NARRATIVE.

At the beginning of this year, Charles Dickens was still living at the Palazzo Peschiere, Genoa, with his family.  In February, he went with his wife to Rome for the Carnival, leaving his sister-in-law and children at Genoa; Miss Hogarth joining them later on at Naples.  They all returned to Rome for the Holy Week, and then went to Florence, and so back to Genoa.  He continued his residence at Genoa until June of this year, when he returned to England by Switzerland and Belgium, the party being met at Brussels by Mr. Forster, Mr. Maclise, and Mr. Douglas Jerrold, and arriving at home at the end of June.  The autumn months, until the 1st October, were again spent at Broadstairs.  And in this September was the first amateur play at Miss Kelly’s theatre in Dean Street, under the management of Charles Dickens, with Messrs. Jerrold, Mark Lemon, John Leech, Gilbert A’Beckett, Leigh, Frank Stone, Forster, and others as his fellow-actors.  The play selected was Ben Jonson’s “Every Man in his Humour,” in which Charles Dickens acted Captain Bobadil.  The first performance was a private one, merely as an entertainment for the actors and their friends, but its success speedily led to a repetition of the same performance, and afterwards to many other performances for public and charitable objects.  “Every Man in his Humour” was shortly after repeated, at the same little theatre, for a useful charity which needed help; and later in the year Beaumont and Fletcher’s play of “The Elder Brother” was given by the same company, at the same place, for the benefit of Miss Kelly.  There was a farce played after the comedy on each occasion ­not always the same one ­in which Charles Dickens and Mark Lemon were the principal actors.

The letters which we have for this year, refer, with very few exceptions, to these theatricals, and therefore need no explanation.

He was at work at the end of this year on another Christmas book, “The Cricket on the Hearth,” and was also much occupied with the project of The Daily News paper, of which he undertook the editorship at its starting, which took place in the beginning of the following year, 1846.

Miss Hogarth.

ROME, Tuesday, February 4th, 1845.

MY DEAREST GEORGY,

This is a very short note, but time is still shorter.  Come by the first boat by all means.  If there be a good one a day or two before it, come by that.  Don’t delay on any account.  I am very sorry you are not here.  The Carnival is a very remarkable and beautiful sight.  I have been regretting the having left you at home all the way here.

Kate says, will you take counsel with Charlotte about colour (I put in my word, as usual, for brightness), and have the darlings’ bonnets made at once, by the same artist as before?  Kate would have written, but is gone with Black to a day performance at the opera, to see Cerito dance.  At two o’clock each day we sally forth in an open carriage, with a large sack of sugar-plums and at least five hundred little nosegays to pelt people with.  I should think we threw away, yesterday, a thousand of the latter.  We had the carriage filled with flowers three or four times.  I wish you could have seen me catch a swell brigand on the nose with a handful of very large confetti every time we met him.  It was the best thing I have ever done.  “The Chimes” are nothing to it.

Anxiously expecting you, I am ever,

Dear Georgy,
Yours most affectionately.

Mr. Thomas Mitton.

NAPLES, Monday, February 17th, 1845.

MY DEAR MITTON,

This will be a hasty letter, for I am as badly off in this place as in America ­beset by visitors at all times and seasons, and forced to dine out every day.  I have found, however, an excellent man for me ­an Englishman, who has lived here many years, and is well acquainted with the people, whom he doctored in the bad time of the cholera, when the priests and everybody else fled in terror.

Under his auspices, I have got to understand the low life of Naples (among the fishermen and idlers) almost as well as I understand the do. do. of my own country; always excepting the language, which is very peculiar and extremely difficult, and would require a year’s constant practice at least.  It is no more like Italian than English is to Welsh.  And as they don’t say half of what they mean, but make a wink or a kick stand for a whole sentence, it’s a marvel to me how they comprehend each other.  At Rome they speak beautiful Italian (I am pretty strong at that, I believe); but they are worse here than in Genoa, which I had previously thought impossible.

It is a fine place, but nothing like so beautiful as people make it out to be.  The famous bay is, to my thinking, as a piece of scenery, immeasurably inferior to the Bay of Genoa, which is the most lovely thing I have ever seen.  The city, in like manner, will bear no comparison with Genoa.  But there is none in Italy that will, except Venice.  As to houses, there is no palace like the Peschiere for architecture, situation, gardens, or rooms.  It is a great triumph to me, too, to find how cheap it is.  At Rome, the English people live in dirty little fourth, fifth, and sixth floors, with not one room as large as your own drawing-room, and pay, commonly, seven or eight pounds a week.

I was a week in Rome on my way here, and saw the Carnival, which is perfectly delirious, and a great scene for a description.  All the ancient part of Rome is wonderful and impressive in the extreme.  Far beyond the possibility of exaggeration as to the modern part, it might be anywhere or anything ­Paris, Nice, Boulogne, Calais, or one of a thousand other places.

The weather is so atrocious (rain, snow, wind, darkness, hail, and cold) that I can’t get over into Sicily.  But I don’t care very much about it, as I have planned out ten days of excursion into the neighbouring country.  One thing of course ­the ascent of Vesuvius, Herculaneum and Pompeii, the two cities which were covered by its melted ashes, and dug out in the first instance accidentally, are more full of interest and wonder than it is possible to imagine.  I have heard of some ancient tombs (quite unknown to travellers) dug in the bowels of the earth, and extending for some miles underground.  They are near a place called Viterbo, on the way from Rome to Florence.  I shall lay in a small stock of torches, etc., and explore them when I leave Rome.  I return there on the 1st of March, and shall stay there nearly a month.

Saturday, February 22nd. ­Since I left off as above, I have been away on an excursion of three days.  Yesterday evening, at four o’clock, we began (a small party of six) the ascent of Mount Vesuvius, with six saddle-horses, an armed soldier for a guard, and twenty-two guides.  The latter rendered necessary by the severity of the weather, which is greater than has been known for twenty years, and has covered the precipitous part of the mountain with deep snow, the surface of which is glazed with one smooth sheet of ice from the top of the cone to the bottom.  By starting at that hour I intended to get the sunset about halfway up, and night at the top, where the fire is raging.  It was an inexpressibly lovely night without a cloud; and when the day was quite gone, the moon (within a few hours of the full) came proudly up, showing the sea, and the Bay of Naples, and the whole country, in such majesty as no words can express.  We rode to the beginning of the snow and then dismounted.  Catherine and Georgina were put into two litters, just chairs with poles, like those in use in England on the 5th of November; and a fat Englishman, who was of the party, was hoisted into a third, borne by eight men.  I was accommodated with a tough stick, and we began to plough our way up.  The ascent was as steep as this line / ­very nearly perpendicular.  We were all tumbling at every stop; and looking up and seeing the people in advance tumbling over one’s very head, and looking down and seeing hundreds of feet of smooth ice below, was, I must confess, anything but agreeable.  However, I knew there was little chance of another clear night before I leave this, and gave the word to get up, somehow or other.  So on we went, winding a little now and then, or we should not have got on at all.  By prodigious exertions we passed the region of snow, and came into that of fire ­desolate and awful, you may well suppose.  It was like working one’s way through a dry waterfall, with every mass of stone burnt and charred into enormous cinders, and smoke and sulphur bursting out of every chink and crevice, so that it was difficult to breathe.  High before us, bursting out of a hill at the top of the mountain, shaped like this [HW:  A], the fire was pouring out, reddening the night with flames, blackening it with smoke, and spotting it with red-hot stones and cinders that fell down again in showers.  At every step everybody fell, now into a hot chink, now into a bed of ashes, now over a mass of cindered iron; and the confusion in the darkness (for the smoke obscured the moon in this part), and the quarrelling and shouting and roaring of the guides, and the waiting every now and then for somebody who was not to be found, and was supposed to have stumbled into some pit or other, made such a scene of it as I can give you no idea of.  My ladies were now on foot, of course; but we dragged them on as well as we could (they were thorough game, and didn’t make the least complaint), until we got to the foot of that topmost hill I have drawn so beautifully.  Here we all stopped; but the head guide, an English gentleman of the name of Le Gros ­who has been here many years, and has been up the mountain a hundred times ­and your humble servant, resolved (like jackasses) to climb that hill to the brink, and look down into the crater itself.  You may form some notion of what is going on inside it, when I tell you that it is a hundred feet higher than it was six weeks ago.  The sensation of struggling up it, choked with the fire and smoke, and feeling at every step as if the crust of ground between one’s feet and the gulf of fire would crumble in and swallow one up (which is the real danger), I shall remember for some little time, I think.  But we did it.  We looked down into the flaming bowels of the mountain and came back again, alight in half-a-dozen places, and burnt from head to foot.  You never saw such devils.  And I never saw anything so awful and terrible.

Roche had been tearing his hair like a madman, and crying that we should all three be killed, which made the rest of the company very comfortable, as you may suppose.  But we had some wine in a basket, and all swallowed a little of that and a great deal of sulphur before we began to descend.  The usual way, after the fiery part is past ­you will understand that to be all the flat top of the mountain, in the centre of which, again, rises the little hill I have drawn ­is to slide down the ashes, which, slipping from under you, make a gradually increasing ledge under your feet, and prevent your going too fast.  But when we came to this steep place last night, we found nothing there but one smooth solid sheet of ice.  The only way to get down was for the guides to make a chain, holding by each other’s hands, and beat a narrow track in it into the snow below with their sticks.  My two unfortunate ladies were taken out of their litters again, with half-a-dozen men hanging on to each, to prevent their falling forward; and we began to descend this way.  It was like a tremendous dream.  It was impossible to stand, and the only way to prevent oneself from going sheer down the precipice, every time one fell, was to drive one’s stick into one of the holes the guides had made, and hold on by that.  Nobody could pick one up, or stop one, or render one the least assistance.  Now, conceive my horror, when this Mr. Le Gros I have mentioned, being on one side of Georgina and I on the other, suddenly staggers away from the narrow path on to the smooth ice, gives us a jerk, lets go, and plunges headforemost down the smooth ice into the black night, five hundred feet below!  Almost at the same instant, a man far behind, carrying a light basket on his head with some of our spare cloaks in it, misses his footing and rolls down in another place; and after him, rolling over and over like a black bundle, goes a boy, shrieking as nobody but an Italian can shriek, until the breath is tumbled out of him.

The Englishman is in bed to-day, terribly bruised but without any broken bones.  He was insensible at first and a mere heap of rags; but we got him before the fire, in a little hermitage there is halfway down, and he so far recovered as to be able to take some supper, which was waiting for us there.  The boy was brought in with his head tied up in a bloody cloth, about half an hour after the rest of us were assembled.  And the man who had had the basket was not found when we left the mountain at midnight.  What became of the cloaks (mine was among them) I know as little.  My ladies’ clothes were so torn off their backs that they would not have been decent, if there could have been any thought of such things at such a time.  And when we got down to the guides’ house, we found a French surgeon (one of another party who had been up before us) lying on a bed in a stable, with God knows what horrible breakage about him, but suffering acutely and looking like death.  A pretty unusual trip for a pleasure expedition, I think!

I am rather stiff to-day but am quite unhurt, except a slight scrape on my right hand.  My clothes are burnt to pieces.  My ladies are the wonder of Naples, and everybody is open-mouthed.

Address me as usual.  All letters are forwarded.  The children well and happy.  Best regards.

Ever faithfully.

Mr. W. C. Macready.

ALBION HOTEL, BROADSTAIRS, Sunday, Auth, 1845.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

I have been obliged to communicate with the Punch men in reference to Saturday, the 20th, as that day of the week is usually their business dinner day, and I was not quite sure that it could be conveniently altered.

Jerrold now assures me that it can for such a purpose, and that it shall, and therefore consider the play as being arranged to come off on Saturday, the 20th of next month.

I don’t know whether I told you that we have changed the farce; and now we are to act “Two o’clock in the Morning,” as performed by the inimitable B. at Montreal.

In reference to Bruce Castle school, I think the question set at rest most probably by the fact of there being no vacancy (it is always full) until Christmas, when Howitt’s two boys and Jerrold’s one go in and fill it up again.  But after going carefully through the school, a question would arise in my mind whether the system ­a perfectly admirable one; the only recognition of education as a broad system of moral and intellectual philosophy, that I have ever seen in practice ­do not require so much preparation and progress in the mind of the boy, as that he shall have come there younger and less advanced than Willy; or at all events without that very different sort of school experience which he must have acquired at Brighton.  I have no warrant for this doubt, beyond a vague uneasiness suggesting a suspicion of its great probability.  On such slight ground I would not hint it to anyone but you, who I know will give it its due weight, and no more and no less.

I have the paper setting forth the nature of the higher classical studies, and the books they read.  It is the usual course, and includes the great books in Greek and Latin.  They have a miscellaneous library, under the management of the boys themselves, of some five or six thousand volumes, and every means of study and recreation, and every inducement to self-reliance and self-exertion that can easily be imagined.  As there is no room just now, you can turn it over in your mind again.  And if you would like to see the place yourself, when you return to town, I shall be delighted to go there with you.  I come home on Wednesday.  It is our rehearsal night; and of course the active and enterprising stage-manager must be at his post.

Ever, my dear Macready,
Affectionately yours.

Mr. George Cattermole.

August 27th, 1845.

MY DEAR GEORGE,

I write a line to tell you a project we have in view.  A little party of us have taken Miss Kelly’s theatre for the night of the 20th of next month, and we are going to act a play there, with correct and pretty costume, good orchestra, etc. etc.  The affair is strictly private.  The admission will be by cards of invitation; every man will have from thirty to thirty-five.  Nobody can ask any person without the knowledge and sanction of the rest, my objection being final; and the expense to each (exclusive of the dress, which every man finds for himself) will not exceed two guineas.  Forster plays, and Stone plays, and I play, and some of the Punch people play.  Stanfield, having the scenery and carpenters to attend to, cannot manage his part also.  It is Downright, in “Every Man in his Humour,” not at all long, but very good; he wants you to take it.  And so help me.  We shall have a brilliant audience.  The uphill part of the thing is already done, our next rehearsal is next Tuesday, and if you will come in you will find everything to your hand, and all very merry and pleasant.

Let me know what you decide, like a Kittenmolian Trojan.  And with love from all here to all there,

Believe me, ever,
Heartily yours.

Mr. W. C. Macready.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Thursday, Septh, 1845.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

We have a little supper, sir, after the farce, at N, Powis Place, Great Ormond Street, in an empty house belonging to one of the company.  There I am requested by my fellows to beg the favour of thy company and that of Mrs. Macready.  The guests are limited to the actors and their ladies ­with the exception of yourselves, and D’Orsay, and George Cattermole, “or so” ­that sounds like Bobadil a little.

I am going to adopt your reading of the fifth act with the worst grace in the world.  It seems to me that you don’t allow enough for Bobadil having been frequently beaten before, as I have no doubt he had been.  The part goes down hideously on this construction, and the end is mere lees.  But never mind, sir, I intend bringing you up with the farce in the most brilliant manner.

Ever yours affectionately.

N.B. ­Observe.  I think of changing my present mode of life, and am open to an engagement.

N.B.  N. ­I will undertake not to play tragedy, though passion is my strength.

N.B.  N. ­I consider myself a chained lion.

Mr. Clarkson Stanfield.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, October 2nd, 1845.

MY DEAR STANNY,

I send you the claret jug.  But for a mistake, you would have received the little remembrance almost immediately after my return from abroad.

I need not say how much I should value another little sketch from your extraordinary hand in this year’s small volume, to which Mac again does the frontispiece.  But I cannot hear of it, and will not have it (though the gratification of such aid, to me, is really beyond all expression), unless you will so far consent to make it a matter of business as to receive, without asking any questions, a cheque in return from the publishers.  Do not misunderstand me ­though I am not afraid there is much danger of your doing so, for between us misunderstanding is, I hope, not easy.  I know perfectly well that nothing can pay you for the devotion of any portion of your time to such a use of your art.  I know perfectly well that no terms would induce you to go out of your way, in such a regard, for perhaps anybody else.  I cannot, nor do I desire to, vanquish the friendly obligation which help from you imposes on me.  But I am not the sole proprietor of those little books; and it would be monstrous in you if you were to dream of putting a scratch into a second one without some shadowy reference to the other partners, ten thousand times more monstrous in me if any consideration on earth could induce me to permit it, which nothing will or shall.

So, see what it comes to.  If you will do me a favour on my terms it will be more acceptable to me, my dear Stanfield, than I can possibly tell you.  If you will not be so generous, you deprive me of the satisfaction of receiving it at your hands, and shut me out from that possibility altogether.  What a stony-hearted ruffian you must be in such a case!

Ever affectionately yours.

Mr. W. C. Macready.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Friday Evening, Octh, 1845.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

You once ­only once ­gave the world assurance of a waistcoat.  You wore it, sir, I think, in “Money.”  It was a remarkable and precious waistcoat, wherein certain broad stripes of blue or purple disported themselves as by a combination of extraordinary circumstances, too happy to occur again.  I have seen it on your manly chest in private life.  I saw it, sir, I think, the other day in the cold light of morning ­with feelings easier to be imagined than described.  Mr. Macready, sir, are you a father?  If so, lend me that waistcoat for five minutes.  I am bidden to a wedding (where fathers are made), and my artist cannot, I find (how should he?), imagine such a waistcoat.  Let me show it to him as a sample of my tastes and wishes; and ­ha, ha, ha, ha! ­eclipse the bridegroom!

I will send a trusty messenger at half-past nine precisely, in the morning.  He is sworn to secrecy.  He durst not for his life betray us, or swells in ambuscade would have the waistcoat at the cost of his heart’s blood.

                                            Thine,
                                                THE UNWAISTCOATED ONE.

Viscount Morpeth.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Noth, 1845.

MY DEAR LORD MORPETH,

I have delayed writing to you until now, hoping I might have been able to tell you of our dramatic plans, and of the day on which we purpose playing.  But as these matters are still in abeyance, I will give you that precious information when I come into the receipt of it myself.  And let me heartily assure you, that I had at least as much pleasure in seeing you the other day as you can possibly have had in seeing me; and that I shall consider all opportunities of becoming better known to you among the most fortunate and desirable occasions of my life.  And that I am with your conviction about the probability of our liking each other, and, as Lord Lyndhurst might say, with “something more.”

Ever faithfully yours.