ever
without being himself deeply moved.”[27]

Mr. Dickens’s imitation of Bulwer Lytton is so vivid that
I feel as if it were taking a glimpse at the man himself.
His deaf manner of speaking he represents exactly. He says
he is very brilliant and quick in conversation, and knows
everything!! He is a conscientious and unremitting student
and worker. “I have been surprised to see how well his books
wear. Lately I have reread ‘Pelham’ and I assure you I found
it admirable. His speech at the dinner given to me just before
leaving was well written, full of good things, but delivered
execrably. He lacks a kind of confidence in his own powers
which is necessary in a good speaker.”

Speaking of O’Connell, Mr. Dickens said there had been nobody
since who could compare with him but John Bright, who is at
present the finest speaker in England. Cobden was fond of
reasoning, and hardly what would be called a brilliant speaker;
but his noble truthfulness and devotion to the cause to
which he had pledged himself made him one of the grandest of
England’s great men. I asked about Mrs. Cobden. He told me she
had been made very comfortable and in a beautiful manner. After
her husband’s death, his affairs having become involved by some
bad investment he had made, a committee of six gentlemen came
together to consider what should be done to commemorate his
great and unparalleled devotion to his country. The result was,
instead of having a public subscription for Mrs. Cobden with
the many unavoidable and disagreeable features of such a step,
each of these gentlemen subscribed about £12,000, thus making
£70,000, a sufficient sum to make her most comfortable for
life....

I have forgotten to say how in those long rides from Edinburgh
the mud dashed up and into the opened windows of the
post-chaise, nor how they would be obliged to fling it off from
their faces and even from the papers on which they wrote. As
Dickens told us, he flung the imaginary evil from him as he did
the real in the days long gone, and we could see him with the
old disgust returned. He said, by the way, that never since
those old days when he left the House of Commons as a Reporter
had he entered it again. His hatred of the falseness of talk,
of bombastic eloquence, he had heard there made it impossible
for him ever to go in again to hear anyone.