NARRATIVE.

This, as far as correspondence is concerned, was an uneventful year.  In the spring Charles Dickens took one of his holidays at Brighton, accompanied by his wife and sister-in-law and two daughters, and they were joined in their lodgings by Mr. and Mrs. Leech.  From Brighton he writes the letter ­as a song ­which we give, to Mr. Mark Lemon, who had been ill, asking him to pay them a visit.

In the summer, Charles Dickens went with his family, for the first time, to Bonchurch, Isle of Wight, having hired for six months the charming villa, Winterbourne, belonging to the Rev. James White.  And now began that close and loving intimacy which for the future was to exist between these two families.  Mr. Leech also took a house at Bonchurch.  All through this year Charles Dickens was at work upon “David Copperfield.”

As well as giving eccentric names to his children and friends, he was also in the habit of giving such names to himself ­that of “Sparkler” being one frequently used by him.

Miss Joll herself gives us the explanation of the letter to her on capital punishment:  “Soon after the appearance of his ‘Household Words,’ some friends were discussing an article in it on ‘Private Executions.’  They contended that it went to prove Mr. Dickens was an advocate of capital punishment.  I, however, took a different view of the matter, and ventured to write and inquire his views on the subject, and to my letter he sent me a courteous reply.”

Mr. Dudley Costello.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Friday Night, Jath, 1849.

MY DEAR COSTELLO,

I am desperate!  Engaged in links of adamant to a “monster in human form” ­a remarkable expression I think I remember to have once met with in a newspaper ­whom I encountered at Franconi’s, whence I have just returned, otherwise I would have done all three things right heartily and with my accustomed sweetness.  Think of me another time when chops are on the carpet (figuratively speaking), and see if I won’t come and eat ’em!

Ever faithfully yours.

P.S. ­I find myself too despondent for the flourish.

Miss Dickens

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Tuesday Night, Feth, 1849.

MY DEAREST MAMEY,

I am not engaged on the evening of your birthday.  But even if I had an engagement of the most particular kind, I should excuse myself from keeping it, so that I might have the pleasure of celebrating at home, and among my children, the day that gave me such a dear and good daughter as you.

Ever affectionately yours.

Mr. Clarkson Stanfield.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, May 25th, 1849.

MY DEAR STANFIELD.

No ­no ­no!  Murder, murder!  Madness and misconception!  Any one of the subjects ­not the whole.  Oh, blessed star of early morning, what do you think I am made of, that I should, on the part of any man, prefer such a pig-headed, calf-eyed, donkey-eared, imp-hoofed request!

Says my friend to me, “Will you ask your friend, Mr. Stanfield, what the damage of a little picture of that size would be, that I may treat myself with the same, if I can afford it?” Says I, “I will.”  Says he, “Will you suggest that I should like it to be one of those subjects?” Says I, “I will.”

I am beating my head against the door with grief and frenzy, and I shall continue to do so, until I receive your answer.

Ever heartily yours,
THE MISCONCEIVED ONE.

Mr. Frank Stone

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Monday, June 4th, 1849.

MY DEAR STONE,

Leech and Sparkler having promised their ladies to take them to Ascot, and having failed in their truths, propoge to take them to Greenwich instead, next Wednesday.  Will that alteration in the usual arrangements be agreeable to Gaffin, S.?  If so, the place of meeting is the Sparkler’s Bower, and the hour, one exactly.

Ever yours.

Mrs. Charles Dickens

SHANKLIN, ISLE OF WIGHT, Monday Night, June 16th, 1849.

MY DEAR KATE,

I have but a moment.  Just got back and post going out.  I have taken a most delightful and beautiful house, belonging to White, at Bonchurch; cool, airy, private bathing, everything delicious.  I think it is the prettiest place I ever saw in my life, at home or abroad.  Anne may begin to dismantle Devonshire Terrace.  I have arranged for carriages, luggage, and everything.

The man with the post-bag is swearing in the passage.

Ever affectionately.

P.S. ­A waterfall on the grounds, which I have arranged with a carpenter to convert into a perpetual shower-bath.

Mr. Mark Lemon

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Monday, June 25th, 1849.

MY DEAR LEMON,

I am very unwilling to deny Charley the pleasure you so kindly offer him.  But as it is just the close of the half-year when they are getting together all the half-year’s work ­and as that day’s pleasure would weaken the next day’s duty, I think I must be “more like an ancient Roman than a ­” Sparkler, and that it will be wisest in me to say nothing about it.

Get a clean pocket-handkerchief ready for the close of “Copperfield” N; “simple and quiet, but very natural and touching.” ­Evening Bore.

Ever affectionately.

NEW SONG.

TUNE ­“Lesbia hath a beaming eye.”

1.

Lemon is a little hipped,
And this is Lemon’s true position;
He is not pale, he’s not white-lipped,
Yet wants a little fresh condition. 
Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon
Old ocean’s rising, falling billows,
Than on the houses every one,
That form the street called Saint Anne’s Willers. 
Oh, my Lemon, round and fat,
Oh, my bright, my right, my tight ’un,
Think a little what you’re at ­
Don’t stay at home, but come to Brighton!

2.

Lemon has a coat of frieze,
But all so seldom Lemon wears it,
That it is a prey to fleas,
And ev’ry moth that’s hungry tears it. 
Oh, that coat’s the coat for me,
That braves the railway sparks and breezes,
Leaving every engine free
To smoke it, till its owner sneezes! 
Then my Lemon, round and fat,
L., my bright, my right, my tight ’un,
Think a little what you’re at ­
On Tuesday first, come down to Brighton!

T. SPARKLER.

Also signed,

CATHERINE DICKENS,
ANNIE LEECH,
GEORGINA HOGARTH,
MARY DICKENS,
KATIE DICKENS,
JOHN LEECH.

Rev. James White

WINTERBOURNE, Sunday Evening, Seprd, 1849.

MY DEAR WHITE,

I have a hundred times at least wanted to say to you how good I thought those papers in “Blackwood” ­how excellent their purpose, and how delicately and charmingly worked out.  Their subtle and delightful humour, and their grasp of the whole question, were something more pleasant to me than I can possibly express.

“How comes this lumbering Inimitable to say this, on this Sunday night of all nights in the year?” you naturally ask.  Now hear the Inimitable’s honest avowal!  I make so bold because I heard that Morning Service better read this morning than ever I have heard it read in my life.  And because ­for the soul of me ­I cannot separate the two things, or help identifying the wise and genial man out of church with the earnest and unaffected man in it.  Midsummer madness, perhaps, but a madness I hope that will hold us true friends for many and many a year to come.  The madness is over as soon as you have burned this letter (see the history of the Gunpowder Plot), but let us be friends much longer for these reasons and many included in them not herein expressed.

Affectionately always.

Miss Joll

ROCKINGHAM CASTLE, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE,
Noth, 1849.

Mr. Charles Dickens presents his compliments to Miss Joll.  He is, on principle, opposed to capital punishment, but believing that many earnest and sincere people who are favourable to its retention in extreme cases would unite in any temperate effort to abolish the evils of public executions, and that the consequences of public executions are disgraceful and horrible, he has taken the course with which Miss Joll is acquainted as the most hopeful, and as one undoubtedly calculated to benefit society at large.

The Hon. Mrs. Watson

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Friday Night, Noth, 1849.
A Quarter-past Ten.

MY DEAR MRS. WATSON,

Plunged in the deepest gloom, I write these few words to let you know that, just now, when the bell was striking ten, I drank to

and to all the rest of Rockingham; as the wine went down my throat, I felt distinctly that it was “changing those thoughts to madness.”

On the way here I was a terror to my companions, and I am at present a blight and mildew on my home.

Think of me sometimes, as I shall long think of our glorious dance last night.  Give my most affectionate regards to Watson, and my kind remembrances to all who remember me, and believe me,

Ever faithfully yours.

P.S. ­I am in such an incapable state, that after executing the foregoing usual flourish I swooned, and remained for some time insensible.  Ha, ha, ha!  Why was I ever restored to consciousness!!!

P.P.S. ­“Changing” those thoughts ought to be “driving.”  But my recollection is incoherent and my mind wanders.

M. Cerjat.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Saturday, Deth, 1849.

MY DEAR CERJAT,

I received your letter at breakfast-time this morning with a pleasure my eloquence is unable to express and your modesty unable to conceive.  It is so delightful to be remembered at this time of the year in your house where we have been so happy, and in dear old Lausanne, that we always hope to see again, that I can’t help pushing away the first page of “Copperfield” N, now staring at me with what I may literally call a blank aspect, and plunging energetically into this reply.

What a strange coincidence that is about Blunderstone House!  Of all the odd things I have ever heard (and their name is Legion), I think it is the oddest.  I went down into that part of the country on the 7th of January last year, when I was meditating the story, and chose Blunderstone for the sound of its name.  I had previously observed much of what you say about the poor girls.  In all you suggest with so much feeling about their return to virtue being cruelly cut off, I concur with a sore heart.  I have been turning it over in my mind for some time, and hope, in the history of Little Em’ly (who must fall ­there is no hope for her), to put it before the thoughts of people in a new and pathetic way, and perhaps to do some good.  You will be glad to hear, I know, that “Copperfield” is a great success.  I think it is better liked than any of my other books.

We had a most delightful time at Watsons’ (for both of them we have preserved and strengthened a real affection), and were the gayest of the gay.  There was a Miss Boyle staying in the house, who is an excellent amateur actress, and she and I got up some scenes from “The School for Scandal” and from “Nickleby,” with immense success.  We played in the old hall, with the audience filled up and running over with servants.  The entertainments concluded with feats of legerdemain (for the performance of which I have a pretty good apparatus, collected at divers times and in divers places), and we then fell to country dances of a most frantic description, and danced all night.  We often spoke of you and Mrs. Cerjat and of Haldimand, and wished you were all there.  Watson and I have some fifty times “registered a vow” (like O’Connell) to come to Lausanne together, and have even settled in what month and week.  Something or other has always interposed to prevent us; but I hope, please God, most certainly to see it again, when my labours-Copperfieldian shall have terminated.

You have no idea what that hanging of the Mannings really was.  The conduct of the people was so indescribably frightful, that I felt for some time afterwards almost as if I were living in a city of devils.  I feel, at this hour, as if I never could go near the place again.  My letters have made a great to-do, and led to a great agitation of the subject; but I have not a confident belief in any change being made, mainly because the total abolitionists are utterly reckless and dishonest (generally speaking), and would play the deuce with any such proposition in Parliament, unless it were strongly supported by the Government, which it would certainly not be, the Whig motto (in office) being “laissez aller.”  I think Peel might do it if he came in.  Two points have occurred to me as being a good commentary to the objections to my idea.  The first is that a most terrific uproar was made when the hanging processions were abolished, and the ceremony shrunk from Tyburn to the prison door.  The second is that, at this very time, under the British Government in New South Wales, executions take place within the prison walls, with decidedly improved results. (I am waiting to explode this fact on the first man of mark who gives me the opportunity.)

Unlike you, we have had no marriages or giving in marriage here.  We might have had, but a certain young lady, whom you know, is hard to please.  The children are all well, thank God!  Charley is going to Eton the week after next, and has passed a first-rate examination.  Kate is quite well, and unites with me and Georgina in love to you and Mrs. Cerjat and Haldimand, whom I would give a good deal (tell him) to have several hours’ contradiction of at his own table.  Good heavens, how obstinate we would both be!  I see him leaning back in his chair, with his right forefinger out, and saying, “Good God!” in reply to some proposition of mine, and then laughing.

All in a moment a feeling comes over me, as if you and I have been still talking, smoking cigars outside the inn at Martigny, the piano sounding inside, and Lady Mary Taylour singing.  I look into my garden (which is covered with snow) rather dolefully, but take heart again, and look brightly forward to another expedition to the Great St. Bernard, when Mrs. Cerjat and I shall laugh as I fancy I have never laughed since, in one of those one-sided cars; and when we shall again learn from Haldimand, in a little dingy cabaret, at lunch-time, how to secure a door in travelling (do you remember?) by balancing a chair against it on its two hind-legs.

I do hope that we may all come together again once more, while there is a head of hair left among us; and in this hope remain, my dear Cerjat,

Your faithful Friend.