Fondness for Athletic Sports.—His love of bathing.—His study of the raven.—Calling the doctor in.—My father with our dogs.—The cats of “Gad’s Hill.”—“Bumble” and “Mrs. Bouncer.”—A strange friendship.
Fondness for Athletic Sports.—His love of bathing.—His study of the raven.—Calling the doctor in.—My father with our dogs.—The cats of “Gad’s Hill.”—“Bumble” and “Mrs. Bouncer.”—A strange friendship.
As a child my father was prevented from any active participation in the sports and amusements of his boyish companions by his extreme delicacy and frequent illnesses, so that until his manhood his knowledge of games was gained merely from long hours of watching others while lying upon the grass. With manhood, however, came the strength and activity which enabled him to take part in all kinds of outdoor exercise and sports, and it seemed that in his passionate enjoyment and participation in those later years he was recompensed for the weary childhood years of suffering and inability. Athletic sports were a passion with him in his manhood, as I have said. In 1839 he rented acottage at Petersham, not far from London “where,” to quote from Mr. Forster, “the extensive garden grounds admitted of much athletic competition, in which Dickens, for the most part, held his own against even such accomplished athletes as Maclise and Mr. Beard. Bar leaping, bowling and quoits were among the games carried on with the greatest ardor, and in sustained energy Dickens certainly distanced every competitor. Even the lighter recreations of battledore and bagatelle were pursued with relentless activity. At such amusements as the Petersham races, in those days rather celebrated, and which he visited daily while they lasted, he worked much harder than the running horses did.”
Riding was a favorite recreation at all times with my father, and he was constantly inviting one or another of his friends to bear him company on these excursions. Always fond, in his leisure hours, of companions, he seemed to find his rides and walks quiteincomplete if made alone. He writes on one occasion: “What think you of a fifteen-mile ride out, ditto in, and a lunch on the road, with a wind-up of six o’clock dinner in Doughty Street?” And again: “Not knowing whether my head was off or on, it became so addled with work, I have gone riding over the old road, and shall be truly delighted to meet or be overtaken by you.” As a young man he was extremely fond of riding, but as I never remember seeing him on horseback I think he must have deprived himself of this pastime soon after his marriage.
But walking was, perhaps, his chiefest pleasure, and the country lanes and city streets alike found him a close observer of their beauties and interests. He was a rapid walker, his usual pace being four miles an hour, and to keep step with him required energy and activity similar to his own. In many of his letters he speaks with most evident enjoyment of this pastime. In onehe writes: “What a brilliant morning for a country walk! I start precisely—precisely, mind—at half-past one. Come, come, come and walk in the green lanes!” Again: “You don’t feel disposed, do you, to muffle yourself up and start off with me for a good, brisk walk over Hampstead Heath?”
Outdoor games of the simpler kinds delighted him. Battledore and shuttlecock was played constantly in the garden at Devonshire Terrace, though I do not remember my father ever playing it elsewhere. The American game of bowls pleased him, and rounders found him more than expert. Croquet he disliked, but cricket he enjoyed intensely as a spectator, always keeping one of the scores during the matches at “Gad’s Hill.”
He was a firm believer in the hygiene of bathing, and cold baths, sea baths and shower baths were among his most constant practices. In those days scientific ablution was not very generally practised, and I amsure that in many places during his travels my father was looked upon as an amiable maniac with a penchant for washing.
During his first visit to America, while he was making some journey in a rather rough and uncomfortable canal boat, he wrote: “I am considered very hardy in the morning, for I run up barenecked and plunge my head into the half-frozen water by half-past five o’clock. I am respected for my activity, inasmuch as I jump from the boat to the towing path, and walk five or six miles before breakfast, keeping up with the horses all the time.” And from Broadstairs: “In a bay window sits, from nine o’clock to one, a gentleman with rather long hair and no neckcloth, who writes and grins as if he thought he were very funny, indeed. At one o’clock he disappears, presently emerges from a bathing machine, and may be seen a kind of salmon-colored porpoise, splashing about in the ocean. After that, he may be viewed in another bay window on the ground floor, eatinga good lunch; and after that, walking a dozen miles or so, or lying on his back on the sand reading. Nobody bothers him, unless they know he is disposed to be talked to; and I am told he is very comfortable, indeed.”
During the hottest summer months of our year’s residence in Italy, we lived at a little seaport of the Mediterranean called Albaro. The bathing here was of the most primitive kind, one division of the clear, dark-blue pools among the rocks being reserved for women, the other for men, and as we children were as much at home in the water as any known variety of fish, we used to look with wonder at the so-called bathing of the Italian women. They would come in swarms, beautifully dressed, and with most elaborately arranged heads of hair, but the slightest of wettings with them was the equivalent of a bath. In the open bay at Albaro the current was very strong, and the bathing most dangerous to even an experiencedswimmer. I remember one morning the terrible fright we were given by an uncle of ours; he swam out into the bay, was caught by the current of an ebb tide and borne out of reach of our eyes. A fishing boat picked him up still alive, though greatly exhausted. “It was a world of horror and anguish crowded into four or five minutes of dreadful agitation,” wrote my father, “and to complete the terror of it the entire family, including the children, were on the rock in full view of it all, crying like mad creatures.”
He loved animals, flowers and birds, his fondness for the latter being shown nowhere more strongly than in his devotion to his ravens at Devonshire Terrace. He writes characteristically of the death of “Grip,” the first raven: “You will be greatly shocked and grieved to hear that the raven is no more. He expired to-day at a few minutes after twelve o’clock, at noon. He had been ailing for a few days, but we anticipated no serious result, conjecturing that a portion ofthe white paint he swallowed last summer might be lingering about his vitals. Yesterday afternoon he was taken so much worse that I sent an express for the medical gentleman, who promptly attended and administered a powerful dose of castor oil. Under the influence of this medicine he recovered so far as to be able, at eight o’clock, p.m., to bite Topping (the coachman). His night was peaceful. This morning, at daybreak, he appeared better, and partook plentifully of some warm gruel, the flavor of which he appeared to relish. Toward eleven o’clock he was so much worse that it was found necessary to muffle the stable knocker. At half-past, or thereabouts, he was heard talking to himself about the horse and Topping’s family, and to add some incoherent expressions which are supposed to have been either a foreboding of his approaching dissolution or some wishes relative to the disposal of his little property, consisting chiefly of half-pence which he had buried indifferent parts of the garden. On the clock striking twelve he appeared slightly agitated, but he soon recovered, walked twice or thrice along the coach house, stopped to bark, staggered, and exclaimed ‘Halloa, old girl!’ (his favorite expression) and died. He behaved throughout with decent fortitude, equanimity and self-possession. I deeply regret that, being in ignorance of his danger, I did not attend to receive his last instructions.
“Something remarkable about his eyes occasioned Topping to run for the doctor at twelve. When they returned together, our friend was gone. It was the medical gentleman who informed me of his decease. He did it with caution and delicacy, preparing me by the remark that ‘a jolly queer start had taken place.’ I am not wholly free from suspicions of poison. A malicious butcher has been heard to say that he would ‘do’ for him. His plea was that he would not be molested in taking orders down the mews byany bird that wore a tail. Were they ravens who took manna to somebody in the wilderness? At times I hope they were, and at others I fear they were not, or they would certainly have stolen it by the way. Kate is as well as can be expected. The children seem rather glad of it. He bit their ankles, but that was in play.” As my father was writing “Barnaby Rudge” at this time, and wished to continue his study of raven nature, another and a larger “Grip” took the place of “our friend” but it was he whose talking tricks and comical ways gave my father the idea of making a raven one of the characters in this book. My father’s fondness for “Grip” was, however, never transferred to any other raven, and none of us ever forgave the butcher whom we all held in some way responsible for his untimely taking off.
But I think his strongest love, among animals, was for dogs. I find a delightful anecdote told by him of a dog belonging to alady whom he knew well, “Of,” an immense, black, good-humored, Newfoundland dog. He came from Oxford and had lived all his life in a brewery. Instructions were given with him that if he were let out every morning alone he would immediately find out the river, regularly take a swim and come gravely home again. This he did with the greatest punctuality, but after a little while was observed to smell of beer. His owner was so sure that he smelled of beer that she resolved to watch him. He was seen to come back from his swim round the usual corner and to go up a flight of steps into a beer shop. Being instantly followed, the beer shopkeeper is seen to take down a pot (pewter pot) and is heard to say: “Well, old chap, come for your beer as usual, have you?” Upon which he draws a pint and puts it down and the dog drinks it. Being required to explain how this comes to pass the man says: “Yes, ma’am. I know he’s your dog, ma’am, but I didn’t when he firstcame. He looked in, ma’am, as a brick-maker might, and then he come in, as a brickmaker might, and he wagged his tail at the pots, and he giv a sniff round and conveyed to me as he was used to beer. So I draw’d him a drop, and he drunk it up. Next morning he come agen by the clock and I draw’d him a pint, and ever since he has took his pint reg’lar.”
On account of our birds, cats were not allowed in the house; but from a friend in London I received a present of a white kitten—Williamina—and she and her numerous offspring had a happy home at “Gad’s Hill.” She became a favorite with all the household, and showed particular devotion to my father. I remember on one occasion when she had presented us with a family of kittens, she selected a corner of father’s study for their home. She brought them one by one from the kitchen and deposited them in her chosen corner. My father called to me to remove them, sayingthat he could not allow the kittens to remain in his room. I did so, but Williamina brought them back again, one by one. Again they were removed. The third time, instead of putting them in the corner, she placed them all, and herself beside them, at my father’s feet, and gave him such an imploring glance that he could resist no longer, and they were allowed to remain. As the kittens grew older they became more and more frolicsome, swarming up the curtains, playing about on the writing table and scampering behind the book shelves. But they were never complained of and lived happily in the study until the time came for finding them other homes. One of these kittens was kept, who, as he was quite deaf, was left unnamed, and became known by the servants as “the master’s cat,” because of his devotion to my father. He was always with him, and used to follow him about the garden like a dog, and sit with him while he wrote. One evening we wereall, except father, going to a ball, and when we started, left “the master” and his cat in the drawing-room together. “The master” was reading at a small table, on which a lighted candle was placed. Suddenly the candle went out. My father, who was much interested in his book, relighted the candle stroked the cat, who was looking at him pathetically he noticed, and continued his reading. A few minutes later, as the light became dim, he looked up just in time to see puss deliberately put out the candle with his paw, and then look appealingly toward him. This second and unmistakable hint was not disregarded, and puss was given the petting he craved. Father was full of this anecdote when all met at breakfast the next morning.
Among our dogs were “Turk” and “Linda,” the former a beautiful mastiff and the latter a soft-eyed, gentle, good-tempered St. Bernard. “Mrs. Bouncer,” a Pomeranian, came next, a tiny ball of white fluffy fur, who came as a special gift to me, and speedilywon her way by her grace and daintiness into the affections of every member of the household. My father became her special slave, and had a peculiar voice for her—as he had for us, when we were children—to which she would respond at once by running to him from any part of the house when she heard his call. He delighted to see her with the large dogs, with whom she gave herself great airs, “because,” as he said, “she looks so preposterously small.” A few years later came “Don,” a Newfoundland, and then “Bumble,” his son, named after “Oliver Twist’s” beadle, because of “a peculiarly pompous and overbearing manner he had of appearing to mount guard over the yard when he was an absolute infant.” Lastly came “Sultan,” an Irish bloodhound, who had a bitter experience with his life at “Gad’s Hill.” One evening, having broken his chain, he fell upon a little girl who was passing and bit her so severely that my father considered it necessary to have him shot,although this decision cost him a great deal of sorrow.
For a short time I had the care of a mongrel called “Gipsy.” She was not allowed to enter any of the family rooms, and used to spend her time lying contentedly on the rug outside the drawing-room. One afternoon a friend came from Chatham bringing with him a wonderful poodle who had been specially invited to perform all his tricks for my father’s enjoyment. On his arrival, “Mrs. Bouncer” became furious, and when he began his tricks she went deliberately into the hall and escorted “Gipsy” into the drawing-room, as much as to say: “I can’t stand this. If strange dogs are to be made much of, surely the dogs in the house may be at least permitted to enter the room.” She would not look at “Fosco,” the poodle, but sat throughout his performance with her back toward him, the picture of offended dignity. Just as soon, however, as he was fairly out of the house,and not until then, she escorted “Gipsy” back to her rug. My father was intensely amused by this behaviour of “Bouncer’s” and delighted in telling this story about her.
“Mrs. Bouncer” was honored by many messages from her master during his absences from home. Here is one written as I was convalescing from a serious illness: “In my mind’s eye I behold ‘Mrs. Bouncer,’ still with some traces of anxiety on her faithful countenance, balancing herself a little unequally on her forelegs, pricking up her ears with her head on one side, and slightly opening her intellectual nostrils. I send my loving and respectful duty to her.” Again: “Think of my dreaming of ‘Mrs. Bouncer,’ each night!!!”
My father’s love for dogs led him into a strange friendship during our stay at Boulogne. There lived in a cottage on the street which led from our house to the town, a cobbler who used to sit at his window working all day with his dog—a Pomeranian—on the table beside him. The cobbler, in whom my father became very much interested because of the intelligence of his Pomeranian companion, was taken ill, and for many months was unable to work. My father writes: “The cobbler has been ill these many months. The little dog sits at the door so unhappy and anxious to help that I every day expect to see him beginning a pair of top boots.” Another time father writes in telling the history of this little animal: “A cobbler at Boulogne, who had the nicest of little dogs that always sat in his sunny window watching him at his work, asked me if I would bring the dog home as he couldn’t afford to pay the tax for him. The cobbler and the dog being both my particular friends I complied. The cobbler parted with the dog heartbroken. When the dog got home here, my man, like an idiot as he is, tied him up and then untied him. The moment the gate was open, the dog (on the very day after his arrival) ran out. Next day Georgy and I saw him lyingall covered with mud, dead, outside the neighbouring church. How am I ever to tell the cobbler? He is too poor to come to England, so I feel that I must lie to him for life, and say that the dog is fat and happy.”
Mrs. Bouncer
Of horses and ponies we possessed but few during our childhood, and these were not of very choice breed. I remember, however, one pretty pony which was our delight, and dear old “Toby,” the good sturdy horse which for many years we used at “Gad’s Hill.” My father, however, was very fond of horses, and I recall hearing him comment on the strange fact that an animal “so noble in its qualities should be the cause of so much villainy.”
* * * * *
To Miss Dickens’ Pomeranian “Mrs. Bouncer”
Furry, lazy, warm and bright,Peeing from her fringe of white,She blinks and sleeps both day and night,A happy Spitz!She need not fear the cruel stick,Nor has she learnt a single trick—Just deigns her mistress’ hand to lick,As she knits.She eats, and drinks, and eats again,Is never out in wind or rain,—Takes many a journey in the train,And her admits.She has her own coquettish charms,Knows no sorrows, no alarms,And dozes in her mistress’ arms—A sleepy Spitz.How small and piquant are her feet—Ben Allen’s sister had as neat—She looks so saucy, one could beatHer into fits.Quite ravishing when neat and clean,Her cars seem lined with crinoline:She rules the house, a haughty queen,A saucy Spitz!Just tolerates the frequent hug—Snoozing all day upon the rug,Complacent, philosophic—snug,Her paws like mits.At dinner—ah! that pleasant Babel!Touch her paw beneath the table,She’d bite your foot—were she but able—A naughty Spitz.To find her mistress how she flew!Faithful the coming step she knewLet others be as brave and true—Lords or Wits!WhenSultan,Turk, andLindafleetThe lost lov’d Master rushed to meet,Hiskindly voice would always greetThe little Spitz!Alas! so furry, warm, and white,From this cold world she took her flight,No more on rug, by fireside bright,DearBouncersits.Percy FitzGerald.
Furry, lazy, warm and bright,Peeing from her fringe of white,She blinks and sleeps both day and night,
A happy Spitz!
She need not fear the cruel stick,Nor has she learnt a single trick—Just deigns her mistress’ hand to lick,
As she knits.
She eats, and drinks, and eats again,Is never out in wind or rain,—Takes many a journey in the train,
And her admits.
She has her own coquettish charms,Knows no sorrows, no alarms,And dozes in her mistress’ arms—
A sleepy Spitz.
How small and piquant are her feet—Ben Allen’s sister had as neat—She looks so saucy, one could beat
Her into fits.
Quite ravishing when neat and clean,Her cars seem lined with crinoline:She rules the house, a haughty queen,
A saucy Spitz!
Just tolerates the frequent hug—Snoozing all day upon the rug,Complacent, philosophic—snug,
Her paws like mits.
At dinner—ah! that pleasant Babel!Touch her paw beneath the table,She’d bite your foot—were she but able—
A naughty Spitz.
To find her mistress how she flew!Faithful the coming step she knewLet others be as brave and true—
Lords or Wits!
WhenSultan,Turk, andLindafleetThe lost lov’d Master rushed to meet,Hiskindly voice would always greet
The little Spitz!
Alas! so furry, warm, and white,From this cold world she took her flight,No more on rug, by fireside bright,
DearBouncersits.
Percy FitzGerald.
Interest in London birds.—Our pet bird “Dick.”—Devotion of his dogs.—Decision to visit America.—His arrival in New York.—Comments on American courtesies.—Farewell public appearances.
The warm affection which was so characteristic of my father toward people was also directed, as I have already told, towards animals and birds. A few further anecdotes occur to me, and I have ventured to give them here, before proceeding to tell of his visit to America, his readings, and the, to me, sad story of his last public appearance.
My father’s quick and amusing observation of London birds and their habits, and of their fondness for “low company,” is full of charm and quaint oddity. He writes: “That anything born of an egg and invested with wings should have got to the pass that it hops contentedly down a ladder into a cellar, and calls that going home, is a circumstance so amazingas to leave one nothing more in this connection to wonder at. I know a low fellow, originally of a good family from Dorking, who takes his whole establishment of wives in single file in at the door of the jug department of a disorderly tavern near the Haymarket, manœuvres them among the company’s legs, and emerges with them at the bottle entrance, seldom in the season going to bed before two in the morning. And thus he passes his life. But the family I am best acquainted with reside in the densest part of Bethnal Green. Their abstraction from the objects in which they live, or rather their conviction that these objects have all come into existence in express subservience to fowls, has so enchanted me that I have made them the subject of many journeys at divers hours. After careful observation of the two lords and of the ten ladies of whom this family consists, I have come to the conclusion that their opinions are represented by the leading lord and leading lady, the latter, as I judge, anaged personage, afflicted with a paucity of feather and visibility of quill that gives her the appearance of a bundle of office pens. They look upon old shoes, wrecks of kettles, saucepans and fragments of bonnets as a kind of meteoric discharge for fowls to peck at. Gaslight comes quite as natural to them as any other light; and I have more than a suspicion that in the minds of the two lords, the early public house at the corner has superseded the sun. They always begin to crow when the public house shutters begin to be taken down, and they salute the pot-boy the instant he appears to perform that duty, as if he were Phœbus in person.”
During one of his walks through the slums, my father was so fascinated by the intelligence of a busy goldfinch drawing water for himself in his cage—he had other accomplishments as well—that he went in and bought it. But not a thing would the little bird do, not a trick would he perform when he got to his new home in Doughty Street, and would onlydraw up water in the dark or when he thought no one was looking. “After an interval of futile and at length hopeless expectation,” my father writes, “the merchant who had educated him was appealed to. The merchant was a bow-legged character, with a flat and cushiony nose, like the last new strawberry. He wore a fur cap and shorts, and was of the velveteen race velveteeny. He sent word that he would ‘look round.’ He looked round, appeared in the doorway of the room, and slightly cocked up his evil eye at the goldfinch. Instantly a raging thirst beset the bird, and when it was appeased he still drew several unnecessary buckets of water, leaping about the perch and sharpening his bill with irrepressible satisfaction.”
While at Broadstairs one summer, our bathing woman, who reared birds, gave a canary to my sister and myself. “Dick,” who was only a few weeks old when he came to us, grew to be a very king of birds, and became in time a most important member of the household.There was a fierce war waged against cats during his lifetime, and writing from Boulogne my father very funnily describes our troubles with the feline race: “War is raging against two particularly tigerish and fearful cats (from the mill, I suppose), which are always glaring in dark corners after our wonderful little ‘Dick.’ Keeping the house open at all points it is impossible to shut them out, and they hide themselves in the most terrific manner, hanging themselves up behind draperies like bats, and tumbling out in the dead of night with frightful caterwaulings. Hereupon French, the footman, borrows a gun, loads it to the muzzle, discharges it twice in vain, and throws himself over with the recoil exactly like a clown. But at last, while I was in town, he aims at the more amiable cat of the two and shoots that animal dead. Insufferably elated by this victory he is now engaged from morning to night in hiding behind bushes to get aim at the other. He does nothing else whatever. All the boysencourage him and watch for the enemy, on whose appearance they give an alarm, which immediately serves as a warning to the creature, who runs away. They—the boys—are at this moment (ready dressed for church) all lying on their stomachs in various parts of the garden. I am afraid to go out lest I should be shot. Mr. Plornish, says his prayers at night in a whisper lest the cat should overhear him and take offence. The tradesmen cry out as they come up the avenue: ‘Me Voici!C’est Moi—boulanger—me tirez pas,Monsieur Frenche!’ It is like living in a state of siege, and the wonderful manner in which the cat preserves the character of being the only person not much put out by the intensity of this monomania is most ridiculous. The finest thing is that immediately after I have heard the noble sportsman blazing away at her in the garden in front I look out of my room door into the drawing-room and am pretty sure to see her coming in after the bird, in the calmestmanner possible, by the back window.” But no harm ever came to “our wonderful little ‘Dick,’” who lived to a ripe old age—sixteen years—and was buried under a rose tree at “Gad’s Hill.”
On his return from his last visit to America he wrote a charming account of his welcome home by the dogs at “Gad’s Hill.” “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 received from no one else. But when I drove into the stableyard, ‘Linda’ wasgreatly excited; weeping profusely, and throwing herself on her back that she might caress my foot with her great forepaws. Mamie’s little dog, too, ‘Mrs. Bouncer,’ barked in the greatest agitation on being called down and asked: ‘Who is this?’ tore round me, like the dog in the Faust outlines.”
My father brought with him, on his return from his first visit to America, a small, shaggy Havana spaniel, which had been given to him and which he had named “Timber Doodle.” He wrote of him: “Little doggy improves rapidly and now jumps over my stick at the word of command.” “Timber,” travelled with us in all our foreign wanderings, and while at Albaro the poor little fellow had a most unfortunate experience—an encounter of some duration with a plague of fleas. Father writes: “‘Timber’ has had every hair upon his body cut off because of the fleas, and he looks like the ghost of a drowned dog come out of a pond after a week or so. It is very awful to see him sidle into a room. He knowsthe change upon him, and is always turning-round and round to look for himself. I think he’ll die of grief; it is to be hoped that the hair will grow again.”
For many years my father’s public readings were an important part of his life, and into their performance and preparation he threw the best energy of his heart and soul, practising and rehearsing at all times and places. The meadow near our home was a favorite place, and people passing through the lane, not knowing who he was, or what doing, must have thought him a madman from his reciting and gesticulation. The great success of these readings led to many tempting offers from the United States, which, as time went on, and we realized how much the fatigue of the readings together with his other work were sapping his strength, we earnestly opposed his even considering. However, after much discussion and deliberation he wrote to me on September 28th, 1867: “As I telegraphed after I saw you I am off to consultwith Mr. Forster and Dolby together. You shall hear either on Monday or by Monday’s post from London how I decide finally.” Three days later: “You will have had my telegram that I go to America. After a long discussion with Forster and consideration of what is to be said on both sides, I have decided to go through with it, and have telegraphed ‘yes’ to Boston.” There was, at first, some talk of my accompanying him, but when the programme of the tour was submitted to my father and he saw how much time must be devoted to business and how little, indeed almost no time could be given to sightseeing, this idea was given up.
A farewell banquet was given him in London on the second of November, and on the ninth he sailed. A large party of us went to Liverpool to see him sail, and with heavy hearts to bid him farewell. In those days a journey to America was a serious matter, and we felt in our hearts that he was about to taxhis health and strength too cruelly. And so he did.
Soon after reaching the United States, my father contracted a severe cold which never left him during his visit, and which caused him the greatest annoyance. I will give you a few quotations from his letters to show how pluckily he fought against his ailment and under what a strain he continued his work. On his arrival at New York on Christmas Day, in response to a letter of mine which awaited him there, he wrote: “I wanted your letter much, for I had a frightful cold (English colds are nothing to those of this country) and was very miserable.” He adds to this letter, a day or two later: “I managed to read last night but it was as much as I could do. To-day I am so unwell that I have sent for a doctor.” Again he writes: “It likewise happens, not seldom, that I am so dead beat when I come off the stage, that they lay me down on a sofa after I have been washed and dressed, and I lie there extremely faint for a quarter of anhour. In that time I rally and come right.” Again: “On the afternoon of my birthday my catarrh was in such a state that Charles Sumner coming in at five o’clock and finding me covered with mustard poultices and apparently voiceless, turned to Dolby and said: ‘Surely, Mr. Dolby, it is impossible that he can read to-night.’ Says Dolby: ‘Sir, I have told Mr. Dickens so four times to-day and I have been very anxious. But you have no idea how he will change when he gets to the little table.’ After five minutes of the little table I was not, for the time, even hoarse. The frequent experience of this return of force when it is wanted saves me much anxiety, but I am not at times without the nervous dread that I may some day sink altogether.”
But as a reward for his unstinted self-giving came the wonderful success of his tour, the pride and delight which he felt in the enthusiasm which greeted him everywhere, the personal affection lavished upon him, andthe many dear friends he made. He writes from Boston,à proposof these rewards: “When we reached here last Saturday night we found that Mrs. Fields had not only garnished the room with flowers, but also with holly (with real red berries), and festoons of moss dependent from the looking-glasses and picture-frames. The homely Christmas look of the place quite affected us.”
Later, from Washington: “I couldn’t help laughing at myself on my birthday here; it was observed as much as though I were a little boy. Flowers and garlands of the most exquisite kind, arranged in all manner of green baskets, bloomed over the room; letters, radiant with good wishes, poured in. Also, by hands unknown, the hall at night was decorated; and after ‘Boots at the Holly Tree Inn’ the audience rose, great people and all, standing and cheering until I went back to the table and made them a little speech.”
He wrote home constantly, giving frequent commissions for improvements at “Gad’sHill,” to be made before his return. He was much impressed on his second visit, as on his first, I remember, with the beauty of the American women. “The ladies are remarkably handsome,” he wrote.
The Empty Chair
In the autumn of 1869 he began a series of farewell readings, which were another heavy tax upon his health and strength. During his tour at this time he writes to Mr. Forster after some rather alarming symptoms had developed: “I told Beard, a year after the Staplehurst accident, that I was certain that my heart had been fluttered and wanted a little helping. This the stethoscope confirmed; and considering the immense exertion I am undergoing, and the constant jarring of express trains, the case seems to me quite intelligible. Don’t say anything in the ‘Gad’s’ direction about my being a little out of sorts. I have broached the matter, of course, but very lightly.”
But even such warning as this failed to make him realize how much less was hisstrength, and with indomitable courage and spirit he continued his tour. The trouble in his feet increased, and his sufferings from this cause were very great. It became necessary at one time for him to have a physician in attendance upon him at every reading. But in spite of his perseverance, he became so ill that the readings had to be stopped.
Last words spoken in public.—A railroad accident in 1865.—At home after his American visit.—“Improvements” at “Gad’s Hill.”—At “Gad’s Hill” once more.—The closing days of his life.—Burial at Westminster.
My father gave his last reading in St. James’ Hall, London, on the fifteenth of March. The programme included “The Christmas Carol” and the “Trial” from “Pickwick.” The hall was packed by an enormous audience, and he was greeted with all the warmth which the personal affection felt for the reader inspired. We all felt very anxious for him, fearing that the excitement and emotion which must attend upon his public farewell would have a bad effect upon him. But it had no immediate result, at any rate, much to our relief.
I do not think that my father ever—and this is saying a great deal—looked handsomernor read with more ability than on this, his last appearance. Mr. Forster writes: “The charm of his reading was at its height when he shut the volume of ‘Pickwick’ and spoke in his own person. He said that for fifteen years he had been reading his own books to audiences whose sensitive and kindly recognition of them had given him instruction and enjoyment in his art such as few men could have had; but that he nevertheless thought it well now to retire upon older associations, and in future to devote himself exclusively to the calling which first made him known. ‘In but two short weeks from this time I hope that you may enter in your own homes on a new series of readings, at which my assistance will be indispensable; but from these garish lights I vanish now, for evermore, with a heartfelt, grateful, respectful, affectionate farewell.’”
There was a dead silence as my father turned away, much moved; and then came from the audience such a burst and tumultof cheers and applause as were almost too much to bear, mixed as they were with personal love and affection for the man before them. He returned with us all to “Gad’s Hill,” very happy and hopeful, under the temporary improvement which the rest and peace of his home brought him, and he settled down to his new book, “Edwin Drood,” with increased pleasure and interest.
His last public appearances were in April. On the fifth he took the chair at the News-venders’ dinner. On the thirtieth he returned thanks for “Literature” at the Royal Academy banquet. In this speech he alluded to the death of his old friend, Mr. Daniel Maclise, winding up thus: “No artist, of whatsoever denomination, I make bold to say, ever went to his rest leaving a golden memory more pure from dross, or having devoted himself with a truer chivalry to the art-goddess whom he worshipped.” These words, with the old, true, affectionatering in them, were the last spoken by my father in public.
About 1865 my dear father’s health began to give way, a peculiar affection of the foot which frequently caused him the greatest agony and suffering, appearing about this time. Its real cause—overwork—was not suspected either by his physicians or himself, his vitality seeming something which could not wear out; but, although he was so active and full of energy, he was never really strong, and found soon that he must take more in the way of genuine recreation. He wrote me from France about this time: “Before I went away I had certainly worked myself into a damaged state. But the moment I got away I began, thank God, to get well. I hope to profit from this experience, and to make future dashes from my desk before I need them.”
It was while on his way home after this trip that he was in the terrible railroad accident to which he afterwards referred in aletter to a friend, saying, that his heart had never been in good condition after that accident. It occurred on the ninth of June, a date which five years later was the day of his death.
He wrote describing his experiences: “I was in the only carriage which did not go over into the stream. It was caught upon the turn by some of the ruin of the bridge, and became suspended and balanced in an apparently impossible manner. Two ladies were my fellow-passengers, an old one and a young one. This is exactly what passed—you may judge from it the length of our suspense: Suddenly we were off the rail and beating the ground as the car of a half-emptied balloon might. The old lady cried out ‘My God!’ and the young one screamed. I caught hold of them both (the old lady sat opposite, and the young one on my left) and said: ‘We can’t help ourselves, but we can be quiet and composed. Pray, don’t cry out!’ The old lady immediatelyanswered: ‘Thank you, rely upon me. Upon my soul I will be quiet.’ We were then all tilted down together in a corner of the carriage, which then stopped. I said to them thereupon: ‘You may be sure nothing worse can happen; our danger must be over. Will you remain here without stirring while I get out of the window?’ They both answered quite collectedly ‘Yes,’ and I got out without the least notion of what had happened. Fortunately I got out with great caution, and stood upon the step. Looking down I saw the bridge gone, and nothing below me but the line of rail. Some people in the other two compartments were madly trying to plunge out at a window, and had no idea that there was an open, swampy field fifteen feet down below them, and nothing else. The two guards (one with his face cut) were running up and down on the down-track of the bridge (which was not torn up) quite wildly. I called out to them: ‘Look at me! Do stop an instantand look at me, and tell me whether you don’t know me?’ One of them answered: ‘We know you very well, Mr. Dickens.’ ‘Then,’ I said, ‘my good fellow, for God’s sake, give me your key, and send one of those laborers here, and I’ll empty this carriage.’ We did it quite safely, by means of a plank or two, and when it was done I saw all the rest of the train, except the two baggage vans, down the stream. I got into the carriage again for my brandy flask, took off my travelling hat for a basin, climbed down the brickwork, and filled my hat with water. Suddenly I came upon a staggering man, covered with blood (I think he must have been flung clean out of his carriage), with such a frightful cut across the skull that I couldn’t bear to look at him. I poured some water over his face, and gave him some to drink, then gave him some brandy, and laid him down on the grass.
He said ‘I am gone,’ and died afterwards. Then I stumbled over a lady lying on herback against a little pollard tree, with the blood streaming over her face (which was lead color) in a number of distinct little streams from the head. I asked her if she could swallow a little brandy, and she just nodded, and I gave her some and left her for somebody else. The next time I passed her she was dead. Then a man examined at the inquest yesterday (who evidently had not the least remembrance of what really passed) came running up to me and implored me to help him find his wife, who was afterward found dead. No imagination can conceive the ruin of the carriages, or the extraordinary weights under which the people were lying, or the complications into which they were twisted up among iron and wood, and mud and water. I am keeping very quiet here.”
This letter was written from “Gad’s Hill” four days after the accident. We were spared any anxiety about our father, as we did not hear of the accident until after we were withhim in London. With his usual care and thoughtfulness he had telegraphed to his friend Mr. Wills, to summon us to town to meet him. The letter continues: “I have, I don’t know what to call it, constitutional (I suppose) presence of mind, and was not the least fluttered at the time. I instantly remembered that I had the MS. of a number with me, and clambered back into the carriage for it. But in writing these scanty words of recollection I feel the shake, and am obliged to stop.”
We heard, afterwards, how helpful he had been at the time, ministering to the dying! How calmly and tenderly he cared for the suffering ones about him!
But he never recovered entirely from the shock. More than a year later he writes: “It is remarkable that my watch (a special chronometer) has never gone quite correctly since, and to this day there sometimes comes over me, on a railway and in a hansom-cab, or any sort of conveyance, for a few seconds,a vague sense of dread that I have no power to check. It comes and passes, but I cannot prevent its coming.”
I have often seen this dread come upon him, and on one occasion, which I especially recall, while we were on our way from London to our little country station “Higham,” where the carriage was to meet us, my father suddenly clutched the arms of the railway carriage seat, while his face grew ashy pale, and great drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead, and though he tried hard to master the dread, it was so strong that he had to leave the train at the next station. The accident had left its impression upon the memory, and it was destined never to be effaced. The hours spent upon railroads were thereafter often hours of pain to him. I realized this often while travelling with him, and no amount of assurance could dispel the feeling.
Early in May of 1868, we had him safely back with us, greatly strengthened and invigoratedby his ocean journey home, and I think he was never happier at “Gad’s Hill” than during his last two years there.
During that time he had a succession of guests, and none were more honored, nor more heartily welcomed, than his American friends. The first of these to come, if I remember rightly, was Mr. Longfellow, with his daughters. My father writes describing a picnic which he gave them; “I turned out a couple of postilions in the old red jacket of the old Royal red 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.
“Nothing can surpass the respect paid to Longfellow here, from the Queen downward. He is everywhere received and courted, and finds the working men at least as well acquainted with his books as the classes socially above them.”
Between the comings and goings of visitors there were delightfully quiet evenings at home, spent during the summer in our lovely porch, or walking about the garden, until “tray time,” ten o’clock. When the cooler nights came we had music in the drawing-room, and it is my happiness now to remember on how many evenings I played and sang all his favorite songs and tunes to my father during these last winters while he would listen while he smoked or read, or, in his more usual fashion, paced up and down the room. I never saw him more peacefully contented than at these times.
There were always “improvements”—as my father used to call his alterations—being made at “Gad’s Hill,” and each improvement was supposed to be the last. As each was completed, my sister—who was always a constant visitor, and an exceptionally dear one to my father—would have to come down and inspect, and as each was displayed, my father would say to her most solemnly:“Now, Katie, you behold your parent’s latest and last achievement.” These “last improvements” became quite a joke between them. I remember so well, on one such occasion, after the walls and doors of the drawing-room had been lined with mirrors, my sister’s laughing speech to “the master”: “I believe papa, that when you become an angel your wings will be made of looking-glass and your crown of scarlet geraniums.”
And here I would like to correct an error concerning myself. I have been spoken of as my father’s “favorite daughter.” If he had a favorite daughter—and I hope and believe that the one was as dear to him as the other—my dear sister must claim that honor. I say this ungrudgingly, for during those last two years my father and I seemed to become more closely united, and I know how deep was the affectionate intimacy at the time of his death.
The “last improvement”—in truth, the very last—was the building of a conservatorybetween the drawing and dining rooms. My father was more delighted with this than with any previous alteration, and it was certainly a pretty addition to the quaint old villa. The châlet, too, which he used in summer as his study, was another favorite spot at his favorite “Gad’s Hill.”
In the early months of 1870 we moved up to London, as my father had decided to give twelve farewell readings there. He had the sanction of the late Sir Thomas Watson to this undertaking, on condition that there should be no railway journeys in connection with them. While we were in London he made many private engagements, principally, I know, on my account, as I was to be presented that spring.
During this last visit to London, my father was not, however, in his usual health, and was so quickly and easily tired that a great number of our engagements had to be cancelled. He dined out very seldom, and I remember that on the last occasion he attended a very largedinner party the effort was too much for him, and before the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, he sent me a message begging me to come to him at once, saying that he was in too great pain to mount the stairs. No one who had watched him throughout the dinner, seeing his bright, animated face, and listening to his cheery conversation, could have imagined him to be suffering acute pain.
He was at “Gad’s Hill” again by the thirtieth of May, and soon hard at work upon “Edwin Drood.” Although happy and contented, there was an appearance of fatigue and weariness about him very unlike his usual air of fresh activity. He was out with the dogs for the last time on the afternoon of the sixth of June, when he walked into Rochester for the “Daily Mail.” My sister, who had come to see the latest “improvement,” was visiting us, and was to take me with her to London on her return, for a short visit. The conservatory—the “improvement” which Katie had been summoned to inspect—had beenstocked, and by this time many of the plants were in full blossom. Everything was at its brightest and I remember distinctly my father’s pleasure in showing my sister the beauties of his “improvement.”
We had been having most lovely weather, and in consequence, the outdoor plants were wonderfully forward in their bloom, my father’s favorite red geraniums making a blaze of color in the front garden. The syringa shrubs filled the evening air with sweetest fragrance as we sat in the porch and walked about the garden on this last Sunday of our dear father’s life. My aunt and I retired early and my dear sister sat for a long while with my father while he spoke to her most earnestly of his affairs.
As I have already said my father had such an intense dislike for leave-taking that he always, when it was possible, shirked a farewell, and we children, knowing this dislike, used only to wave our hands or give him a silent kiss when parting. But on thisMonday morning, the seventh, just as we were about to start for London, my sister suddenly said: “Imustsay good-bye to papa,” and hurried over to the châlet where he was busily writing. As a rule when he was so occupied, my father would hold up his cheek to be kissed, but this day he took my sister in his arms saying: “God bless you, Katie,” and there, “among the branches of the trees, among the birds and butterflies and the scent of flowers,” she left him, never to look into his eyes again.
In the afternoon, feeling fatigued, and not inclined to much walking, he drove with my aunt into Cobham. There he left the carriage and walked home through the park. After dinner he remained seated in the dining-room, through the evening, as from that room he could see the effect of some lighted Chinese lanterns, which he had hung in the conservatory during the day, and talked to my aunt about his great love for “Gad’s Hill,” his wish that his name mightbecome more associated with the place, and his desire to be buried near it.
On the morning of the eighth he was in excellent spirits, speaking of his book, at which he intended working through the day and in which he was most intensely interested. He spent a busy morning in the châlet, and it must have been then that he wrote that description of Rochester, which touched our hearts when we read it for the first time after its writer lay dead: “Brilliant morning shines on the old city. Its antiquities and ruins are surpassingly beautiful with the lusty ivy gleaming in the sun and the rich trees waving in the balmy air. Changes of glorious light from moving boughs, songs of birds, scents from gardens, woods and fields, or rather, from the one great garden of the whole cultivated island in its yielding time, penetrate into the cathedral, subdue its earthly odor, and preach the Resurrection and the Life.”
He returned to the house for luncheon,seemingly perfectly well and exceedingly cheerful and hopeful. He smoked a cigar in his beloved conservatory, and went back to the châlet. When he came again to the house, about an hour before the time fixed for an early dinner, he was tired, silent and abstracted, but as this was a mood very usual to him after a day of engrossing work, it caused no alarm nor surprise to my aunt, who happened to be the only member of the family at home. While awaiting dinner he wrote some letters in the library and arranged some trifling business matters, with a view to his departure for London the following morning.