NARRATIVE.

Charles Dickens was still living in Doughty Street, but he removed at the end of this year to 1, Devonshire Terrace, Regent’s Park.  He hired a cottage at Petersham for the summer months, and in the autumn took lodgings at Broadstairs.

The cottage at Alphington, near Exeter, mentioned in the letter to Mr.
Mitton, was hired by Charles Dickens for his parents.

He was at work all through this year on “Nicholas Nickleby.”

We have now the commencement of his correspondence with Mr. George Cattermole.  His first letter was written immediately after Mr. Cattermole’s marriage with Miss Elderton, a distant connection of Charles Dickens; hence the allusions to “cousin,” which will be found in many of his letters to Mr. Cattermole.  The bride and bridegroom were passing their honeymoon in the neighbourhood of Petersham, and the letter refers to a request from them for the loan of some books, and also to his having lent them his pony carriage and groom, during their stay in this neighbourhood.

The first letter in this year to Mr. Macready is in answer to one from him, announcing his retirement from the management of Covent Garden Theatre.

The portrait by Mr. Maclise, mentioned to Mr. Harley, was the, now, well-known one, which appeared as a frontispiece to “Nicholas Nickleby.”

LETTER TO MR.W.C.MACREADY

DOUGHTY STREET, Sunday.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

I will have, if you please, three dozen of the extraordinary champagne; and I am much obliged to you for recollecting me.

I ought not to be sorry to hear of your abdication, but I am, notwithstanding, most heartily and sincerely sorry, for my own sake and the sake of thousands, who may now go and whistle for a theatre ­at least, such a theatre as you gave them; and I do now in my heart believe that for a long and dreary time that exquisite delight has passed away.  If I may jest with my misfortunes, and quote the Portsmouth critic of Mr. Crummles’s company, I say that:  “As an exquisite embodiment of the poet’s visions and a realisation of human intellectuality, gilding with refulgent light our dreamy moments, and laying open a new and magic world before the mental eye, the drama is gone ­perfectly gone.”

With the same perverse and unaccountable feeling which causes a heart-broken man at a dear friend’s funeral to see something irresistibly comical in a red-nosed or one-eyed undertaker, I receive your communication with ghostly facetiousness; though on a moment’s reflection I find better cause for consolation in the hope that, relieved from your most trying and painful duties, you will now have leisure to return to pursuits more congenial to your mind, and to move more easily and pleasantly among your friends.  In the long catalogue of the latter, I believe that there is not one prouder of the name, or more grateful for the store of delightful recollections you have enabled him to heap up from boyhood, than,

My dear Macready,
Yours always faithfully.

LETTER TO MR.THOMAS MILTON

NEW LONDON INN, EXETER,
Wednesday Morning, March 6th, 1839.

DEAR TOM,

Perhaps you have heard from Kate that I succeeded yesterday in the very first walk, and took a cottage at a place called Alphington, one mile from Exeter, which contains, on the ground-floor, a good parlour and kitchen, and above, a full-sized country drawing-room and three bedrooms; in the yard behind, coal-holes, fowl-houses, and meat-safes out of number; in the kitchen, a neat little range; in the other rooms, good stoves and cupboards; and all for twenty pounds a year, taxes included.  There is a good garden at the side well stocked with cabbages, beans, onions, celery, and some flowers.  The stock belonging to the landlady (who lives in the adjoining cottage), there was some question whether she was not entitled to half the produce, but I settled the point by paying five shillings, and becoming absolute master of the whole!

I do assure you that I am charmed with the place and the beauty of the country round about, though I have not seen it under very favourable circumstances, for it snowed when I was there this morning, and blew bitterly from the east yesterday.  It is really delightful, and when the house is to rights and the furniture all in, I shall be quite sorry to leave it.  I have had some few things second-hand, but I take it seventy pounds will be the mark, even taking this into consideration.  I include in that estimate glass and crockery, garden tools, and such like little things.  There is a spare bedroom of course.  That I have furnished too.

I am on terms of the closest intimacy with Mrs. Samuell, the landlady, and her brother and sister-in-law, who have a little farm hard by.  They are capital specimens of country folks, and I really think the old woman herself will be a great comfort to my mother.  Coals are dear just now ­twenty-six shillings a ton.  They found me a boy to go two miles out and back again to order some this morning.  I was debating in my mind whether I should give him eighteenpence or two shillings, when his fee was announced ­twopence!

The house is on the high road to Plymouth, and, though in the very heart of Devonshire, there is as much long-stage and posting life as you would find in Piccadilly.  The situation is charming.  Meadows in front, an orchard running parallel to the garden hedge, richly-wooded hills closing in the prospect behind, and, away to the left, before a splendid view of the hill on which Exeter is situated, the cathedral towers rising up into the sky in the most picturesque manner possible.  I don’t think I ever saw so cheerful or pleasant a spot.  The drawing-room is nearly, if not quite, as large as the outer room of my old chambers in Furnival’s Inn.  The paint and paper are new, and the place clean as the utmost excess of snowy cleanliness can be.

You would laugh if you could see me powdering away with the upholsterer, and endeavouring to bring about all sorts of impracticable reductions and wonderful arrangements.  He has by him two second-hand carpets; the important ceremony of trying the same comes off at three this afternoon.  I am perpetually going backwards and forwards.  It is two miles from here, so I have plenty of exercise, which so occupies me and prevents my being lonely that I stopped at home to read last night, and shall to-night, although the theatre is open.  Charles Kean has been the star for the last two evenings.  He was stopping in this house, and went away this morning.  I have got his sitting-room now, which is smaller and more comfortable than the one I had before.

You will have heard perhaps that I wrote to my mother to come down to-morrow.  There are so many things she can make comfortable at a much less expense than I could, that I thought it best.  If I had not, I could not have returned on Monday, which I now hope to do, and to be in town at half-past eight.

Will you tell my father that if he could devise any means of bringing him down, I think it would be a great thing for him to have Dash, if it be only to keep down the trampers and beggars.  The cheque I send you below.

LETTER TO MR. GEORGE CATTERMOLE

ELM COTTAGE, PETERSHAM, Wednesday Morning.

MY DEAR CATTERMOLE,

Why is “Peveril” lingering on my dusty shelves in town, while my fair cousin and your fair bride remains in blissful ignorance of his merits?  There he is, I grieve to say, but there he shall not be long, for I shall be visiting my other home on Saturday morning, and will bring him bodily down and forward him the moment he arrives.

Not having many of my books here, I don’t find any among them which I think more suitable to your purpose than a carpet-bagful sent herewith, containing the Italian and German novelists (convenient as being easily taken up and laid down again; and I suppose you won’t read long at a sitting), Leigh Hunt’s “Indicator” and “Companion” (which have the same merit), “Hood’s Own” (complete), “A Legend of Montrose,” and “Kenilworth,” which I have just been reading with greater delight than ever, and so I suppose everybody else must be equally interested in.  I have Goldsmith, Swift, Fielding, Smollett, and the British Essayists “handy;” and I need not say that you have them on hand too, if you like.

You know all I would say from my heart and soul on the auspicious event of yesterday; but you don’t know what I could say about the delightful recollections I have of your “good lady’s” charming looks and bearing, upon which I discoursed most eloquently here last evening, and at considerable length.  As I am crippled in this respect, however, by the suspicion that possibly she may be looking over your shoulder while you read this note (I would lay a moderate wager that you have looked round twice or thrice already), I shall content myself with saying that I am ever heartily, my dear Cattermole,

Hers and yours.

P.S. ­My man (who with his charge is your man while you stay here) waits to know if you have any orders for him.

LETTER TO MR.J.P.HARLEY

ELM COTTAGE, PETERSHAM, NEAR RICHMOND,
June 28th, 1839.

MY DEAR HARLEY,

I have “left my home,” and been here ever since the end of April, and shall remain here most probably until the end of September, which is the reason that we have been such strangers of late.

I am very sorry that I cannot dine with you on Sunday, but some people are coming here, and I cannot get away.  Better luck next time, I hope.

I was on the point of writing to you when your note came, to ask you if you would come down here next Saturday ­to-morrow week, I mean ­and stop till Monday.  I will either call for you at the theatre, at any time you name, or send for you, “punctual,” and have you brought down.  Can you come if it’s fine?  Say yes, like a good fellow as you are, and say it per post.

I have countermanded that face.  Maclise has made another face of me, which all people say is astonishing.  The engraving will be ready soon, and I would rather you had that, as I am sure you would if you had seen it.

In great haste to save the post, I am, my dear Harley,

Faithfully yours.

LETTER TO MR.WILLIAM LONGMAN

DOUGHTY STREET, Monday Morning.

MY DEAR SIR,

On Friday I have a family dinner at home ­uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, cousins ­an annual gathering.

By what fatality is it that you always ask me to dine on the wrong day?

While you are tracing this non-consequence to its cause, I wish you would tell Mr. Sydney Smith that of all the men I ever heard of and never saw, I have the greatest curiosity to see and the greatest interest to know him.

Begging my best compliments at home,

I am, my dear Sir,
Faithfully yours.

LETTER TO MR.W.C.MACREADY

PETERSHAM, July 26th, 1839.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

Fix your visit for whenever you please.  It can never give us anything but delight to see you, and it is better to look forward to such a pleasure than to look back upon it, as the last gratification is enjoyable all our lives, and the first for a few short stages in the journey.

I feel more true and cordial pleasure than I can express to you in the request you have made.  Anything which can serve to commemorate our friendship and to keep the recollection of it alive among our children is, believe me, and ever will be, most deeply prized by me.  I accept the office with hearty and fervent satisfaction; and, to render this pleasant bond between us the more complete, I must solicit you to become godfather to the last and final branch of a genteel small family of three which I am told may be looked for in that auspicious month when Lord Mayors are born and guys prevail.  This I look upon as a bargain between us, and I have shaken hands with you in spirit upon it.  Family topics remind me of Mr. Kenwigs.  As the weather is wet, and he is about to make his last appearance on my little stage, I send Mrs. Macready an early proof of the next number, containing an account of his baby’s progress.

I am going to send you something else on Monday ­a tragedy.  Don’t be alarmed.  I didn’t write it, nor do I want it acted.  A young Scotch lady whom I don’t know (but she is evidently very intelligent and accomplished) has sent me a translation of a German play, soliciting my aid and advice in the matter of its publication.  Among a crowd of Germanisms, there are many things in it which are so very striking, that I am sure it will amuse you very much.  At least I think it will; it has me.  I am going to send it back to her ­when I come to Elstree will be time enough; and meantime, if you bestow a couple of hours upon it, you will not think them thrown away.

It’s a large parcel, and I must keep it here till somebody goes up to town and can book it by the coach.  I warrant it, large as it looks, readable in two hours; and I very much want to know what you think of the first act, and especially the opening, which seems to me quite famous.  The metre is very odd and rough, but now and then there’s a wildness in it which helps the thing very much; and altogether it has left a something on my mind which I can’t get rid of.

Mrs. Dickens joins with me in kindest regards to yourself, Mrs., and Miss Macready.  And I am always,

My dear Macready,
Faithfully and truly yours.

P.S. ­A dreadful thought has just occurred to me ­that this is a quadruple letter, and that Elstree may not be within the twopenny post.  Pray Heaven my fears are unfounded.

40, ALBION STREET, BROADSTAIRS,
September 21st, 1839.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

I am so anxious to prefer a request to you which does not admit of delay that I send you a double letter, with the one redeeming point though of having very little in it.

Let me prefix to the last number of “Nickleby,” and to the book, a duplicate of the leaf which I now send you.  Believe me that there will be no leaf in the volume which will afford me in times to come more true pleasure and gratification, than that in which I have written your name as foremost among those of the friends whom I love and honour.  Believe me, there will be no one line in it conveying a more honest truth or a more sincere feeling than that which describes its dedication to you as a slight token of my admiration and regard.

So let me tell the world by this frail record that I was a friend of yours, and interested to no ordinary extent in your proceedings at that interesting time when you showed them such noble truths in such noble forms, and gave me a new interest in, and associations with, the labours of so many months.

I write to you very hastily and crudely, for I have been very hard at work, having only finished to-day, and my head spins yet.  But you know what I mean.  I am then always,

Believe me, my dear Macready,
Faithfully yours.

P.S. ­(Proof of Dedication enclosed):  “To W. C. Macready, Esq., the following pages are inscribed, as a slight token of admiration and regard, by his friend, the Author.”

DOUGHTY STREET, Friday Night, Octh, 1839.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

The book, the whole book, and nothing but the book (except the binding, which is an important item), has arrived at last, and is forwarded herewith.  The red represents my blushes at its gorgeous dress; the gilding, all those bright professions which I do not make to you; and the book itself, my whole heart for twenty months, which should be yours for so short a term, as you have it always.

With best regards to Mrs. and Miss Macready, always believe me,

My dear Macready,
Your faithful Friend.

DOUGHTY STREET, Thursday, Noth, 1839.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

Tom Landseer ­that is, the deaf one, whom everybody quite loves for his sweet nature under a most deplorable infirmity ­Tom Landseer asked me if I would present to you from him the accompanying engraving, which he has executed from a picture by his brother Edwin; submitting it to you as a little tribute from an unknown but ardent admirer of your genius, which speaks to his heart, although it does not find its way there through his ears.  I readily undertook the task, and send it herewith.

I urged him to call upon you with me and proffer it boldly; but he is a very modest and delicately-minded creature, and was shy of intruding.  If you thank him through me, perhaps you will say something about my bringing him to call, and so gladden the gentle artist and make him happy.

You must come and see my new house when we have it to rights.  By Christmas Day we shall be, I hope, your neighbours.

Kate progresses splendidly, and, with me, sends her best remembrances to Mrs. Macready and all your house.

Ever believe me,
Dear Macready,
Faithfully yours.