NARRATIVE.

At the beginning of the year Charles Dickens was still living in Paris ­Rue de Courcelles.  His stay was cut shorter than he intended it to have been, by the illness from scarlet fever of his eldest son, who was at school in London.  Consequent upon this, he and his wife went to London at the end of February, taking up their abode at the Victoria Hotel, Euston Square, the Devonshire Terrace house being still occupied by its tenant, Sir James Duke, and the sick boy under the care of his grandmother, Mrs. Hogarth, in Albany Street.  The children, with their aunt, remained in Paris, until a temporary house had been taken for the family in Chester Place, Regent’s Park; and Roche was then sent back to take all home.  In Chester Place another son was born ­Sydney Smith Haldimand ­his godfathers being Mr. Haldimand, of Lausanne, and Mr. H. P. Smith, of the Eagle Life Assurance office.  He was christened at the same time as a daughter of Mr. Macready’s, and the letters to Mr. Smith have reference to the postponement of the christening on Mr. Smith’s account.  In May, Charles Dickens had lodgings in Brighton for some weeks, for the recovery of Mrs. Dickens’s health; going there first with his wife and sister-in-law and the eldest boy ­now recovered from his fever ­and being joined at the latter part of the time by his two little daughters, to whom there are some letters among those which follow here.  He removed earlier than usual this summer to Broadstairs, which remained his head-quarters until October, with intervals of absence for amateur theatrical tours (which Mr. Forster calls “splendid strolling"), in which he was usually accompanied by his wife and sister-in-law.  Several new recruits had been added to the theatrical company, from among distinguished literary men and artists, and it now included, besides those previously named, Mr. George Cruikshank, Mr. George Henry Lewes, and Mr. Augustus Egg; the supreme management and arrangement of everything being always left to Charles Dickens.  “Every Man in his Humour” and farces were again played at Manchester and Liverpool, for the benefit of Mr. Leigh Hunt, and the dramatic author, Mr. John Poole.

By the end of the Broadstairs holiday, the house in Devonshire Terrace was vacant, and the family returned to it in October.  All this year Charles Dickens had been at work upon the monthly numbers of “Dombey and Son,” in spite of these many interruptions.  He began at Broadstairs a Christmas book.  But he found that the engrossing interest of his novel approaching completion made it impossible for him to finish the other work in time.  So he decided to let this Christmas pass without a story, and postponed the publication of “The Haunted Man” until the following year.

At the close of the year he went to Leeds, to take the chair at a meeting of the Mechanics’ Institute, and on the 28th December he presided at the opening of the Glasgow Athenaeum; he and his wife being the guests of the historian ­then Mr. Sheriff, afterwards Sir Archibald Alison.  From a letter to his sister-in-law, written from Edinburgh, it will be seen that Mrs. Dickens was prevented by sudden illness from being present at the “demonstration.”  At the end of that letter there is another illustration of the odd names he was in the habit of giving to his children, the last of the three, the “Hoshen Peck,” being a corruption of “Ocean Spectre” ­a name which had, afterwards, a sad significance, as the boy (Sydney Smith) became a sailor, and died and was buried at sea two years after his father’s death.

The letters in this year need very little explanation.  In the first letter to Mrs. Watson, he alludes to a sketch which she had made from “The Battle of Life,” and had sent to Charles Dickens, as a remembrance, when her husband paid a short visit to Paris in this winter.

And there are two letters to Miss Marguerite Power, the niece of the Countess of Blessington ­a lady for whom he had then, and until her death, a most affectionate friendship and respect, for the sake of her own admirable qualities, and in remembrance of her delightful association with Gore House, where he was a frequent visitor.  For Lady Blessington he had a high admiration and great regard, and she was one of his earliest appreciators; and Alfred, Comte D’Orsay, was also a much-loved friend.  His “own marchioness,” alluded to in the second letter to Miss Power, was the younger and very charming sister of his correspondent.

We much regret having been unable to procure any letters addressed to Mr. Egg.  His intimacy with him began first in the plays of this year; but he became, almost immediately, one of the friends for whom he had an especial affection; and Mr. Egg was a regular visitor at his house and at his seaside places of resort for many years after this date.

The letter to Mr. William Sandys has reference to an intention which Charles Dickens had entertained, of laying the scene of a story in Cornwall; Mr. Sandys, himself a Cornishman, having proposed to send him some books to help him as to the dialect.

The Hon. Mrs. Watson

PARIS, 48, RUE DE COURCELLES, Jath, 1847.

MY DEAR MRS. WATSON,

I cannot allow your wandering lord to return to your ­I suppose “arms” is not improper ­arms, then, without thanking you in half-a-dozen words for your letter, and assuring you that I had great interest and pleasure in its receipt, and that I say Amen to all you say of our happy past and hopeful future.  There is a picture of Lausanne ­St. Bernard ­the tavern by the little lake between Lausanne and Vevay, which is kept by that drunken dog whom Haldimand believes to be so sober ­and of many other such scenes, within doors and without ­that rises up to my mind very often, and in the quiet pleasure of its aspect rather daunts me, as compared with the reality of a stirring life; but, please God, we will have some more pleasant days, and go up some more mountains, somewhere, and laugh together, at somebody, and form the same delightful little circle again, somehow.

I quite agree with you about the illustrations to the little Christmas book.  I was delighted with yours.  Your good lord before-mentioned will inform you that it hangs up over my chair in the drawing-room here; and when you come to England (after I have seen you again in Lausanne) I will show it you in my little study at home, quietly thanking you on the bookcase.  Then we will go and see some of Turner’s recent pictures, and decide that question to Haldimand’s utmost confusion.

You will find Watson looking wonderfully well, I think.  When he was first here, on his way to England, he took an extraordinary bath, in which he was rubbed all over with chemical compounds, and had everything done to him that could be invented for seven francs.  It may be the influence of this treatment that I see in his face, but I think it’s the prospect of coming back to Elysee.  All I can say is, that when I come that way, and find myself among those friends again, I expect to be perfectly lovely ­a kind of Glorious Apollo, radiant and shining with joy.

Kate and her sister send all kinds of love in this hasty packet, and I am always, my dear Mrs. Watson,

Faithfully yours.

Rev. Edward Tagart.

PARIS, 48, RUE DE COURCELLES, ST. HONORE,
Thursday, Jath, 1847.

MY DEAR SIR,

Before you read any more, I wish you would take those tablets out of your drawer, in which you have put a black mark against my name, and erase it neatly.  I don’t deserve it, on my word I don’t, though appearances are against me, I unwillingly confess.

I had gone to Geneva, to recover from an uncommon depression of spirits consequent on too much sitting over “Dombey” and the little Christmas book, when I received your letter as I was going out walking, one sunshiny, windy day.  I read it on the banks of the Rhone, where it runs, very blue and swift, between two high green hills, with ranges of snowy mountains filling up the distance.  Its cordial and unaffected tone gave me the greatest pleasure ­did me a world of good ­set me up for the afternoon, and gave me an evening’s subject of discourse.  For I talked to “them” (that is, Kate and Georgy) about those bright mornings at the Peschiere, until bedtime, and threatened to write you such a letter next day as would ­I don’t exactly know what it was to do, but it was to be a great letter, expressive of all kinds of pleasant things, and, perhaps the most genial letter that ever was written.

From that hour to this, I have again and again and again said, “I’ll write to-morrow,” and here I am to-day full of penitence ­really sorry and ashamed, and with no excuse but my writing-life, which makes me get up and go out, when my morning work is done, and look at pen and ink no more until I begin again.

Besides which, I have been seeing Paris ­wandering into hospitals, prisons, dead-houses, operas, theatres, concert-rooms, burial-grounds, palaces, and wine-shops.  In my unoccupied fortnight of each month, every description of gaudy and ghastly sight has been passing before me in a rapid panorama.  Before that, I had to come here from Switzerland, over frosty mountains in dense fogs, and through towns with walls and drawbridges, and without population, or anything else in particular but soldiers and mud.  I took a flight to London for four days, and went and came back over one sheet of snow, sea excepted; and I wish that had been snow too.  Then Forster (who is here now, and begs me to send his kindest regards) came to see Paris for himself, and in showing it to him, away I was borne again, like an enchanted rider.  In short, I have had no rest in my play; and on Monday I am going to work again.  A fortnight hence the play will begin once more; a fortnight after that the work will follow round, and so the letters that I care for go unwritten.

Do you care for French news?  I hope not, because I don’t know any.  There is a melodrama, called “The French Revolution,” now playing at the Cirque, in the first act of which there is the most tremendous representation of a people that can well be imagined.  There are wonderful battles and so forth in the piece, but there is a power and massiveness in the mob which is positively awful.  At another theatre, “Clarissa Harlowe” is still the rage.  There are some things in it rather calculated to astonish the ghost of Richardson, but Clarissa is very admirably played, and dies better than the original to my thinking; but Richardson is no great favourite of mine, and never seems to me to take his top-boots off, whatever he does.  Several pieces are in course of representation, involving rare portraits of the English.  In one, a servant, called “Tom Bob,” who wears a particularly English waistcoat, trimmed with gold lace and concealing his ankles, does very good things indeed.  In another, a Prime Minister of England, who has ruined himself by railway speculations, hits off some of our national characteristics very happily, frequently making incidental mention of “Vishmingster,” “Regeenstreet,” and other places with which you are well acquainted.  “Sir Fakson” is one of the characters in another play ­“English to the Core;” and I saw a Lord Mayor of London at one of the small theatres the other night, looking uncommonly well in a stage-coachman’s waistcoat, the order of the Garter, and a very low-crowned broad-brimmed hat, not unlike a dustman.

I was at Geneva at the time of the revolution.  The moderation and mildness of the successful party were beyond all praise.  Their appeals to the people of all parties ­printed and pasted on the walls ­have no parallel that I know of, in history, for their real good sterling Christianity and tendency to promote the happiness of mankind.  My sympathy is strongly with the Swiss radicals.  They know what Catholicity is; they see, in some of their own valleys, the poverty, ignorance, misery, and bigotry it always brings in its train wherever it is triumphant; and they would root it out of their children’s way at any price.  I fear the end of the struggle will be, that some Catholic power will step in to crush the dangerously well-educated republics (very dangerous to such neighbours); but there is a spirit in the people, or I very much mistake them, that will trouble the Jesuits there many years, and shake their altar steps for them.

This is a poor return (I look down and see the end of the paper) for your letter, but in its cordial spirit of reciprocal friendship, it is not so bad a one if you could read it as I do, and it eases my mind and discharges my conscience.  We are coming home, please God, at the end of March.  Kate and Georgy send their best regards to you, and their loves to Mrs. and Miss Tagart and the children. Our children wish to live too in your children’s remembrance.  You will be glad, I know, to hear that “Dombey” is doing wonders, and that the Christmas book shot far ahead of its predecessors.  I hope you will like the last chapter of N.  If you can spare me a scrap of your handwriting in token of forgiveness, do; if not, I’ll come and beg your pardon on the 31st of March.

Ever believe me,
Cordially and truly yours.

Miss Dickens.

VICTORIA HOTEL, EUSTON SQUARE,
Thursday, March 4th, 1847.

MY DEAREST MAMEY,

I have not got much to say, and that’s the truth; but I cannot let this letter go into the post without wishing you many many happy returns of your birthday, and sending my love to Auntey and to Katey, and to all of them.  We were at Mrs. Macready’s last night, where there was a little party in honour of Mr. Macready’s birthday.  We had some dancing, and they wished very much that you and Katey had been there; so did I and your mamma.  We have not got back to Devonshire Terrace yet, but are living at an hotel until Sir James Duke returns from Scotland, which will be on Saturday or Monday.  I hope when he comes home and finds us here he will go out of Devonshire Terrace, and let us get it ready for you.  Roche is coming back to you very soon.  He will leave here on Saturday morning.  He says he hopes you will have a very happy birthday, and he means to drink your health on the road to Paris.

Always your affectionate.

Miss Hogarth.

CHESTER PLACE, Tuesday Night.

MY DEAREST GEORGY,

So far from having “got through my agonies,” as you benevolently hope, I have not yet begun them.  No, on this ninth of the month I have not yet written a single slip.  What could I do; house-hunting at first, and beleaguered all day to-day and yesterday by furniture that must be altered, and things that must be put away?  My wretchedness, just now, is inconceivable.  Tell Anne, by-the-bye (not with reference to my wretchedness, but in connection with the arrangements generally), that I can’t get on at all without her.

If Kate has not mentioned it, get Katey and Mamey to write and send a letter to Charley; of course not hinting at our being here.  He wants to hear from them.

Poor little Hall is dead, as you will have seen, I dare say, in the paper.  This house is very cheerful on the drawing-room floor and above, looking into the park on one side and Albany Street on the other.  Forster is mild.  Maclise, exceedingly bald on the crown of his head.  Roche has just come in to know if he may “blow datter light.”  Love to all the darlings.  Regards to everybody else.  Love to yourself.

Ever affectionately.

Miss Dickens and Miss Katey Dickens.

148, KING’S ROAD, BRIGHTON, Monday, May 24, 1847.

MY DEAR MAMEY AND KATEY,

I was very glad to receive your nice letter.  I am going to tell you something that I hope will please you.  It is this:  I am coming to London Thursday, and I mean to bring you both back here with me, to stay until we all come home together on the Saturday.  I hope you like this.

Tell John to come with the carriage to the London Bridge Station, on Thursday morning at ten o’clock, and to wait there for me.  I will then come home and fetch you.

Mamma and Auntey and Charley send their loves.  I send mine too, to Walley, Spim, and Alfred, and Sydney.

Always, my dears,
Your affectionate Papa.

Mr. William Sandys

1, DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, June 13th, 1847.

DEAR SIR,

Many thanks for your kind note.  I shall hope to see you when we return to town, from which we shall now be absent (with a short interval in next month) until October.  Your account of the Cornishmen gave me great pleasure; and if I were not sunk in engagements so far, that the crown of my head is invisible to my nearest friends, I should have asked you to make me known to them.  The new dialogue I will ask you by-and-by to let me see.  I have, for the present, abandoned the idea of sinking a shaft in Cornwall.

I have sent your Shakesperian extracts to Collier.  It is a great comfort, to my thinking, that so little is known concerning the poet.  It is a fine mystery; and I tremble every day lest something should come out.  If he had had a Boswell, society wouldn’t have respected his grave, but would calmly have had his skull in the phrenological shop-windows.

Believe me,
Faithfully yours.

Mr. H. P. Smith

CHESTER PLACE, June 14th, 1847.

MY DEAR SMITH,

Haldimand stayed at N, Connaught Place, Hyde Park, when I saw him yesterday.  But he was going to cross to Boulogne to-day.

The young Pariah seems pretty comfortable.  He is of a cosmopolitan spirit I hope, and stares with a kind of leaden satisfaction at his spoons, without afflicting himself much about the established church.

Affectionately yours.

P.S. ­I think of bringing an action against you for a new sort of breach of promise, and calling all the bishops to estimate the damage of having our christening postponed for a fortnight.  It appears to me that I shall get a good deal of money in this way.  If you have any compromise to offer, my solicitors are Dodson and Fogg.

Miss Power.

BROADSTAIRS, KENT, July 2nd, 1847.

MY DEAR MISS POWER,

Let me thank you, very sincerely, for your kind note and for the little book.  I read the latter on my way down here with the greatest pleasure.  It is a charming story gracefully told, and very gracefully and worthily translated.  I have not been better pleased with a book for a long time.

I cannot say I take very kindly to the illustrations.  They are a long way behind the tale to my thinking.  The artist understands it very well, I dare say, but does not express his understanding of it, in the least degree, to any sense of mine.

Ah Rosherville!  That fated Rosherville, when shall we see it!  Perhaps in one of those intervals when I am up to town from here, and suddenly appear at Gore House, somebody will propose an excursion there, next day.  If anybody does, somebody else will be ready to go.  So this deponent maketh oath and saith.

I am looking out upon a dark gray sea, with a keen north-east wind blowing it in shore.  It is more like late autumn than midsummer, and there is a howling in the air as if the latter were in a very hopeless state indeed.  The very Banshee of Midsummer is rattling the windows drearily while I write.  There are no visitors in the place but children, and they (my own included) have all got the hooping-cough, and go about the beach choking incessantly.  A miserable wanderer lectured in a library last night about astronomy; but being in utter solitude he snuffed out the transparent planets he had brought with him in a box and fled in disgust.  A white mouse and a little tinkling box of music that stops at “come,” in the melody of the Buffalo Gals, and can’t play “out to-night,” are the only amusements left.

I beg from my solitude to send my love to Lady Blessington, and your sister, and Count D’Orsay.  I think of taming spiders, as Baron Trenck did.  There is one in my cell (with a speckled body and twenty-two very decided knees) who seems to know me.

                                  Dear Miss Power,
                                                Faithfully yours ever.

Mr. H. P. Smith

BROADSTAIRS, July 9th, 1847.

MY DEAR SMITH,

I am really more obliged to you for your kindness about “The Eagle” (as I always call your house) than I can say.  But when I come to town to-morrow week, for the Liverpool and Manchester plays, I shall have Kate and Georgy with me.  Moreover I shall be continually going out and coming in at unholy hours.  Item, the timid will come at impossible seasons to “go over” their parts with the manager.  Item, two Jews with musty sacks of dresses will be constantly coming backwards and forwards.  Item, sounds as of “groans” will be heard while the inimitable Boz is “getting” his words ­which happens all day.  Item, Forster will incessantly deliver an address by Bulwer.  Item, one hundred letters per diem will arrive from Manchester and Liverpool; and five actresses, in very limp bonnets, with extraordinary veils attached to them, will be always calling, protected by five mothers.

No, no, my actuary.  Some congenial tavern is the fitting scene for these things, if I don’t get into Devonshire Terrace, whereof I have some spark of hope.  Eagles couldn’t look the sun in the face and have such enormities going on in their nests.

I am, for the time, that obscene thing, in short, now chronicled in the Marylebone Register of Births ­

A PLAYER,
Though still yours.

Miss Power

BROADSTAIRS, KENT, Tuesday, July 14th, 1847.

MY DEAR MISS POWER,

Though I am hopeless of Rosherville until after the 28th ­for am I not beckoned, by angels of charity and by local committees, to Manchester and Liverpool, and to all sorts of bedevilments (if I may be allowed the expression) in the way of managerial miseries in the meantime ­here I find myself falling into parenthesis within parenthesis, like Lord Brougham ­yet will I joyfully come up to London on Friday, to dine at your house and meet the Dane, whose Books I honour, and whose ­to make the sentiment complete, I want something that would sound like “Bones, I love!” but I can’t get anything that unites reason with beauty.  You, who have genius and beauty in your own person, will supply the gap in your kindness.

An advertisement in the newspapers mentioning the dinner-time, will be esteemed a favour.

Some wild beasts (in cages) have come down here, and involved us in a whirl of dissipation.  A young lady in complete armour ­at least, in something that shines very much, and is exceedingly scaley ­goes into the den of ferocious lions, tigers, leopards, etc., and pretends to go to sleep upon the principal lion, upon which a rustic keeper, who speaks through his nose, exclaims, “Behold the abazid power of woobad!” and we all applaud tumultuously.

Seriously, she beats Van Amburgh.  And I think the Duke of Wellington must have her painted by Landseer.

My penitent regards to Lady Blessington, Count D’Orsay, and my own Marchioness.

Ever, dear Miss Power,
Very faithfully yours.

Miss Dickens

BROADSTAIRS, Wednesday, August 4th, 1847.

MY DEAREST MAMEY,

I am delighted to hear that you are going to improve in your spelling, because nobody can write properly without spelling well.  But I know you will learn whatever you are taught, because you are always good, industrious, and attentive.  That is what I always say of my Mamey.

The note you sent me this morning is a very nice one, and the spelling is beautiful.

Always, my dear Mamey,
Your affectionate Papa.

Mr. W. C. Macready

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Tuesday Morning, Nord, 1847.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

I am in the whirlwind of finishing a number with a crisis in it; but I can’t fall to work without saying, in so many words, that I feel all words insufficient to tell you what I think of you after a night like last night.  The multitudes of new tokens by which I know you for a great man, the swelling within me of my love for you, the pride I have in you, the majestic reflection I see in you of all the passions and affections that make up our mystery, throw me into a strange kind of transport that has no expression but in a mute sense of an attachment, which, in truth and fervency, is worthy of its subject.

What is this to say!  Nothing, God knows, and yet I cannot leave it unsaid.

Ever affectionately yours.

P.S. ­I never saw you more gallant and free than in the gallant and free scenes last night.  It was perfectly captivating to behold you.  However, it shall not interfere with my determination to address you as Old Parr in all future time.

Miss Hogarth

EDINBURGH, Thursday, December 13th, 1847.

MY DEAR GEORGY,

I “take up my pen,” as the young ladies write, to let you know how we are getting on; and as I shall be obliged to put it down again very soon, here goes.  We lived with very hospitable people in a very splendid house near Glasgow, and were perfectly comfortable.  The meeting was the most stupendous thing as to numbers, and the most beautiful as to colours and decorations I ever saw.  The inimitable did wonders.  His grace, elegance, and eloquence, enchanted all beholders. Kate didn’t go! having been taken ill on the railroad between here and Glasgow.

It has been snowing, sleeting, thawing, and freezing, sometimes by turns and sometimes all together, since the night before last.  Lord Jeffrey’s household are in town here, not at Craigcrook, and jogging on in a cosy, old-fashioned, comfortable sort of way.  We have some idea of going to York on Sunday, passing that night at Alfred’s, and coming home on Monday; but of this, Kate will advise you when she writes, which she will do to-morrow, after I shall have seen the list of railway trains.

She sends her best love.  She is a little poorly still, but nothing to speak of.  She is frightfully anxious that her not having been to the great demonstration should be kept a secret.  But I say that, like murder, it will out, and that to hope to veil such a tremendous disgrace from the general intelligence is out of the question.  In one of the Glasgow papers she is elaborately described.  I rather think Miss Alison, who is seventeen, was taken for her, and sat for the portrait.

Best love from both of us, to Charley, Mamey, Katey, Wally, Chickenstalker, Skittles, and the Hoshen Peck; last, and not least, to you.  We talked of you at the Macreadys’ party on Monday night.  I hope ­ came out lively, also that ­ was truly amiable.  Finally, that ­ took everybody to their carriages, and that ­ wept a good deal during the festivities?  God bless you.  Take care of yourself, for the sake of mankind in general.

Ever affectionately, dear Georgy.