Chapter IV: Dickens (3)

I have been terrifying Dolby out of his wits, by setting in for a
paroxysm of sneezing, and it would be madness in me, with such a
cold, and on such a night, and with to-morrow's reading before me,
to go out. I need not add that I shall be heartily glad to see you
if you have time. Many thanks for the Life and Letters of Wilder
Dwight. I shall "save up" that book, to read on the passage home.
After turning over the leaves, I have shut it up and put it away;
for I am a great reader at sea, and wish to reserve the interest
that I find awaiting me in the personal following of the sad war.
Good God, when one stands among the hearths that war has broken,
what an awful consideration it is that such a tremendous evil _must_
be sometimes!

Ever affectionately yours,

CHARLES DICKENS.

* * * * *

I will dispose here of the question often asked me by correspondents, and lately renewed in many epistles, _"Was Charles Dickens a believer in our Saviour's life and teachings?"_ Persons addressing to me such inquiries must be profoundly ignorant of the works of the great author, whom they endeavor by implication to place among the "Unbelievers." If anywhere, out of the Bible, God's goodness and mercy are solemnly commended to the world's attention, it is in the pages of Dickens. I had supposed that these written words of his, which have been so extensively copied both in Europe and America, from his last will and testament, dated the 12th of May, 1869, would forever remain an emphatic testimony to his Christian faith:--

"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 teachings of the New Testament."

I wish it were in my power to bring to the knowledge of all who doubt the Christian character of Charles Dickens certain other memorable words of his, written years ago, with reference to Christmas. They are not as familiar as many beautiful things from the same pen on the same subject, for the paper which enshrines them has not as yet been collected among his authorized works. Listen to these loving words in which the Christian writer has embodied the life of his Saviour:--

"Hark! the Waits are playing, and they break my childish sleep! What
images do I associate with the Christmas music as I see them set
forth on the Christmas tree? Known before all others, keeping far
apart from all the others, they gather round my little bed. An
angel, speaking to a group of shepherds in a field; some travellers,
with eyes uplifted, following a star; a baby in a manger; a child in
a spacious temple, talking with grave men; a solemn figure with a
mild and beautiful face, raising a dead girl by the hand; again,
near a city gate, calling back the son of a widow, on his bier, to
life; a crowd of people looking through the opened roof of a chamber
where he site, and letting down a sick person on a bed, with ropes;
the same in a tempest, walking on the water to a ship; again, on a
sea-shore, teaching a great multitude; again, with a child upon his
knee, and other children round; again, restoring sight to the blind,
speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health to the sick,
strength to the lame, knowledge to the ignorant; again, dying upon a
cross, watched by armed soldiers, a thick darkness coming on, the
earth beginning to shake, and only one voice heard,--'Forgive them,
for they know not what they do!'"

The writer of these pages begs to say here, most respectfully and emphatically, that he will not feel himself bound, in future, to reply to any inquiries, from however well-meaning correspondents, as to whether Charles Dickens was an "Unbeliever," or a "Unitarian," or an "Episcopalian," or whether "he ever went to church in his life," or "used improper language," or "drank enough to hurt him." He was human, very human, but he was no scoffer or doubter. His religion was of the heart, and his faith beyond questioning. He taught the world, said Dean Stanley over his new-made grave in Westminster Abbey, great lessons of "the eternal value of generosity, of purity, of kindness, and of unselfishness," and by his fruits he shall be known of all men.

Let me commend to the attention of my numerous nameless correspondents, who have attempted to soil the moral character of Dickens, the following little incident, related to me by himself, during a summer-evening walk among the Kentish meadows, a few months before he died. I will try to tell the story, if possible, as simply and naturally as he told it to me.

"I chanced to be travelling some years ago," he said, "in a railroad carriage between Liverpool and London. Beside myself there were two ladies and a gentleman occupying the carriage. We happened to be all strangers to each other, but I noticed at once that a clergyman was of the party. I was occupied with a ponderous article in the 'Times,' when the sound of my own name drew my attention to the fact that a conversation was going forward among the three other persons in the carriage with reference to myself and my books. One of the ladies was perusing 'Bleak House,' then lately published, and the clergyman had commenced a conversation with the ladies by asking what book they were reading. On being told the author's name and the title of the book, he expressed himself greatly grieved that any lady in England should be willing to take up the writings of so vile a character as Charles Dickens. Both the ladies showed great surprise at the low estimate the clergyman put upon an author whom they had been accustomed to read, to say the least, with a certain degree of pleasure. They were evidently much shocked at what the man said of the immoral tendency of these books, which they seemed never before to have suspected; but when he attacked the author's private character, and told monstrous stories of his immoralities in every direction, the volume was shut up and consigned to the dark pockets of a travelling bag. I listened in wonder and astonishment, behind my newspaper, to stories of myself, which if they had been true would have consigned any man to a prison for life. After my fictitious biographer had occupied himself for nearly an hour with the eloquent recital of my delinquencies and crimes, I very quietly joined in the conversation. Of course I began by modestly doubting some statements which I had just heard, touching the author of 'Bleak House,' and other unimportant works of a similar character. The man stared at me, and evidently considered my appearance on the conversational stage an intrusion and an impertinence. 'You seem to speak,' I said, 'from personal knowledge of Mr. Dickens. Are you acquainted with him?' He rather evaded the question, but, following him up closely, I compelled him to say that he had been talking, not from his own knowledge of the author in question; but he said he knew for a certainty that every statement he had made was a true one. I then became more earnest in my inquiries for proofs, which he arrogantly declined giving. The ladies sat by in silence, listening intently to what was going forward. An author they had been accustomed to read for amusement had been traduced for the first time in their hearing, and they were waiting to learn what I had to say in refutation of the clergyman's charges. I was taking up his vile stories, one by one, and stamping them as false in every particular, when the man grew furious, and asked me if I knew Dickens personally. I replied, 'Perfectly well; no man knows him better than I do; and all your stories about him from beginning to end, to these ladies, are unmitigated lies.' The man became livid with rage, and asked for my card. 'You shall have it,' I said, and, coolly taking out one, I presented it to him without bowing. We were just then nearing the station in London, so that I was spared a longer interview with my _truthful_ companion; but, if I were to live a hundred years, I should not forget the abject condition into which the narrator of my crimes was instantly plunged. His face turned white as his cravat, and his lips refused to utter words. He seemed like a wilted vegetable, and as if his legs belonged to somebody else. The ladies became aware of the situation at once, and, bidding them 'good day,' I stepped smilingly out of the carriage. Before I could get away from the station the man had mustered up strength sufficient to follow me, and his apologies were so nauseous and craven, that I pitied him from my soul. I left him with this caution, 'Before you make charges against the character of any man again, about whom you know nothing, and of whose works you are utterly ignorant, study to be a seeker after Truth, and avoid Lying as you would eternal perdition.'"

I never ceased to wonder at Dickens's indomitable cheerfulness, even when he was suffering from ill health, and could not sleep more than two or three hours out of the twenty-four. He made it a point never to inflict on another what he might be painfully enduring himself, and I have seen him, with what must have been a great effort, arrange a merry meeting for some friends, when I knew that almost any one else under similar circumstances would have sought relief in bed.

One evening at a little dinner given by himself to half a dozen friends in Boston, he came out very strong. His influenza lifted a little, as he said afterwards, and he took advantage of the lull. Only his own pen could possibly give an idea of that hilarious night, and I will merely attempt a brief reference to it. As soon as we were seated at the table, I read in his lustrous eye, and heard in his jovial voice, that all solemn forms were to be dispensed with on that occasion, and that merriment might be confidently expected. To the end of the feast there was no let up to his magnificent cheerfulness and humor. J---- B----, ex-minister plenipotentiary as he was, went in for nonsense, and he, I am sure, will not soon forget how undignified we all were, and what screams of laughter went up from his own uncontrollable throat. Among other tomfooleries, we had an imitation of scenes at an English hustings, Dickens bringing on his candidate (his friend D----), and I opposing him with mine (the ex-minister). Of course there was nothing spoken in the speeches worth remembering, but it was Dickens's _manner_ that carried off the whole thing. D---- necessarily now wears his hair so widely parted in the middle that only two little capillary scraps are left, just over his ears, to show what kind of thatch once covered his jolly cranium. Dickens pretended that _his_ candidate was superior to the other, _because_ he had no hair; and that mine, being profusely supplied with that commodity was in consequence disqualified in a marked degree for an election. His speech, for volubility and nonsense, was nearly fatal to us all. We roared and writhed in agonies of laughter, and the candidates themselves were literally choking and crying with the humor of the thing. But the fun culminated when I tried to get a hearing in behalf of my man, and Dickens drowned all my attempts to be heard with imitative jeers of a boisterous election mob. He seemed to have as many voices that night as the human throat is capable of, and the repeated interrupting shouts, among others, of a pretended husky old man bawling out at intervals, "Three cheers for the bald 'un!" "Down vith the hairy aristocracy!" "Up vith the little shiny chap on top!" and other similar outbursts, I can never forget. At last, in sheer exhaustion, we all gave in, and agreed to break up and thus save our lives, if it were not already too late to make the attempt.

The extent and variety of Dickens's tones were wonderful. Once he described to me in an inimitable way a scene he witnessed many years ago at a London theatre, and I am certain no professional ventriloquist could have reproduced it better. I could never persuade him to repeat the description in presence of others; but he did it for me several times during our walks into the country, where he was, of course, unobserved. His recital of the incident was irresistibly droll, and no words of mine can give the _situation_ even, as he gave it. He said he was once sitting in the pit of a London theatre, when two men came in and took places directly in front of him. Both were evidently strangers from the country, and not very familiar with the stage. One of them was stone deaf, and relied entirely upon his friend to keep him informed of the dialogue and story of the play as it went on, by having bawled into his ear, word for word, as near as possible what the actors and actresses were saying. The man who could hear became intensely interested in the play, and kept close watch of the stage. The deaf man also shared in the progressive action of the drama, and rated his friend soundly, in a loud voice, if a stitch in the story of the play were inadvertently dropped. Dickens gave the two voices of these two spectators with his best comic and dramatic power. Notwithstanding the roars of the audience, for the scene in the pit grew immensely funny to them as it went on, the deaf man and his friend were too much interested in the main business of the evening to observe that they were noticed. One bawled louder, and the other, with his elevated ear-trumpet, listened more intently than ever. At length the scene culminated in a most unexpected manner. "Now," screamed the hearing man to the deaf one, "they are going to elope!" "_Who_ is going to elope?" asked the deaf man, in a loud, vehement tone. "Why, them two, the young man in the red coat and the girl in a white gown, that's a talking together now, and just going off the stage!" "Well, then, you must have missed telling me something they've said before," roared the other in an enraged and stentorian voice; "for there was nothing in their conduct all the evening, as you have been representing it to me, that would warrant them in such a proceeding!" At which the audience could not bear it any longer, and screamed their delight till the curtain fell.

Dickens was always planning something to interest and amuse his friends, and when in America he taught us several games arranged by himself, which we played again and again, he taking part as our instructor. While he was travelling from point to point, he was cogitating fresh charades to be acted when we should again meet. It was at Baltimore that he first conceived the idea of a walking-match, which should take place on his return to Boston, and he drew up a set of humorous "articles," which he sent to me with this injunction, "Keep them in a place of profound safety, for attested execution, until my arrival in Boston." He went into this matter of the walking-match with as much earnest directness as if he were planning a new novel. The articles, as prepared by himself, are thus drawn up:--

"Articles of agreement entered into at Baltimore, in the United
States of America, this third day of February in the year of our
Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-eight, between ----,
British subject, _alias_ the Man of Ross, and ----, American
citizen, _alias_ the Boston Bantam.

"Whereas, some Bounce having arisen between the above men in
reference to feats of pedestrianism and agility, they have agreed to
settle their differences and prove who is the better man, by means
of a walking-match for two hats a side and the glory of their
respective countries; and whereas they agree that the said match
shall come off, whatsoever the weather, on the Mill Dam Road outside
Boston, on Saturday, the 29th day of this present month; and whereas
they agree that the personal attendants on themselves during the
whole walk, and also the umpires and starters and declarers of
victory in the match shall be ---- of Boston, known in sporting
circles as Massachusetts Jemmy, and Charles Dickens of Falstaff's
Gad's Hill, whose surprising performances (without the least
variation) on that truly national instrument, the American catarrh,
have won for him the well-merited title of the Gad's Hill Gasper:--

"1. The men are to be started, on the day appointed, by
Massachusetts Jemmy and The Gasper.

"2. Jemmy and The Gasper are, on some previous day, to walk out at
the rate of not less than four miles an hour by the Gasper's watch,
for one hour and a half. At the expiration of that one hour and a
half they are to carefully note the place at which they halt. On the
match's coming off they are to station themselves in the middle of
the road, at that precise point, and the men (keeping clear of them
and of each other) are to turn round them, right shoulder inward,
and walk back to the starting-point. The man declared by them to
pass the starting-point first is to be the victor and the winner of
the match.

"3. No jostling or fouling allowed.

"4. All cautions or orders issued to the men by the umpires,
starters, and declarers of victory to be considered final and
admitting of no appeal.

"5. A sporting narrative of the match to be written by The Gasper
within one week after its coming off, and the same to be duly
printed (at the expense of the subscribers to these articles) on a
broadside. The said broadside to be framed and glazed, and one copy
of the same to be carefully preserved by each of the subscribers to
these articles.

"6. The men to show on the evening of the day of walking, at six
o'clock precisely, at the Parker House, Boston, when and where a
dinner will be given them by The Gasper. The Gasper to occupy the
chair, faced by Massachusetts Jemmy. The latter promptly and
formally to invite, as soon as may be after the date of these
presents, the following guests to honor the said dinner with their
presence; that is to say [here follow the names of a few of his
friends, whom he wished to be invited].

"Now, lastly. In token of their accepting the trusts and offices by
these articles conferred upon them, these articles are solemnly and
formally signed by Massachusetts Jemmy and by the Gad's Hill Gasper,
as well as by the men themselves.

"Signed by the Man of Ross, otherwise ----.

"Signed by the Boston Bantam, otherwise ----.

"Signed by Massachusetts Jemmy, otherwise ----.

"Signed by the Gad's Hill Gasper, otherwise Charles Dickens.

"Witness to the signatures, ----."

When he returned to Boston from Baltimore, he proposed that I should accompany him over the walking-ground "at the rate of not less than four miles an hour, for one hour and a half." I shall not soon forget the tremendous pace at which he travelled that day. I have seen a great many walkers, but never one with whom I found it such hard work to keep up. Of course his object was to stretch out the space as far as possible for our friends to travel on the appointed day. With watch in hand, Dickens strode on over the Mill Dam toward Newton Centre. When we reached the turning-point, and had established the extreme limit, we both felt that we had given the men who were to walk in the match excellent good measure. All along the road people had stared at us, wondering, I suppose, why two men on such a blustering day should be pegging away in the middle of the road as if life depended on the speed they were getting over the ground. We had walked together many a mile before this, but never at such a rate as on this day. I had never seen his full power tested before, and I could not but feel great admiration for his walking pluck. We were both greatly heated, and, seeing a little shop by the roadside, we went in for refreshments. A few sickly-looking oranges were all we could obtain to quench our thirst, and we seized those and sat down on the shop door-steps, tired and panting. After a few minutes' rest we started again and walked back to town. Thirteen miles' stretch on a brisk winter day did neither of us any harm, and Dickens was in great spirits over the match that was so soon to come off. We agreed to walk over the ground again on the appointed day, keeping company with our respective men. Here is the account that Dickens himself drew up, of that day's achievement, for the broadside.

THE SPORTING NARRATIVE.

THE MEN.

"The Boston Bantam (_alias_ Bright Chanticleer) is a young bird,
though too old to be caught with chaff. He comes of a thorough game
breed, and has a clear though modest crow. He pulls down the scale
at ten stone and a half and add a pound or two. His previous
performances in the pedestrian line have not been numerous. He once
achieved a neat little match against time in two left boots at
Philadelphia; but this must be considered as a pedestrian
eccentricity, and cannot be accepted by the rigid chronicler as high
art. The old mower with the scythe and hour-glass has not yet laid
his mauley heavily on the Bantam's frontispiece, but he has had a
grip at the Bantam's top feathers, and in plucking out a handful was
very near making him like the great Napoleon Bonaparte (with the
exception of the victualling department), when the ancient one found
himself too much occupied to carry out the idea, and gave it up. The
Man of Ross (_alias_ old Alick Pope, _alias_
Allourpraises-whyshouldlords, etc.) is a thought and a half too
fleshy, and, if he accidentally sat down upon his baby, would do it
to the tune of fourteen stone. This popular codger is of the
rubicund and jovial sort, and has long been known as a piscatorial
pedestrian on the banks of the Wye. But Izaak Walton hadn't
pace,--look at his book and you'll find it slow,--and when that
article comes in question, the fishing-rod may prove to some of his
disciples a rod in pickle. Howbeit, the Man of Ross is a lively
ambler, and has a smart stride of his own.

THE TRAINING.

"If vigorous attention to diet could have brought both men up to the
post in tip-top feather, their condition would have left nothing to
be desired. But both might have had more daily practice in the
poetry of motion. Their breathings were confined to an occasional
Baltimore burst under the guidance of The Gasper, and to an amicable
toddle between themselves at Washington.

THE COURSE.

"Six miles and a half, good measure, from the first tree on the Mill
Dam Road, lies the little village (with no refreshments in it but
five oranges and a bottle of blacking) of Newton Centre. Here
Massachusetts Jemmy and The Gasper had established the
turning-point. The road comprehended every variety of inconvenience
to test the mettle of the men, and nearly the whole of it was
covered with snow.

THE START

was effected beautifully. The men taking their stand in exact line
at the starting-post, the first tree aforesaid, received from The
Gasper the warning, "Are you ready?" and then the signal, "One, two,
three. Go!" They got away exactly together, and at a spinning speed,
waited on by Massachusetts Jemmy and the Gasper.

THE RACE.

"In the teeth of an intensely cold and bitter wind, before which the
snow flew fast and furious across the road from right to left, the
Bantam slightly led. But the Man responded to the challenge, and
soon breasted him. For the first three miles each led by a yard or
so alternately; but the walking was very even. On four miles being
called by The Gasper the men were side by side; and then ensued one
of the best periods of the race, the same splitting pace being held
by both through a heavy snow-wreath and up a dragging hill. At this
point it was anybody's game, a dollar on Rossius and two
half-dollars on the member of the feathery tribe. When five miles
were called, the men were still shoulder to shoulder. At about six
miles The Gasper put on a tremendous spirt to leave the men behind
and establish himself at the turning-point at the entrance of the
village. He afterwards declared that he received a mental
knock-downer on taking his station and facing about, to find Bright
Chanticleer close in upon him, and Rossius steaming up like a
locomotive. The Bantam rounded first; Rossius rounded wide; and from
that moment the Bantam steadily shot ahead. Though both were
breathed at the town, the Bantam quickly got his bellows into
obedient condition, and blew away like an orderly blacksmith in full
work. The forcing-pumps of Rossius likewise proved themselves tough
and true, and warranted first-rate, but he fell off in pace; whereas
the Bantam pegged away with his little drumsticks, as if he saw his
wives and a peck of barley waiting for him at the family perch.
Continually gaining upon him of Ross, Chanticleer gradually drew
ahead within a very few yards of half a mile, finally doing the
whole distance in two hours and forty-eight minutes. Ross had ceased
to compete three miles short of the winning-post, but bravely walked
it out and came in seven minutes later.

REMARKS.

"The difficulties under which this plucky match was walked can only
be appreciated by those who were on the ground. To the excessive
rigor of the icy blast and the depth and state of the snow must be
added the constant scattering of the latter into the air and into
the eyes of the men, while heads of hair, beards, eyelashes, and
eyebrows were frozen into icicles. To breathe at all, in such a
rarefied and disturbed atmosphere, was not easy; but to breathe up
to the required mark was genuine, slogging, ding-dong, hard labor.
That both competitors were game to the backbone, doing what they did
under such conditions, was evident to all; but to his gameness the
courageous Bantam added unexpected endurance and (like the sailor's
watch that did three hours to the cathedral clock's one) unexpected
powers of going when wound up. The knowing eye could not fail to
detect considerable disparity between the lads; Chanticleer being,
as Mrs. Cratchit said of Tiny Tim, 'very light to carry,' and
Rossius promising fair to attain the rotundity of the Anonymous Cove
in the Epigram:--

And when he walks the streets the paviors cry,
"God bless you, sir!"--and lay their rammers by.

The dinner at the Parker House, after the fatigues of the day, was a brilliant success. The Great International Walking-Match was over; America had won, and England was nowhere. The victor and the vanquished were the heroes of the occasion, for both had shown great powers of endurance and done their work in capital time. We had no set speeches at the table, for we had voted eloquence a bore before we sat down. David Copperfield, Hyperion, Hosea Biglow, the Autocrat, and the Bad Boy were present, and there was no need of set speeches. The ladies present, being all daughters of America, smiled upon the champion, and we had a great, good time. The banquet provided by Dickens was profusely decorated with flowers, arranged by himself. The master of the feast was in his best mood, albeit his country had lost; and we all declared, when we bade him good night, that none of us had ever enjoyed a festival more.

Soon after this Dickens started on his reading travels again, and I received from him frequent letters from various parts of the country. On the 8th of March, 1868, he writes from a Western city:--

Sunday, 8th March, 1868.

My Dear Fields: We came here yesterday most comfortably in a
"drawing-room car," of which (Rule Britannia!) we bought exclusive
possession. ---- is rather a depressing feather in the eagle's wing,
when considered on a Sunday and in a thaw. Its hotel is likewise a
dreary institution. But I have an impression that we must be in the
wrong one, and buoy myself up with a devout belief in the other,
over the way. The awakening to consciousness this morning on a
lop-sided bedstead facing nowhere, in a room holding nothing but
sour dust, was more terrible than the being afraid to go to bed last
night. To keep ourselves up we played whist (double dummy) until
neither of us could bear to speak to the other any more. We had
previously supped on a tough old nightmare named buffalo.

What do you think of a "Fowl de poulet"? or a "Paettie de Shay"? or
"Celary"? or "Murange with cream"? Because all these delicacies are
in the printed bill of fare! If Mrs. Fields would like the recipe,
how to make a "Paettie de Shay," telegraph instantly, and the recipe
shall be purchased. We asked the Irish waiter what this dish was,
and he said it was "the Frinch name the steward giv' to oyster
pattie." It is usually washed down, I believe, with "Movseaux," or
"Table Madeira," or "Abasinthe," or "Curraco," all of which drinks
are on the wine list. I mean to drink my love to ---- after dinner
in Movseaux. Your ruggeder nature shall be pledged in Abasinthe.

Ever affectionately,

CHARLES DICKENS.

On the 19th of March he writes from Albany:--

Albany, 19th March, 1868.

My Dear ----: I should have answered your kind and welcome note
before now, but that we have been in difficulties. After creeping
through water for miles upon miles, our train gave it up as a bad
job between Rochester and this place, and stranded us, early on
Tuesday afternoon, at Utica. There we remained all night, and at six
o'clock yesterday morning were ordered up to get ready for starting
again. Then we were countermanded. Then we were once more told to
get ready. Then we were told to stay where we were. At last we got
off at eight o'clock, and after paddling through the flood until
half past three, got landed here,--to the great relief of our minds
as well as bodies, for the tickets were all sold out for last night.
We had all sorts of adventures by the way, among which two of the
most notable were:--

1. Picking up two trains out of the water, in which the passengers
had been composedly sitting all night, until relief should arrive.

2. Unpacking and releasing into the open country a great train of
cattle and sheep that had been in the water I don't know how long,
and that had begun in their imprisonment to eat each other. I never
could have realized the strong and dismal expressions of which the
faces of sheep are capable, had I not seen the haggard countenances
of this unfortunate flock as they were tumbled out of their dens and
picked themselves up and made off, leaping wildly (many with broken
legs) over a great mound of thawing snow, and over the worried body
of a deceased companion. Their misery was so very human that I was
sorry to recognize several intimate acquaintances conducting
themselves in this forlornly gymnastic manner.

As there is no question that our friendship began in some previous
state of existence many years ago, I am now going to make bold to
mention a discovery we have made concerning Springfield. We find
that by remaining there next Saturday and Sunday, instead of coming
on to Boston, we shall save several hours' travel, and much wear and
tear of our baggage and camp-followers. Ticknor reports the
Springfield hotel excellent. Now will you and Fields come and pass
Sunday with us there? It will be delightful, if you can. If you
cannot, will you defer our Boston dinner until the following Sunday?
Send me a hopeful word to Springfield (Massasoit House) in reply,
please.

Lowell's delightful note enclosed with thanks. _Do_ make a trial for
Springfield. We saw Professor White at Syracuse, and went out for a
ride with him. Queer quarters at Utica, and nothing particular to
eat; but the people so very anxious to please, that it was better
than the best cuisine. I made a jug of punch (in the bedroom
pitcher), and we drank our love to you and Fields. Dolby had more
than his share, under pretence of devoted enthusiasm. Ever
affectionately yours,

CHARLES DICKENS.

His readings everywhere were crowned with enthusiastic success, and if his strength had been equal to his will, he could have stayed in America another year, and occupied every night of it with his wonderful impersonations. I regretted extremely that he felt obliged to give up visiting the West. Invitations which greatly pleased him came day after day from the principal cities and towns, but his friends soon discovered that his health would not allow him to extend his travels beyond Washington.

He sailed for home on the 19th of April, 1868, and we shook hands with him on the deck of the Russia as the good ship turned her prow toward England. He was in great spirits at the thought of so soon again seeing Gad's Hill, and the prospect of a rest after all his toilsome days and nights in America. While at sea he wrote the following letter to me:--

Aboard The Russia, Bound For Liverpool, Sunday, 26th April, 1868.

My Dear Fields: In order that you may have the earliest intelligence
of me, I begin this note to-day in my small cabin, purposing (if it
should prove practicable) to post it at Queenstown for the return
steamer.

We are already past the Banks of Newfoundland, although our course
was seventy miles to the south, with the view of avoiding ice seen
by Judkins in the Scotia on his passage out to New York. The Russia
is a magnificent ship, and has dashed along bravely. We had made
more than thirteen hundred and odd miles at, noon to-day. The wind,
after being a little capricious, rather threatens at the present
time to turn against us, but our run is already eighty miles ahead
of the Russia's last run in this direction,--a very fast one. ...To
all whom it may concern, report the Russia in the highest terms. She
rolls more easily than the other Cunard Screws, is kept in perfect
order, and is most carefully looked after in all departments. We
have had nothing approaching to heavy weather; still, one can speak
to the trim of the ship. Her captain, a gentleman; bright, polite,
good-natured, and vigilant.....

As to me, I am greatly better, I hope. I have got on my right boot
to-day for the first time; the "true American" seems to be turning
faithless at last; and I made a Gad's Hill breakfast this morning,
as a further advance on having otherwise eaten and drunk all day
ever since Wednesday.

You will see Anthony Trollope, I dare say. What was my amazement to
see him with these eyes come aboard in the mail tender just before
we started! He had come out in the Scotia just in time to dash off
again in said tender to shake hands with me, knowing me to be aboard
here. It was most heartily done. He is on a special mission of
convention with the United States post-office.

We have been picturing your movements, and have duly checked off
your journey home, and have talked about you continually. But I have
thought about, you both, even much, much more. You will never know
how I love you both; or what you have been to me in America, and
will always be to me everywhere; or how fervently I thank you.

All the working of the ship seems to be done on my forehead. It is
scrubbed and holystoned (my head--not the deck) at three every
morning. It is scraped and swabbed all day. Eight pairs of heavy
boots are now clattering on it, getting the ship under sail again.
Legions of ropes'-ends are flopped upon it as I write, and I must
leave off with Dolby's love.

Thursday, 30th.

Soon after I left off as above we had a gale of wind, which blew all
night. For a few hours on the evening side of midnight there was no
getting from this cabin of mine to the saloon, or _vice versa,_ so
heavily did the sea break over the decks. The ship, however, made
nothing of it, and we were all right again by Monday afternoon.
Except for a few hours yesterday (when we had a very light head
wind), the weather has been constantly favorable, and we are now
bowling away at a great rate, with a fresh breeze filling all our
sails. We expect to be at Queenstown between midnight and three in
the morning.

I hope, my dear Fields, you may find this legible, but I rather
doubt it; for there is motion enough on the ship to render writing
to a landsman, however accustomed to pen and ink, rather a difficult
achievement. Besides which, I slide away gracefully from the paper,
whenever I want to be particularly expressive.....

----, sitting opposite to me at breakfast, always has the following
items: A large dish of porridge, into which he casts slices of
butter and a quantity of sugar. Two cups of tea. A steak. Irish
stew. Chutnee, and marmalade. Another deputation of two has
solicited a reading to-night. Illustrious novelist has
unconditionally and absolutely declined.

More love, and more to that, from your ever affectionate friend,

C.D.

His first letter from home gave us all great pleasure, for it announced his complete recovery from the severe influenza that had fastened itself upon him so many months before. Among his earliest notes I find these paragraphs:--

"I have found it so extremely difficult to write about America
(though never so briefly) without appearing to blow trumpets on the
one hand, or to be inconsistent with my avowed determination _not_
to write about it on the other, that I have taken the simple course
enclosed. The number will be published on the 6th of June. It
appears to me to be the most modest and manly course, and to derive
some graceful significance from its title.....

"Thank my dear ---- for me for her delightful letter received on the
16th. I will write to her very soon, and tell her about the dogs. I
would write by this post, but that Wills's absence (in Sussex, and
getting no better there as yet) so overwhelms me with business that
I can scarcely get through it.

"Miss me? Ah, my dear fellow, but how do I miss _you!_ We talk about
you both at Gad's Hill every day of our lives. And I never see the
place looking very pretty indeed, or hear the birds sing all day
long and the nightingales all night, without restlessly wishing that
you were both there.

"With best love, and truest and most enduring regard, ever, my dear
Fields,

"Your most affectionate,

"C.D."

".... I hope you will receive by Saturday's Cunard a case
containing:

1. A trifling supply of the pen-knibs that suited your hand. 2. A
do. of unfailing medicine for cockroaches. 3. Mrs. Gamp, for ----.

"The case is addressed to you at Bleecker Street, New York. If it
should be delayed for the knibs (or nibs) promised to-morrow, and
should be too late for the Cunard packet, it will in that case come
by the next following Inman steamer.

"Everything here looks lovely, and I find it (you will be surprised
to hear) really a pretty place! I have seen No Thoroughfare twice.
Excellent things in it; but it drags, to my thinking. It is,
however, a great success in the country, and is now getting up with
great force in Paris. Fechter is ill, and was ordered off to
Brighton yesterday. Wills is ill too, and banished into Sussex for
perfect rest. Otherwise, thank God, I find everything well and
thriving. You and my dear Mrs. F---- are constantly in my mind.
Procter greatly better...."

On the 25th of May he sent off the following from Gad's Hill:--

My Dear ----: As you ask me about the dogs, I begin with them. When
I came down first, I came to Gravesend, five miles off. The two
Newfoundland dogs coming to meet me, with the usual carriage and the
usual driver, and beholding me coming in my usual dress out at the
usual door, it struck me that their recollection of my having been
absent for any unusual time was at once cancelled. They behaved
(they are both young dogs) exactly in their usual manner; coming
behind the basket phaeton as we trotted along, and lifting their
heads to have their ears pulled,--a special attention which they
receive from no one else. But when I drove into the stable-yard,
Linda (the St. Bernard) was greatly excited; weeping profusely, and
throwing herself on her back that she might caress my foot with her
great fore-paws. M----'s little dog too, Mrs. Bouncer, barked in the
greatest agitation on being called down and asked by M----, "Who is
this?" and tore round and round me, like the dog in the Faust
outlines. You must know that all the farmers turned out on the road
in their market-chaises to say, "Welcome home, sir!" that all the
houses along the road were dressed with flags; and that our
servants, to cut out the rest, had dressed this house so, that every
brick of it was hidden. They had asked M----'s permission to "ring
the alarm-bell (!) when master drove up"; but M----, having some
slight idea that that compliment might awaken master's sense of the
ludicrous, had recommended bell abstinence. But on Sunday, the
village choir (which includes the bell-ringers) made amends. After
some unusually brief pious reflection in the crowns of their hats at
the end of the sermon, the ringers bolted out and rang like mad
until I got home. (There had been a conspiracy among the villagers
to take the horse out, if I had come to our own station, and draw me
here. M---- and G---- had got wind of it and warned me.)

Divers birds sing here all day, and the nightingales all night. The
place is lovely, and in perfect order. I have put five mirrors in
the Swiss Chalet (where I write), and they reflect and refract in
all kinds of ways the leaves that are quivering at the windows, and
he great fields of waving corn, and the sail-dotted river. My room
is up among the branches of the trees; and the birds and the
butterflies fly in and out, and the green branches shoot in, at the
open windows, and the lights and shadows of the clouds come and go
with the rest of the company. The scent of the flowers, and indeed
of everything that is growing for miles and miles, is most
delicious.

Dolby (who sends a world of messages) found his wife much better
than he expected, and the children (wonderful to relate!) perfect.
The little girl winds up her prayers every night with a special
commendation to Heaven of me and the pony,--as if I must mount him
to get there! I dine with Dolby (I was going to write "him," but
found it would look as if I were going to dine with the pony) at
Greenwich this very day, and if your ears do not burn from six to
nine this evening, then the Atlantic is a non-conductor. We are
already settling--think of this!--the details of my farewell course
of readings. I am brown beyond relief, and cause the greatest
disappointment in all quarters by looking so well. It is really
wonderful what those fine days at sea did for me! My doctor was
quite broken down in spirits when he saw me, for the first time
since my return, last Saturday. "Good Lord!" he said, recoiling;
"seven years younger!"

It is time I should explain the otherwise inexplicable enclosure.
Will you tell Fields, with my love, (I suppose he hasn't used _all_
the pens yet?) that I think there is in Tremont Street a set of my
books, sent out by Chapman, not arrived when I departed. Such set of
the immortal works of our illustrious, etc., is designed for the
gentleman to whom the enclosure is addressed. If T., F., & Co. will
kindly forward the set (carriage paid) with the enclosure to ----'s
address, I will invoke new blessings on their heads, and will get
Dolby's little daughter to mention them nightly.

"No Thoroughfare" is very shortly coming out in Paris, where it is
now in active rehearsal. It is still playing here, but without
Fechter, who has been very ill. The doctor's dismissal of him to
Paris, however, and his getting better there, enables him to get up
the play there. He and Wilkie missed so many pieces of stage effect
here, that, unless I am quite satisfied with his report, I shall go
over and try my stage-managerial hand at the Vaudeville Theatre. I
particularly want the drugging and attempted robbing in the bedroom
scene at the Swiss inn to be done to the sound of a waterfall rising
and falling with the wind. Although in the very opening of that
scene they speak of the waterfall and listen to it, nobody thought
of its mysterious music. I could make it, with a good stage
carpenter, in an hour. Is it not a curious thing that they want to
make me a governor of the Foundling Hospital, because, since the
Christmas number, they have had such an amazing access of visitors
and money?

My dear love to Fields once again. Same to you and him from M----
and G----. I cannot tell you both how I miss you, or how overjoyed I
should be to see you here.

Ever, my dear ----, your most affectionate friend,

C.D.

Excellent accounts of his health and spirits continued to come from Gad's Hill, and his letters were full of plans for the future. On the 7th of July he writes from Gad's Hill as usual:--

Gad's Hill Place, Tuesday, 7th July, 1868.

My Dear Fields: I have delayed writing to you (and ----, to whom my
love) until I should have seen Longfellow. When he was in London the
first time he came and went without reporting himself, and left me
in a state of unspeakable discomfiture. Indeed, I should not have
believed in his having been here at all, if Mrs. Procter had not
told me of his calling to see Procter. However, on his return he
wrote to me from the Langham Hotel, and I went up to town to see
him, and to make an appointment for his coming here. He, the girls,
and ---- came down last Saturday night, and stayed until Monday
forenoon. I showed them all the neighboring country that could be
shown in so short a time, and they finished off with a tour of
inspection of the kitchens, pantry, wine-cellar, pickles, sauces,
servants' sitting-room, general household stores, and even the
Cellar Book, of this illustrious establishment. Forster and Kent
(the latter wrote certain verses to Longfellow, which have been
published in the "Times," and which I sent to D----) came down for a
day, and I hope we all had a really "good time." I turned out a
couple of postilions in the old red jacket of the old red royal
Dover road, for our ride; and it was like a holiday ride in England
fifty years ago. Of course we went to look at the old houses in
Rochester, and the old cathedral, and the old castle, and the house
for the six poor travellers who, "not being rogues or proctors,
shall have lodging, entertainment, and four pence each."

Nothing can surpass the respect paid to Longfellow here, from the
Queen downward. He is everywhere received and courted, and finds (as
I told him he would, when we talked of it in Boston) the workingmen
at least as well acquainted with his books as the classes socially
above them.....

Last Thursday I attended, as sponsor, the christening of Dolby's son
and heir,--a most jolly baby, who held on tight by the rector's left
whisker while the service was performed. What time, too, his little
sister, connecting me with the pony, trotted up and down the centre
isle, noisily driving herself as that celebrated animal, so that it
went very hard with the sponsorial dignity.

---- is not yet recovered from that concussion of the brain, and I
have all his work to do. This may account for my not being able to
devise a Christmas number, but I seem to have left my invention in
America. In case you should find it, please send it over. I am going
up to town to-day to dine with Longfellow. And now, my dear Fields,
you know all about me and mine.

You are enjoying your holiday? and are still thinking sometimes of
our Boston days, as I do? and are maturing schemes for coming here
next summer? A satisfactory reply to the last question is
particularly entreated.

I am delighted to find you both so well pleased with the Blind Book
scheme. I said nothing of it to you when we were together, though I
had made up my mind, because I wanted to come upon you with that
little burst from a distance. It seemed something like meeting
again when I remitted the money and thought of your talking of it.

The dryness of the weather is amazing. All the ponds and surface
wells about here are waterless, and the poor people suffer greatly.
The people of this village have only one spring to resort to, and it
is a couple of miles from many cottages. I do not let the great dogs
swim 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 standing 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 him along was charming.

Ever your loving

C.D.

* * * * *

During the summer of 1868 constant messages and letters came from Dickens across the seas, containing pleasant references to his visit in America, and giving charming accounts of his way of life at home. Here is a letter announcing the fact that he had decided to close forever his appearance in the reading-desk:--

Liverpool, Friday, October 30, 1868.

My Dear ----: I ought to have written to you long ago. But I have
begun my one hundred and third Farewell Readings, and have been so
busy and so fatigued that my hands have been quite full. Here are
Dolby and I again leading the kind of life that you know so well. We
stop next week (except in London) for the month of November, on
account of the elections, and then go on again, with a short holiday
at Christmas. We have been doing wonders, and the crowds that pour
in upon us in London are beyond all precedent or means of providing
for. I have serious thoughts of doing the murder from Oliver Twist;
but it is so horrible, that I am going to try it on a dozen people
in my London hall one night next month, privately, and see what
effect it makes.

My reason for abandoning the Christmas number was, that I became
weary of having my own writing swamped by that of other people. This
reminds me of the Ghost story. I don't think so well of it my dear
Fields, as you do. It seems to me to be too obviously founded on
Bill Jones (in Monk Lewis's Tales of Terror), and there is also a
remembrance in it of another Sea-Ghost story entitled, I think,
"Stand from Under," and written by I don't know whom. _Stand from
under_ is the cry from aloft when anything is going to be sent down
on deck, and the ghost is aloft on a yard....