NARRATIVE.

In this year, Charles Dickens was still writing “Bleak House,” and went to Brighton for a short time in the spring.  In May he had an attack of illness, a return of an old trouble of an inflammatory pain in the side, which was short but very severe while it lasted.  Immediately on his recovery, early in June, a departure from London for the summer was resolved upon.  He had decided upon trying Boulogne this year for his holiday sojourn, and as soon as he was strong enough to travel, he, his wife, and sister-in-law went there in advance of the family, taking up their quarters at the Hotel des Bains, to find a house, which was speedily done.  The pretty little Villa des Moulineaux, and its excellent landlord, at once took his fancy, and in that house, and in another on the same ground, also belonging to M. Beaucourt, he passed three very happy summers.  And he became as much attached to “Our French Watering Place” as to “Our English” one.  Having written a sketch of Broadstairs under that name in “Household Words,” he did the same of Boulogne under the former title.

During the summer, besides his other work, he was employed in dictating “The Child’s History of England,” which he published in “Household Words,” and which was the only book he ever wrote by dictation.  But, as at Broadstairs and other seaside homes, he had always plenty of relaxation and enjoyment in the visits of his friends.  In September he finished “Bleak House,” and in October he started with Mr. Wilkie Collins and Mr. Egg from Boulogne, on an excursion through parts of Switzerland and Italy; his wife and family going home at the same time, and he himself returning to Tavistock House early in December.  His eldest son, Charles, had left Eton some time before this, and had gone for the completion of his education to Leipsic.  He was to leave Germany at the end of the year, therefore it was arranged that he should meet the travellers in Paris on their homeward journey, and they all returned together.

Just before Christmas he went to Birmingham in fulfilment of an offer which he had made at the dinner given to him at Birmingham on the 6th of January (of which he writes to Mr. Macready in the first letter that follows here), to give two readings from his own books for the benefit of the New Midland Institute.  They were his first public readings.  He read “The Christmas Carol” on one evening, and “The Cricket on the Hearth” on the next, before enormous audiences.  The success was so great, and the sum of money realised for the institute so large, that he consented to give a second reading of “The Christmas Carol,” remaining another night in Birmingham for the purpose, on the condition that seats were reserved, at prices within their means, for the working men.  And to his great satisfaction they formed a large proportion, and were among the most enthusiastic and appreciative of his audience.  He was accompanied by his wife and sister-in-law, and on this occasion a breakfast was given to him after his last reading, at which a silver flower-basket, duly inscribed, was very gracefully presented to Mrs. Charles Dickens.

The letters in this year require little explanation.  Those to his wife and sister-in-law and Mr. Wills give a little history of his Italian journey.  At Naples he found his excellent friend Sir James Emerson Tennent, with his wife and daughter, with whom he joined company in the ascent of Vesuvius.

The two letters to M. Regnier, the distinguished actor of the Theatre Francais ­with whom Charles Dickens had formed a sincere friendship during his first residence in Paris ­on the subject of a projected benefit to Miss Kelly, need no further explanation.

Mr. John Delane, editor of The Times, and always a highly-esteemed friend of Charles Dickens, had given him an introduction to a school at Boulogne, kept by two English gentlemen, one a clergyman and the other a former Eton master, the Rev. W. Bewsher and Mr. Gibson.  He had at various times four boys at this school, and very frequently afterwards he expressed his gratitude to Mr. Delane for having given him the introduction, which turned out so satisfactory in every respect.

The letter of grateful acknowledgment from Mr. Poole and Charles Dickens to Lord Russell was for the pension for which the old dramatic author was indebted to that nobleman, and which enabled him to live comfortably until the end of his life.

A note to Mr. Marcus Stone was sent with a copy of “The Child’s History of England.”  The sketch referred to was one of “Jo’,” in “Bleak House,” which showed great feeling and artistic promise, since fully fulfilled by the young painter, but very remarkable in a boy so young as he was at that time.  The letter to Mr. Stanfield, in seafaring language, is a specimen of a playful way in which he frequently addressed that dear friend.

Mr. W. H. Wills.

       “A curiosity from him.  No date.  No signature.” ­W.  H. H.

MY DEAR WILLS,

I have not a shadow of a doubt about Miss Martineau’s story.  It is certain to tell.  I think it very effectively, admirably done; a fine plain purpose in it; quite a singular novelty.  For the last story in the Christmas number it will be great.  I couldn’t wish for a better.

Mrs. Gaskell’s ghost story I have got this morning; have not yet read.  It is long.

Mr. Clarkson Stanfield

H.M.S. Tavistock, January 2nd, 1853.

Yoho, old salt!  Neptun’ ahoy!  You don’t forget, messmet, as you was to meet Dick Sparkler and Mark Porpuss on the fok’sle of the good ship Owssel Words, Wednesday next, half-past four?  Not you; for when did Stanfell ever pass his word to go anywheers and not come!  Well.  Belay, my heart of oak, belay!  Come alongside the Tavistock same day and hour, ’stead of Owssel Words.  Hail your shipmets, and they’ll drop over the side and join you, like two new shillings a-droppin’ into the purser’s pocket.  Damn all lubberly boys and swabs, and give me the lad with the tarry trousers, which shines to me like di’mings bright!

Mr. W. C. Macready.

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, Friday Night, Jath, 1853.

MY DEAREST MACREADY,

I have been much affected by the receipt of your kindest and best of letters; for I know out of the midst of what anxieties it comes to me, and I appreciate such remembrance from my heart.  You and yours are always with us, however.  It is no new thing for you to have a part in any scene of my life.  It very rarely happens that a day passes without our thoughts and conversation travelling to Sherborne.  We are so much there that I cannot tell you how plainly I see you as I write.

I know you would have been full of sympathy and approval if you had been present at Birmingham, and that you would have concurred in the tone I tried to take about the eternal duties of the arts to the people.  I took the liberty of putting the court and that kind of thing out of the question, and recognising nothing but the arts and the people.  The more we see of life and its brevity, and the world and its varieties, the more we know that no exercise of our abilities in any art, but the addressing of it to the great ocean of humanity in which we are drops, and not to bye-ponds (very stagnant) here and there, ever can or ever will lay the foundations of an endurable retrospect.  Is it not so? You should have as much practical information on this subject, now, my dear friend, as any man.

My dearest Macready, I cannot forbear this closing word.  I still look forward to our meeting as we used to do in the happy times we have known together, so far as your old hopefulness and energy are concerned.  And I think I never in my life have been more glad to receive a sign, than I have been to hail that which I find in your handwriting.

Some of your old friends at Birmingham are full of interest and enquiry.  Kate and Georgina send their dearest loves to you, and to Miss Macready, and to all the children.  I am ever, and no matter where I am ­and quite as much in a crowd as alone ­my dearest Macready,

Your affectionate and most attached Friend.

Mrs. Gaskell.

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, May 3rd, 1853.

MY DEAR MRS. GASKELL,

The subject is certainly not too serious, so sensibly treated.  I have no doubt that you may do a great deal of good by pursuing it in “Household Words.”  I thoroughly agree in all you say in your note, have similar reasons for giving it some anxious consideration, and shall be greatly interested in it.  Pray decide to do it.  Send the papers, as you write them, to me.  Meanwhile I will think of a name for them, and bring it to bear upon yours, if I think yours improvable.  I am sure you may rely on being widely understood and sympathised with.

Forget that I called those two women my dear friends!  Why, if I told you a fiftieth part of what I have thought about them, you would write me the most suspicious of notes, refusing to receive the fiftieth part of that.  So I don’t write, particularly as you laid your injunctions on me concerning Ruth.  In revenge, I will now mention one word that I wish you would take out whenever you reprint that book.  She would never ­I am ready to make affidavit before any authority in the land ­have called her seducer “Sir,” when they were living at that hotel in Wales.  A girl pretending to be what she really was would have done it, but she ­never!

Ever most faithfully yours.

Monsieur Regnier.

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, Monday, May 9th, 1853.

MY DEAR REGNIER,

I meant to have spoken to you last night about a matter in which I hope you can assist me, but I forgot it.  I think I must have been quite bouleverse by your supposing (as you pretended to do, when you went away) that it was not a great pleasure and delight to me to see you act!

There is a certain Miss Kelly, now sixty-two years old, who was once one of the very best of English actresses, in the greater and better days of the English theatre.  She has much need of a benefit, and I am exerting myself to arrange one for her, on about the 9th of June, if possible, at the St. James’s Theatre.  The first piece will be an entertainment of her own, and she will act in the last.  Between these two (and at the best time of the night), it would be a great attraction to the public, and a great proof of friendship to me, if you would act.  If we could manage, through your influence and with your assistance, to present a little French vaudeville, such as “Le bon Homme jadis,” it would make the night a grand success.

Mitchell’s permission, I suppose, would be required.  That I will undertake to apply for, if you will tell me that you are willing to help us, and that you could answer for the other necessary actors in the little French piece, whatever the piece might be, that you would choose for the purpose.  Pray write me a short note in answer, on this point.

I ought to tell you that the benefit will be “under distinguished patronage.”  The Duke of Devonshire, the Duke of Leinster, the Duke of Beaufort, etc. etc., are members of the committee with me, and I have no doubt that the audience will be of the elite.

I have asked Mr. Chapman to come to me to-morrow, to arrange for the hiring of the theatre.  Mr. Harley (a favourite English comedian whom you may know) is our secretary.  And if I could assure the committee to-morrow afternoon of your co-operation, I am sure they would be overjoyed.

Vôtretout dévoue.

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, May 20th, 1853.

MY DEAR REGNIER,

I am heartily obliged to you for your kind letter respecting Miss
Kelly’s benefit.  It is to take place on Thursday, the 16th June;
Thursday the 9th (the day originally proposed) being the day of Ascot
Races, and therefore a bad one for the purpose.

Mitchell, like a brave garcon as he is, most willingly consents to your acting for us.  Will you think what little French piece it will be best to do, in order that I may have it ready for the bills?

Ever faithfully yours, my dear Regnier.

Mr. W. H. Wills.

BOULOGNE, Monday, June 13th, 1853.

MY DEAR WILLS,

You will be glad, I know, to hear that we had a delightful passage yesterday, and that I made a perfect phenomenon of a dinner.  It is raining hard to-day, and my back feels the draught; but I am otherwise still mending.

I have signed, sealed, and delivered a contract for a house (once occupied for two years by a man I knew in Switzerland), which is not a large one, but stands in the middle of a great garden, with what the landlord calls a “forest” at the back, and is now surrounded by flowers, vegetables, and all manner of growth.  A queer, odd, French place, but extremely well supplied with all table and other conveniences, and strongly recommended.

The address is: 

        Chateau des Moulineaux,
        Rue Beaurepaire, Boulogne.

There is a coach-house, stabling for half-a-dozen horses, and I don’t know what.

We take possession this afternoon, and I am now laying in a good stock of creature comforts.  So no more at present from

Yours ever faithfully.

P.S. ­Mrs. Dickens and her sister unite in kindest regards.

CHATEAU DES MOULINEAUX, BOULOGNE,
Saturday Night, June 18th, 1853.

MY DEAR WILLS,

“BLEAK HOUSE.”

Thank God, I have done half the number with great care, and hope to finish on Thursday or Friday next.  O how thankful I feel to be able to have done it, and what a relief to get the number out!

GENERAL MOVEMENTS OF INIMITABLE.

I don’t think (I am not sure) I shall come to London until after the completion of “Bleak House,” N ­the number after this now in hand ­for it strikes me that I am better here at present.  I have picked up in the most extraordinary manner, and I believe you would never suppose to look at me that I had had that week or barely an hour of it.  If there should be any occasion for our meeting in the meantime, a run over here would do you no harm, and we should be delighted to see you at any time.  If you suppose this place to be in a street, you are much mistaken.  It is in the country, though not more than ten minutes’ walk from the post-office, and is the best doll’s-house of many rooms, in the prettiest French grounds, in the most charming situation I have ever seen; the best place I have ever lived in abroad, except at Genoa.  You can scarcely imagine the beauty of the air in this richly-wooded hill-side.  As to comforts in the house, there are all sorts of things, beginning with no end of the coldest water and running through the most beautiful flowers down to English foot-baths and a Parisian liqueur-stand.  Your parcel (frantic enclosures and all) arrived quite safely last night.  This will leave by steamer to-morrow, Sunday evening.  There is a boat in the morning, but having no one to send to-night I can’t reach it, and to-morrow being Sunday it will come to much the same thing.

I think that’s all at present.

Ever, my dear Wills, faithfully yours.

Mr. Frank Stone‚ A.R.A.

CHATEAU DES MOULINEAUX, RUE BEAUREPAIRE, BOULOGNE,
Thursday, June 23rd, 1853.

MY DEAR PUMPION,

I take the earliest opportunity, after finishing my number ­ahem! ­to write you a line, and to report myself (thank God) brown, well, robust, vigorous, open to fight any man in England of my weight, and growing a moustache.  Any person of undoubted pluck, in want of a customer, may hear of me at the bar of Bleak House, where my money is down.

I think there is an abundance of places here that would suit you well enough; and Georgina is ready to launch on voyages of discovery and observation with you.  But it is necessary that you should consider for how long a time you want it, as the folks here let much more advantageously for the tenant when they know the term ­don’t like to let without.  It seems to me that the best thing you can do is to get a paper of the South Eastern tidal trains, fix your day for coming over here in five hours (when you will pay through to Boulogne at London Bridge), let me know the day, and come and see how you like the place. I like it better than ever.  We can give you a bed (two to spare, at a pinch three), and show you a garden and a view or so.  The town is not so cheap as places farther off, but you get a great deal for your money, and by far the best wine at tenpence a bottle that I have ever drank anywhere.  I really desire no better.

I may mention for your guidance (for I count upon your coming to overhaul the general aspect of things), that you have nothing on earth to do with your luggage when it is once in the boat, until after you have walked ashore.  That you will be filtered with the rest of the passengers through a hideous, whitewashed, quarantine-looking custom-house, where a stern man of a military aspect will demand your passport.  That you will have nothing of the sort, but will produce your card with this addition:  “Restant a Boulogne, chez M. Charles Dickens, Chateau des Moulineaux.”  That you will then be passed out at a little door, like one of the ill-starred prisoners on the bloody September night, into a yelling and shrieking crowd, cleaving the air with the names of the different hotels, exactly seven thousand six hundred and fifty-four in number.  And that your heart will be on the point of sinking with dread, then you will find yourself in the arms of the Sparkler of Albion.  All unite in kindest regards.

Ever affectionately.

P.S. ­I thought you might like to see the flourish again.

Mr. W. H. Wills.

BOULOGNE, Wednesday, July 27th, 1853.

MY DEAR WILLS,

I have thought of another article to be called “Frauds upon the Fairies,” a propos of George Cruikshank’s editing.  Half playfully and half seriously, I mean to protest most strongly against alteration, for any purpose, of the beautiful little stories which are so tenderly and humanly useful to us in these times, when the world is too much with us, early and late; and then to re-write “Cinderella” according to Total Abstinence, Peace Society, and Bloomer principles, and expressly for their propagation.

I shall want his book of “Hop o’ my Thumb” (Forster noticed it in the last Examiner), and the most simple and popular version of “Cinderella” you can get me.  I shall not be able to do it until after finishing “Bleak House,” but I shall do it the more easily for having the books by me.  So send them, if convenient, in your next parcel.

Ever faithfully.

Mr. W. C. Macready.

CHATEAU DES MOULINEAUX, BOULOGNE,
Sunday, Auth, 1853.

MY DEAREST MACREADY,

Some unaccountable delay in the transmission here of the parcel which contained your letter, caused me to come into the receipt of it a whole week after its date.  I immediately wrote to Miss Coutts, who has written to you, and I hope some good may come of it.  I know it will not be her fault if none does.  I was very much concerned to read your account of poor Mrs. Warner, and to read her own plain and unaffected account of herself.  Pray assure her of my cordial sympathy and remembrance, and of my earnest desire to do anything in my power to help to put her mind at ease.

We are living in a beautiful little country place here, where I have been hard at work ever since I came, and am now (after an interval of a week’s rest) going to work again to finish “Bleak House.”  Kate and Georgina send their kindest loves to you, and Miss Macready, and all the rest.  They look forward, I assure you, to their Sherborne visit, when I ­a mere forlorn wanderer ­shall be roaming over the Alps into Italy.  I saw “The Midsummer Night’s Dream” of the Opera Comique, done here (very well) last night.  The way in which a poet named Willyim Shay Kes Peer gets drunk in company with Sir John Foll Stayffe, fights with a noble ’night, Lor Latimeer (who is in love with a maid-of-honour you may have read of in history, called Mees Oleevia), and promises not to do so any more on observing symptoms of love for him in the Queen of England, is very remarkable.  Queen Elizabeth, too, in the profound and impenetrable disguise of a black velvet mask, two inches deep by three broad, following him into taverns and worse places, and enquiring of persons of doubtful reputation for “the sublime Williams,” was inexpressibly ridiculous.  And yet the nonsense was done with a sense quite admirable.

I have been very much struck by the book you sent me.  It is one of the wisest, the manliest, and most serviceable I ever read.  I am reading it again with the greatest pleasure and admiration.

Ever most affectionately yours,
My dear Macready.

The Hon. Mrs. Watson.

VILLA DES MOULINEAUX, BOULOGNE,
Saturday, Auth, 1853.

MY DEAR MRS. WATSON,

I received your letter ­most welcome and full of interest to me ­when I was hard at work finishing “Bleak House.”  We are always talking of you; and I had said but the day before, that one of the first things I would do on my release would be to write to you.  To finish the topic of “Bleak House” at once, I will only add that I like the conclusion very much and think it very pretty indeed.  The story has taken extraordinarily, especially during the last five or six months, when its purpose has been gradually working itself out.  It has retained its immense circulation from the first, beating dear old “Copperfield” by a round ten thousand or more.  I have never had so many readers.  We had a little reading of the final double number here the night before last, and it made a great impression I assure you.

We are all extremely well, and like Boulogne very much indeed.  I laid down the rule before we came, that we would know nobody here, and we do know nobody here.  We evaded callers as politely as we could, and gradually came to be understood and left to ourselves.  It is a fine bracing air, a beautiful open country, and an admirable mixture of town and country.  We live on a green hill-side out of the town, but are in the town (on foot) in ten minutes.  Things are tolerably cheap, and exceedingly good; the people very cheerful, good-looking, and obliging; the houses very clean; the distance to London short, and easily traversed.  I think if you came to know the place (which I never did myself until last October, often as I have been through it), you could be but in one mind about it.

Charley is still at Leipzig.  I shall take him up somewhere on the Rhine, to bring him home for Christmas, as I come back on my own little tour.  He has been in the Hartz Mountains on a walking tour, and has written a journal thereof, which he has sent home in portions.  It has cost about as much in postage as would have bought a pair of ponies.

I contemplate starting from here on Monday, the 10th of October; Catherine, Georgina, and the rest of them will then go home.  I shall go first by Paris and Geneva to Lausanne, for it has a separate place in my memory.  If the autumn should be very fine (just possible after such a summer), I shall then go by Chamonix and Martigny, over the Simplon to Milan, thence to Genoa, Leghorn, Pisa, and Naples, thence, I hope, to Sicily.  Back by Bologna, Florence, Rome, Verona, Mantua, etc., to Venice, and home by Germany, arriving in good time for Christmas Day.  Three nights in Christmas week, I have promised to read in the Town Hall at Birmingham, for the benefit of a new and admirable institution for working men projected there.  The Friday will be the last night, and I shall read the “Carol” to two thousand working people, stipulating that they shall have that night entirely to themselves.

It just occurs to me that I mean to engage, for the two months odd, a travelling servant.  I have not yet got one.  If you should happen to be interested in any good foreigner, well acquainted with the countries and the languages, who would like such a master, how delighted I should be to like him!

Ever since I have been here, I have been very hard at work, often getting up at daybreak to write through many hours.  I have never had the least return of illness, thank God, though I was so altered (in a week) when I came here, that I doubt if you would have known me.  I am redder and browner than ever at the present writing, with the addition of a rather formidable and fierce moustache.  Lowestoft I know, by walking over there from Yarmouth, when I went down on an exploring expedition, previous to “Copperfield.”  It is a fine place.  I saw the name “Blunderstone” on a direction-post between it and Yarmouth, and took it from the said direction-post for the book.  We imagined the Captain’s ecstasies when we saw the birth of his child in the papers.  In some of the descriptions of Chesney Wold, I have taken many bits, chiefly about trees and shadows, from observations made at Rockingham.  I wonder whether you have ever thought so!  I shall hope to hear from you again soon, and shall not fail to write again before I go away.  There seems to be nothing but “I” in this letter; but “I” know, my dear friend, that you will be more interested in that letter in the present connection, than in any other I could take from the alphabet.

Catherine and Georgina send their kindest loves, and more messages than this little sheet would hold.  If I were to give you a hint of what we feel at the sight of your handwriting, and at the receipt of a word from yourself about yourself, and the dear boys, and the precious little girls, I should begin to be sorrowful, which is rather the tendency of my mind at the close of another long book.  I heard from Cerjat two or three days since.  Goff, by-the-bye, lived in this house two years.

                Ever, my dear Mrs. Watson,
                                Yours, with true affection and regard.

Mr. Peter Cunningham.

CHATEAU DES MOULINEAUX, RUE BEAUREPAIRE, BOULOGNE.

MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM,

A note ­Cerberus-like ­of three heads.

First.  I know you will be glad to hear that the manager is himself again.  Vigorous, brown, energetic, muscular; the pride of Albion and the admiration of Gaul.

Secondly.  I told Wills when I left home, that I was quite pained to see the end of your excellent “Bowl of Punch” altered.  I was unaffectedly touched and gratified by the heartiness of the original; and saw no earthly, celestial, or subterranean objection to its remaining, as it did not so unmistakably apply to me as to necessitate the observance of my usual precaution in the case of such references, by any means.

Thirdly.  If you ever have a holiday that you don’t know what to do with, do come and pass a little time here.  We live in a charming garden in a very pleasant country, and should be delighted to receive you.  Excellent light wines on the premises, French cookery, millions of roses, two cows (for milk punch), vegetables cut for the pot, and handed in at the kitchen window; five summer-houses, fifteen fountains (with no water in ’em), and thirty-seven clocks (keeping, as I conceive, Australian time; having no reference whatever to the hours on this side of the globe).

I know, my dear Cunningham, that the British nation can ill afford to lose you; and that when the Audit Office mice are away, the cats of that great public establishment will play.  But pray consider that the bow may be sometimes bent too long, and that ever-arduous application, even in patriotic service, is to be avoided.  No one can more highly estimate your devotion to the best interests of Britain than I. But I wish to see it tempered with a wise consideration for your own amusement, recreation, and pastime.  All work and no play may make Peter a dull boy as well as Jack.  And (if I may claim the privilege of friendship to remonstrate) I would say that you do not take enough time for your meals.  Dinner, for instance, you habitually neglect.  Believe me, this rustic repose will do you good.  Winkles also are to be obtained in these parts, and it is well remarked by Poor Richard, that a bird in the handbook is worth two in the bush.

Ever cordially yours.

Mr. Walter Savage Landor.

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, LONDON, Septh, 1853.

MY DEAR LANDOR,

I am in town for a day or two, and Forster tells me I may now write to thank you for the happiness you have given me by honouring my name with such generous mention, on such a noble place, in your great book.  I believe he has told you already that I wrote to him from Boulogne, not knowing what to do, as I had not received the precious volume, and feared you might have some plan of sending it to me, with which my premature writing would interfere.

You know how heartily and inexpressibly I prize what you have written to me, or you never would have selected me for such a distinction.  I could never thank you enough, my dear Landor, and I will not thank you in words any more.  Believe me, I receive the dedication like a great dignity, the worth of which I hope I thoroughly know.  The Queen could give me none in exchange that I wouldn’t laughingly snap my fingers at.

We are staying at Boulogne until the 10th of October, when I go into Italy until Christmas, and the rest come home.

Kate and Georgina would send you their best loves if they were here, and would never leave off talking about it if I went back and told them I had written to you without such mention of them.  Walter is a very good boy, and comes home from school with honourable commendation.  He passed last Sunday in solitary confinement (in a bath-room) on bread and water, for terminating a dispute with the nurse by throwing a chair in her direction.  It is the very first occasion of his ever having got into trouble, for he is a great favourite with the whole house, and one of the most amiable boys in the boy world. (He comes out on birthdays in a blaze of shirt-pin).

If I go and look at your old house, as I shall if I go to Florence, I shall bring you back another leaf from the same tree as I plucked the last from.

Ever, my dear Landor,
Heartily and affectionately yours.

Mr. John Delane.

VILLA DES MOULINEAUX, BOULOGNE,
Monday, Septh, 1853.

MY DEAR DELANE,

I am very much obliged to you, I assure you, for your frank and full reply to my note.  Nothing could be more satisfactory, and I have to-day seen Mr. Gibson and placed my two small representatives under his charge.  His manner is exactly what you describe him.  I was greatly pleased with his genuineness altogether.

We remain here until the tenth of next month, when I am going to desert my wife and family and run about Italy until Christmas.  If I can execute any little commission for you or Mrs. Delane ­in the Genoa street of silversmiths, or anywhere else ­I shall be delighted to do so.  I have been in the receipt of several letters from Macready lately, and rejoice to find him quite himself again, though I have great misgivings that he will lose his eldest boy before he can be got to India.

Mrs. Dickens and her sister are proud of your message, and beg their kind regards to be forwarded in return; my other half being particularly comforted and encouraged by your account of Mr. Gibson.  In this charge I am to include Mrs. Delane, who, I hope, will make an exchange of remembrances, and give me hers for mine.

I never saw anything so ridiculous as this place at present.  They expected the Emperor ten or twelve days ago, and put up all manner of triumphal arches made of evergreens, which look like tea-leaves now, and will take a withered and weird appearance hardly to be foreseen, long before the twenty-fifth, when the visit is vaguely expected to come off.  In addition to these faded garlands all over the leading streets, there are painted eagles hoisted over gateways and sprawling across a hundred ways, which have been washed out by the rain and are now being blistered by the sun, until they look horribly ludicrous.  And a number of our benighted compatriots who came over to see a perfect blaze of fêtes, go wandering among these shrivelled preparations and staring at ten thousand flag-poles without any flags upon them, with a kind of indignant curiosity and personal injury quite irresistible.  With many thanks,

Very faithfully yours.

Mr. W. H. Wills.

BOULOGNE, Sunday, Septh, 1853.

MY DEAR WILLS,

COURIER.

Edward Kaub will bring this.  He turned up yesterday, accounting for his delay by waiting for a written recommendation, and having at the last moment (as a foreigner, not being an Englishman) a passport to get.  I quite agree with you as to his appearance and manner, and have engaged him.  It strikes me that it would be an excellent beginning if you would deliver him a neat and appropriate address, telling him what in your conscience you can find to tell of me favourably as a master, and particularly impressing upon him readiness and punctuality on his part as the great things to be observed.  I think it would have a much better effect than anything I could say in this stage, if said from yourself.  But I shall be much obliged to you if you will act upon this hint forthwith.

W. H. WILLS.

No letter having arrived from the popular author of “The Larboard Fin," by this morning’s post, I rather think one must be on the way in the pocket of Gordon’s son.  If Kaub calls for this before young Scotland arrives, you will understand if I do not herein refer to an unreceived letter.  But I shall leave this open, until Kaub comes for it.

Ever faithfully.

The Lord John Russell.

VILLA DES MOULINEAUX, BOULOGNE,
Wednesday, Sepst, 1853.

MY DEAR LORD,

Your note having been forwarded to me here, I cannot forbear thanking you with all my heart for your great kindness.  Mr. Forster had previously sent me a copy of your letter to him, together with the expression of the high and lasting gratification he had in your handsome response.  I know he feels it most sincerely.

I became the prey of a perfect spasm of sensitive twinges, when I found that the close of “Bleak House” had not penetrated to “the wilds of the North” when your letter left those parts.  I was so very much interested in it myself when I wrote it here last month, that I have a fond sort of faith in its interesting its readers.  But for the hope that you may have got it by this time, I should refuse comfort.  That supports me.

The book has been a wonderful success.  Its audience enormous.

I fear there is not much chance of my being able to execute any little commission for Lady John anywhere in Italy.  But I am going across the Alps, leaving here on the tenth of next month, and returning home to London for Christmas Day, and should indeed be happy if I could do her any dwarf service.

You will be interested, I think, to hear that Poole lives happily on his pension, and lives within it.  He is quite incapable of any mental exertion, and what he would have done without it I cannot imagine.  I send it to him at Paris every quarter.  It is something, even amid the estimation in which you are held, which is but a foreshadowing of what shall be by-and-by as the people advance, to be so gratefully remembered as he, with the best reason, remembers you.  Forgive my saying this.  But the manner of that transaction, no less than the matter, is always fresh in my memory in association with your name, and I cannot help it.

My dear Lord,
Yours very faithfully and obliged.

The Hon. Mrs. Watson.

BOULOGNE, Wednesday, Sepst, 1853.

MY DEAR MRS. WATSON,

The courier was unfortunately engaged.  He offered to recommend another, but I had several applicants, and begged Mr. Wills to hold a grand review at the “Household Words” office, and select the man who is to bring me down as his victim.  I am extremely sorry the man you recommend was not to be had.  I should have been so delighted to take him.

I am finishing “The Child’s History,” and clearing the way through “Household Words,” in general, before I go on my trip.  I forget whether I told you that Mr. Egg the painter and Mr. Collins are going with me.  The other day I was in town.  In case you should not have heard of the condition of that deserted village, I think it worth mentioning.  All the streets of any note were unpaved, mountains high, and all the omnibuses were sliding down alleys, and looking into the upper windows of small houses.  At eleven o’clock one morning I was positively alone in Bond Street.  I went to one of my tailors, and he was at Brighton.  A smutty-faced woman among some gorgeous regimentals, half finished, had not the least idea when he would be back.  I went to another of my tailors, and he was in an upper room, with open windows and surrounded by mignonette boxes, playing the piano in the bosom of his family.  I went to my hosier’s, and two of the least presentable of “the young men” of that elegant establishment were playing at draughts in the back shop.  (Likewise I beheld a porter-pot hastily concealed under a Turkish dressing-gown of a golden pattern.) I then went wandering about to look for some ingenious portmanteau, and near the corner of St. James’s Street saw a solitary being sitting in a trunk-shop, absorbed in a book which, on a close inspection, I found to be “Bleak House.”  I thought this looked well, and went in.  And he really was more interested in seeing me, when he knew who I was, than any face I had seen in any house, every house I knew being occupied by painters, including my own.  I went to the Athenaeum that same night, to get my dinner, and it was shut up for repairs.  I went home late, and had forgotten the key and was locked out.

Preparations were made here, about six weeks ago, to receive the Emperor, who is not come yet.  Meanwhile our countrymen (deluded in the first excitement) go about staring at these arrangements, with a personal injury upon them which is most ridiculous.  And they will persist in speaking an unknown tongue to the French people, who will speak English to them.

Kate and Georgina send their kindest loves.  We are all quite well.  Going to drop two small boys here, at school with a former Eton tutor highly recommended to me.  Charley was heard of a day or two ago.  He says his professor “is very short-sighted, always in green spectacles, always drinking weak beer, always smoking a pipe, and always at work.”  The last qualification seems to appear to Charley the most astonishing one.

Ever, my dear Mrs. Watson,
Most affectionately yours.

Miss Hogarth.

HOTEL DE LA VILLA, MILAN, Tuesday, Octh, 1853.

MY DEAR GEORGY,

I have walked to that extent in Switzerland (walked over the Simplon on Sunday, as an addition to the other feats) that one pair of the new strong shoes has gone to be mended this morning, and the other is in but a poor way; the snow having played the mischief with them.

On the Swiss side of the Simplon, we slept at the beastliest little town, in the wildest kind of house, where some fifty cats tumbled into the corridor outside our bedrooms all at once in the middle of the night ­whether through the roof or not, I don’t know; for it was dark when we got up ­and made such a horrible and terrific noise that we started out of our beds in a panic.  I strongly objected to opening the door lest they should get into the room and tear at us; but Edward opened his, and laid about him until he dispersed them.  At Domo D’Ossola we had three immense bedrooms (Egg’s bed twelve feet wide!), and a sala of imperceptible extent in the dim light of two candles and a wood fire; but were very well and very cheaply entertained.  Here, we are, as you know, housed in the greatest comfort.

We continue to get on very well together.  We really do admirably.  I lose no opportunity of inculcating the lesson that it is of no use to be out of temper in travelling, and it is very seldom wanted for any of us.  Egg is an excellent fellow, and full of good qualities; I am sure a generous and staunch man at heart, and a good and honourable nature.

I shall send Catherine from Genoa a list of the places where letters will find me.  I shall hope to hear from you too, and shall be very glad indeed to do so.  No more at present.

Ever most affectionately.

Miss Hogarth.

CROCE DI MALTA, GENOA, Saturday, Octh, 1853.

MY DEAREST GEORGY,

We had thirty-one hours consecutively on the road between this and Milan, and arrived here in a rather damaged condition.  We live at the top of this immense house, overlooking the port and sea, pleasantly and airily enough, though it is no joke to get so high, and though the apartment is rather vast and faded.

The old walks are pretty much the same as ever, except that they have built behind the Peschiere on the San Bartolomeo hill, and changed the whole town towards San Pietro d’Arena, where we seldom went.  The Bisagno looks just the same, strong just now, and with very little water in it.  Vicoli stink exactly as they used to, and are fragrant with the same old flavour of very rotten cheese kept in very hot blankets.  The Mezzaro pervades them as before.  The old Jesuit college in the Strada Nuova is under the present government the Hotel de Ville, and a very splendid caffè with a terrace garden has arisen between it and Palavicini’s old palace.  Another new and handsome caffè has been built in the Piazza Carlo Felice, between the old caffè of the Bei Arti (where Fletcher stopped for the bouquets in the green times, when we went to the ­’s party), and the Strada Carlo Felice.  The old beastly gate and guardhouse on the Albaro road are still in their dear old beastly state, and the whole of that road is just as it was.  The man without legs is still in the Strada Nuova; but the beggars in general are all cleared off, and our old one-armed Belisario made a sudden evaporation a year or two ago.  I am going to the Peschiere to-day.  The puppets are here, and the opera is open, but only with a buffo company, and without a buffet.  We went to the Scala, where they did an opera of Verdi’s, called “Il Trovatore,” and a poor enough ballet.  The whole performance miserable indeed.  I wish you were here to take some of the old walks.  It is quite strange to walk about alone.  Good-bye, my dear Georgy.  Pray tell me how Kate is.  I rather fancy from her letter, though I scarcely know why, that she is not quite as well as she was at Boulogne.  I was charmed with your account of the Plornishghenter and everything and everybody else.  Kiss them all for me.

Ever most affectionately yours.

HOTEL DES ETRANGERS, NAPLES,
Friday Night, Noth, 1853.

MY DEAREST GEORGY,

Instead of embarking on Monday at Genoa, we were delayed (in consequence of the boat’s being a day later when there are thirty-one days in the month) until Tuesday.  Going aboard that morning at half-past nine, we found the steamer more than full of passengers from Marseilles, and in a state of confusion not to be described.  We could get no places at the table, got our dinners how we could on deck, had no berths or sleeping accommodation of any kind, and had paid heavy first-class fares!  To add to this, we got to Leghorn too late to steam away again that night, getting the ship’s papers examined first ­as the authorities said so, not being favourable to the new express English ship, English officered ­and we lay off the lighthouse all night long.  The scene on board beggars description.  Ladies on the tables, gentlemen under the tables, and ladies and gentlemen lying indiscriminately on the open deck, arrayed like spoons on a sideboard.  No mattresses, no blankets, nothing.  Towards midnight, attempts were made by means of an awning and flags to make this latter scene remotely approach an Australian encampment; and we three lay together on the bare planks covered with overcoats.  We were all gradually dozing off when a perfectly tropical rain fell, and in a moment drowned the whole ship.  The rest of the night was passed upon the stairs, with an immense jumble of men and women.  When anybody came up for any purpose we all fell down; and when anybody came down we all fell up again.  Still, the good-humour in the English part of the passengers was quite extraordinary.  There were excellent officers aboard, and the first mate lent me his cabin to wash in in the morning, which I afterwards lent to Egg and Collins.  Then we and the Emerson Tennents (who were aboard) and the captain, the doctor, and the second officer went off on a jaunt together to Pisa, as the ship was to lie at Leghorn all day.

The captain was a capital fellow, but I led him, facetiously, such a life all day, that I got almost everything altered at night.  Emerson Tennent, with the greatest kindness, turned his son out of his state room (who, indeed, volunteered to go in the most amiable manner), and I got a good bed there.  The store-room down by the hold was opened for Egg and Collins, and they slept with the moist sugar, the cheese in cut, the spices, the cruets, the apples and pears ­in a perfect chandler’s shop; in company with what the ­’s would call a “hold gent” ­who had been so horribly wet through overnight that his condition frightened the authorities ­a cat, and the steward ­who dozed in an arm-chair, and all night long fell headforemost, once in every five minutes, on Egg, who slept on the counter or dresser.  Last night I had the steward’s own cabin, opening on deck, all to myself.  It had been previously occupied by some desolate lady, who went ashore at Civita Vecchia.  There was little or no sea, thank Heaven, all the trip; but the rain was heavier than any I have ever seen, and the lightning very constant and vivid.  We were, with the crew, some two hundred people; with boats, at the utmost stretch, for one hundred, perhaps.  I could not help thinking what would happen if we met with any accident; the crew being chiefly Maltese, and evidently fellows who would cut off alone in the largest boat on the least alarm.  The speed (it being the crack express ship for the India mail) very high; also the running through all the narrow rocky channels.  Thank God, however, here we are.  Though the more sensible and experienced part of the passengers agreed with me this morning that it was not a thing to try often.  We had an excellent table after the first day, the best wines and so forth, and the captain and I swore eternal friendship.  Ditto the first officer and the majority of the passengers.  We got into the bay about seven this morning, but could not land until noon.  We towed from Civita Vecchia the entire Greek navy, I believe, consisting of a little brig-of-war, with great guns, fitted as a steamer, but disabled by having burst the bottom of her boiler in her first run.  She was just big enough to carry the captain and a crew of six or so, but the captain was so covered with buttons and gold that there never would have been room for him on board to put these valuables away if he hadn’t worn them, which he consequently did, all night.

Whenever anything was wanted to be done, as slackening the tow-rope or anything of that sort, our officers roared at this miserable potentate, in violent English, through a speaking-trumpet, of which he couldn’t have understood a word under the most favourable circumstances, so he did all the wrong things first, and the right things always last.  The absence of any knowledge of anything not English on the part of the officers and stewards was most ridiculous.  I met an Italian gentleman on the cabin steps, yesterday morning, vainly endeavouring to explain that he wanted a cup of tea for his sick wife.  And when we were coming out of the harbour at Genoa, and it was necessary to order away that boat of music you remember, the chief officer (called aft for the purpose, as “knowing something of Italian,”) delivered himself in this explicit and clear manner to the principal performer:  “Now, signora, if you don’t sheer off, you’ll be run down; so you had better trice up that guitar of yours, and put about.”

We get on as well as possible, and it is extremely pleasant and interesting, and I feel that the change is doing me great and real service, after a long continuous strain upon the mind; but I am pleased to think that we are at our farthest point, and I look forward with joy to coming home again, to my old room, and the old walks, and all the old pleasant things.

I wish I had arranged, or could have done so ­for it would not have been easy ­to find some letters here.  It is a blank to stay for five days in a place without any.

I don’t think Edward knows fifty Italian words; but much more French is spoken in Italy now than when we were here, and he stumbles along somehow.

I am afraid this is a dull letter, for I am very tired.  You must take the will for the deed, my dear, and good night.

Ever most affectionately.

ROME, Sunday Night, Noth, 1853.

MY DEAREST GEORGY,

We arrived here yesterday afternoon, at between three and four.  On sending to the post-office this morning, I received your pleasant little letter, and one from Miss Coutts, who is still at Paris.  But to my amazement there was none from Catherine!  You mention her writing, and I cannot but suppose that your two letters must have been posted together.  However, I received none from her, and I have all manner of doubts respecting the plainness of its direction.  They will not produce the letters here as at Genoa, but persist in looking them out at the post-office for you.  I shall send again to-morrow, and every day until Friday, when we leave here.  If I find no letter from her to-morrow, I shall write to her nevertheless by that post which brings this, so that you may both hear from me together.

One night, at Naples, Edward came in, open-mouthed, to the table d’hote where we were dining with the Tennents, to announce “The Marchese Garofalo.”  I at first thought it must be the little parrot-marquess who was once your escort from Genoa; but I found him to be a man (married to an Englishwoman) whom we used to meet at Ridgway’s.  He was very glad to see me, and I afterwards met him at dinner at Mr. Lowther’s, our charge d’affaires.  Mr. Lowther was at the Rockingham play, and is a very agreeable fellow.  We had an exceedingly pleasant dinner of eight, preparatory to which I was near having the ridiculous adventure of not being able to find the house and coming back dinnerless.  I went in an open carriage from the hotel in all state, and the coachman, to my surprise, pulled up at the end of the Chiaja.  “Behold the house,” says he, “of Il Signor Larthoor!” ­at the same time pointing with his whip into the seventh heaven, where the early stars were shining.  “But the Signor Larthoor,” returns the Inimitable darling, “lives at Pausilippo.”  “It is true,” says the coachman (still pointing to the evening star), “but he lives high up the Salita Sant’ Antonio, where no carriage ever yet ascended, and that is the house” (evening star as aforesaid), “and one must go on foot.  Behold the Salita Sant’ Antonio!” I went up it, a mile and a half I should think.  I got into the strangest places, among the wildest Neapolitans ­kitchens, washing-places, archways, stables, vineyards ­was baited by dogs, answered in profoundly unintelligible Neapolitan, from behind lonely locked doors, in cracked female voices, quaking with fear; could hear of no such Englishman or any Englishman.  By-and-by I came upon a Polenta-shop in the clouds, where an old Frenchman, with an umbrella like a faded tropical leaf (it had not rained for six weeks) was staring at nothing at all, with a snuff-box in his hand.  To him I appealed concerning the Signor Larthoor.  “Sir,” said he, with the sweetest politeness, “can you speak French?” “Sir,” said I, “a little.”  “Sir,” said he, “I presume the Signor Loothere” ­you will observe that he changed the name according to the custom of his country ­“is an Englishman.”  I admitted that he was the victim of circumstances and had that misfortune.  “Sir,” said he, “one word more. Has he a servant with a wooden leg?” “Great Heaven, sir,” said I, “how do I know!  I should think not, but it is possible.”  “It is always,” said the Frenchman, “possible.  Almost all the things of the world are always possible.”  “Sir,” said I ­you may imagine my condition and dismal sense of my own absurdity, by this time ­“that is true.”  He then took an immense pinch of snuff, wiped the dust off his umbrella, led me to an arch commanding a wonderful view of the bay of Naples, and pointed deep into the earth from which I had mounted.  “Below there, near the lamp, one finds an Englishman, with a servant with a wooden leg.  It is always possible that he is the Signor Loothere.”  I had been asked at six, and it was now getting on for seven.  I went down again in a state of perspiration and misery not to be described, and without the faintest hope of finding the place.  But as I was going down to the lamp, I saw the strangest staircase up a dark corner, with a man in a white-waistcoat (evidently hired) standing on the top of it, fuming.  I dashed in at a venture, found it was the place, made the most of the whole story, and was indescribably popular.  The best of it was, that as nobody ever did find the place, he had put a servant at the bottom of the Salita, to “wait for an English gentleman.”  The servant (as he presently pleaded), deceived by the moustache, had allowed the English gentleman to pass unchallenged.

The night before we left Naples we were at the San Carlo, where, with the Verdi rage of our old Genoa time, they were again doing the “Trovatore.”  It seemed rubbish on the whole to me, but was very fairly done.  I think “La Tenco,” the prima donna, will soon be a great hit in London.  She is a very remarkable singer and a fine actress, to the best of my judgment on such premises.  There seems to be no opera here, at present.  There was a Festa in St. Peter’s to-day, and the Pope passed to the Cathedral in state.  We were all there.

We leave here, please God, on Friday morning, and post to Florence in three days and a half.  We came here by Vetturino.  Upon the whole, the roadside inns are greatly improved since our time.  Half-past three and half-past four have been, however, our usual times of rising on the road.

I was in my old place at the Coliseum this morning, and it was as grand as ever.  With that exception the ruined part of Rome ­the real original Rome ­looks smaller than my remembrance made it.  It is the only place on which I have yet found that effect.  We are in the old hotel.

You are going to Bonchurch I suppose? will be there, perhaps, when this letter reaches you?  I shall be pleased to think of you as at home again, and making the commodious family mansion look natural and home-like.  I don’t like to think of my room without anybody to peep into it now and then.  Here is a world of travelling arrangements for me to settle, and here are Collins and Egg looking sideways at me with an occasional imploring glance as beseeching me to settle it.  So I leave off.  Good-night.

Ever, my dearest Georgy,
Most affectionately yours.

Sir James Emerson Tennent.

HOTEL DES ILES BRITANNIQUES, PIAZZA DEL POPOLO, ROME,
Monday, Noth, 1853.

MY DEAR TENNENT,

As I never made a good bargain in my life ­except once, when, on going abroad, I let my house on excellent terms to an admirable tenant, who never paid anything ­I sent Edward into the Casa Dies yesterday morning, while I invested the premises from the outside, and carefully surveyed them.  It is a very clean, large, bright-looking house at the corner of the Via Gregoriana; not exactly in a part of Rome I should pick out for living in, and on what I should be disposed to call the wrong side of the street.  However, this is not to the purpose.  Signor Dies has no idea of letting an apartment for a short time ­scouted the idea of a month ­signified that he could not be brought to the contemplation of two months ­was by no means clear that he could come down to the consideration of three.  This of course settled the business speedily.

This hotel is no longer kept by the Melloni I spoke of, but is even better kept than in his time, and is a very admirable house.  I have engaged a small apartment for you to be ready on Thursday afternoon (at two piastres and a half ­two-and-a-half per day ­sitting-room and three bedrooms, one double-bedded and two not).  If you would like to change to ours, which is a very good one, on Friday morning, you can of course do so.  As our dining-room is large, and there is no table d’hote here, I will order dinner in it for our united parties at six on Thursday.  You will be able to decide how to arrange for the remainder of your stay, after being here and looking about you ­two really necessary considerations in Rome.

Pray make my kind regards to Lady Tennent, and Miss Tennent, and your good son, who became homeless for my sake.  Mr. Egg and Mr. Collins desire to be also remembered.

It has been beautiful weather since we left Naples, until to-day, when it rains in a very dogged, sullen, downcast, and determined manner.  We have been speculating at breakfast on the possibility of its raining in a similar manner at Naples, and of your wandering about the hotel, refusing consolation.

I grieve to report the Orvieto considerably damaged by the general vine failure, but still far from despicable.  Montefiascone (the Est wine you know) is to be had here; and we have had one bottle in the very finest condition, and one in a second-rate state.

The Coliseum, in its magnificent old decay, is as grand as ever; and with the electric telegraph darting through one of its ruined arches like a sunbeam and piercing direct through its cruel old heart, is even grander.

Believe me always, very faithfully yours.

Mrs. Charles Dickens

ROME, Monday, Noth, 1853.

MY DEAREST CATHERINE,

As I have mentioned in my letter to Georgy (written last night but posted with this), I received her letter without yours, to my unbounded astonishment.  This morning, on sending again to the post-office, I at last got yours, and most welcome it is with all its contents.

I found Layard at Naples, who went up Vesuvius with us, and was very merry and agreeable.  He is travelling with Lord and Lady Somers, and Lord Somers being laid up with an attack of malaria fever, Layard had a day to spare.  Craven, who was Lord Normanby’s Secretary of Legation in Paris, now lives at Naples, and is married to a French lady.  He is very hospitable and hearty, and seemed to have vague ideas that something might be done in a pretty little private theatre he has in his house.  He told me of Fanny Kemble and the Sartoris’s being here.  I have also heard of Thackeray’s being here ­I don’t know how truly.  Lockhart is here, and, I fear, very ill.  I mean to go and see him.

We are living in the old hotel, which is not now kept by Meloni, who has retired.  I don’t know whether you recollect an apartment at the top of the house, to which we once ran up with poor Roche to see the horses start in the race at the Carnival time?  That is ours, in which I at present write.  We have a large back dining-room, a handsome front drawing-room, looking into the Piazza del Popolo, and three front bedrooms, all on a floor.  The whole costs us about four shillings a day each.  The hotel is better kept than ever.  There is a little kitchen to each apartment where the dinner is kept hot.  There is no house comparable to it in Paris, and it is better than Mivart’s.  We start for Florence, post, on Friday morning, and I am bargaining for a carriage to take us on to Venice.

Edward is an excellent servant, and always cheerful and ready for his work.  He knows no Italian, except the names of a few things, but French is far more widely known here now than in our time.  Neither is he an experienced courier as to roads and so forth; but he picks up all that I want to know, here and there, somehow or other.  I am perfectly pleased with him, and would rather have him than an older hand.  Poor dear Roche comes back to my mind though, often.

I have written to engage the courier from Turin into France, from Tuesday, the 6th December.  This will bring us home some two days after the tenth, probably.  I wrote to Charley from Naples, giving him his choice of meeting me at Lyons, in Paris, or at Boulogne.  I gave him full instructions what to do if he arrived before me, and he will write to me at Turin saying where I shall find him.  I shall be a day or so later than I supposed as the nearest calculation I could make when I wrote to him; but his waiting for me at an hotel will not matter.

We have had delightful weather, with one day’s exception, until to-day, when it rained very heavily and suddenly.  Egg and Collins have gone to the Vatican, and I am “going” to try whether I can hit out anything for the Christmas number.  Give my love to Forster, and tell him I won’t write to him until I hear from him.

I have not come across any English whom I know except Layard and the Emerson Tennents, who will be here on Thursday from Civita Vecchia, and are to dine with us.  The losses up to this point have been two pairs of shoes (one mine and one Egg’s), Collins’s snuff-box, and Egg’s dressing-gown.

We observe the managerial punctuality in all our arrangements, and have not had any difference whatever.

I have been reserving this side all through my letter, in the conviction that I had something else to tell you.  If I had, I cannot remember what it is.  I introduced myself to Salvatore at Vesuvius, and reminded him of the night when poor Le Gros fell down the mountains.  He was full of interest directly, remembered the very hole, put on his gold-banded cap, and went up with us himself.  He did not know that Le Gros was dead, and was very sorry to hear it.  He asked after the ladies, and hoped they were very happy, to which I answered, “Very.”  The cone is completely changed since our visit, is not at all recognisable as the same place; and there is no fire from the mountain, though there is a great deal of smoke.  Its last demonstration was in 1850.

I shall be glad to think of your all being at home again, as I suppose you will be soon after the receipt of this.  Will you see to the invitations for Christmas Day, and write to Laetitia?  I shall be very happy to be at home again myself, and to embrace you; for of course I miss you very much, though I feel that I could not have done a better thing to clear my mind and freshen it up again, than make this expedition.  If I find Charley much ahead of me, I shall start on through a night or so to meet him, and leave the others to catch us up.  I look upon the journey as almost closed at Turin.  My best love to Mamey, and Katey, and Sydney, and Harry, and the darling Plornishghenter.  We often talk about them, and both my companions do so with interest.  They always send all sorts of messages to you, which I never deliver.  God bless you!  Take care of yourself.

Ever most affectionately.

Mr. W. H. Wills.

ROME, Thursday Afternoon, Noth, 1853.

MY DEAR WILLS,

Just as I wrote the last words of the enclosed little story for the Christmas number just now, Edward brought in your letter.  Also one from Forster (tell him) which I have not yet opened.  I will write again ­and write to him ­from Florence.  I am delighted to have news of you.

The enclosed little paper for the Christmas number is in a character that nobody else is likely to hit, and which is pretty sure to be considered pleasant.  Let Forster have the MS. with the proof, and I know he will correct it to the minutest point.  I have a notion of another little story, also for the Christmas number.  If I can do it at Venice, I will, and send it straight on.  But it is not easy to work under these circumstances.  In travelling we generally get up about three; and in resting we are perpetually roaming about in all manner of places.  Not to mention my being laid hold of by all manner of people.

KEEP “HOUSEHOLD WORDS” IMAGINATIVE! is the solemn and continual Conductorial Injunction.  Delighted to hear of Mrs. Gaskell’s contributions.

Yes by all manner of means to Lady Holland.  Will you ask her whether she has Sydney Smith’s letters to me, which I placed (at Mrs. Smith’s request) either in Mrs. Smith’s own hands or in Mrs. Austin’s?  I cannot remember which, but I think the latter.

In making up the Christmas number, don’t consider my paper or papers, with any reference saving to where they will fall best.  I have no liking, in the case, for any particular place.

All perfectly well.  Companion moustaches (particularly Egg’s) dismal in the extreme.  Kindest regards to Mrs. Wills.

Ever faithfully.

FLORENCE, Monday, Nost, 1853.

H. W.

MY DEAR WILLS,

I sent you by post from Rome, on Wednesday last, a little story for the Christmas number, called “The Schoolboy’s Story.”  I have an idea of another short one, to be called “Nobody’s Story,” which I hope to be able to do at Venice, and to send you straight home before this month is out.  I trust you have received the first safely.

Edward continues to do extremely well.  He is always, early and late, what you have seen him.  He is a very steady fellow, a little too bashful for a courier even; settles prices of everything now, as soon as we come into an hotel; and improves fast.  His knowledge of Italian is painfully defective, and, in the midst of a howling crowd at a post-house or railway station, this deficiency perfectly stuns him.  I was obliged last night to get out of the carriage, and pluck him from a crowd of porters who were putting our baggage into wrong conveyances ­by cursing and ordering about in all directions.  I should think about ten substantives, the names of ten common objects, form his whole Italian stock.  It matters very little at the hotels, where a great deal of French is spoken now; but, on the road, if none of his party knew Italian, it would be a very serious inconvenience indeed.

Will you write to Ryland if you have not heard from him, and ask him what the Birmingham reading-nights are really to be?  For it is ridiculous enough that I positively don’t know.  Can’t a Saturday Night in a Truck District, or a Sunday Morning among the Ironworkers (a fine subject) be knocked out in the course of the same visit?

If you should see any managing man you know in the Oriental and Peninsular Company, I wish you would very gravely mention to him from me that if they are not careful what they are about with their steamship Valetta, between Marseilles and Naples, they will suddenly find that they will receive a blow one fine day in The Times, which it will be a very hard matter for them ever to recover.  When I sailed in her from Genoa, there had been taken on board, with no caution in most cases from the agent, or hint of discomfort, at least forty people of both sexes for whom there was no room whatever.  I am a pretty old traveller as you know, but I never saw anything like the manner in which pretty women were compelled to lie among the men in the great cabin and on the bare decks.  The good humour was beyond all praise, but the natural indignation very great; and I was repeatedly urged to stand up for the public in “Household Words,” and to write a plain description of the facts to The Times.  If I had done either, and merely mentioned that all these people paid heavy first-class fares, I will answer for it that they would have been beaten off the station in a couple of months.  I did neither, because I was the best of friends with the captain and all the officers, and never saw such a fine set of men; so admirable in the discharge of their duty, and so zealous to do their best by everybody.  It is impossible to praise them too highly.  But there is a strong desire at all the ports along the coast to throw impediments in the way of the English service, and to favour the French and Italian boats.  In those boats (which I know very well) great care is taken of the passengers, and the accommodation is very good.  If the Peninsula and Oriental add to all this the risk of such an exposure as they are certain to get (if they go on so) in The Times, they are dead sure to get a blow from the public which will make them stagger again.  I say nothing of the number of the passengers and the room in the ship’s boats, though the frightful consideration the contrast presented must have been in more minds than mine.  I speak only of the taking people for whom there is no sort of accommodation as the most decided swindle, and the coolest, I ever did with my eyes behold.

        Kindest regards from fellow-travellers. 
                                Ever, my dear Wills, faithfully yours.

Miss Hogarth.

VENICE, Friday, November 25th, 1853.

MY DEAREST GEORGY,

We found an English carriage from Padua at Florence, and hired it to bring it back again.  We travelled post with four horses all the way (from Padua to this place there is a railroad) and travelled all night.  We left Florence at half-past six in the morning, and got to Padua at eleven next day ­yesterday.  The cold at night was most intense.  I don’t think I have ever felt it colder.  But our carriage was very comfortable, and we had some wine and some rum to keep us warm.  We came by Bologna (where we had tea) and Ferrara.  You may imagine the delays in the night when I tell you that each of our passports, after receiving six vises at Florence, received in the course of the one night, nine more, every one of which was written and sealed; somebody being slowly knocked out of bed to do it every time!  It really was excruciating.

Landor had sent me a letter to his son, and on the day before we left Florence I thought I would go out to Fiesoli and leave it.  So I got a little one-horse open carriage and drove off alone.  We were within half a mile of the Villa Landoro, and were driving down a very narrow lane like one of those at Albaro, when I saw an elderly lady coming towards us, very well dressed in silk of the Queen’s blue, and walking freshly and briskly against the wind at a good round pace.  It was a bright, cloudless, very cold day, and I thought she walked with great spirit, as if she enjoyed it.  I also thought (perhaps that was having him in my mind) that her ruddy face was shaped like Landor’s.  All of a sudden the coachman pulls up, and looks enquiringly at me.  “What’s the matter?” says I.  “Ecco la Signora Landoro?” says he.  “For the love of Heaven, don’t stop,” says I. “I don’t know her, I am only going to the house to leave a letter ­go on!” Meanwhile she (still coming on) looked at me, and I looked at her, and we were both a good deal confused, and so went our several ways.  Altogether, I think it was as disconcerting a meeting as I ever took part in, and as odd a one.  Under any other circumstances I should have introduced myself, but the separation made the circumstances so peculiar that “I didn’t like.”

The Plornishghenter is evidently the greatest, noblest, finest, cleverest, brightest, and most brilliant of boys.  Your account of him is most delightful, and I hope to find another letter from you somewhere on the road, making me informed of his demeanour on your return.  On which occasion, as on every other, I have no doubt he will have distinguished himself as an irresistibly attracting, captivating May-Roon-Ti-Groon-Ter.  Give him a good many kisses for me.  I quite agree with Syd as to his ideas of paying attention to the old gentleman.  It’s not bad, but deficient in originality.  The usual deficiency of an inferior intellect with so great a model before him.  I am very curious to see whether the Plorn remembers me on my reappearance.

I meant to have gone to work this morning, and to have tried a second little story for the Christmas number of “Household Words,” but my letters have (most pleasantly) put me out, and I defer all such wise efforts until to-morrow.  Egg and Collins are out in a gondola with a servitore di piazza.

You will find this but a stupid letter, but I really have no news.  We go to the opera, whenever there is one, see sights, eat and drink, sleep in a natural manner two or three nights, and move on again.  Edward was a little crushed at Padua yesterday.  He had been extraordinarily cold all night in the rumble, and had got out our clothes to dress, and I think must have been projecting a five or six hours’ sleep, when I announced that he was to come on here in an hour and a half to get the rooms and order dinner.  He fell into a sudden despondency of the profoundest kind, but was quite restored when we arrived here between eight and nine.  We found him waiting at the Custom House with a gondola in his usual brisk condition.

It is extraordinary how few English we see.  With the exception of a gentlemanly young fellow (in a consumption I am afraid), married to the tiniest little girl, in a brown straw hat, and travelling with his sister and her sister, and a consumptive single lady, travelling with a maid and a Scotch terrier christened Trotty Veck, we have scarcely seen any, and have certainly spoken to none, since we left Switzerland.  These were aboard the Valetta, where the captain and I indulged in all manner of insane suppositions concerning the straw hat ­the “Little Matron” we called her; by which name she soon became known all over the ship.  The day we entered Rome, and the moment we entered it, there was the Little Matron, alone with antiquity ­and Murray ­on the wall.  The very first church I entered, there was the Little Matron.  On the last afternoon, when I went alone to St. Peter’s, there was the Little Matron and her party.  The best of it is, that I was extremely intimate with them, invited them to Tavistock House, when they come home in the spring, and have not the faintest idea of their name.

There was no table d’hote at Rome, or at Florence, but there is one here, and we dine at it to-day, so perhaps we may stumble upon somebody.  I have heard from Charley this morning, who appoints (wisely) Paris as our place of meeting.  I had a letter from Coote, at Florence, informing me that his volume of “Household Songs” was ready, and requesting permission to dedicate it to me.  Which of course I gave.

I am beginning to think of the Birmingham readings.  I suppose you won’t object to be taken to hear them?  This is the last place at which we shall make a stay of more than one day.  We shall stay at Parma one, and at Turin one, supposing De la Rue to have been successful in taking places with the courier into France for the day on which we want them (he was to write to bankers at Turin to do it), and then we shall come hard and fast home.  I feel almost there already, and shall be delighted to close the pleasant trip, and get back to my own Piccola Camera ­if, being English, you understand what that is.  My best love and kisses to Mamey, Katey, Sydney, Harry, and the noble Plorn.  Last, not least, to yourself, and many of them.  I will not wait over to-morrow, tell Kate, for her letter; but will write then, whether or no.

Ever, my dearest Georgy,
Most affectionately yours.

Mr. Marcus Stone.

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, December 19th, 1853.

MY DEAR MARCUS,

You made an excellent sketch from a book of mine which I have received (and have preserved) with great pleasure.  Will you accept from me, in remembrance of it, this little book?  I believe it to be true, though it may be sometimes not as genteel as history has a habit of being.

Faithfully yours.