NARRATIVE.

In February this year, Charles Dickens made a short bachelor excursion with Mr. Leech and the Hon. Spencer Lyttelton to Paris, from whence we give a letter to his wife.  She was at this time in very bad health, and the little infant Dora had a serious illness during the winter.  The child rallied for the time, but Mrs. Dickens continued so ill that she was advised to try the air ­and water ­of Malvern.  And early in March, she and her sister were established in lodgings there, the children being left in London, and Charles Dickens dividing his time between Devonshire Terrace and Malvern.  He was busily occupied before this time in superintending the arrangements for Mr. Macready’s last appearance on the stage at Drury Lane, and for a great dinner which was given to Mr. Macready after it on the 1st March, at which the chair was taken by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton.  With him Charles Dickens was then engaged in maturing a scheme, which had been projected at the time of the amateur play at Knebworth, of a Guild of Literature and Art, which was to found a provident fund for literary men and artists; and to start which, a series of dramatic performances by the amateur company was proposed.  Sir E. B. Lytton wrote a comedy, “Not so Bad as We Seem,” for the purpose, to be played in London and the provinces; and the Duke of Devonshire turned one of the splendid rooms in Devonshire House into a theatre, for the first occasion of its performance.  It was played early in May before her Majesty and the Prince Consort, and a large audience.  Later in the season, there were several representations of the comedy (with a farce, “Mr. Nightingale’s Diary,” written by Charles Dickens for himself and Mr. Mark Lemon) in the Hanover Square Rooms.

But in the interval between the Macready banquet and the play at Devonshire House, Charles Dickens underwent great family trouble and sorrow.  His father, whose health had been declining for some time, became seriously ill, and Charles Dickens was summoned from Malvern to attend upon him.  Mr. John Dickens died on the 31st March.  On the 14th April, Charles Dickens had gone from Malvern to preside at the annual dinner of the General Theatrical Fund, and found his children all well at Devonshire Terrace.  He was playing with his baby, Dora, before he went to the dinner; soon after he left the house the child died suddenly in her nurse’s arms.  The sad news was communicated to the father after his duties at the dinner were over.  The next day, Mr. Forster went to Malvern to break the news to Mrs. Dickens, and she and her sister returned with him to London, and the Malvern lodgings were given up.  But Mrs. Dickens being still out of health, and London being more than usually full (this being the year of the Great Exhibition), Charles Dickens decided to let the town house again for a few months, and engaged the Fort House, Broadstairs, from the beginning of May until November.  This, which was his longest sojourn at Broadstairs, was also the last, as the following summer he changed his seaside resort, and never returned to that pretty little watering-place, although he always retained an affectionate interest in it.

The lease of the Devonshire Terrace house was to expire this year.  It was now too small for his family, so he could not renew it, although he left it with regret.  From the beginning of the year, he had been in negotiation for a house in Tavistock Square, in which his friend Mr. Frank Stone had lived for some years.  Many letters which follow are on the subject of this house and the improvements Charles Dickens made in it.  His brother-in-law, Henry Austin ­himself an architect ­superintended the “works” at Tavistock House, as he did afterwards those at Gad’s Hill ­and there are many characteristic letters to Mr. Austin while these works were in progress.  In the autumn, as a letter written in August to Mr. Stone will show, an exchange of houses was made ­Mr. Stone removing with his family to Devonshire Terrace until his own new house was ready ­while the alterations in Tavistock House went on, and Charles Dickens removed into it from Broadstairs, in November.

His eldest son was now an Eton boy.  He had been one of the party and had played a small part in the play at Rockingham Castle, in the Christmas holidays, and his father’s letters to Mrs. Watson at the beginning of this year have reference to this play.

This year he wrote and published the “Haunted Man,” which he had found himself unable to finish for the previous Christmas.  It was the last of the Christmas books.  He abandoned them in favour of a Christmas number of “Household Words,” which he continued annually for many years in “Household Words” and “All the Year Round,” and in which he had the collaboration of other writers.  The “Haunted Man” was dramatised and produced at the Adelphi Theatre, under the management of Mr. Benjamin Webster.  Charles Dickens read the book himself, at Tavistock House, to a party of actors and actresses.

At the end of the year he wrote the first number of “Bleak House,” although it was not published until March of the following year.  With the close attention and the hard work he gave, from the time of its starting, to his weekly periodical, he found it to be most desirable, now, in beginning a new monthly serial, that he should be ready with some numbers in advance before the appearance of the first number.

A provincial tour for the “Guild” took place at the end of the year.  A letter to his wife, from Clifton, in November, gives a notion of the general success and enthusiasm with which the plays were attended.  The “new Hardman,” to whom he alludes as taking that part in Sir E. B. Lytton’s comedy in the place of Mr. Forster, was Mr. John Tenniel, who was a new addition, and a very valuable and pleasant one, to the company.  Mr. Topham, the delightful water-colour painter, Mr. Dudley Costello, and Mr. Wilkie Collins were also new recruits to the company of “splendid strollers” about this time.  A letter to Mr. Wills, asking him to take a part in the comedy, is given here.  He never did act with the company, but he complied with Charles Dickens’s desire that he should be “in the scheme” by giving it all sorts of assistance, and almost invariably being one of the party in the provincial tours.

The Hon. Mrs. Watson

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, January 24th, 1851.

MY DEAR MRS. WATSON,

Kate will have told you, I daresay, that my despondency on coming to town was relieved by a talk with Lady John Russell, of which you were the subject, and in which she spoke of you with an earnestness of old affection and regard that did me good.  I date my recovery (which has been slow) from that hour.  I am still feeble, and liable to sudden outbursts of causeless rage and demoniacal gloom, but I shall be better presently.  What a thing it is, that we can’t be always innocently merry and happy with those we like best without looking out at the back windows of life!  Well, one day perhaps ­after a long night ­the blinds on that side of the house will be down for ever, and nothing left but the bright prospect in front.

Concerning supper-toast (of which I feel bound to make some mention), you did, as you always do, right, and exactly what was most agreeable to me.

My love to your excellent husband (I wonder whether he and the dining-room have got to rights yet!), and to the jolly little boys and the calm little girl.  Somehow, I shall always think of Lord Spencer as eternally walking up and down the platform at Rugby, in a high chill wind, with no apparent hope of a train ­as I left him; and somehow I always think of Rockingham, after coming away, as if I belonged to it and had left a bit of my heart behind, which it is so very odd to find wanting twenty times a day.

Ever, dear Mrs. Watson, faithfully yours, and his.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Tuesday Night, Jath, 1851.

MY DEAR, DEAR MRS. WATSON,

I presume you mean Mr. Stafford and Mr. Stopford to pay Wilson (as I have instructed him) a guinea each?  Am I right?  In that just case I still owe you a guinea for my part.  I was going to send you a post-office order for that amount, when a faint sense of absurdity mantled my ingenuous visage with a blush, and I thought it better to owe you the money until we met.  I hope it may be soon!

I believe I may lay claim to the mysterious inkstand, also to a volume lettered on the back, “Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, II.,” which I left when I came down at Christmas.  Will you take care of them as hostages until we effect an exchange?

Charley went back in great spirits, threatening to write to George.  It was a very wet night, and John took him to the railway.  He said, on his return:  “Mas’r Charles went off very gay, sir.  He found some young gen’lemen as was his friends in the train, sir.”  “Come,” said I, “I am glad of that.  How many were there?  Two or three?” “Oh dear, sir, there was a matter of forty, sir!  All with their heads out o’ the coach-windows, sir, a-hallooing ‘Dickens!’ all over the station!”

Her ladyship and the ward of the FIZ-ZISH-UN send their best loves, in which I heartily join.  If you and your dear husband come to town before we bring out Bulwer’s comedy, I think we must have a snug reading of it.

Ever, dear Mrs. Watson, faithfully yours.

Mr. Mark Lemon

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Friday, Jast, 1851.

MY DEAR LEMON,

We are deeply sorry to receive the mournful intelligence of your calamity.  But we know you will both have found comfort in that blessed belief, from which the sacred figure with the child upon His knee is, in all stages of our lives, inseparable, for of such is the kingdom of God!

We join in affectionate loves to you and your dear wife.  She well deserves your praise, I am sure.

Ever affectionately yours.

Mr. W. H. Wills.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Monday, Feth, 1851.

MY DEAR WILLS,

There is a small part in Bulwer’s comedy, but very good what there is ­not much ­my servant, who opens the play, which I should be very glad if you would like to do.

Pray understand that there is no end of men who would do it, and that if you have the least objection to the trouble, I don’t make this the expression of a wish even.  Otherwise, I would like you to be in the scheme, which is a very great and important one, and which cannot have too many men who are steadily ­not flightily, like some of our friends ­in earnest, and who are not to be lightly discouraged.

If you do the part, I would like to have a talk with you about the secretarial duties.  They must be performed by someone I clearly see, and will require good business direction.  I should like to put some young fellow, to whom such work and its remuneration would be an object, under your eye, if we could find one entire and perfect chrysolite anywhere.  Let me know whether I am to rate you on the ship’s books or not.  If yes, consider yourself “called” to the reading (by Macready) at Forster’s rooms, on Wednesday, the 19th, at three.

And in the meantime you shall have a proof of the plan.

Ever yours.

Mrs. Charles Dickens.

HOTEL WAGRAM, PARIS, Thursday, Feth, 1851.

MY DEAREST KATE,

I received your letter this morning (on returning from an expedition to a market thirteen miles away, which involved the necessity of getting up at five), and am delighted to have such good accounts of all at home.

We had D’Orsay to dinner yesterday, and I am hurried to dress now, in order to pay a promised visit to his atelier.  He was very happy with us, and is much improved both in spirits and looks.  Lord and Lady Castlereagh live downstairs here, and we went to them in the evening, and afterwards brought him upstairs to smoke.  To-night we are going to see Lemaitre in the renowned “Belphegor” piece.  To-morrow at noon we leave Paris for Calais (the Boulogne boat does not serve our turn), and unless the weather for crossing should be absurd, I shall be at home, please God, early on the evening of Saturday.  It continues to be delightful weather here ­gusty, but very clear and fine.  Leech and I had a charming country walk before breakfast this morning at Poissy and enjoyed it very much.  The rime was on the grass and trees, and the country most delicious.

Spencer Lyttelton is a capital companion on a trip, and a great addition to the party.  We have got on famously and been very facetious.  With best love to Georgina and the darlings,

Ever most affectionately.

Miss Mary Boyle.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Friday Night, late, Fest, 1851.

MY DEAR MISS BOYLE,

I have devoted a couple of hours this evening to going very carefully over your paper (which I had read before) and to endeavouring to bring it closer, and to lighten it, and to give it that sort of compactness which a habit of composition, and of disciplining one’s thoughts like a regiment, and of studying the art of putting each soldier into his right place, may have gradually taught me to think necessary.  I hope, when you see it in print, you will not be alarmed by my use of the pruning-knife.  I have tried to exercise it with the utmost delicacy and discretion, and to suggest to you, especially towards the end, how this sort of writing (regard being had to the size of the journal in which it appears) requires to be compressed, and is made pleasanter by compression.  This all reads very solemnly, but only because I want you to read it (I mean the article) with as loving an eye as I have truly tried to touch it with a loving and gentle hand.  I propose to call it “My Mahogany Friend.”  The other name is too long, and I think not attractive.  Until I go to the office to-morrow and see what is actually in hand, I am not certain of the number in which it will appear, but Georgy shall write on Monday and tell you.  We are always a fortnight in advance of the public or the mechanical work could not be done.  I think there are many things in it that are very pretty.  The Katie part is particularly well done.  If I don’t say more, it is because I have a heavy sense, in all cases, of the responsibility of encouraging anyone to enter on that thorny track, where the prizes are so few and the blanks so many; where ­

But I won’t write you a sermon.  With the fire going out, and the first shadows of a new story hovering in a ghostly way about me (as they usually begin to do, when I have finished an old one), I am in danger of doing the heavy business, and becoming a heavy guardian, or something of that sort, instead of the light and airy Joe.

So good-night, and believe that you may always trust me, and never find a grim expression (towards you) in any that I wear.

Ever yours.

Mr. David Roberts‚ R.A.

February 21st, 1851.

Oh my dear Roberts, if you knew the trouble we have had and the money we pay for Drury Lane for one night for the benefit, you would never dream of it for the dinner. There isn’t possibility of getting a theatre.

I will do all I can for your charming little daughter, and hope to squeeze in half-a-dozen ladies at the last; but we must not breathe the idea or we shall not dare to execute it, there will be such an outcry.

Faithfully yours.

Mr. W. C. Macready

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, February 27th, 1851.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

Forster told me to-day that you wish Tennyson’s sonnet to be read after your health is given on Saturday.  I am perfectly certain that it would not do at that time.  I am quite convinced that the audience would not receive it, under these exciting circumstances, as it ought to be received.  If I had to read it, I would on no account undertake to do so at that period, in a great room crowded with a dense company.  I have an instinctive assurance that it would fail.  Being with Bulwer this morning, I communicated your wish to him, and he immediately felt as I do.  I could enter into many reasons which induce me to form this opinion.  But I believe that you have that confidence in me that I may spare you the statement of them.

I want to know one thing from you.  As I shall be obliged to be at the London Tavern in the afternoon of to-morrow, Friday (I write, observe, on Thursday night), I shall be much helped in the arrangements if you will send me your answer by a messenger (addressed here) on the receipt of this.  Which would you prefer ­that “Auld Lang Syne” should be sung after your health is given and before you return thanks, or after you have spoken?

I cannot forbear a word about last night.  I think I have told you sometimes, my much-loved friend, how, when I was a mere boy, I was one of your faithful and devoted adherents in the pit; I believe as true a member of that true host of followers as it has ever boasted.  As I improved myself and was improved by favouring circumstances in mind and fortune, I only became the more earnest (if it were possible) in my study of you.  No light portion of my life arose before me when the quiet vision to which I am beholden, in I don’t know how great a decree, or for how much ­who does? ­faded so nobly from my bodily eyes last night.  And if I were to try to tell you what I felt ­of regret for its being past for ever, and of joy in the thought that you could have taken your leave of me but in God’s own time ­I should only blot this paper with some drops that would certainly not be of ink, and give very faint expression to very strong emotions.

What is all this in writing!  It is only some sort of relief to my full heart, and shows very little of it to you; but that’s something, so I let it go.

Ever, my dearest Macready,
Your most affectionate Friend.

P.S. ­My very flourish departs from me for the moment.

Mr. David Roberts‚ R.A.

KNUTSFORD LODGE, GREAT MALVERN, March 20th, 1851.

MY DEAR ROBERTS,

Mrs. Dickens has been unwell, and I am here with her.  I want you to give a quarter of an hour to the perusal of the enclosed prospectus; to consider the immense value of the design, if it be successful, to artists young and old; and then to bestow your favourable consideration on the assistance I am going to ask of you for the sake and in the name of the cause.

For the representation of the new comedy Bulwer has written for us, to start this scheme, I am having an ingenious theatre made by Webster’s people, for erection on certain nights in the Hanover Square Rooms.  But it will first be put up in the Duke of Devonshire’s house, where the first representation will take place before a brilliant company, including (I believe) the Queen.

Now, will you paint us a scene ­the scene of which I enclose Bulwer’s description from the prompter’s book?  It will be a cloth with a set-piece.  It should be sent to your studio or put up in a theatre painting-room, as you would prefer.  I have asked Stanny to do another scene, Edwin Landseer, and Louis Haghe.  The Devonshire House performance will probably be on Monday, the 28th of April.  I should want to have the scenery complete by the 20th, as it would require to be elaborately worked and rehearsed. You could do it in no time after sending in your pictures, and will you?

What the value of such aid would be I need not say.  I say no more of the reasons that induce me to ask it, because if they are not in the prospectus they are nowhere.

On Monday and Tuesday nights I shall be in town for rehearsal, but until then I shall be here.  Will you let me have a line from you in reply?

My dear Roberts, ever faithfully yours.

Description of the Scene proposed:

STREETS OF LONDON IN THE TIME OF GEORGE I.

In perspective, an alley inscribed DEADMAN’S LANE; a large, old-fashioned, gloomy, mysterious house in the corner, marked N. (This N, Deadman’s Lane, has been constantly referred to in the play as the abode of a mysterious female figure, who enters masked, and passes into this house on the scene being disclosed.) It is night, and there are moonlight mediums.

Mrs. Charles Dickens.

H. W. OFFICE, Monday, March 26th, 1851.

MY DEAREST KATE,

I reserve all news of the play until I come down.  The Queen appoints the 30th of April.  There is no end of trouble.

My father slept well last night, and is as well this morning (they send word) as anyone in such a state, so cut and slashed, can be.  I have been waiting at home for Bulwer all the morning (it is now two), and am now waiting for Lemon before I go up there.  I will not close this note until I have been.

It is raining here incessantly.  The streets are in a most miserable state.  A van, containing the goods of some unfortunate family moving, has broken down close outside, and the whole scene is a picture of dreariness.

The children are quite well and very happy.  I had Dora down this morning, who was quite charmed to see me.  That Miss Ketteridge appointed two to-day for seeing the house, and probably she is at this moment disparaging it.

My father is very weak and low, but not worse, I hope, than might be expected.  I am going home to dine with the children.  By working here late to-night (coming back after dinner) I can finish what I have to do for the play.  Therefore I hope to be with you to-morrow, in good time for dinner.

Ever affectionately.

P.S. ­Love to Georgy.

Mr. W. H. Wills

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Thursday Morning, April 3rd, 1851.

MY DEAR WILLS,

I took my threatened walk last night, but it yielded little but generalities.

However, I thought of something for to-night, that I think will make a splendid paper.  I have an idea that it might be connected with the gas paper (making gas a great agent in an effective police), and made one of the articles.  This is it:  “A Night in a Station-house.”  If you would go down to our friend Mr. Yardley, at Scotland Yard, and get a letter or order to the acting chief authority at that station-house in Bow Street, to enable us to hear the charges, observe the internal economy of the station-house all night, go round to the cells with the visiting policeman, etc., I would stay there, say from twelve to-night to four or five in the morning.  We might have a “night-cap,” a fire, and some tea at the office hard by.  If you could conveniently borrow an hour or two from the night we could both go.  If not, I would go alone.  It would make a wonderful good paper at a most appropriate time, when the back slums of London are going to be invaded by all sorts of strangers.

You needn’t exactly say that I was going in propria (unless it were necessary), and, of course, you wouldn’t say that I propose to-night, because I am so worn by the sad arrangements in which I am engaged, and by what led to them, that I cannot take my natural rest.  But to-morrow night we go to the gas-works.  I might not be so disposed for this station-house observation as I shall be to-night for a long time, and I see a most singular and admirable chance for us in the descriptive way, not to be lost.

Therefore, if you will arrange the thing before I come down at four this afternoon, any of the Scotland Yard people will do it, I should think; if our friend by any accident should not be there, I will go into it.

If they should recommend any other station-house as better for the purpose, or would think it better for us to go to more than one under the guidance of some trustworthy man, of course we will pay any man and do as they recommend.  But I think one topping station-house would be best.

Faithfully ever.

P.S. ­I write from my bed.

Mr. W. C. Macready

Saturday, May 24th, 1851.

MY DEAR MACREADY,

We are getting in a good heap of money for the Guild.  The comedy has been very much improved, in many respects, since you read it.  The scene to which you refer is certainly one of the most telling in the play.  And there is a farce to be produced on Tuesday next, wherein a distinguished amateur will sustain a variety of assumption-parts, and in particular, Samuel Weller and Mrs. Gamp, of which I say no more.  I am pining for Broadstairs, where the children are at present.  I lurk from the sun, during the best part of the day, in a villainous compound of darkness, canvas, sawdust, general dust, stale gas (involving a vague smell of pepper), and disenchanted properties.  But I hope to get down on Wednesday or Thursday.

Ah! you country gentlemen, who live at home at ease, how little do you think of us among the London fleas!  But they tell me you are coming in for Dorsetshire.  You must be very careful, when you come to town to attend to your parliamentary duties, never to ask your way of people in the streets.  They will misdirect you for what the vulgar call “a lark,” meaning, in this connection, a jest at your expense.  Always go into some respectable shop or apply to a policeman.  You will know him by his being dressed in blue, with very dull silver buttons, and by the top of his hat being made of sticking-plaster.  You may perhaps see in some odd place an intelligent-looking man, with a curious little wooden table before him and three thimbles on it.  He will want you to bet, but don’t do it.  He really desires to cheat you.  And don’t buy at auctions where the best plated goods are being knocked down for next to nothing.  These, too, are delusions.  If you wish to go to the play to see real good acting (though a little more subdued than perfect tragedy should be), I would recommend you to see ­ at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.  Anybody will show it to you.  It is near the Strand, and you may know it by seeing no company whatever at any of the doors.  Cab fares are eightpence a mile.  A mile London measure is half a Dorsetshire mile, recollect.  Porter is twopence per pint; what is called stout is fourpence.  The Zoological Gardens are in the Regent’s Park, and the price of admission is one shilling.  Of the streets, I would recommend you to see Regent Street and the Quadrant, Bond Street, Piccadilly, Oxford Street, and Cheapside.  I think these will please you after a time, though the tumult and bustle will at first bewilder you.  If I can serve you in any way, pray command me.  And with my best regards to your happy family, so remote from this Babel,

Believe me, my dear Friend,
Ever affectionately yours.

P.S. ­I forgot to mention just now that the black equestrian figure you will see at Charing Cross, as you go down to the House, is a statue of King Charles the First.

The Earl of Carlisle

BROADSTAIRS, July 8th, 1851.

MY DEAR LORD CARLISLE,

We shall be delighted to see you, if you will come down on Saturday.  Mr. Lemon may perhaps be here, with his wife, but no one else.  And we can give you a bed that may be surpassed, with a welcome that certainly cannot be.

The general character of Broadstairs as to size and accommodation was happily expressed by Miss Eden, when she wrote to the Duke of Devonshire (as he told me), saying how grateful she felt to a certain sailor, who asked leave to see her garden, for not plucking it bodily up, and sticking it in his button-hole.

As we think of putting mignonette-boxes outside the windows, for the younger children to sleep in by-and-by, I am afraid we should give your servant the cramp if we hardily undertook to lodge him.  But in case you should decide to bring one, he is easily disposable hard by.

Don’t come by the boat.  It is rather tedious, and both departs and arrives at inconvenient hours.  There is a railway train from the Dover terminus to Ramsgate, at half-past twelve in the day, which will bring you in three hours.  Another at half-past four in the afternoon.  If you will tell me by which you come (I hope the former), I will await you at the terminus with my little brougham.

You will have for a night-light in the room we shall give you, the North Foreland lighthouse.  That and the sea and air are our only lions.  It is a very rough little place, but a very pleasant one, and you will make it pleasanter than ever to me.

Faithfully yours always.

The Hon. Mrs. Watson.

BROADSTAIRS, KENT, July 11th, 1851.

MY DEAR MRS. WATSON,

I am so desperately indignant with you for writing me that short apology for a note, and pretending to suppose that under any circumstances I could fail to read with interest anything you wrote to me, that I have more than half a mind to inflict a regular letter upon you.  If I were not the gentlest of men I should do it!

Poor dear Haldimand, I have thought of him so often.  That kind of decay is so inexpressibly affecting and piteous to me, that I have no words to express my compassion and sorrow.  When I was at Abbotsford, I saw in a vile glass case the last clothes Scott wore.  Among them an old white hat, which seemed to be tumbled and bent and broken by the uneasy, purposeless wandering, hither and thither, of his heavy head.  It so embodied Lockhart’s pathetic description of him when he tried to write, and laid down his pen and cried, that it associated itself in my mind with broken powers and mental weakness from that hour.  I fancy Haldimand in such another, going listlessly about that beautiful place, and remembering the happy hours we have passed with him, and his goodness and truth.  I think what a dream we live in, until it seems for the moment the saddest dream that ever was dreamed.  Pray tell us if you hear more of him.  We really loved him.

To go to the opposite side of life, let me tell you that a week or so ago I took Charley and three of his schoolfellows down the river gipsying.  I secured the services of Charley’s godfather (an old friend of mine, and a noble fellow with boys), and went down to Slough, accompanied by two immense hampers from Fortnum and Mason, on (I believe) the wettest morning ever seen out of the tropics.

It cleared before we got to Slough; but the boys, who had got up at four (we being due at eleven), had horrible misgivings that we might not come, in consequence of which we saw them looking into the carriages before us, all face.  They seemed to have no bodies whatever, but to be all face; their countenances lengthened to that surprising extent.  When they saw us, the faces shut up as if they were upon strong springs, and their waistcoats developed themselves in the usual places.  When the first hamper came out of the luggage-van, I was conscious of their dancing behind the guard; when the second came out with bottles in it, they all stood wildly on one leg.  We then got a couple of flys to drive to the boat-house.  I put them in the first, but they couldn’t sit still a moment, and were perpetually flying up and down like the toy figures in the sham snuff-boxes.  In this order we went on to “Tom Brown’s, the tailor’s,” where they all dressed in aquatic costume, and then to the boat-house, where they all cried in shrill chorus for “Mahogany” ­a gentleman, so called by reason of his sunburnt complexion, a waterman by profession. (He was likewise called during the day “Hog” and “Hogany,” and seemed to be unconscious of any proper name whatsoever.) We embarked, the sun shining now, in a galley with a striped awning, which I had ordered for the purpose, and all rowing hard, went down the river.  We dined in a field; what I suffered for fear those boys should get drunk, the struggles I underwent in a contest of feeling between hospitality and prudence, must ever remain untold.  I feel, even now, old with the anxiety of that tremendous hour.  They were very good, however.  The speech of one became thick, and his eyes too like lobsters’ to be comfortable, but only temporarily.  He recovered, and I suppose outlived the salad he took.  I have heard nothing to the contrary, and I imagine I should have been implicated on the inquest if there had been one.  We had tea and rashers of bacon at a public-house, and came home, the last five or six miles in a prodigious thunderstorm.  This was the great success of the day, which they certainly enjoyed more than anything else.  The dinner had been great, and Mahogany had informed them, after a bottle of light champagne, that he never would come up the river “with ginger company” any more.  But the getting so completely wet through was the culminating part of the entertainment.  You never in your life saw such objects as they were; and their perfect unconsciousness that it was at all advisable to go home and change, or that there was anything to prevent their standing at the station two mortal hours to see me off, was wonderful.  As to getting them to their dames with any sort of sense that they were damp, I abandoned the idea.  I thought it a success when they went down the street as civilly as if they were just up and newly dressed, though they really looked as if you could have rubbed them to rags with a touch, like saturated curl-paper.

I am sorry you have not been able to see our play, which I suppose you won’t now, for I take it you are not going on Monday, the 21st, our last night in town?  It is worth seeing, not for the getting up (which modesty forbids me to approve), but for the little bijou it is, in the scenery, dresses, and appointments.  They are such as never can be got together again, because such men as Stanfield, Roberts, Grieve, Haghe, Egg, and others, never can be again combined in such a work.  Everything has been done at its best from all sorts of authorities, and it is really very beautiful to look at.

I find I am “used up” by the Exhibition.  I don’t say “there is nothing in it” ­there’s too much.  I have only been twice; so many things bewildered me.  I have a natural horror of sights, and the fusion of so many sights in one has not decreased it.  I am not sure that I have seen anything but the fountain and perhaps the Amazon.  It is a dreadful thing to be obliged to be false, but when anyone says, “Have you seen ?” I say, “Yes,” because if I don’t, I know he’ll explain it, and I can’t bear that. ­ took all the school one day.  The school was composed of a hundred “infants,” who got among the horses’ legs in crossing to the main entrance from the Kensington Gate, and came reeling out from between the wheels of coaches undisturbed in mind.  They were clinging to horses, I am told, all over the park.

When they were collected and added up by the frantic monitors, they were all right.  They were then regaled with cake, etc., and went tottering and staring all over the place; the greater part wetting their forefingers and drawing a wavy pattern on every accessible object.  One infant strayed.  He was not missed.  Ninety and nine were taken home, supposed to be the whole collection, but this particular infant went to Hammersmith.  He was found by the police at night, going round and round the turnpike, which he still supposed to be a part of the Exhibition.  He had the same opinion of the police, also of Hammersmith workhouse, where he passed the night.  When his mother came for him in the morning, he asked when it would be over?  It was a great Exhibition, he said, but he thought it long.

As I begin to have a foreboding that you will think the same of this act of vengeance of mine, this present letter, I shall make an end of it, with my heartiest and most loving remembrances to Watson.  I should have liked him of all things to have been in the Eton expedition, tell him, and to have heard a song (by-the-bye, I have forgotten that) sung in the thunderstorm, solos by Charley, chorus by the friends, describing the career of a booby who was plucked at college, every verse ending: 

I don’t care a fig what the people may think,
But what WILL the governor say!

which was shouted with a deferential jollity towards myself, as a governor who had that day done a creditable action, and proved himself worthy of all confidence.

With love to the boys and girls,
Ever, dear Mrs. Watson,
Most sincerely yours.

Mr. Frank Stone.

“HOUSEHOLD WORDS,” Sunday, July 20th, 1851.

MY DEAR STONE,

I have been considering the great house question since you kindly called yesterday evening, and come to the conclusion that I had better not let it go.  I am convinced it is the prudent thing for me to do, and that I am very unlikely to find the same comforts for the rising generation elsewhere, for the same money.  Therefore, as Robins no doubt understands that you would come to me yesterday ­passing his life as he does amidst every possible phase of such negotiations ­I think it hardly worth while to wait for the receipt of his coming letter.  If you will take the trouble to call on him in the morning, and offer the L1,450, I shall be very much obliged to you.  If you will receive from me full power to conclude the purchase (subject of course to my solicitor’s approval of the lease), pray do.  I give you carte blanche to L1,500, but I think the L1,450 ought to win the day.

I don’t make any apologies for thrusting this honour upon you, knowing what a thorough-going old pump you are.  Lemon and his wife are coming here, after the rehearsal, to a gipsy sort of cold dinner.  Time, half-past three.  Viands, pickled salmon and cold pigeon-pie.  Occupation afterwards, lying on the carpet as a preparation for histrionic strength.  Will you come with us from the Hanover Square Rooms?

Ever affectionately.

Mr. Charles Knight.

BROADSTAIRS, KENT, Sunday, July 27th, 1851.

MY DEAR KNIGHT,

A most excellent Shadow! I have sent it up to the printer, and Wills is to send you a proof.  Will you look carefully at all the earlier part, where the use of the past tense instead of the present a little hurts the picturesque effect?  I understand each phase of the thing to be always a thing present before the mind’s eye ­a shadow passing before it.  Whatever is done, must be doing.  Is it not so?  For example, if I did the Shadow of Robinson Crusoe, I should not say he was a boy at Hull, when his father lectured him about going to sea, and so forth; but he is a boy at Hull.  There he is, in that particular Shadow, eternally a boy at Hull; his life to me is a series of shadows, but there is no “was” in the case.  If I choose to go to his manhood, I can.  These shadows don’t change as realities do.  No phase of his existence passes away, if I choose to bring it to this unsubstantial and delightful life, the only death of which, to me, is my death, and thus he is immortal to unnumbered thousands.  If I am right, will you look at the proof through the first third or half of the papers, and see whether the Factor comes before us in that way?  If not, it is merely the alteration of the verb here and there that is requisite.

You say you are coming down to look for a place next week.  Now, Jerrold says he is coming on Thursday, by the cheap express at half-past twelve, to return with me for the play early on Monday morning.  Can’t you make that holiday too?  I have promised him our only spare bed, but we’ll find you a bed hard by, and shall be delighted “to eat and drink you,” as an American once wrote to me.  We will make expeditions to Herne Bay, Canterbury, where not? and drink deep draughts of fresh air.  Come!  They are beginning to cut the corn.  You will never see the country so pretty.  If you stay in town these days, you’ll do nothing.  I feel convinced you’ll not buy the “Memoirs of a Man of Quality.”  Say you’ll come!

Ever affectionately.

Mr. Frank Stone

BROADSTAIRS, KENT, Saturday, August 23rd, 1851.

MY DEAR STONE,

A “dim vision” occurs to me, arising out of your note; also presents itself to the brains of my other half.

Supposing you should find, on looking onward, a possibility of your being houseless at Michaelmas, what do you say to using Devonshire Terrace as a temporary encampment?  It will not be in its usual order, but we would take care that there should be as much useful furniture of all sorts there, as to render it unnecessary for you to move a stick.  If you should think this a convenience, then I should propose to you to pile your furniture in the middle of the rooms at Tavistock House, and go out to Devonshire Terrace two or three weeks before Michaelmas, to enable my workmen to commence their operations.  This might be to our mutual convenience, and therefore I suggest it.  Certainly the sooner I can begin on Tavistock House the better.  And possibly your going into Devonshire Terrace might relieve you from a difficulty that would otherwise be perplexing.

I make this suggestion (I need not say to you) solely on the chance of its being useful to both of us.  If it were merely convenient to me, you know I shouldn’t dream of it.  Such an arrangement, while it would cost you nothing, would perhaps enable you to get your new house into order comfortably, and do exactly the same thing for me.

Ever affectionately.

P.S. ­I anticipated your suggestion some weeks ago, when I found I couldn’t build a stable.  I said I ought to have permission to take the piece of ground into my garden, which was conceded.  Loaden writes me this morning that he thinks he can get permission to build a stable one storey high, without a chimney.  I reply that on the whole I would rather enlarge the garden than build a stable with those restrictions.

Mr. Henry Austin

BROADSTAIRS, Sunday, September 7th, 1851.

MY DEAR HENRY,

I am in that state of mind which you may (once) have seen described in the newspapers as “bordering on distraction;” the house given up to me, the fine weather going on (soon to break, I daresay), the painting season oozing away, my new book waiting to be born, and

NO WORKMEN ON THE PREMISES,

along of my not hearing from you!!  I have torn all my hair off, and constantly beat my unoffending family.  Wild notions have occurred to me of sending in my own plumber to do the drains.  Then I remember that you have probably written to prepare your man, and restrain my audacious hand.  Then Stone presents himself, with a most exasperatingly mysterious visage, and says that a rat has appeared in the kitchen, and it’s his opinion (Stone’s, not the rat’s) that the drains want “compo-ing;” for the use of which explicit language I could fell him without remorse.  In my horrible desire to “compo” everything, the very postman becomes my enemy because he brings no letter from you; and, in short, I don’t see what’s to become of me unless I hear from you to-morrow, which I have not the least expectation of doing.

Going over the house again, I have materially altered the plans ­abandoned conservatory and front balcony ­decided to make Stone’s painting-room the drawing-room (it is nearly six inches higher than the room below), to carry the entrance passage right through the house to a back door leading to the garden, and to reduce the once intended drawing-room ­now school-room ­to a manageable size, making a door of communication between the new drawing-room and the study.  Curtains and carpets, on a scale of awful splendour and magnitude, are already in preparation, and still ­still ­

NO WORKMEN ON THE PREMISES.

To pursue this theme is madness.  Where are you?  When are you coming home?  Where is the man who is to do the work?  Does he know that an army of artificers must be turned in at once, and the whole thing finished out of hand?  O rescue me from my present condition.  Come up to the scratch, I entreat and implore you!

I send this to Laetitia to forward,

Being, as you well know why,
Completely floored by N. W., I
Sleep.

I hope you may be able to read this.  My state of mind does not admit of coherence.

Ever affectionately.

P.S. ­NO WORKMEN ON THE PREMISES!

Ha! ha! ha! (I am laughing demoniacally.)

BROADSTAIRS, Sunday, September 21st, 1851.

MY DEAR HENRY,

It is quite clear we could do nothing else with the drains than what you have done.  Will it be at all a heavy item in the estimate?

If there be the least chance of a necessity for the pillar, let us have it.  Let us dance in peace, whatever we do, and only go into the kitchen by the staircase.

Have they cut the door between the drawing-room and the study yet?  The foreman will let Shoolbred know when the feat is accomplished.

O! and did you tell him of another brass ventilator in the dining-room, opening into the dining-room flue?

I don’t think I shall come to town until you want to show the progress, whenever that may be.  I shall look forward to another dinner, and I think we must encourage the Oriental, for the goodness of its wine.

I am getting a complete set of a certain distinguished author’s works prepared for a certain distinguished architect, which I hope he will accept, as a slight, though very inadequate, etc. etc.; affectionate, etc.; so heartily and kindly taking so much interest, etc. etc.

Love to Laetitia. 
Ever affectionately.

BROADSTAIRS, KENT, October 7th, 1851.

MY DEAR HENRY,

O!  O!  O!  D ­ the Pantechnicon.  O!

I will be at Tavistock House at twelve on Saturday, and then will wait for you until I see you.  If we return together ­as I hope we shall ­our express will start at half-past four, and we ought to dine (somewhere about Temple Bar) at three.

The infamous ­ says the stoves shall be fixed to-morrow.

O! if this were to last long; the distraction of the new book, the whirling of the story through one’s mind, escorted by workmen, the imbecility, the wild necessity of beginning to write, the not being able to do so, the, O!  I should go ­ O!

Ever affectionately.

P.S. ­None.  I have torn it off.

Miss Mary Boyle

BROADSTAIRS, KENT, October 10th, 1851.

ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER.

MY DEAR MISS BOYLE,

Your remembrance at such a time ­not thrown away upon me, trust me ­is a sufficient assurance that you know how truly I feel towards you, and with what an earnest sympathy I must think of you now.

God be with you!  There is indeed nothing terrible in such a death, nothing that we would undo, nothing that we may remember otherwise than with deeply thankful, though with softened hearts.

Kate sends you her affectionate love.  I enclose a note from Georgina.  Pray give my kindest remembrances to your brother Cavendish, and believe me now and ever,

Faithfully your Friend.

Mr. Eeles

“HOUSEHOLD WORDS” OFFICE,
Wednesday Evening, Ocnd, 1851.

DEAR MR. EELES,

I send you the list I have made for the book-backs.  I should like the “History of a Short Chancery Suit” to come at the bottom of one recess, and the “Catalogue of Statues of the Duke of Wellington” at the bottom of the other.  If you should want more titles, and will let me know how many, I will send them to you.

Faithfully yours.

LIST OF IMITATION BOOK-BACKS.

Tavistock House, 1851.

Five Minutes in Chin vols. 
Forty Winks at the Pyramid vols. 
Abernethy on the Constitutio vols. 
Mr. Green’s Overland Mai vols. 
Captain Cook’s Life of Savag vols. 
A Carpenter’s Bench of Bishop vols. 
Toot’s Universal Letter-Write vols. 
Orson’s Art of Etiquette. 
Downeaster’s Complete Calculator. 
History of the Middling Age vols. 
Jonah’s Account of the Whale. 
Captain Parry’s Virtues of Cold Tar. 
Kant’s Ancient Humbug vols. 
Bowwowdom.  A Poem. 
The Quarrelly Revie vols. 
The Gunpowder Magazin vols. 
Steele.  By the Author of “Ion.” 
The Art of Cutting the Teeth. 
Matthew’s Nursery Song vols. 
Paxton’s Bloomer vols. 
On the Use of Mercury by the Ancient Poets. 
Drowsy’s Recollections of Nothin vols. 
Heavyside’s Conversations with Nobod vols. 
Commonplace Book of the Oldest Inhabitan vols. 
Growler’s Gruffiology, with Appendi vols. 
The Books of Moses and Son vols. 
Burke (of Edinburgh) on the Sublime and Beautifu vols. 
Teazer’s Commentaries. 
King Henry the Eighth’s Evidences of Christianit vols. 
Miss Biffin on Deportment. 
Morrison’s Pills Progres vols. 
Lady Godiva on the Horse. 
Munchausen’s Modern Miracle vols. 
Richardson’s Show of Dramatic Literatur vols. 
Hansard’s Guide to Refreshing Sleep.  As many volumes as possible.

Mr. Henry Austin.

OFFICE OF “HOUSEHOLD WORDS,”
Saturday, Octh, 1851.

MY DEAR HENRY,

On the day of our departure, I thought we were going ­backward ­at a most triumphant pace; but yesterday we rather recovered.  The painters still mislaid their brushes every five minutes, and chiefly whistled in the intervals; and the carpenters (especially the Pantechnicon) continued to look sideways with one eye down pieces of wood, as if they were absorbed in the contemplation of the perspective of the Thames Tunnel, and had entirely relinquished the vanities of this transitory world; but still there was an improvement, and it is confirmed to-day.  White lime is to be seen in kitchens, the bath-room is gradually resolving itself from an abstract idea into a fact ­youthful, extremely youthful, but a fact.  The drawing-room encourages no hope whatever, nor the study.  Staircase painted.  Irish labourers howling in the school-room, but I don’t know why.  I see nothing.  Gardener vigorously lopping the trees, and really letting in the light and air.  Foreman sweet-tempered but uneasy.  Inimitable hovering gloomily through the premises all day, with an idea that a little more work is done when he flits, bat-like, through the rooms, than when there is no one looking on.  Catherine all over paint.  Mister McCann, encountering Inimitable in doorways, fades obsequiously into areas, and there encounters him again, and swoons with confusion.  Several reams of blank paper constantly spread on the drawing-room walls, and sliced off again, which looks like insanity.  Two men still clinking at the new stair-rails.  I think they must be learning a tune; I cannot make out any other object in their proceedings.

Since writing the above, I have been up there again, and found the young paper-hanger putting on his slippers, and looking hard at the walls of the servants’ room at the top of the house, as if he meant to paper it one of these days.  May Heaven prosper his intentions!

When do you come back?  I hope soon.

Ever affectionately.

Mrs. Charles Dickens.

CLIFTON, November 13th, 1851.

MY DEAREST KATE,

I have just received your second letter, and am quite delighted to find that all is going on so vigorously, and that you are in such a methodical, business-like, and energetic state.  I shall come home by the express on Saturday morning, and shall hope to be at home between eleven and twelve.

We had a noble night last night.  The room (which is the largest but one in England) was crammed in every part.  The effect of from thirteen to fourteen hundred people, all well dressed, and all seated in one unbroken chamber, except that the floor rose high towards the end of the hall, was most splendid, and we never played to a better audience.  The enthusiasm was prodigious; the place delightful for speaking in; no end of gas; another hall for a dressing-room; an immense stage; and every possible convenience.  We were all thoroughly pleased, I think, with the whole thing, and it was a very great and striking success.  To-morrow-night, having the new Hardman, I am going to try the play with all kinds of cuts, taking out, among other things, some half-dozen printed pages of “Wills’s Coffee House.”

We are very pleasant and cheerful.  They are all going to Matthew Davenport Hill’s to lunch this morning, and to see some woods about six or seven miles off.  I prefer being quiet, and shall go out at my leisure and call on Elliot.  We are very well lodged and boarded, and, living high up on the Downs, are quite out of the filth of Bristol.

I saw old Landor at Bath, who has bronchitis.  When he was last in town, “Kenyon drove him about, by God, half the morning, under a most damnable pretence of taking him to where Walter was at school, and they never found the confounded house!” He had in his pocket on that occasion a souvenir for Walter in the form of a Union shirt-pin, which is now in my possession, and shall be duly brought home.

I am tired enough, and shall be glad when to-morrow night is over.  We expect a very good house.  Forster came up to town after the performance last night, and promised to report to you that all was well.  Jerrold is in extraordinary force.  I don’t think I ever knew him so humorous.  And this is all my news, which is quite enough.  I am continually thinking of the house in the midst of all the bustle, but I trust it with such confidence to you that I am quite at my ease about it.

With best love to Georgy and the girls,
Ever, my dearest Kate, most affectionately yours.

P.S. ­I forgot to say that Topham has suddenly come out as a juggler, and swallows candles, and does wonderful things with the poker very well indeed, but with a bashfulness and embarrassment extraordinarily ludicrous.

Mr. Eeles.

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, TAVISTOCK SQUARE, Noth, 1851.

DEAR MR. EELES,

I must thank you for the admirable manner in which you have done the book-backs in my room.  I feel personally obliged to you, I assure you, for the interest you have taken in my whim, and the promptitude with which you have completely carried it out.

Faithfully yours.

Mrs. Gaskell.

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, Thursday Afternoon, Deth, 1851.

MY DEAR MRS. GASKELL,

I write in great haste to tell you that Mr. Wills, in the utmost consternation, has brought me your letter, just received (four o’clock), and that it is too late to recall your tale.  I was so delighted with it that I put it first in the number (not hearing of any objection to my proposed alteration by return of post), and the number is now made up and in the printer’s hands.  I cannot possibly take the tale out ­it has departed from me.

I am truly concerned for this, but I hope you will not blame me for what I have done in perfect good faith.  Any recollection of me from your pen cannot (as I think you know) be otherwise than truly gratifying to me; but with my name on every page of “Household Words,” there would be ­or at least I should feel ­an impropriety in so mentioning myself.  I was particular, in changing the author, to make it “Hood’s Poems” in the most important place ­I mean where the captain is killed ­and I hope and trust that the substitution will not be any serious drawback to the paper in any eyes but yours.  I would do anything rather than cause you a minute’s vexation arising out of what has given me so much pleasure, and I sincerely beseech you to think better of it, and not to fancy that any shade has been thrown on your charming writing, by

The unfortunate but innocent.

P.S. ­I write at a gallop, not to lose another post.

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, Sunday, December 21st, 1851.

MY DEAR MRS. GASKELL,

If you were not the most suspicious of women, always looking for soft sawder in the purest metal of praise, I should call your paper delightful, and touched in the tenderest and most delicate manner.  Being what you are, I confine myself to the observation that I have called it “A Love Affair at Cranford,” and sent it off to the printer.

Faithfully yours ever.

Mr. Peter Cunningham.

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, December 26th, 1851.

MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM,

About the three papers.

1st.  With Mr. Plowman of Oxford, Wills will communicate.

2nd. (Now returned.) I have seen, in nearly the same form, before.  The list of names is overwhelming.

3rd.  I am not at all earnest in the Savage matter; firstly, because I think so tremendous a vagabond never could have obtained an honest living in any station of existence or at any period of time; and secondly, because I think it of the highest importance that such an association as our Guild should not appear to resent upon society the faults of individuals who were flagrantly impracticable.

At its best, it is liable to that suspicion, as all such efforts have been on the part of many jealous persons, to whom it must look for aid.  And any stop that in the least encourages it is one of a fatal kind.

I do not think myself, but this is merely an individual opinion, that Savage was a man of genius, or that anything of his writing would have attracted much notice but for the bastard’s reference to his mother.  For these reasons combined, I should not be inclined to add my subscription of two guineas to yours, unless the inscription were altered as I have altered it in pencil.  But in that case I should be very glad to respond to your suggestion, and to snuff out all my smaller disinclination.

Faithfully yours ever.