CHARLES DICKENS

AS A READER. 

By Charles Kent. 

[Illustration: Titlepage. Jpg]

Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. London: Chapman & Hall, 193, Piccadilly. 

1872. 

LONDON: BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO. , PRINTERS, WHITEFRTARS, [Illustration: Dedication. Jpg]

TO

JOHN FORSTER, THE BIOGRAPHER OF CHARLES DICKENS, PREFACE. 

As the title-page of this volume indicates, no more is here attemptedthan a memorial of Charles Dickens in association with his Readings. It appeared desirable that something in the shape of an accurate recordshould be made of an episode in many respects so remarkable in thecareer of the most popular author of his generation. A commemorativevolume, precisely of this character, was projected by the writer in thespring of 1870. Immediately after the Farewell Reading in St James'sHall, on the 15th of March, Charles Dickens wrote, in hearty approvalof the suggestion, "Everything that I can let you have in aid of theproposed record (which, _of course_, would be far more agreeable to meif done by you than by any other hand) shall be at your service. "All the statistics, he added, should be placed freely at the writer'scommand; all the marked books from which he himself read should beconfided to him for reference. In now realising his long-postponedintention, the writer's endeavour has been throughout to restrict thepurpose of his book as much as possible to matters either directly orindirectly affecting these famous Readings. 

The Biography of Charles Dickens having been undertaken by the oldestand dearest of his friends, all that is here attempted is to portray, asaccurately as may be, a single phase in the career and character of oneof the greatest of all our English Humorists. What is thus set forthhas the advantage, at any rate, of being penned from the writer's ownintimate knowledge. With the Novelist's career as a Reader he has beenfamiliar throughout. From its beginning to its close he has regardedit observantly. He has viewed it both from before and from behind thescenes, from the front of the house as well as from within the shelterof the screen upon the platform. When contrasted with the writings ofthe Master-Humorist, these readings of his, though so remarkable inthemselves, shrink, no doubt, to comparative insignificance. But simplyconsidering them as supplementary, and, certainly, as very exceptional, evidences of genius on the part of a great author, they may surely beregarded as having been worthy of the keenest scrutiny at the time, andentitled afterwards to some honest commemoration. 

 CONTENTS. 

 CHARLES DICKENS AS A READER 1

 THE READINGS IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA 36

 THE CHRISTMAS CAROL 92

 THE TRIAL FROM PICKWICK 109

 DAVID COPPERFIELD 120

 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 131

 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 140

 MR. BOB SAWYER'S PARTY 152

 THE CHIMES 162

 THE STORY OF LITTLE DOMBEY 176

 MR. CHOPS, THE DWARF 189

 THE POOR TRAVELLER 195

 MRS. GAMP 207

 BOOTS AT THE HOLLY TREE INN 220

 BARBOX BROTHERS 231

 THE BOY AT MUGBY 237

 DOCTOR MARIGOLD 243

 SIKES AND NANCY 253

 THE FAREWELL READING 263

CHARLES DICKENS AS A READER. 

A celebeated writer is hardly ever capable as a Reader of doing justiceto his own imaginings. Dr. Johnson's whimsical anecdote of the authorof The Seasons admits, in point of fact, of a very general application. According to the grimly humorous old Doctor, "He [Thomson] was oncereading to Doddington, who, being himself a reader eminently elegant, was so much provoked by his odd utterance, that he snatched the paperfrom his hand, and told him that he did not understand his own verses!"Dryden, again, when reading his Amphytrion in the green-room, "though, "says Cibber, who was present upon the occasion, "he delivered the plainmeaning of every period, yet the whole was in so cold, so flat, andunaffecting a manner, that I am afraid of not being believed when Iaffirm it. " Elsewhere, in his Apology, when contrasting the creator withthe interpreter, the original delineator with the actual impersonatorof character, the same old stage gossip remarks, how men would readShakspere with higher rapture could they but conceive how he was playedby Betterton! "Then might they know, " he exclaims, with a delightfulextravagance of emphasis and quaint-ness of phraseology, "the one wasborn alone to speak what the other only knew to write!" The simple truthof the matter being that for the making of a consummate actor, reader, or impersonator, not only is there required, to begin with, a certainhistrionic instinct or dramatic aptitude, but a combination--very rarelyto be met with, indeed--of personal gifts, of physical peculiarities, of vocal and facial, nay, of subtly and yet instantly appreciablecharacteristics. Referring merely to those who are skilled asconversationalists, Sir Richard Steele remarks, very justly, in the_Spectator_ (No. 521), that, "In relations, the force of the expressionlies very often more in the look, the tone of voice, or the gesture, than in the words themselves, which, being repeated in any other mannerby the undiscerning, bear a very different interpretation from theiroriginal meaning. " Whatever is said as to all that is requisite in thedelivery of an oration by the master of all oratory, applies with equaldistinctness to those who are readers or actors professionally. Alldepends on the countenance, is the _dictum_ of Cicero, {*} and even inthat, he says, the eyes bear sovereign sway. 

 * De Oratore iii. , 59. 

Elsewhere, in his great treatise, referring to what was all-essentialin oratorical delivery, according to Demosthenes, Tully, by a bold andluminous phrase, declares Action to be, as it were, the speech ofthe body, --"quasi sermo corporis. " Voice, eyes, bearing, gesture, countenance, each in turn, all of them together, are to the spokenwords, or, rather than that, it should be said, to the thoughts andemotions of which those articulate sounds are but the winged symbols, as to the barbed and feathered arrows are the bowstring. Howessential every external of this kind is, as affording some medium ofcommunication between a speaker and his auditors, may be illustratedupon the instant by the rough and ready argument of the _reductio adabsurdum_. Without insisting, for example, upon the impossibility ofhaving a speech delivered by one who is actually blind, and deaf, and dumb, we need only imagine here its utterance, by some wall-eyedstammerer, who has a visage about as wooden and inexpressive as thefigure-head of a merchantman. Occasionally, it is true, physical defectshave been actually conquered, individual peculiarities have been in agreat measure counteracted, by rhetorical artifice, or by the arts oforatorical delivery: instance the lisp of Demosthenes, the stutter ofFox, the brogue of Burke, and the burr of Brougham. 

Sometimes, but very rarely, it has so happened that an actor of nearlypeerless excellence, that a reader of all but matchless power, hasachieved his triumphs, has acquired his reputation, in very despite ofalmost every conceivable personal disadvantage. Than the renowned actoralready mentioned, for example, Thomas Betterton, a more radiant namehas hardly ever been inscribed upon the roll of English players, from Burbage to Garrick. Yet what is the picture of this incomparabletragedian, drawn by one who knew him and who has described his personfor us minutely, meaning Antony Aston, in his theatrical pamphlet, called the Brief Supplement? Why it is absolutely this, --"Mr. Betterton, " says his truthful panegyrist, "although a superlative goodactor, laboured under an ill figure, being clumsily made, having a greathead, a short, thick neck, stooped in the shoulders, and had fat, shortarms, which he rarely lifted higher than his stomach. He had little eyesand a broad face, a little pock-fretten, a corpulent body, and thicklegs, with large feet. His voice was low and grumbling. He was incapableof dancing, even in a country dance. " And so forth! Yet this was theconsummate actor who was regarded by the more discerning amonghis contemporaries, but most of all by the brother actors who wereimmediately around him, as simply inimitable and unapproachable. 

There was John Henderson, again, great in his time, both as a tragic anda comic actor, greatest of all as a reader or an impersonator. Hearhim described by one who has most carefully and laboriously written hisencomium, that is to say, by John Ireland, his biographer. What do weread of him? That in height he was below the common standard, that hisframe was uncompacted, that his limbs were short and ill-proportioned, that his countenance had little of that flexibility which anticipatesthe tongue, that his eye had scarcely anything of that language which, by preparing the spectator for the coming sentence, enchains theattention, that his voice was neither silvery nor mellifluous. Nevertheless, by a subtlety of discrimination, that seemed almostintuitive, by a force of judgment and a fervency of mind, that weresimply exquisite and irresistible, this was the very man who couldat any moment, by an inflection of his voice or by the syncope of achuckle, move his audience at pleasure to tears or to laughter. He couldhaunt their memories for years afterwards with the infinite tendernessof his ejaculation as Hamlet, of "The fair Ophelia!" He could convulsethem with merriment by his hesitating utterance as Falstaff of "Ashirt--and a half!" Incidentally it is remarked by the biographer ofHenderson that the qualifications requisite to constitute a reader ofespecial excellence seem to be these, "a good ear, a voice capableof inflexion, an understanding of, and taste for, the beauties of theauthor. " Added to this, there must be, of course, a feeling, an ardour, an enthusiasm sufficient at all times to ensure their rapid and vividmanifestation. Richly endowed in this way, however, though Hendersonwas, his gifts were weighted, as we have seen were those also ofBetterton, by a variety of physical defects, some of which were almostpainfully conspicuous. Insomuch was this the case, in the latterinstance, that Tony Aston has oddly observed, in regard to the allbut peerless tragedian, "He was better to meet than to follow; forhis aspect [the writer evidently means, here, when met] was serious, venerable, and majestic; in his latter time a little paralytic. "Accepting at once as reasonable and as accurate what has thus beenasserted by those who have made the art of elocution their especial andchosen study for analysis, it is surely impossible not to recognise ata glance how enormously a reader must, by necessity, be advantaged, who, in addition to the intellectual and emotional gifts already enumerated, possesses those personal attributes and physical endowments in whicha reader, otherwise of surpassing excellence, like Henderson, and anactor, in other respects of incomparable ability, like Betterton, waseach in turn so glaringly deficient. 

Whatever is here said in regard to Charles Dickens, it should beborne in mind, is written and published during the lifetime of his ownimmediate contemporaries. He himself, his readings, the sound of hisvoice, the ring of his footstep, the glance of his eye, are all stillvividly within the recollection of the majority of those who willexamine the pages of this memorial. Everything, consequently, which isset forth in them is penned with a knowledge of its inevitable revisionor endorsement by the reader's own personal remembrance. It is in thefull glare of that public remembrance that the present writer refers tothe great novelist as an impersonator of his more remarkable creations. Everybody who has seen him, who has heard him, who has carefully watchedhim, though it may be but at a single one of these memorable readings, will recognise at a glance the accuracy or the inaccuracy of thedelineation. 

It is observable, in the first instance, in regard to Charles Dickens, that he had in an extraordinary degree the dramatic element in hischaracter. It was an integral part of his individuality. It coloured hiswhole temperament or idiosyncracy. Unconsciously he described himself, to a T, in Nicholas Nickleby. "There's genteel comedy in your walk andmanner, juvenile tragedy in your eye, and touch-and-go farce in yourla'ugh, " might have been applied to himself in his buoyant youth quiteas readily and directly as to Nicholas. The author, rather than the heroof Nickleby, seems, in that happy utterance of the theatrical manager, to have been photographed. It cannot but now be apparent that, as anunpremeditated preliminary to Dickens's then undreamt-of career asa reader of his own works in public and professionally, the PrivateTheatricals over which he presided during several years in his own homecircle as manager, prepared the way no less directly than his occasionalReadings, later on, at some expense to himself (in travelling andotherwise) for purely charitable purposes. His proclivity stagewards, in effect, the natural trending of his line of life, so to speak, inthe histrionic or theatrical direction, was, in another way, indicatedat a yet earlier date, and not one jot less pointedly. It was so, wemean, at the very opening of his career in authorship, when having justsprung into precocious celebrity as the writer of the Sketches and ofthe earlier numbers of Pickwick, he contributed an opera and a couple offarces with brilliant success to the boards of the St. James's Theatre. Braham and Parry and Hullah winged with melody the words of "The VillageCoquettes;" while the quaint humour of Harley excited roars of laughterthrough the whimsicalities of "Is She His Wife?" and "The StrangeGentleman. " Trifles light as air though these effusions might be, theradiant bubbles showed even then, as by a casual freak which way withhim the breeze in his leisure hours was drifting. A dozen years or moreafter this came the private theatricals at Tavistock House. Beginningsimply, first of all, with his direction of his children's frolics inthe enacting of a burletta, of a Cracker Bonbon for Christmas, and ofone of Planché's charming fairy extravaganzas, these led up in theend through what must be called circuitously Dickens's emendationsof O'Hara's version of Fielding's burlesque of "Tom Thumb, " tothe manifestation of the novelist's remarkable genius for dramaticimpersonation: first of all, as Aaron Gurnock in Wilkie Collins's"Lighthouse, " and afterwards as Richard War dour in the same author's"Frozen Deep. " Already he had achieved success, some years earlier, as an amateur performer in characters not essentially his own, as, for example, in the representation of the senile blandness of JusticeShallow, or of the gasconading humours of Captain Bobadil. Just, asafterwards, in furtherance of the interests of the Guild of Literatureand Art, he impersonated Lord Wilmot in Lytton's comedy of "Not soBad as we Seem, " and represented in a series of wonderfully rapidtransformations the protean person of Mr. Gabblewig, through themedium of a delightful farce called "Mr. Nightingale's Diary. " Whoeverwitnessed Dickens's impersonation of Mr. Gabblewig, will remember thatit included a whole cluster of grotesque creations of his own. Amongthese there was a stone-deaf old man, who, whenever he was shouted at, used to sigh out resignedly, "Ah, it's no use your whispering!" Besideswhom there was a garrulous old lady, in herself the worthy double ofMrs. Gamp; a sort of half-brother to Sam Weller; and an alternatelyshrieking and apologetic valetudinarian, who was, perhaps, the mostwhimsical of them all. Nothing more, however, need here be said inregard to Charles Dickens's share, either in these performances for theGuild or in the other strictly private theatricals. They are simply herereferred to, as having prepared the way by practice, for the Readings, still so called, though, in all save costume and general _mis enscene_, they were from first to last essentially and intensely dramaticrepresentations. 

Readings of this character, it is curious to reflect for a moment, resemble somewhat in the simplicity of their surroundings the habitualstage arrangements of the days of Shakspere. The arena, in eachinstance, might be described accurately enough as a platform, drapedwith screens and hangings of cloth or of green baize. The principaldifference, in point of fact, between the two would be apparent in this, that whereas, in the one case any reasonable number of performers mightbe grouped together simultaneously, in the other there would remainfrom first to last before the audience but one solitary performer. He, however, as a mere matter of course, by the very necessity of hisposition, would have to be regarded throughout as though he were a nounof multitude signifying many. Slashed doublets and trunk hose, mightjust possibly be deemed by some more picturesque, if not in outline, atleast in colour and material, than the evening costume of now-a-days. But, apart from this, whatever would meet the gaze of the spectatorin either instance would bear the like aspect of familiarity or ofincongruity, in contrast to or in association with, the charactersrepresented at the moment before actual contemporaries. These laterperformances partake, of course, in some sense of the nature of amonologue. Besides which, they involve the display of a desk and a bookinstead of the almost ludicrous exhibition of a board inscribed, asthe case might be, "Syracuse" or "Verona. " Apart from this, however, a modern reading is, in the very nature of it, like a reverting tothe primitive simplicity of the stage, when the stage, in its socialinfluences, was at its highest and noblest, when, for the matter ofthat, it was all but paramount. Given genius in the author and in theimpersonator, and that very simplicity has its enormous advantages. 

The greatest of all the law-givers of art in this later civilisationhas more than merely hinted at what is here maintained. Goethe has saidemphatically, in Wilhelm Meister, that a really good actor makes ussoon enough forget the awkwardness, even the meanness, of trumperydecorations; whereas, he continues, a magnificent theatre is preciselythe very thing that makes us feel the most keenly the want of actors ofreal excellence. How wisely in this Goethe, according to his wont, hasspoken, we all of us, here in England, know by our own experience. Ofthe truth of his opinion we have had in this country, of late years, more than one startling illustration. Archaeological knowledge, scenic illusion, gorgeous upholstery, sumptuous costumes, have, in theremembrance of many, been squandered in profusion upon the boards ofone of our London theatres in the getting up of a drama by themaster-dramatist. All this has tended, however, only to realise the morepainfully the inadequacy of the powers, no less of the leading star thanof his whole company, to undertake the interpretation of the dramaticmasterpiece. The spectacle which we are viewing in such an instance is, no doubt, resplendent; but it is so purely as a spectacle. Everythingwitnessed is--

 "So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there. "

The result naturally is, that the public is disillusioned and that themanagement is bankrupt. Another strikingly-contrasted experience ofthe present generation is this, that, without any decorations whatever, enormous audiences have been assembled together, in the old world andin the new, upon every occasion upon which they have been afforded theopportunity, to hear a story related by the lips of the writer of it. And they have been so assembled not simply because the story itself(every word of it known perfectly well beforehand) was worth hearingagain, or because there was a very natural curiosity to behold thefamous author by whom it had been penned; but, above all, because hisvoice, his glance, his features, his every movement, his whole person, gave to his thoughts and his emotions, whether for tears or forlaughter, the most vivid interpretation. 

How it happened, in this instance, that a writer of celebrity likeCharles Dickens became a reader of his own works before large publicaudiences may be readily explained. Before his first appearance inthat character professionally--that is, as a public reader, on his ownaccount--he had enjoyed more than twenty years of unexampled popularityas a novelist. During that period he had not only securely establishedhis reputation in authorship, but had evidenced repeatedly, at intervalsduring the later portion of it, histrionic powers hardly less remarkablein their way than those gifts which had previously won for him hiswholly exceptional fame as a writer of imagination. 

Among his personal intimates, among all those who knew him best, it hadlong come to be recognised that his skill as an impersonator was onlysecond to his genius as a creator of humorous and pathetic character. His success in each capacity sprang from his intense sympathy and hisequally intense earnestness. Whatever with him was worth doing at all, was worth doing thoroughly. Anything he undertook, no matter what, hewent in at, according to the good old sea phrase, with a will. He alwaysendeavoured to accomplish whatever had to be accomplished as well as itcould possibly be effected within the reach of his capabilities. Whetherit were pastime or whether it were serious business, having once takenanything in hand, he applied to it the whole of his energies. Hence, as an amateur actor, he was simply unapproachable. He passed, in fact, beyond the range of mere amateurs, and was brought into contrast byright, with the most gifted professionals among his contemporaries. Hence, again, as an after-dinner speaker, he was nothing less thanincomparable. "He spoke so well, " Anthony Trollope has remarked, "thata public dinner became a blessing instead of a curse if he were in thechair--had its compensating twenty minutes of pleasure, even if he werecalled upon to propose a toast or thank the company for drinking hishealth. " He did nothing by halves, but everything completely. Howcompletely he gave himself up to the delivery of a speech or of areading, Mr. Arthur Helps has summed up in less than a dozen words ofsingular emphasis. That keen observer has said, indeed quite truly, ofDickens, --"When he read or spoke, the whole man read or spoke. " Itwas thus with him repeatedly, and always delightfully, in mere chanceconversation. An incident related by him often became upon the instant alittle acted drama. His mimetic powers were in many respects marvellous. In voice, in countenance, in carriage, almost, it might be said, atmoments, in stature, he seemed to be a Proteus. 

According to a curious account which has been happily preserved for usin the memoirs of the greatest reader of the last century, Hendersonfirst of all exhibited his elocutionary skill by reciting (it wasat Islington) an Ode on Shakspere. So exactly did he deliver this inGarrick's manner, that the acutest ear failed to distinguish the onefrom the other. One of those present declared, years afterwards, that hewas certain the speaker _must be_ either Garrick or Antichrist. 

Imitative powers not one iota less extraordinary in their way were, atany moment, seemingly, at the command of the subject of this memorial. In one or two instances that might be named the assumption was allbut identity. An aptitude of this particular kind, as everyone canappreciate upon the instant, would by necessity come wonderfully in aidof the illusive effect produced by readings that were in point of factthe mere vehicle or medium for a whole crowd of vivid impersonations. Anyone, moreover, possessing gifts like these, of a very peculiardescription, not only naturally but inevitably enjoys himself everyopportunity that may arise for displaying them to those about him, to his friends and intimates. "Man is of a companionable, conversingnature, " says Goethe in his novel of The Renunciants, "his delight isgreat when he exercises faculties that have been given him, even thoughnothing further came of it. " Seeing that something further readily didcome of it in the instance of Charles Dickens, it can hardly be matterfor surprise that the readings and impersonations which were first ofall a home delight, should at length quite naturally have opened upbefore the popular author what was for him an entirely new, but at thesame time a perfectly legitimate, career professionally. 

Recitations or readings of his own works in public by a great writerare, in point of fact, as old as literature itself. They date back tothe very origin of polite letters, both prose and poetic. It mattersnothing whether there was one Homer, or whether there may have been ascore of Homers, so far as the fact of oral publication applies tothe Iliad and the Odyssey, nearly a thousand years (900) before thefoundation of Christianity. By the lips of a single bard, or of a seriesof bards, otherwise of public declaimers or reciters, the world wasfirst familiarised with the many enthralling tales strung together inthose peerless masterpieces. Again, at a period of very nearly fivehundred years (484) before the epoch of the Redemption, the Father ofHistory came to lay the foundation, as it were, of the whole fabricof prose literature in a precisely similar manner--that is to say, bypublic readings or recitations. In point of fact, the instance there ismore directly akin to the present argument. A musical cadence, or evenpossibly an instrumental accompaniment, may have marked the Homericchant about Achilles and Ulysses. Whereas, obviously, in regard toHerodotus, the readings given by him at the Olympic games were readingsin the modern sense, pure and simple. Lucian has related the incident, not only succinctly, but picturesquely. 

Herodotus, then in his fiftieth year, reflected for a long whileseriously how he might, with the least trouble and in the shortest time, win for himself and his writings a large amount of glory and reputation. Shrinking from the fatigue involved in the labour of visitingsuccessively one after another the chief cities of the Athenians, theCorinthians, and the Lacedæmonians, he ingeniously hit upon the notionof appearing in person at the Olympian Games, and of there addressinghimself simultaneously to the very pick and flower of the whole Greekpopulation. Providing himself beforehand with the choicest portions orselect passages from his great narrative, he there read or declaimedthose fragments of his History to the assembled multitude from the stageor platform of the theatre. And he did this, moreover, with such anevident captivation about him, not only in the style of his composition, but in the very manner of its delivery, that the applause of his hearersinterrupted him repeatedly--the close of these recitations by the greatauthor-reader being greeted with prolonged and resounding acclamations. Nay, not only are these particulars related as to the First Readingrecorded as having been given by a Great Author, but, further than that, there is the charming incident described of Thucydides, then a boyof fifteen, listening entranced among the audience to the heroicoccurrences recounted by the sonorous and impassioned voice of theannalist, and at the climax of it all bursting into tears. Lucian'scomment upon that earliest Reading might, with a change of names, be applied almost word for word to the very latest of these kinds ofintellectual exhibitions. "None were ignorant, " he says, "of the nameof Herodotus; nor was there a single person in Greece who had not eitherseen him at the Olympics, or heard those speak of him that came fromthence: so that in what place soever he came the inhabitants pointedwith their finger, saying 'This is that Herodotus who has written thePersian Wars in the Ionic dialect, this is he who has celebrated ourvictories. ' Thus the harvest which he reaped from his histories was, thereceiving in one assembly the general applause of all Greece, and thesounding his fame, not only in one place and by a single trumpet, butby as many mouths as there had been spectators in that assembly. "As recently as within these last two centuries, indeed, both in thedevelopment of the career of Molière and in the writing of his biographyby Voltaire, the whole question as to the propriety of a great authorbecoming the public interpreter of his own imaginings has been, not onlydiscussed, but defined with precision and in the end authoritativelyproclaimed. Voltaire, in truth, has significantly remarked, in his"Vie de Molière, " when referring to Poquelin's determination to becomeComedian as well as Dramatist, that among the Athenians, as is perfectlywell known, authors not only frequently performed in their own dramaticproductions, but that none of them ever felt dishonoured by speakinggracefully in the presence and hearing of their fellow-citizens. {*}

 * "On sait que chez les Athéniens, les auteurs jouaient souvent dans leurs pieces, et qu'ils n'etoient point déshonorés pour parler avec grace devant leurs concitoyens. "

In arriving at this decision, however, it will be remarked that onesimple but important proviso or condition is indicated--not to bedishonoured they must speak with grace, that is, effectively. Wheneveran author can do this, the fact is proclaimed by the public themselves. Does he lack the dramatic faculty, is he wanting in elocutionary skill, is his deliver dull, are his features inexpressive, is his mannertedious, are his readings marked only by their general tameness andmediocrity, be sure of this, he will speedily find himself talking onlyto empty benches, his enterprise will cease and determine, his name willno longer prove an attraction. Abortive adventures of this kind have inour own time been witnessed. 

With Charles Dickens's Readings it was entirely different. Attractingto themselves at the outset, by the mere glamour of his name, enormousaudiences, they not only maintained their original _prestige_ duringa long series of years--during an interval of fifteen yearsaltogether--but the audiences brought together by them, instead ofshowing any signs of diminution, very appreciably, on the contrary, increased and multiplied. Crowds were turned away from the doors, whowere unable to obtain admittance. The last reading of all collectedtogether the largest audience that has ever been assembled, that evercan by possibility be assembled for purely reading purposes, withinthe walls of St. James's Hall, Piccadilly. Densely packed from floorto ceiling, these audiences were habitually wont to hang in breathlessexpectation upon every inflection of the author-reader's voice, uponevery glance of his eye, --the words he was about to speak being sothoroughly well remembered by the majority before their utterance that, often, the rippling of a smile over a thousand faces simultaneouslyanticipated the laughter which an instant afterwards greeted the wordsthemselves when they were articulated. 

Altogether, from first to last, there must have been considerably morethan Four Hundred--very nearly, indeed, Five Hundred--of these Readings, each one among them in itself a memorable demonstration. Through theirdelightful agency, at the very outset, largess was scattered broadcast, abundantly, and with a wide open hand, among a great variety ofrecipients, whose interests, turn by turn, were thus exclusivelysubserved, at considerable labour to himself, during a period of severalyears, by this large-hearted entertainer. Eventually the timearrived when it became necessary to decide, whether an exhausting andunremunerative task should be altogether abandoned, or whether readingshitherto given solely for the benefit of others, should be thenceforthadopted as a perfectly legitimate source of income for himselfprofessionally. The ball was at his feet: should it be rolled on, orfastidiously turned aside by reason of certain fantastic notions asto its derogating, in some inconceivable way, from the dignity ofauthorship? That was the alternative in regard to which Dickens had todecide, and upon which he at once, as became him, decided manfully. Theball was rolled on, and, as it rolled, grew in bulk like a snowball. Itaccumulated for him, as it advanced, and that too within a wonderfullybrief interval, a very considerable fortune. It strengthened andextended his already widely-diffused and intensely personal popularity. By making him, thus, distinctly a Reader himself, it brought him face toface with vast multitudes of his own readers in the Old World and in theNew, in all parts of the United Kingdom, and at last, upon the occasionof his second visit to America, an expedition adventured upon expresslyto that end, in all parts of the United States. 

And these Readings were throughout so conspicuously and so radiantly asuccess, that even in the recollection of them, now that they arethings of the past, it may be said that they have already beneficiallyinfluenced, and are still perceptibly advancing, the wider and keenerappreciation of the writings themselves. In its gyrations the ball thenrolling at the Beader's foot imparted a momentum to one far noblerand more lasting--that of the Novelist's reputation, one that in itsmovement gives no sign of slackening--"labitur et labetur in omnevolubilis sevum. "

[Illustration: reading-page. Jpg]

The long continuance of the remarkable success attendant upon theReadings all through, is only to be explained by the extraordinary careand earnestness the Reader lavished continuously upon his task whenonce it had been undertaken. In this he was only in another phase of hiscareer, consistently true to the one simple rule adopted by him as anartist throughout. What that rule was anyone might see at a glance onturning over the leaves of one of his books, it matters not which, inthe original manuscript. There, the countless alterations, erasures, interpolations, transpositions, interlineations, shew plainly enough theminute and conscientious thought devoted to the perfecting, so far asmight be in any way possible, of the work of composition. What reads sounaffectedly and so felicitously, it is then seen, is but the result ofexquisite consideration. It is Sheridan's whimsical line which declaresthat, --

 "Easy writing's cursed hard reading. "

And it is Pope who summarizes the method by which not "easy writing"but "ease in writing" is arrived at, where it is said of those who haveacquired a mastery of the craft, --

"They polish all with so much life and ease, You think 'tis nature anda knack to please: But ease in writing flows from art, not chance; Asthose move easiest who have learn'd to dance. "

Precisely the same elaboration of care, which all through his career wasdedicated by Charles Dickens to the most delightful labour of his life, that of writing, was accorded by him to the lesser but still eminentlyintellectual toil of preparing his Readings for representation. It wasnot by any means that, having written a story years previously, he had, in his new capacity as a reciter, merely to select two or three chaptersfrom it, and read them off with an air of animation. Virtually, thefragmentary portions thus taken from his larger works were re-writtenby him, with countless elisions and eliminations after having beenselected. Reprinted in their new shape, each as "A Reading, " they werethen touched and retouched by their author, pen in hand, until, at theend of a long succession of revisions, the pages came to be cobwebbedover with a wonderfully intricate network of blots and lines in the wayof correction or of obliteration. Several of the leaves in this way, what with the black letter-press on the white paper, being scored out orinterwoven with a tracery in red ink and blue ink alternately, presentto view a curiously parti-coloured or tesselated appearance. As aspecimen page, however, will afford a more vivid illustration uponthe instant of what is referred to, than could be conveyed by any mereverbal description, a fac-simile is here introduced of a single pagetaken from the "Reading of Little Dombey. "

Whatever thought was lavished thus upon the composition of the Readings, was lavished quite as unstintingly upon the manner of their delivery. Thoroughly natural, impulsive, and seemingly artless, though that manneralways appeared at the moment, it is due to the Reader as an artist toassert that it was throughout the result of a scarcely credible amountof forethought and preparation. It is thus invariably indeed with everygreat proficient in the histrionic art, even with those who are quiteerroneously supposed by the outer public to trust nearly everythingto the momentary impulses of genius, and who are therefore presumed todisdain anything whatever in the way either of forethought or of actualpreparation by rehearsal. 

According to what is, even down to this present day, very generallyconjectured, Edmund Kean, one of the greatest tragedians who ever trodthe stage, is popularly imagined to have always played simply, as mightbe said, hap-hazard, trusting himself to the spur of the moment forthrowing himself into a part passionately;--the fact being exactly thereverse in his regard, according to the earliest and most accurateof his biographers. Erratic, fitful though the genius of Edmund Keanunquestionably was--rendering him peerless as Othello, incomparable asOverreach--we are told in Mr. Procter's life of him, that "he studiedlong and anxiously, " frequently until many hours after midnight. {*} Nomatter what his occupations previously might have been, or how profoundhis exhaustion through rehearsing in the forenoon, and performing inthe evening, and sharing in convivialities afterwards, Barry Cornwallrelates of him that he would often begin to study when his family hadretired for the night, practising in solitude, after he had transformedhis drawing-room into a stage in miniature. 

 * Barry Cornwall's Life of Edmund Kean, Vol. II. P. 85

"Here, " says his biographer, "with a dozen candles, some on thefloor, some on the table, and some on the chimney-piece, and near thepier-glass, he would act scene after scene: considering the emphasis, the modulation of the verse, and the fluctuations of the character withthe greatest care. " And this, remember, has relation to one who waspresumably about the most spontaneous and impulsive actor who everflashed meteor-like across the boards of a theatre. Whoever has the soulof an artist grudges no labour given to his art, be he reader or actor, author or tragedian. Charles Dickens certainly spared none to hisReadings in his conscientious endeavour to give his own imaginingsvisible and audible embodiment. The sincerity of his devotion to histask, when once it had been taken in hand, was in its way somethingremarkable. 

Acting of all kinds has been pronounced by Mrs. Butler--herself in herown good day a rarely accomplished reader and a fine tragic actress--"amonstrous anomaly. "{*}

 * Fanny Kemble's Journal, Vol. II. P. 130. 

As illustrative of her meaning in which phrase, she then adds, "JohnKemble and Mrs. Siddons were always in earnest in what they were about;Miss O'Neil used to cry bitterly in all her tragic parts; whilst Garrickcould be making faces and playing tricks in the middle of his finestpoints, and Kean would talk gibberish while the people were in an uproarof applause at his. " Fanny Kemble further remarks: "In my own individualinstance, I know that sometimes I could turn every word I am saying intoburlesque, "--immediately observing here, in a reverential parenthesis"(never Shakspere, by-the-bye)--and at others my heart aches and I cryreal, bitter, warm tears as earnestly as if I was in earnest. " Readingwhich last sentence, one might very safely predicate that in the oneinstance, where she could turn her words into burlesque, she would becertain to act but indifferently, whereas in the other, with the hot, scalding tears running down her face, she could not by necessity dootherwise than act to admiration. 

So thorough and consistent throughout his reading career was thesincerity of Dickens in his impersonations, that his words and looks, his thoughts and emotions were never mere make-believes, but always, sofar as the most vigilant eye or the most sensitive ear could detect, hadtheir full and original significance. 

With all respect for Miss O'Neil's emotion, and for that candidlyconfessed to by Mrs. Butler, as having been occasionally evidenced byherself, the true art, we should have said, subsists in the indicationand the repression, far rather than in the actual exhibition ormanifestation of the emotions that are to be represented. Better by farthan the familiar _si vis me flere_ axiom of Horace, who there tellsus, "If you would have me weep, you must first weep yourself, " is thesagacious comment on it in the _Tatler_, where (No. 68) the essayistremarks, with subtle discrimination: "The true art seems to be when youwould have the person you represent pitied, you must show him atonce, in the highest grief, and struggling to bear it with decency andpatience. In this case, " adds the writer, "we sigh for him, and give himevery groan he suppresses. " As for the extravagant idea of any artist, however great, identifying himself for the time being with the part heis enacting, who is there that can wonder at the snort of indignationwith which Doctor Johnson, talking one day about acting, asked Mr. Kemble, "Are you, sir, one of those enthusiasts who believe yourselftransformed into the very character you represent?" Kemble answering, according to Boswell, that he had never himself felt so stronga persuasion--"To be sure not, sir, " says Johnson, "the thing isimpossible. " Adding, with one of his dryly comical extravagances: "Andif Garrick really believed himself to be that monster Richard the Third, he deserved to be hanged every time he performed it. " What Dickenshimself really thought of these wilder affectations of intensity amongimpersonators, is, with delicious humour, plainly enough indicatedthrough that preposterous reminiscence of Mr. Crummies, "We had afirst-tragedy man in our company once, who, when he played Othello, usedto black himself all over! But that's feeling a part, and going into itas if you meant it; it isn't usual--more's the pity. " Thoroughlygiving himself up to the representation of whatever character he wasendeavouring at the moment to portray, or rather to impersonate, CharlesDickens so completely held his judgment the while in equipoise, as master of his twofold craft--that is, both as creator and aselocutionist, as author and as reader--that, as an invariable rule, he betrayed neither of those signs of insincerity, by the inadvertentrevelation of which all sense of illusion is utterly and instantlydissipated. 

Whatever scenes he described, those scenes his hearers appeared to beactually witnessing themselves. He realised everything in his own mindso intensely, that listening to him we realised what he spoke of bysympathy. Insomuch that one might, in his own words, say of him, as David Copperfield says of Mr. Peggotty, when the latter has beenrecounting little Emily's wanderings: "He saw everything he related. Itpassed before him, as he spoke, so vividly, that, in the intensityof his earnestness, he presented what he described to me with greaterdistinctness than I can express. I can hardly believe--writing now longafterwards--but that I was actually present in those scenes; they areimpressed upon me with such an astonishing air of fidelity. " While, on the one hand, he never repeated the words that had to be deliveredphlegmatically, or as by rote; on the other hand, he never permittedvoice, look, gesture, to pass the limits of discretion, even at momentsthe most impassioned; as, for example, where Nancy, in the famousmurder-scene, shrieked forth her last gasping and despairing appeals toher brutal paramour. The same thing may be remarked again in regard toall the more tenderly pathetic of his delineations. His tones then wereoften subdued almost to a whisper, every syllable, nevertheless, beingso distinctly articulated as to be audible in the remotest part of avast hall like that in Piccadilly. 

Whatever may be insinuated in regard to those particular portions of thewritings of our great novelist by cynical depreciators, who have notthe heart to recognise--as did Lord Jeffrey, for instance, one of thekeenest and shrewdest critics of his age--the exquisite pathos of adeath-scene like that of little Nell or of little Paul Dombey, in theutterance by himself of those familiar passages nothing but the manliestemotion was visible and audible from first to last. Insomuch was thisthe case, that the least impressionable of his hearers might readilyhave echoed those noble words, written years ago, out of an overflowingheart, in regard to Charles Dickens, by his great rival and his intenseadmirer, W. M. Thackeray: "In those admirable touches of tender humour, who ever equalled this great genius? There are little words and phrasesin his books which are like personal benefits to the reader. What aplace to hold in the affections of men! What an awful responsibilityhanging over a writer!" And so on, Thackeray saying all this! Thackerayspeaking thus in ejaculatory sentences indicative of his gratitudeand of his admiration! Passages that to men like William Thackeray andFrancis Jeffrey were expressive only of inimitable tenderness, might beread dry-eyed by less keen appreciators, from the printed page, mighteven be ludicrously depreciated by them as mere mawkish sentimentality. But, even among these, there was hardly one who could hear those verypassages read by Dickens himself without recognising at last, what hadhitherto remained unperceived and unsuspected, the gracious andpathetic beauty animating every thought and every word in the originaldescriptions. Equally, it may be said, in the delineation of terror andof pathos, in the murder-scene from Oliver Twist, and in the death-sceneof little Dombey, the novelist-reader attained success by the simplefact of his never once exaggerating. 

It has been well remarked by an eminent authority upon the art ofelocution, whose opinions have been already quoted in these pages, towit, John Ireland, that "There is a point to which the passions mustbe raised to display that exhibition of them which scatters contagioustenderness through the whole theatre, but carried, though but thebreadth of a hair, beyond that point, the picture becomes an overchargedcaricature, as likely to create laughter as diffuse distress. " Never, perhaps, has that subtle boundary-line been hit with more admirabledexterity, just within the hair's breadth here indicated, than it was, for example, in Macready's impersonation of Virginius, where his screamin the camp-scene betrayed his instantaneous appreciation of thewrong meditated by Appius Claudius against the virginal purity of hisdaughter. As adroitly, in his way, as that great master of hiscraft, who was for so many years among his most cherished friends andintimates, Dickens kept within the indicated lines of demarcation, beyond which no impersonator, whether upon the stage or upon theplatform, can ever pass for a single instant with impunity. 

Speaking of Munden, in one of the most charming of his Essays, CharlesLamb has said, "I have seen him diffuse a glow of sentiment which hasmade the pulse of a crowded house beat like that of one man; when he hascome in aid of the pulpit, doing good to the moral heart of a people. "The words, applied thus emphatically to the humorous and often grotesquecomedian, are exactly applicable to Dickens as a Reader. And, as Eliaremarks of Munden at another moment, "he is not one, but legion; not somuch a comedian as a company"--any one might say identically the sameof Dickens, who bears in remembrance the wonderful variety of hisimpersonations. 

Attending his Readings, character after character appeared beforeus, living and breathing, in the flesh, as we looked and listened. Itmattered nothing, just simply nothing, that the great author was thereall the while before his audience in his own identity. His eveningcostume was a matter of no consideration--the flower in his button-hole, the paper-knife in his hand, the book before him, that earnest, animated, mobile, delightful face, that we all knew by heart through hisubiquitous photographs--all were equally of no account whatever. We knewthat he alone was there all the time before us, reading, or, to speakmore accurately, re-creating for us, one and all--while his lips werearticulating the familiar words his hand had written so many yearspreviously--the most renowned of the imaginary creatures peoplinghis books. Watching him, hearkening to him, while he stood thereunmistakably before his audience, on the raised platform, in the glareof the gas-burners shining down upon him from behind the pendantscreen immediately above his head, his individuality, so to express it, altogether disappeared, and we saw before us instead, just as the casemight happen to be, Mr. Pickwick, or Mrs. Gamp, or Dr. Marigold, orlittle Paul Dombey, or Mr. Squeers, or Sam Weller, or Mr. Peggotty, orsome other of those immortal personages. We were as conscious, as thoughwe saw them, of the bald head, the spectacles, and the little gaitersof Mr. Pickwick--of the snuffy tones, the immense umbrella, and thevoluminous bonnet and gown of Mrs. Gamp--of the belcher necktie, themother-of-pearl buttons and the coloured waistcoat of the voluble CheapJack--of little Paul's sweet face and gentle accents--of the one eye andthe well-known pair of Wellingtons, adorning the head and legs ofMr. Wackford Squeers--of Sam's imperturbable nonchalance--and of Mr. Peggotty's hearty, briny, sou'-wester of a voice and general demeanour!

Even the lesser characters--those which are introduced into the originalworks quite incidentally, occupying there a wholly subordinateposition, filling up a space in the crowded tableaux, always in thebackground--were then at last brought to the fore in the course of theseReadings, and suddenly and for the first time assumed to themselves adistinct importance and individuality. Take, for instance, the namelesslodging-housekeeper's slavey, who assists at Bob Sawyer's party, andwho is described in the original work as "a dirty, slipshod girl, inblack cotton stockings, who might have passed for the neglected daughterof a superannuated dustman in very reduced circumstances. " No one hadever realised the crass stupidity of that remarkable young person--denseand impenetrable as a London fog--until her first introduction in theseReadings, with "Please, Mister Sawyer, Missis Raddle wants to speakto _you!_"--the dull, dead-level of her voice ending in the lastmonosyllable with a series of inflections almost amounting to achromatic passage. Mr. Justice Stareleigh, again!--nobody had everconceived the world of humorous suggestiveness underlying all the wordsput into his mouth until the author's utterance of them came to thereaders of Pickwick with the surprise of a revelation. Jack Hopkinsin like manner--nobody, one might say, had ever dreamt of as he was inDickens's inimitably droll impersonation of him, until the lights andshades of the finished picture were first of all brought out by theReading. Jack Hopkins!--with the short, sharp, quick articulation, rather stiff in the neck, with a dryly comic look just under theeyelids, with a scarcely expressible relish of his own for every detailof that wonderful story of his about the "neckluss, " an absolute andimplicit reliance upon Mr. Pickwick's gullibility, and an inborn andineradicable passion for chorusing. 

As with the characters, so with the descriptions. One was life itself, the other was not simply word-painting, but realisation. There was theGreat Storm at Yarmouth, for example, at the close of David Copperfield. Listening to that Reading, the very portents of the coming tempest camebefore us!--the flying clouds in wild and murky confusion, the moonapparently plunging headlong among them, "as if, in a dread disturbanceof the laws of nature, she had lost her way and were frightened, " thewind rising "with an extraordinary great sound, " the sweeping gusts ofrain coming before it "like showers of steel, " and at last, down uponthe shore and by the surf among the turmoil of the blinding wind, theflying stones and sand, "the tremendous sea itself, " that came rollingin with an awful noise absolutely confounding to the beholder! Inall fiction there is no grander description than that of one of thesublimest spectacles in nature. The merest fragments of it conjured upthe entire scene--aided as those fragments were by the look, the tones, the whole manner of the Reader. The listener was there with him inimagination upon the beach, beside David. He was there, lashed andsaturated with the salt spray, the briny taste of it on his lips, theroar and tumult in his ears--the height to which the breakers rose, and, looking over one another bore one another down and rolled in, ininterminable hosts, becoming at last, as it is written in that wonderfulchapter (55) of David Copperfield, "most appalling!" There, in truth, the success achieved was more than an elocutionary triumph--it was therealisation to his hearers, by one who had the soul of a poet, and thegifts of an orator, and the genius of a great and vividly imaginativeauthor, of a convulsion of nature when nature bears an aspect thegrandest and the most astounding. However much a masterly description, like that of the Great Storm at Yarmouth, may be admired henceforth bythose who never had the opportunity of attending these Readings, onemight surely say to them, as Æschines said to the Rhodians, when theywere applauding the speech of his victorious rival: "How much greaterwould have been your admiration if only you could have heard him deliverit!"

THE READINGS IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA. 

How it happened that Charles Dickens came to give any readings atall from his own writings has already, in the preceding pages, beenexplained. What is here intended to be done is to put on record, assimply and as accurately as possible, the facts relating to the laboursgone through by the Novelist in his professional character as a PublicReader. It will be then seen, immediately those facts have come tobe examined in their chronological order, that they were sufficientlyremarkable in many respects, as an episode in the life of a greatauthor, to justify their being chronicled in some way or other, if onlyas constituting in their aggregate a wholly unexampled incident in thehistory of literature. 

No writer, it may be confidently asserted, has ever enjoyed a widerpopularity during his own life-time than Charles Dickens; or rather itmight be said more accurately, no writer has ever enjoyed _so_ widea popularity among his own immediate contemporaries. And it was apopularity in many ways exceptional. 

It knew no fluctuation. It lasted without fading or faltering duringthirty-four years altogether, that is to say, throughout the whole ofDickens's career as a novelist. It began with his very first book, when, as Thackeray put it, "the young man came and took his place calmly atthe head of the whole tribe, as the master of all the English humoristsof his generation. " It showed no sign whatever of abatement, when, inthe middle of writing his last book, the pen fell from his hand on thatbright summer's day, and through his death a pang of grief was broughthome to millions of English-speaking people in both hemispheres. Forhis popularity had, among other distinctive characteristics, certainlythis, --it was so peculiarly personal a popularity, his name beingendeared to the vast majority who read his books with nothing less thanaffectionate admiration. 

Besides all this, it was his privilege throughout the whole of hisliterary career to address not one class, or two or three classes, butall classes of the reading public indiscriminately--the most highlyeducated and the least educated, young and old, rich and poor. Hiswritings obtained the widest circulation, of course, among those whowere the most numerous, such as among the middle classes and the betterportion of the artisan population, but they found at the same time thekeenest and cordialest appreciation among those who were necessarily thebest qualified to pronounce an opinion upon their merits, among criticsas gifted as Jeffrey and Sydney Smith, and among rivals as-illustriousas Lytton and Thackeray. It seems appropriate, therefore, that we shouldbe enabled to add now, in regard to the possession of this exceptionalreputation, and of a popularity in itself so instant, sustained, personal, and comprehensive, that, thanks entirely to these Readings, he was brought into more intimate relations individually with aconsiderable portion at least of the vast circle of his own readers, than have ever been established between any other author who could benamed and _his_ readers, since literature became a profession. 

Strictly speaking, the very first Reading given by Charles Dickensanywhere, even privately, was that which took place in the midst of alittle home-group, assembled one evening in 1843, for the purpose ofhearing the "Christmas Carol, " prior to its publication, read by himin the Lincoln's-Inn Square Chambers of the intimate friend to whom, eighteen years afterwards, was inscribed, as "of right, " the LibraryEdition of all the Novelist's works collectively. Thus unwittingly, and as it seems to us not unbefittingly, was rehearsed on the hearth ofDickens's future biographer, the first of the long series of Readings, afterwards to be given very publicly indeed, and to vast multitudes ofpeople on both sides of the Atlantic. 

As nearly as possible ten years after this, the public Readingscommenced, and during the five next years were continued, though theywere so but very intermittingly. Throughout that interval they wereinvariably given for the benefit of others, the proceeds of eachReading being applied to some generous purpose, the nature of whichwas previously announced. It was in the Town Hall at Birmingham, thatimmediately before the Christmas of 1853, the first of all these publicReadings took place in the presence of an audience numbering fully twothousand. About a year before that, the Novelist had pledged himself togive this reading, or rather a series of three readings, for the purposeof increasing the funds of a new Literary and Scientific Institutionthen projected in Birmingham. On Thursday, the 6th of January, 1853, a silver-gilt salver and a diamond ring, accompanied by an address, expressive of the admiration of the subscribers to the testimonial, hadbeen publicly presented in that town to the popular author, at the roomsof the Society of Arts in Temple Row. The kind of feeling inspiring thislittle incident may be recognised through the inscription on the salver, which intimated that it, "together with a diamond ring, was presented toCharles Dickens, Esq. , by a number of his admirers in Birmingham, on theoccasion of the literary and artistic banquet in that town, on the 6thof January, 1853, as a sincere testimony of their appreciation of hisvaried literary acquirements, and of the genial philosophy and highmoral teaching which characterise his writings. " It was upon the morrowof the banquet referred to in this inscription, a banquet whichtook place at Dee's Hotel immediately after the presentation of thetestimonial to the Novelist, that the latter generously proposed to givelater on some public Readings from his own books, in furtherance of thenewly meditated Birmingham and Midland Institute. 

The proposition, in fact, was thrown out, gracefully and almostapologetically, in a letter, addressed by him to Mr. Arthur Ryland onthe following day, the 7th of January. In this singularly interestingcommunication, which was read by its recipient on the ensuing Monday, ata meeting convened in the theatre of the Philosophical Institution, notonly did Charles Dickens offer to read his "Christmas Carol" some timeduring the course of the next Christmas, in the Town Hall at Birmingham, but referring to the complete novelty of his proposal, he thus plainlyintimated that the occasion would constitute his very first appearanceupon any public platform as a Reader, while explaining, at the sametime, the precise nature of the suggested entertainment. "It would, "he said, "take about two hours, with a pause of ten minutes half-waythrough. There would be some novelty in the thing, as I have never doneit in public, though I have in private, and (if I may say so) witha great effect on the hearers. " He further remarked, "I was soinexpressibly gratified last night by the warmth and enthusiasm of myBirmingham friends, that I feel half ashamed this morning of so pooran offer: but as I decided on making it to you before I came downyesterday, I propose it nevertheless. " As a matter of course theproposition was gratefully accepted, the Novelist formally undertakingto give the proffered Readings in the ensuing Christmas. This promise, before the year was out, Dickens returned from abroad expressly tofulfil--hastening homeward to that end, after a brief autumnal excursionin Italy and Switzerland with two of his friends, the late Augustus Egg, R. A. , and Wilkie Collins, the novelist. On the arrival of the threein Paris, they were there joined by Charles Dickens's eldest son, who, having passed through his course at Eton, had just then been completinghis scholastic education at Leipsic. The party thus increased to a_partie carrée_, hastened homewards more hurriedly than would otherwisehave been necessary, so as to enable the author punctually to fulfil hislong-standing engagement. 

It was on Tuesday, the 27th of December, 1853, therefore, that the veryfirst of these famous Readings came off in the Town Hall at Birmingham. The weather was wretched, but the hall was crowded, and the audienceenthusiastic. The Reading, which was the "Christmas Carol, " extendedover more than three hours altogether, showing how very little ofthe original story the then unpractised hand of the Reader had asyet eliminated. Notwithstanding the length of the entertainment, theunflagging interest, more even than the hearty and reiterated applauseof those who were assembled, showed the lively sense the author'sfirst audience had of his newly-revealed powers as a narrator andimpersonator. On the next day but one, Thursday, the 29th of December, he read there, to an equally large concourse, the "Cricket on theHearth. " Upon the following evening, Friday, the 30th of December, herepeated the "Carol" to another densely packed throng of listeners, mainly composed, this time, according to his own express stipulation, ofworkpeople. So delighted were these unsophisticated hearers with theirentertainer--himself so long familiarly known to them, but then for thefirst time seen and heard--that, at the end of the Reading, they greetedhim with repeated rounds of cheering. 

Those three Readings at Birmingham added considerably to the funds ofthe Institute, enhancing them at least to the extent of £400 sterling. In recognition of the good service thus effectively and delightfullyrendered to a local institution, to the presidency of which CharlesDickens himself was unanimously elected, an exquisitely designed silverflower-basket was afterwards presented to the novelist's wife. Thisgraceful souvenir had engraved upon it the following inscription:"Presented to Mrs. Charles Dickens by the Committee of the Birminghamand Midland Institute, as a slight acknowledgment of the debt ofgratitude due to her husband, for his generous liberality in readingthe 'Christmas Carol, ' and the 'Cricket on the Hearth, ' to nearlysix thousand persons, in the Town Hall, Birmingham, on the nights-ofDecember 27, 29, and 30, 1853, in aid of the funds for the establishmentof the Institute. " The incident of these three highly successfulReadings entailed upon the Reader, as events proved, an enormous amountof toil, none of which, however, did he ever grudge, in affording thelike good service to others, at uncertain intervals, in all parts, sometimes the remotest parts, of the United Kingdom. 

It would be beside our present purpose to catalogue, one after another, the various Readings given in this-way by the Novelist, before he wasdriven to the necessity at last of either giving up reading altogether, or coming to the determination to adopt it, as he then himself expressedit, as one of his recognised occupations; that is, by becoming a Readerprofessionally. . It is with his career in his professional capacity asa Reader that we have here to do. Until he had formally and avowedlyassumed that position, his labours in this way were, as a matter ofcourse, in no respect whatever systematised. They were uncertain, and inone sense, as the sequel shewed, purely tentative or preliminary. Theyyielded a world of delight, however, and did a world of good at thesame time; while they were, unconsciously to himself, preparing the wayeffectually--that is, by ripening his powers and perfecting his skillthrough practice--for the opening up to himself, quite legitimately, of a new phase in his career as a man of letters. Previously, againand again, with the pen in his hand, he had proved himself to be themaster-humorist of his time. He was now vividly to attest that factby word of mouth, by the glance of his eye, by the application to thereading of his own books, of his exceptional mimetic and histrionicgifts as an elocutionist. Added to all this, by merely observing howreadily he could pour through the proceeds of these purely benevolentReadings, princely largess into the coffers of charities or ofinstitutions in which he happened to be interested, he was to realise, what must otherwise have remained for him wholly unsuspected, that hehad, so to speak, but to stretch forth his hand to grasp a fortune. 

During the lapse of five years all this was at first very gradually, butat last quite irresistibly, brought home to his conviction. A few of theReadings thus given by him, out of motives of kindliness or generosity, may here, in passing, be particularised. 

A considerable time after the three Readings just mentioned, and whichwere distinctly inaugurative of the whole of our author's readingcareer, there was one, which came off in Peterborough, that has notonly been erroneously described as antecedent to those three Readings atBirmingham, but has been depicted, at the same time, with details inthe account of it of the most preposterous character. The Reader, forexample, has been portrayed, --in this purely apocryphal description ofwhat throughout it is always referred to as though it were the firstReading of all, which it certainly was not, --as in a highly nervousstate from the commencement of it to its conclusion! This bemg said ofone who, when asked if he ever felt nervous while speaking in public, isknown to have replied, "Not in the least "--adding, that "when first hetook the chair he felt as much confidence as though he had already donethe like a hundred times!" As corroborative of which remark, the presentwriter recalls to recollection very clearly the fact of Dickens sayingto him one day, --saying it with a most whimsical air by-the-bye, but very earnestly, --"Once, and but once only in my life, Iwas--frightened!" The occasion he referred to was simply this, as heimmediately went on to explain, that somewhere about the middle ofthe serial publication of David Copperfield, happening to be out ofwriting-paper, he sallied forth one morning to get a fresh supply at thestationer's. He was living then in his favourite haunt, at Fort House, in Broadstairs. As he was about to enter the stationer's shop, withthe intention of buying the needful writing-paper, for the purposeof returning home with it, and at once setting to work upon his nextnumber, not one word of which was yet written, he stood aside for amoment at the threshold to allow a lady to pass in before him. Hethen went on to relate--with a vivid sense still upon him of mingledenjoyment and dismay in the mere recollection--how the next instant hehad overheard this strange lady asking the person behind the counter forthe new green number. When it was handed to her, "Oh, this, " said she, "I have read. I want the next one. " The next one she was thereupon toldwould be out by the end of the month. "Listening to this, unrecognised, "he added, in conclusion, "knowing the purpose for which I was there, andremembering that not one word of the number she was asking for was yetwritten, for the first and only time in my life, I felt--frightened!"So much for the circumstantial account put forth of this Reading atPeterborough, and of the purely imaginary nervousness displayed bythe Reader, who, on the contrary, there, as elsewhere, was throughoutperfectly self-possessed. 

On Saturday, the 22nd December, 1855, in the Mechanics' Hall atSheffield, another of these Readings was given, it being the "Carol, " asusual, and the proceeds being in aid of the funds of that institution. The Mayor of Sheffield, who presided upon the occasion, at the close ofthe proceedings, presented to the author, as a suitable testimonialfrom a number of his admirers in that locality, a complete set of tablecutlery. 

An occasional Reading, moreover, was given at Chatham, to assist indefraying the expenses of the Chatham, Rochester, Strood, and BromptonMechanics' Institution, of which the master of Gadshill was for thirteenyears the President. His titular or official connection with thisinstitute, in effect, was that of Perpetual President. His interest init in that character ceased only with his life. Throughout the whole ofthe thirteen years during which he presided over its fortunes, he wasin every imaginable way its most effective and energetic supporter. SixReadings in all were given by him at the Chatham Mechanics' Institution, in aid of its funds. The first, which was the "Christmas Carol, " tookplace on the 27th December, 1857, the new Lecture Hall, which wasappropriately decorated with evergreens and brilliantly illuminated, being crowded with auditors, conspicuous among whom were the officers ofthe neighbouring garrison and dockyard. The second, which consisted of"Little Dombey" and "The Trial Scene from Pickwick, " came off on the29th December, 1858. Long before any arrangement had been definitivelymade in regard to this second Reading, the local newspaper, in anapparently authoritative paragraph, announced, "on the best authority, "that another Reading-was immediately to be given, by Mr. Dickens, inbehalf of the Mechanics' Institution. It is characteristic of him thathe, thereupon, wrote to the Chatham newspaper, "I know nothing of your'best authority, ' except that he is (as he always is) preposterouslyand monstrously wrong. " Eventually this Reading was arranged for, nevertheless, and came off at the date already mentioned. A thirdReading at Chatham, comprising within it "The Poor Traveller" (theopening of which had a peculiar local interest), "Boots" atthe "Holly Tree Inn, " and "Mrs. Gamp, " took place in 1860, on the 18thDecember. A fourth was given there on the 16th January, 1862, when theNovelist read his six selected chapters from "David Copperfield. " Afifth, consisting of "Nicholas Nickleby at Dotheboys Hall, " and "Mr. Bob Sawyer's-Party, " took place in 1863, on the 15th December. Finally, there came off the sixth of these Chatham readings, on the 19thDecember, 1865, when the "Carol" was repeated, with the addition of thegreat case of "Bardell versus Pickwick. " Upwards of £400 were thus, asthe fruit of these exhilarating entertainments, poured into the coffersof the Chatham Institute. It can hardly be wondered at that, in theannual reports issued by the committee, emphatic expression should havebeen more than once given to the deep sense of gratitude entertainedby them for the services rendered to the institution by its illustriouspresident-A fragmentary portion of that issued by the committee inthe January of 1864--referring, as it does, to-Charles Dickens, inassociation with his home and his favourite haunts down at Gadshill--weare here tempted to give, as indicative of the feelings of pride andadmiration with which the great author was regarded by his ownimmediate neighbours. After referring to the large sums realised for theinstitution through the Readings thus generously given by its president, the committee went on to say in this report, at the beginning of 1864, "Simply to have the name of one whose writings have become householdwords at every home and hearth where the English language is spoken, associated with their efforts for the public entertainment andimprovement, must be considered a great honour and advantage. But, whento this is added the large pecuniary assistance derived from such aconnection, your committee find that they--and, of course, the memberswhom they represent--owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Dickens, which wordscan but poorly express. They trust that the home which he now occupiesin the midst of the beautiful woodlands of Kent, and so near to thescene of his boyish memories and associations, may long be to him one ofhappiness and prosperity. If Shakspere, our greatest national poet, hadbefore made Gadshill a classic spot, surely it is now doubly consecratedby genius since Dickens, the greatest and most genial of modernhumorists, as well as one of the most powerful and pathetic delineatorsof human character, has fixed his residence there. To those who have sooften and so lately been moved to laughter and tears by the humour andpathos of the inimitable writer and reader, and who have profited by hisgratuitous services to the institution, your committee feel thatthey need make no apology for dwelling at some length upon this mostagreeable part of their report. " Thus profound were the feelings ofrespect, affection, and admiration with which the master-humorist wasregarded by those who lived, and who were proud of living, in his ownimmediate neighbourhood. 

On the evening of Tuesday, the 30th June, 1857, Charles Dickens read forthe first time in London, at the then St. Martin's Hall, now the Queen'sTheatre, in Long Acre. The occasion was one, in many respects, ofpeculiar interest. As recently as on the 8th of that month, DouglasJerrold had breathed his last, quite unexpectedly. Dying in the fulnessof his powers, and at little more than fifty years of age, he had passedaway, it was felt, prematurely. As a tribute of affection to his memory, and of sympathy towards his widow and orphan children, those among hisbrother authors who had been more intimately associated with him in hisliterary career, organised, in the interests of his bereaved family, aseries of entertainments. And in the ordering of the programme it was soarranged that this earliest metropolitan reading of one of his smallerworks by Charles Dickens should be the second of these entertainments. Densely crowded in every part, St. Martin's Hall upon this occasion wasthe scene of as remarkable a reception and of as brilliant a success aswas in any way possible. It was a wonderful success financially. As anelocutionary--or, rather, as a dramatic--display, it was looked forwardto with the liveliest curiosity. The author's welcome when heappeared upon the platform was of itself a striking attestation of hispopularity. 

Upwards of fourteen years have elapsed since the occasion referred to, yet we have still as vividly in our remembrance, as though it were butan incident of yesterday, the enthusiasm of the reception then accordedto the great novelist by an audience composed, for the most part, of representative Londoners. The applause with which he was greeted, immediately upon his entrance, was so earnestly prolonged and sustained, that it threatened to postpone the Reading indefinitely. Silence havingat last been restored, however, the Reader's voice became audible in theutterance of these few and simple words, by way of preliminary:--

 "Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour to read "to you 'A Christmas Carol, ' in four staves. Stave "one, 'Marley's Ghost. '"

The effect, by the way, becoming upon the instant rather incongruous, as the writer of this very well remembers, when, through a sudden andjarring recollection of what the occasion was that had brought us alltogether, the Reader began, with a serio-comic inflection, "Marley wasdead: to begin with. There's no doubt whatever about that. The registerof his burial was signed. " And so on through those familiar introductorysentences, in which Jacob Marley's demise is insisted upon with suchludicrous particularity. The momentary sense of incongruity herereferred to was lost, however, directly afterwards, as everyone'sattention became absorbed in the author's own relation to us of hisworld-famous ghost-story of Christmas. 

Whereas the First Reading of the tale down in the provinces had occupiedthree hours in its delivery, the First Reading of it in the metropolishad been; diminished by half an hour. Beginning at 8 p. M. , and endingat very nearly 10. 30 p. M. , with merely five minutes' interruptionabout midway, the entertainment so enthralled and delighted the audiencethroughout, that its close, after two hours and a half of the keenestattention, was the signal for a long outburst of cheers, mingled withthe waving of hats and handkerchiefs. The description of the scenethere witnessed is in noway exaggerated. It is the record of our ownremembrance. 

And the enthusiasm thus awakened among Charles Dickens's first Londonaudience can hardly be wondered at, when we recall to mind Thackeray'sexpression of opinion in regard to that very same story of the ChristmasCarol immediately after its publication, when he wrote in _Fraser_, July, 1844, under his pseudonym of M. A. Titmarsh: "It seems to me anational benefit, and to every man and woman who-reads it a personalkindness;" adding, "The last two people I heard speak of it werewomen; neither knew the other, or the author, and both said, by way ofcriticism, 'God bless him!'" Precisely in the same way, it may here besaid, in regard to that first night of his own public reading of it inSt. Martin's Hall, that there was a genial grasp of the hand in the lookof every kind face then turned towards the platform, and a "God blesshim" in every one of the ringing cheers that accompanied his departure. 

A Reading of the "Carol" was given by its author in the followingDecember down at Coventry, in aid of the funds of the local institute. And about a twelvemonth afterwards, on the 4th of December, 1858, ingrateful acknowledgment of what was regarded in those cases always as adouble benefaction (meaning the Reading itself and its golden proceeds), the novelist was entertained at a public banquet, at the Castle Hotel, Coventry, when a gold watch was presented to him as a testimonial ofadmiration from the leading inhabitants. 

Finally, as the last of all these non-professional readings by ourauthor, there was given on Friday the 26th of March, 1858, a readingof the "Christmas Carol, " in the Music Hall at Edinburgh. His audienceconsisted of the members of, or subscribers to, the PhilosophicalInstitution. At the close of the evening the Lord Provost, who had beenpresiding, presented to the Beader a massive and ornate silver wassailbowl. Seventeen years prior to that, Charles Dickens had been publiclyentertained in Edinburgh, --Professor Wilson having been the chairman ofthe banquet given then in his honour. He had been at that time enrolleda burgess and guildbrother of the ancient corporation of the metropolisof Scotland. He had, among other incidents of a striking charactermarking his reception there at the same period, seen, on his chanceentrance into the theatre, the whole audience rise spontaneously inrecognition of him, the musicians in the orchestra, with a courtlyfelicity, striking up the cavalier air of "Charley is my Darling. "If only out of a gracious remembrance of all this, it seemed notinappropriate that the very last of the complimentary readings shouldhave been given by the novelist at Edinburgh, and that the Lord Provostof Edinburgh should, as if by way of stirrup-cup, have handed to theWriter and Reader of the "Carol, " that souvenir from its citizens, inhonour of the author himself and of his favourite theme, Christmas. 

It was in connection with the organisation of the series ofentertainments, arranged during the summer of 1857, in memory ofJerrold, and in the interests of Jerrold's family, that the attentionof Charles Dickens was first of all awakened to a recognition of thepossibility that he might, with good reason, do something better thancarry out his original intention, that, namely, of dropping theseReadings altogether, as simply exhausting and unremunerative. He hadlong since come to realise that it could in no conceivable way whateverderogate from the dignity of his position as an author, to appear thusin various parts of the United Kingdom, before large masses of hisfellow-countrymen, in the capacity of a Public Reader. His so appearingwas a gratification to himself as an artist, and was clearly enough alsoa gratification to his hearers, as appreciators of his twofold art, bothas Author and as Reader. He perceived clearly enough, therefore, thathis labours in those associated capacities were perfectly compatible;that, in other words, he might, if he so pleased, quite reasonablyaccept the duties devolving upon him as a Reader, as among hislegitimate avocations. 

Conspicuous among those who had shared in the getting up of the Jerroldentertainments--including among them, as we have seen, the first ofhis own Readings in London--the novelist had especially observed theremarkable skill or aptitude, as a general organiser, manifested fromfirst to last by the Honorary Secretary, into whose hands, in pointof fact, had fallen the responsibility of the entire management. ThisHonorary Secretary was no other than Albert Smith's brother Arthur--onewho was not only the right-hand, as it were, of the Ascender of MontBlanc, and of the Traveller in China, but who (behind the scenes, andunknown to the public) was the veritable wire-puller, prompter, Figaro, factotum of that _farceur_. Among story-tellers, and of thatlaughter-moving patterer among public entertainers. Arthur Smith, fullof resource, of contrivance, and of readiness, possessed in fact all thequalifications essential to a rapid organiser. He was, of all men whocould possibly have been hit upon, precisely the very one to undertakein regard to an elaborate enterprise, like that of a long series ofReadings in the metropolis, and of a comprehensive tour of Readingsin the provinces, the responsible duties of its commercial management. Brought together accidentally at the time of the Jerrold testimonial, the Honorary Secretary of the fund and the Author-reader of the "Carol"came, as it seems now, quite naturally, to be afterwards intimatelyassociated with one another, more in connection with the scheme ofprofessional Readings, which reasonably grew up at last out of theprevious five years' Readings, of a purely complimentary character. 

Altogether, as has been said on an earlier page, Charles Dickens cannothave given less than some Five Hundred Readings. As a professionalReader alone he gave considerably over Four Hundred. Beginning in thespring of 1858, and ending in the spring of 1870, his career in thatcapacity extended at intervals over a lapse of twelve years: thosetwelve years embracing within them several distinct tours in England, Ireland, and Scotland, and in the United States; and many eitherentirely distinct or carefully interwoven series in London at St. Martin's Hall, at the Hanover Square Rooms, and at St. James's Hall, Piccadilly. 

The first series in the metropolis, and the first tour in the UnitedKingdom, were made in 1858, under Mr. Arthur Smith's management. Thesecond provincial tour, partly in 1861, partly in 1862, and two sets ofreadings in London, one at the St. James's Hall in 1862, the other atthe Hanover Square Rooms in 1863, took place under Mr. Thomas Headland'smanagement. As many as four distinct, and all of them important tours, notably one on the other side of the Atlantic, were carried outbetween 1866 and 1869, both years inclusive, under Mr. George Dolby'smanagement. As showing at once the proportion of the enormous aggregateof 423 Readings, with winch these three managers were concerned, it maybe added here that while the first-mentioned had to do with 111, and thesecond with 70, the third and last-mentioned had to do with as many as242 altogether. 

It was on the evening of Thursday, the 29th of April, 1858, thatCharles Dickens first made his appearance upon a platform in a strictlyprofessional character as a public Reader. Although, hitherto, he hadnever once read for himself, he did so then avowedly--not merely byprinted announcement beforehand, but on addressing himself by word ofmouth to the immense audience assembled there in St. Martin's Hall. TheReading selected for the occasion was "The Cricket on the Hearth, " butbefore its commencement, the author spoke as follows, doing so with wellremembered clearness of articulation, as though he were particularlydesirous that every word should be thoroughly weighed by his hearers, and taken to heart, by reason of their distinctly explaining therelations in which he and they would, thenceforth stand towards eachother:--

 "Ladies and Gentlemen, --It may, perhaps, be "known to you that, for a few years past I have been "accustomed occasionally to read some of my shorter "books to various audiences, in aid of a variety of "good objects, and at some charge to myself both in "time and money. It having at length become im- "possible in any reason to comply with these always "accumulating demands, I have had definitely to "choose between now and then reading on my own "account as one of my recognised occupations, or not "reading at all. I have had little or no difficulty in "deciding on the former course. 

 "The reasons that have led me to it--besides the "consideration that it necessitates no departure what- "ever from the chosen pursuits of my life--are three- "fold. Firstly, I have satisfied myself that it can "involve no possible compromise of the credit and "independence of literature. Secondly, I have long "held the opinion, and have long acted on the opinion, "that in these times whatever brings a public man "and his public face to face, on terms of mutual con- "fidence and respect, is a good thing. Thirdly, I "have had a pretty large experience of the interest "my hearers are so generous as to take in these occa- "sions, and of the delight they give to me, as a tried "means of strengthening those relations, I may "almost say of personal friendship, which it is my "great privilege and pride, as it is my great respon- "sibility, to hold with a multitude of persons who will "never hear my voice, or see my face. 

 "Thus it is that I come, quite naturally, to be here "among you at this time. And thus it is that I pro- "ceed to read this little book, quite as composedly as "I might proceed to write it, or to publish it in any "other way. "

Remembering perfectly well, as we do, the precision with which heuttered every syllable of this little address, and the unmistakablecordiality with which its close was greeted, we can assert withconfidence that Reader and Audience from the very first instant stoodtowards each other on terms of mutually respectful consideration. Remembering perfectly well, as we do, moreover, the emotion with whichhis last words were articulated and listened to on the occasion of hisvery last or Farewell Reading in the great hall near Piccadilly--andmore than two thousand others must still perfectly well remember thatlikewise--we may no less confidently assert that those feelings hadknown no abatement, but on the contrary, had, during the lapse of manydelightful years, come to be not only confirmed but intensified. 

Sixteen Readings were comprised in that first series in London, at St. Martin's Hall. Inaugurated, as we have seen, on the 29th of April, 1858, the series was completed on the 22nd of the ensuing July. It may herebe interesting to mention that, midway in the course of these SixteenReadings, he gave for the first time in London, on Thursday the 10th ofJune, "The Story of Little Dombey, " and on the following Thursday, the17th of June, also for the first time in London, "The Poor Traveller, ""Boots at the Holly Tree Inn, " and "Mrs. Gamp. " Whatever the subject ofthe Reading, whatever the state of the weather, the hall was crowdedin every part, from the stalls to the galleries. Eleven days after theLondon season closed, the Reader and his business manager began theirenormous round of the provinces. 

As many as Eighty-Seven Readings were given in the course of this oneprovincial excursion. The first took place on Monday, the 2nd of August, at Clifton; the last on Saturday, the 13th of November, at Brighton. The places visited in Ireland included Dublin and Belfast, Cork andLimerick. Those traversed in Scotland comprised Edinburgh and Dundee, Aberdeen, Perth, and Glasgow. As for England, besides the towns alreadynamed, others of the first importance were taken in quick succession, anextraordinary amount of rapid railway travelling being involved in thepunctual carrying out of the prescribed programme. However different intheir general character the localities might be, the Readings somehowappeared to have some especial attraction for each, whether they weregiven in great manufacturing towns, like Manchester or Birmingham; infashionable watering-places, like Leamington or Scarborough; in busyoutports, like Liverpool or Southampton; in ancient cathedral towns, like York or Durham, or in seaports as removed from each other, asPlymouth and Portsmouth. Localities as widely separated as Exeter fromHarrogate, as Oxford from Halifax, or as Worcester from Sunderland, were visited, turn by turn, at the particular time appointed. In acomprehensive round, embracing within it Wakefield and Shrewsbury, Nottingham and Leicester, Derby and Ruddersfield, the principal greattowns were taken one after another. At Hull and Leeds, no less than atChester and Bradford, as large and enthusiastic audiences were gatheredtogether as, in their appointed times also were attracted to theReadings, in places as entirely dissimilar as Newcastle and Darlington, or as Sheffield and Wolverhampton. 

The enterprise was, in its way, wholly unexampled. It extended overa period of more than three months altogether. It brought the popularauthor for the first time face to face with a multitude of his readersin various parts of the three kingdoms. And at every place, withoutexception throughout the tour, the adventure was more than justified, asa source of artistic gratification alike to himself and to his hearers, no less than as a purely commercial undertaking, the project throughoutproving successful far beyond the most sanguine anticipations. Thoughthe strain upon his energies, there can be no doubt of it, was veryconsiderable, the Reader had brought vividly before him in recompense, on Eighty-Seven distinct occasions, the most startling proofs of hispopularity--the financial results, besides this, when all was over, yielding substantial evidence of his having, indeed, won "goldenopinions" from all sorts of people. 

His provincial tour, it has been seen, closed at Brighton on the 13th ofNovember. Immediately after this, it was announced that three ChristmasReadings would be given in London at St. Martin's Hall--the first andsecond on the Christmas Eve and the Boxing Day of 1858, those beingrespectively Friday and Monday, and the third on Twelfth Night, Thursday, the 6th of January, 1859. Upon each of these occasions the"Christmas Carol" and the "Trial from Pickwick, " were given to audiencesthat were literally overflowing, crowds of applicants each eveningfailing to obtain admittance. In consequence of this, three otherReadings were announced for Thursday, the 13th, for Thursday, the 20th, and for Friday, the 28th of January--the "Carol" and "Trial" being fixedfor the last time on the 13th; the Reading on the second of thesethree supplementary nights being "Little Dombey" and the "Trial fromPickwick;" the last of the three including within it, besides the"Trial, " "Mrs. Gamp" and the "Poor Traveller. " As affordingconclusive proof of the sustained success of the Readings as a popularentertainment, it may here be added that advertisements appeared on themorrow of the one last mentioned, to the effect that "it has been foundunavoidable to appoint two more Readings of the 'Christmas Carol' andthe 'Trial from Pickwick'"--those two, by the way, being, from first tolast, the most attractive of all the Readings. On Thursday, the 3rd, and on Tuesday, the 8th of February, the two last of these supplementaryReadings in London, the aggregate of which had thus been extended fromThree to Eight, were duly delivered. And in this way were completed the111 Readings already referred to as having been given under Mr. ArthurSmith's management. 

Upwards of two years and a half then elapsed without any more of theReadings being undertaken, either in the provinces or in the metropolis. During 1860, in fact, Great Expectations was appearing from week toweek in _All the Year Round_. And it was a judicious rule with ourauthor--broken only at the last, and fatally, at the very end of histwofold career as Writer and as Reader--never to give a series ofReadings while one of his serial stories was being produced. At length, however, in the late summer, or early autumn of 1861, the novelist wassufficiently free from literary pre-occupations for another tour, andanother series of Readings in London to be projected. The arrangementsfor each were sketched out by Mr. Arthur Smith, as the one stillentrusted with the financial management of the undertaking. His health, however, was so broken by that time, that it soon became apparent thathe could not reasonably hope to superintend in person the carrying outof the new enterprise. It was decided, therefore, provisionally, thatMr. Headland, who, upon the former occasion, had acted with him, shouldnow, under his direction and as his representative, undertake theactual management. Before the projected tour of 1861 actually commenced, however, Mr. Arthur Smith had died, in September. The simply provisionalarrangement lapsed in consequence, and upon Mr. Headland himselfdevolved the responsibility of carrying out the plans sketched out byhis predecessor. 

Although about the same time that had been allotted to the First Tour, namely a whole quarter, had been set apart for the Second, the latterincluded within it but very little more than half the number of Readingsgiven in the earlier and more rapid round of the provinces. The SecondTour, in point of fact--beginning on Monday, the 28th of October, 1861, at Norwich, and terminating on Thursday, the 30th of January, 1862, atChester--comprised within it Forty-Seven, instead of, as on the formeroccasion, Eighty-Seven readings altogether. Many of the principal townsand cities of England, not visited during the more comprehensive sweepmade in 1858, through the three kingdoms, were now reached--the tour, this time, being restricted within the English boundaries. Lancaster andCarlisle, for example, Hastings and Canterbury, Ipswich and Colchester, were severally included in the new programme. Resorts of fashion, likeTorquay and Cheltenham, were no longer overlooked. Preston in the north, Dover in the south, were each in turn the scene of a Reading. Bury St. Edmund's, in 1861, was reached on the 30th of October, and on the 25thof November an excursion was even made to the far-off border town ofBerwick-upon-Tweed. Less hurried and less laborious than the first, thissecond tour was completed, as we have said, at Chester, just before theclose of the first month of 1862, namely, on the 30th of January. 

Then came the turn once more of London, where a series of Ten Readingswas given in the St. James's Hall, Piccadilly. These ten Readings, beginning on Thursday, the 13th of March, were distributed over sixteenweeks, ending on Friday, the 27th of June. Another metropolitan series, still under Mr. Headland's management, was given as nearly as possibleat the same period of the London season in the following twelvemonth. The Hanover Square Booms were the scene of these Readings of 1863, whichbegan on Monday, the 2nd of March, and ended on Saturday, the 13th ofJune, numbering in all not ten, as upon the last occasion, but Thirteen. 

During the winter of this year, Two notable Readings were given by theNovelist at the British Embassy, in Paris, their proceeds being devotedto the British Charitable Fund in that capital. These Readings were sobrilliantly successful, that, by particular desire, they were, a littletime afterwards, supplemented by a Third, which was quite as numerouslyattended as either of its predecessors. The audience upon each occasion, partly English, partly French, comprised among their number many ofthe most gifted and distinguished of the Parisians. These threeentertainments were given under the immediate auspices of the EarlCowley, then Her Majesty's ambassador to the court of Napoleon III. 

A considerable interval now elapsed, extending in fact over nearly threeyears altogether, before the author again appeared upon the platform inhis capacity as a Reader, either in London or in the Provinces. Duringhis last provincial tour, there had been some confusion caused tothe general arrangements by reason of the abrupt but unavoidablepostponement of a whole week's Readings, previously announced as comingoff, three of them at Liverpool, one at Chester, and two at Manchester. These six readings instead, however, of duly taking place, as originallyarranged, between the 16th and the 21st of December, 1861, had tobe given four weeks later on, between the 13th and the 30th of thefollowing January. The disarrangement of the programme thus caused arosesimply from the circumstance of the wholly unlooked-for and lamenteddeath of H. E. H. The Prince Consort. Another confusion in the carefullyprepared plans for one of the London series, again, had been caused byan unexpected difficulty, at the last moment, in securing the greatHall in Piccadilly, that having been previously engaged on the requiredevenings for a series of musical entertainments. Hence the selectionfor that season of the Hanover Square Rooms, which, at any rate for theWest-end public, could not but be preferable to that earliest sceneof the London Readings, St. Martin's Hall, Long Acre. Apart fromevery other consideration, however, the Novelist's remembrance of theconfusions and disarrangements which had been incidental to his lastprovincial tour, and to the last series of his London Readings, ratherdisinclined him to hasten the date of his re-appearance in his characteras a public Reader. As it happened, besides, after the summer of 1863, nearly two years elapsed, between the May of 1864 and the Novemberof 1865, during which he was in a manner precluded from seriouslyentertaining any such project by the circumstance that the green numbersof "Our Mutual Friend" were, all that while, in course of publication. Even when that last of his longer serial stories had been completed, itis doubtful whether he would have cared to take upon himself anew theirksome stress and responsibility inseparable from one of those doublylaborious undertakings--a lengthened series of Readings in London, coupled with, or rather interwoven with, another extended tour throughthe provinces. 

As it fortunately happened, however, very soon after the completionof "Our Mutual Friend, " Charles Dickens had held out to him a doubleinducement to undertake once more the duties devolving upon him in hiscapacity as a Reader. The toil inseparable from the Readings themselves, as well as the fatigue resulting inevitably from so much rapidtravelling hither and thither by railway during the period set apart fortheir delivery, would still be his. But at the least, according to theproposition now made to him, the Reader would be relieved from furthercare as to the general supervision, and at any rate, from all senseof responsibility in the revived project as a purely financial orspeculative undertaking. The Messrs. Chappell, of New Bond Street, a firm skilled in the organizing of public entertainments of variouskinds, chiefly if not exclusively until then, entertainments of amusical character, offered, in fact, in 1866 to assume to themselvesthenceforth the whole financial responsibility of the Readings in theMetropolis and throughout the United Kingdom. According to the proposaloriginally submitted to the Novelist by the Messrs. Chappell, and atonce frankly accepted by him, a splendid sum was guaranteed to himin remuneration. Twice afterwards those terms were considerablyincreased, --and upon each occasion, it should be added, quitespontaneously. 

Another inducement was held out to the Reader besides that of his beingrelieved from all further sense of responsibility in the undertaking asa merely speculative enterprise. It related to the chance of his findinghimself released also from any further sense of solicitude as to theconduct of the general business management. The inducement, here, however, was of course in no way instantly recognizable. Experiencealone could show the fitness for his post of the Messrs. Chappell'srepresentative. As good fortune would have it, nevertheless, hereprecisely was an instance in which Mr. Layard's famous phrase about theright man in the right place, was directly applicable. As a thoroughlycompetent business manager, and as one whose companionship of itself hada heartening influence in the midst of enormous toil, Mr. Dolby speedilycame to be recognised as the very man for the position, as the very onewho in all essential respects it was most desirable should have beenselected. 

A series of Thirty Readings was at once planned under his supervision. It consisted for the first time of a tour through England and Scotland, interspersed with Readings every now and then in the Metropolis. TheReader's course in this way seemed to be erratic, but the whole schemewas admirably well arranged beforehand, and once entered upon, wascarried out with the precision of clockwork. These thirty Readings, in 1866, began and ended at St. James's Hall, Piccadilly. The openingnight was that of Tuesday, the 10th of April, the closing night thatof Tuesday, the 12th of June. Between those dates half-a-dozen otherReadings were given from the same central platform in London, theindefatigable author making his appearance meanwhile alternately in theprincipal cities of the United Kingdom. Besides revisiting in this way(some of these places repeatedly) in the north, Edinburgh and Glasgowand Aberdeen, in the south and south-west, Clifton and Portsmouth, aswell as Liverpool and Manchester intermediately--Charles Dickensduring the course of this tour read for the first time at Bristol, atGreenwich, and in the Crystal Palace at Sydenham. 

The inauguration of the series of Readings now referred to had apeculiar interest imparted to it by the circumstance that, on theevening of Tuesday, the 10th of April, 1866, there was first of allintroduced to public notice the comic patter and pathetic recollectionsof the Cheap Jack, Doctor Marigold. 

Half a year afterwards a longer series of the Readings began under theorganisation of the Messrs. Chappell, and under the direction ofMr. Dolby as their business manager. It took place altogether underprecisely similar circumstances as the last, with this only differencethat the handsome terms of remuneration originally guaranteed tothe author were, as already intimated, considerably and voluntarilyincreased by the projectors of the enterprise, the pecuniary results ofthe first series having been so very largely beyond their expectations. Fifty Readings instead of thirty were now arranged for--Ireland beingvisited as well as the principal towns and cities of England andScotland. Six Readings were given at Dublin, and one at Belfast; fourwere given at Glasgow, and two at Edinburgh. Bath, for the first time, had the opportunity of according a public welcome to the great humorist, some of the drollest scenes in whose earliest masterpiece occur in thecity of Bladud, as every true Pickwickian very well remembers. Then, also, for the first time, he was welcomed--by old admirers of his in hiscapacity as an author, new admirers of his thenceforth in his laterand minor capacity as a Reader--at Swansea and Gloucester, at Stoke andBlackburn, at Hanley and Warrington. Tuesday, the 15th of January, 1867, was the inaugural night of the series, when "Barbox, Brothers, " and"The Boy at Mugby, " were read for the first time at St. James's Hall, Piccadilly. Monday, the 13th of May, was the date of the last night ofthe season, which was brought to a close upon the same platform, thesuccess of every Reading, without exception, both in London and in theprovinces, having been simply unexampled. 

It was shortly after this that the notion was first entertained by theNovelist of entering upon that Reading Tour in America, which has sincebecome so widely celebrated. Overtures had been made to him repeatedlyfrom the opposite shores of the Atlantic, with a view to induce himto give a course of Readings in the United States. Speculators wouldgladly, no doubt, have availed themselves of so golden an opportunityfor turning to account his immense reputation. There were those, however, at home here, who doubted as to the advisability of the authorentering, under any conceivable circumstances, upon an undertakingobviously involving in its successful accomplishment an enormous amountof physical labour and excitement. Added to this, the project wasinseparable in any case--however favourable might be the manner ofits ultimate arrangement--from a profound sense of responsibility allthrough the period that would have to be set apart for its realisation. It was among the more remarkable characteristics of Charles Dickensthat, while he was endowed with a brilliant imagination, and with agenius in many ways incomparable, he was at the same time gifted withthe clearest and soundest judgment, being, in point of fact, what iscalled a thoroughly good man of business. Often as he had shewn thisto be the case during the previous phases of his career, he neverdemonstrated the truth of it so undeniably as in the instance of thisproposed Reading Tour in the United States. Determined to understand atonce whether the scheme, commended by some, denounced by others, was initself, to begin with, feasable, and after that advisable, he despatchedMr. Dolby to America for the purpose of surveying the proposed scene ofoperations. Immediately on his emissary's return, Dickens drew up a fewpithy sentences, headed by him, "The Case in a Nutshell. " His decisionwas what those more immediately about him had for some time anticipated. He made up his mind to go, and to go quite independently. The Messrs. Chappell, it should be remarked at once, had no part whatever inthe enterprise. The Author-Reader accepted for himself the soleresponsibility of the undertaking. As a matter of course, he retainedMr. Dolby as his business manager, despatching him again across theAtlantic, when everything had been arranged between them, to the endthat all should be in readiness by the time of his own arrival. 

Within the brief interval which then elapsed, Between the businessmanager's return to, and the Author-Reader's departure for, America, that well-remembered Farewell Banquet was given to Charles Dickens, which was not unworthy of signalising his popularity and his reputation. He himself, upon the occasion, spoke of it as that "proud night, "recognising clearly enough, as he could hardly fail to do, in thegathering around him, there in Freemasons' Hall, on the evening of the2nd of November, 1867, one of the most striking incidents in a careerthat had been almost all sunshine, both from within and from without, from the date of its commencement. It was there, in the midst of whathe himself referred to, at the time, as that "brilliant representativecompany, " while acknowledging the presence around him of so many of hisbrother artists, "not only in literature, but also in the fine arts, " heavailed himself of the opportunity to relate very briefly the story ofhis setting out once more for America. "Since I was there before, " hesaid, "a vast, entirely new generation has arisen in the United States. Since I was there before, most of the best known of my books havebeen written and published. The new generation and the books have cometogether and have kept together, until at last numbers of those who haveso widely and constantly read me, naturally desiring a little varietyin the relations between us, have expressed a strong wish that I shouldread myself. This wish at last conveyed to me, through public channelsand business channels, has gradually become enforced by an immenseaccumulation of letters from individuals and associations ofindividuals, all expressing in the same hearty, homely, cordial, unaffected way a kind of personal interest in me; I had almost said akind of personal affection for me, which I am sure you will agree withme, it would be dull insensibility on my part not to prize. " Hence, ashe explained, his setting forth on that day week upon his second visitto America, with a view among other purposes, according to his ownhappy phrase, to use his best endeavours "to lay down a third cable ofintercommunication and alliance between the old world and the new. "The illustrious chairman who presided over that Farewell Banquet, Lord Lytton, had previously remarked, speaking in his capacity as apolitician, "I should say that no time could be more happily chosenfor his visit;" adding, "because our American kinsfolk have conceived, rightly or wrongfully, that they have some cause of complaint againstourselves, and out of all England we could not have selected an envoymore calculated to allay irritation and to propitiate good will. " As onewhose cordial genius was, in truth, a bond of sympathy between the twogreat kindred nationalities, Charles Dickens indeed went forth inone sense at that time, it might almost have been said, in asemi-ambassadorial character, not between the rulers, but between thepeoples. The incident of his visit to America could in no respect beconsidered a private event, but, from first to last, was regarded, and reasonably regarded, as a public and almost as an internationaloccurrence. "Happy is the man, " said Lord Lytton, on that 2nd ofNovember, when proposing the toast of the evening in words of eloquenceworthy of himself and of his theme, "Happy is the man who makes clearhis title deeds to the royalty of genius, while he yet lives to enjoythe gratitude and reverence of those whom he has subjected to his sway. Though it is by conquest that he achieves his throne, he at least isa conqueror whom the conquered bless, and the more despotically heenthralls the dearer he becomes to the hearts of men. " Observing, inconclusion, as to this portion of his argument, "Seldom, I say, has thatkind of royalty been quietly conceded to any man of genius until histomb becomes his throne, and yet there is not one of us now present whothinks it strange that it is granted without a murmur to the guest whomwe receive to-night. " As if in practical recognition of the prerogativethus gracefully referred to by his brother-author, a royal salooncarriage on Friday, the 8th of November, conveyed Charles Dickens fromLondon to Liverpool. On the following morning he took his departure onboard the _Cuba_ for the United States, arriving at Boston on Tuesday, the 19th, when the laconic message "Safe and well, " was flashed home bysubmarine telegraph. 

The Readings projected in America were intended to number up as many aseighty altogether. They actually numbered up exactly Seventy-Six. Theywere inaugurated by the first of the Boston Readings on Monday, the 2ndof December, 1867. Extending over an interval of less than five months, they closed in Steinway Hall on Monday, the 20th April, 1868, with thelast of the New York Readings. From beginning to end, the enthusiasmawakened by these Readings was entirely unparalleled. Simply to ensurea chance of purchasing the tickets of admission, a queue of applicantsa quarter of a mile long would pass a whole winter's night patientlywaiting in sleet and snow, out in the streets, to be in readiness forthe opening of the office-doors when the sale of tickets should havecommenced. Blankets and in several instances mattresses were broughtwith them by some of the more provident of these nocturnal wayfarers, many of whom of course were notoriously middle-men who simplyspeculated, with immense profit to themselves, in selling again atenormously advanced prices the tickets which were invariably dispensedby the business manager at the fixed charges originally announced. 

As curiously illustrative of the first outburst of this enthusiasm evenbefore the Novelist's arrival--on the very eve of that arrival, as ithappened--mention may here be made of the simple facts in regard to thesale of tickets on Monday, the 18th of November. During the whole ofthat day, from the first thing in the morning to the last thing atnight, Mr. Dolby sat there at his desk in the Messrs. Ticknor andFields' bookstore, literally doing nothing but sell tickets as fastas he could distribute them and take the money. For thirteen hourstogether, without taking bite or sup, without ever once for a passingmoment quitting the office-stool on which he was perched--fortunatelyfor him behind a strong barricade--he answered the rush of applicantsthat steadily pressed one another onwards to the pigeon-hole, eachdrifting by exhausted when his claims were satisfied. The indefatigablemanager took in moneys paid down within those thirteen consecutive hoursas many as twelve thousand dollars. 

During the five months of his stay in America, four Readings a week weregiven by the Novelist to audiences as numerous as the largest buildingin each town of a suitable character could by any contrivance be madeto contain. The average number of those present upon each of theseoccasions may be reasonably estimated as at the very least 1500individuals. Remembering that there were altogether seventy-sixReadings, this would show at once that upwards of one hundred thousandsouls (114, 000) listened to the voice of the great Author reading, whatthey had so often before read themselves, and raising their own voicesin return to greet his ears with their ringing acclamations. At amoderate estimate, again, just as we have seen that each Readingrepresented 1500 as the average number of the audience, that audiencerepresented, in its turn, in cash, at the lowest computation, nettproceeds amounting to fully $3000. At Rochester, for example, in theState of New York, was the smallest house anywhere met with in the wholecourse of these American Readings, and even that yielded $2500, thelargest house in the tour, on the other hand, netting as much as $6000and upwards. Multiplying, therefore, the reasonably-mentioned average of$3000 by seventy-six, as the aggregate number of the Readings, we arriveat the astounding result that in this tour of less than five months theAuthor-Reader netted altogether the enormous sum of $228, 000. Supposinggold to have been then at par, that lump sum would have representedin our English currency what if spoken of even in a whisper would, according to Hood's famous witticism, have represented something like"the roar of a Forty Thousand Pounder!" Even as it was, then, goldbeing at 39 1/2 per cent, premium, with 1/4 per cent, more deducted oncommission--virtually a drop of nearly 40 per cent, altogether!--theresult was the winning of a fortune in what, but for the fatigueinvolved in it, might have been regarded as simply a holiday excursion. 

The fatigue here referred to, however, must have been something veryconsiderable. Its influence was felt all the more, no doubt, by reasonof the Novelist having had to contend during upwards of four hardwinter months, as he himself laughingly remarked just before his returnhomewards, with "what he had sometimes been quite admiringly assured, was a true American catarrh!" Nevertheless, even with its depressing andexhausting influence upon him, he not only contrived to carry out theproject upon which he had adventured, triumphantly to its appointedclose, but even upon one of the most inclement days of an unusuallyinclement season, namely, on Saturday, the 29th of February, 1868, heactually took part as one of the umpires in the good-humoured frolic ofa twelve-mile walking match, up hill and down dale, through the snow, on the Milldam road, between Boston and Newton, doing every inch of theway, heel and toe, as though he had been himself one of the competitors. The first six miles having been accomplished by the successfulcompetitor in one hour and twenty-three minutes, and the return sixin one hour and twenty-five minutes, the Novelist--although, with hislight, springy step, he had observantly gone the whole distance himself, as we have seen, in his capacity as umpire, --presided blithely, incelebration of this winter day's frolic, at a sumptuous little banquet, given by him at the Parker House, a banquet that Lucullus would hardlyhave disdained. Having appeared before his last audience in Americaon the 20th of April, 1868, at New York, the Author-Reader addressedthrough them to all his other auditors in the United States, afterthat final Reading was over, a few genial and generous utterances offarewell. Among other things, he said to them, --"The relations whichhave been set up between us, while they have involved for me somethingmore than mere devotion to a task, have been sustained by you with thereadiest sympathy and the kindest acknowledgment. Those relations mustnow be broken for ever. Be assured, however, that you will not passfrom my mind. I shall often realise you as I see you now, equally bymy winter fire, and in the green English summer weather. I shallnever recall you as a mere audience, but rather as a host ofpersonal friends, --and ever with the greatest gratitude, tenderness, and consideration. " Two days before that last of all these AmericanReadings, he had been entertained at a public banquet in New York, onthe 18th of April, at Delmonico's. Two days after the final AmericanReading and address of farewell, he took his departure from New York onboard the _Russia_, on Wednesday, the 22nd of April, arriving on Friday, the 1st of May, at Liverpool. 

Scarcely a month had elapsed after his return homewards, when theprospective and definitive close of the great author's career as apublic Reader was formally announced. Again the Messrs. Chappell, ofNew Bond Street, appeared between the Novelist and the public asintermediaries. They intimated through their advertisement, that"knowing it to be the determination of Mr. Dickens finally to retirefrom public Readings, soon after his return from America, they (ashaving been honoured with his confidence on former occasions) madeproposals to him, while he was still in the United States achievinghis recent brilliant successes there, for a final farewell series ofReadings in this country. " They added that "their proposals were at onceaccepted in a manner highly gratifying to them;" and that the series, which would commence in the ensuing autumn, would comprehend, besidesLondon, several of the chief towns and cities of England, Ireland, andScotland. Looking back to this preliminary advertisement now, there is amelancholy significance in the emphasis with which it was observed--"Itis scarcely necessary to add that any announcement made in connectionwith these Farewell Readings will be strictly adhered to and consideredfinal; and that on no consideration whatever will Mr. Dickens be inducedto appoint an extra night in any place in which he shall have beenannounced to read for the last time. " According to promise, in theautumn, these well-remembered Farewell Readings commenced. They wereintended to run on to the number of one hundred altogether. Beginningwithin the first week of October, they were not to end until the thirdweek of the ensuing May. As it happened, Seventy-Four Readings weregiven in place of the full hundred. On Tuesday, the 6th of October, 1868, the series was commenced. On Thursday, the 22nd of April, 1869, its abrupt termination was announced, by a telegram from Preston, thatcaused a pang of grief and anxiety to the vast multitude of those towhom the very name of Charles Dickens had, for more than thirty years, been endeared. The intimation conveyed through that telegram was thefact of his sudden and alarming illness. Already, in the two precedingmonths, though the public generally had taken no notice of thecircumstance, three of the Readings had, for various reasons, beenunavoidably given up--one at Hull, fixed for the 12th of March, andpreviously one at Glasgow, fixed for the 18th, and another at Edinburgh, fixed for the 19th of February. Otherwise than in those three instances, the sequence of Readings marked on the elaborate programme had been mostfaithfully adhered to; the Reader, indeed, only succumbing at last underthe nervous exhaustion caused by his own indomitable perseverance. 

It is, now, matter of all but absolute certainty that his immenseenergies, his elastic temperament, and his splendid constitution hadall of them, long before this, been cruelly overtaxed and overweighted. Unsuspected by any of us at the time, he had, there can be little doubtof it, received the deadliest shock to his whole system as far backas on the 9th of June, 1865, in that terrible railway accident atStaplehurst, on the fifth anniversary of which fatal day, by a strangecoincidence, he breathed his last. His intense vitality deceived himselfand everybody else, however, until it was all too late. The extravaganttoil he was going through for months together--whirling hither andthither in express trains, for the purpose of making one excitingpublic appearance after another, each of them a little world of animatedimpersonations--he accomplished with such unfailing and unflaggingvivacity, with such an easy step, such an alert carriage, with such ananimated voice and glittering eye, that for a long while at least wewere under the illusion. Hurrying about England, Ireland, and Scotlandas he was during almost the whole of the last quarter of 1868 and duringthe whole of the first quarter of 1869--dividing his time not onlybetween Liverpool and Manchester, Edinburgh and Glasgow, Dublin andBelfast, with continual returns to his central reading-platform in thegreat Hall near Piccadilly, but visiting afterwards as well nearlyall the great manufacturing towns and nearly all the fashionablewatering-places--the wonder is now not so much that he gave in at lastto the exorbitant strain, but that he did not give in much sooner. 

A single incident will suffice to show the pace at which he was goingbefore the overwrought system gave the first sign of its _being_overwrought. On the evening of Thursday, the 11th of March, 1869, animmense audience crowded the Festival Concert Room at York, the peoplethere having only that one opportunity of attending a Farewell Reading. As they entered the room, each person received a printed slip ofpaper, on which was read, "The audience are respectfully informed thatcarriages have been ordered tonight at half-past nine. Without alteringhis Reading in the least, Mr. Dickens will shorten his usual pausesbetween the Parts, in order that he may leave York by train a fewminutes after that time. He has been summoned, " it was added, "toLondon, in connection with a late sad occurrence within the generalknowledge, but a more particular reference to which would be out ofplace here. " His attendance, in point of fact, was suddenly required atthe funeral of a dear friend of his in the metropolis. To the funeral hehad to go. From the poignantly irksome duty of the Reading he could notescape. Giving the latter even as proposed, he would barely have time tocatch the up express, so as to arrive in town by the aid of rapid nighttravelling, and be true to the melancholy rendezvous at the scene of hisfriend's obsequies. The Readings that night were three, and they weregiven in rapid succession, the Reader, after the first and second, instead of withdrawing, as usual, for ten minutes' rest into hisretiring room at the back of the platform, merely stepping for aninstant or two behind the screen at the side of the platform, puttinghis lips to some iced champagne, and stepping back at once to thereading-desk. The selected Readings were these--"Boots at the Holly-TreeInn, " the murder scene of "Sikes and Nancy, " and the grotesque monologueof "Mrs. Gamp. " The Archbishop and the other principal people of Yorkwere there conspicuously noticeable in the stalls, eagerly listening andkeenly observant, evidently in rapt attention throughout the evening, but more especially during the powerfully acted tragic incident from"Oliver Twist. " The Reading, as a whole, was more than ordinarilysuccessful--parts of it were exceptionally impressive. Directly itwas over, the Reader, having had a _coupé_ previously secured for hisaccommodation in the express, was just barely enabled, at a rush, tocatch the train an instant or so before its starting. Then only, afterit had started, could he give a thought to his dress, changing hisclothes and snatching a morsel of supper in the railway carriage as hewhirled on towards London. The occasion referred to serves, at anyrate, to illustrate the wear and tear to which the Author had renderedhimself, through these Readings, more or less continually liable. 

The jeopardy in which it placed his life at last was alarminglyindicated by the peremptory order of his medical adviser, Mr. FrankBeard, of Welbeck Street--immediately on his arrival in Preston on the22nd of April, in answer to a telegram summoning him thither uponthe instant from London--that the Readings must be stopped then andthenceforth. When this happened, a fortnight had not elapsed after thegrand Banquet given in honour of Charles Dickens at St. George's Hall, in Liverpool. As the guest of the evening, he had, there and then, been"cheered to the echo" by seven hundred enthusiastic admirers of hispresided over by the Mayor of Liverpool. That was on Saturday, the 10thof April, during a fortnight's blissful rest in the whirling round ofthe Readings. Immediately that fortnight was over, the whirling roundbegan again its momentarily interrupted gyrations. Three days insuccession there was a Reading at Leeds--on Thursday, the 15th, Friday, the 16th, and Saturday, the 17th of April. On Monday, the 19th, therewas a Reading at Blackburn; on Tuesday, the 20th, another at Bolton; onWednesday, the 21st, another at Southport. Then came the morning of the22nd, on the evening of which Thursday he was to have read at Preston. By the then Dickens's medical adviser had arrived from London, theaudience had already begun assembling. Thereupon, not only was thatparticular Reading prohibited, but, by the same wise mandate, allthought of resuming the course, or even a portion of it, afterwards, was as peremptorily interdicted. In one sense, it is only matter forwistful regret, now, that that judicious interdict was so far removed, three-quarters of a year afterwards, that the twelve Final Readings ofFarewell which were given at the St. James' Hall in the spring of 1870, beginning on Tuesday, the 11th of January, and ending on Tuesday, the15th of March, were' assented to as in any way reasonable. 

That even these involved an enormous strain upon the system, was provedto absolute demonstration by the statistics jotted down with the utmostprecision during the Readings, as to the fluctuations of the Reader'spulse immediately before and immediately after each of his appearancesupon the platform, mostly two, but often three, appearances in asingle evening. The acceleration of his pulse has, to our knowledge, upon some of these occasions been something extraordinary. Upon theoccasion of his last and grandest Reading of the Murder, for example, as he stepped upon the platform, resolved, apparently, upon outdoinghimself, he remarked, in a half-whisper to the present writer, just before advancing from the cover of the screen to the familiarreading-desk, "I shall tear myself to pieces. " He certainly never actedwith more impassioned earnestness--though never once, for a singleinstant, however, overstepping the boundaries of nature. His pulse justbefore had been tested, as usual, keenly and carefully, by his mostsedulous and sympathetic medical attendant. It was counted by him justas keenly and carefully directly afterwards--the rise then apparentbeing something startling, almost alarming, as it seemed to us under thecircumstances. 

Those twelve Farewell Readings are all the more to be regretted now whenwe come to look back at them, on our recalling to remembrance the factthat then, for the first time since he assumed to himself the positionof a Public Reader professionally, Dickens consented to give a series ofReadings at the very period when he was producing one of his imaginativeworks in monthly instalments. He appeared to give himself no restwhatever, when repose, at any rate for a while, was most urgentlyrequired. He seemed to have become his own taskmaster precisely atthe time when he ought to have taken the repose he had long previouslyearned, by ministering so largely and laboriously to the world'senjoyment. 

Summing up in a few words what has already been related in detail, one passing sentence may here recall to recollection the fact, that inaddition to the various works produced by the Novelist during thelast three lustres of his energetic life as a man of letters, he hadpersonally, within that busy interval of fifteen years, given in roundnumbers at a moderate computation some 500 of these Public Readings--423in a strictly professional capacity, the rest, prior to 1858, purelyout of motives of generosity, in his character as a practicalphilanthropist. In doing this he had addressed as many as five hundredenormous audiences, whose rapt attention he had always secured, andwho had one and all of them, without exception, welcomed his coming andgoing with enthusiasm. During this period he had travelled over manythousands of miles, by railway and steam-packet. In a single tour, that of the winter of 1867 and 1868, in America, he had appeared beforeupwards of 100, 000 persons, earning, at the same time, over 200, 000dollars within an interval of very little more than four monthsaltogether. 

Later on, the circumstances surrounding the immediate close of thisportion of the popular author's life, as a Public Reader of his ownworks, will be described when mention is made of his final appearancein St. James's Hall, on the night of his Farewell Reading. Before anyparticular reference is made, however, to that last evening, it maybe advisable, as tending to make this record more complete, that thereshould now be briefly passed in review, one after another, those minorstories, and fragments of the larger stories, the simple recountingof which by his own lips yielded so much artistic delight to a greatmultitude of his contemporaries. Whatever may thus be remarked inregard to these Readings will be written at least from a vivid personalrecollection; the writer, throughout, speaking, as before observed, fromhis intimate knowledge of the whole of this protracted episode in thelife of the Novelist. 

Whatever aid to the memory besides might have been thought desirable, he has had ready to hand all through, in the marked copies of the verybooks from which the author read upon these occasions, or from which, atthe least, he had the appearance of reading. For, especially towardsthe last, Charles Dickens hardly ever glanced, even momentarily, at theprinted pages, simply turning the leaves mechanically as they lay openbefore him on the picturesque little reading-desk. Besides the SixteenReadings actually given, there were Four others which were so farmeditated that they were printed separately as "Readings, " though thereading copies of them that have been preserved, were never otherwiseprepared by their author-compiler for representation. One of thesethe writer remembers suggesting to the Novelist, as a characteristiccompanion or contrast to Dr. Marigold, --meaning "Mrs. Lirriper. "Another, strange to say, --about the least likely of all his stories onewould have thought to have been thus selected, --was "The Haunted Man. " Athird was "The Prisoner of the Bastile, " which would, for certain, havebeen one of Dickens's most powerful delineations. The fourth, if onlyin remembrance of the Old Bailey attorney, Mr. Jaggers, of the convictMagwitch, and of Joe the blacksmith, the majority would probably havebeen disposed to regret almost more than Mrs. Lirriper. Though thelodging-house keeper would have been welcome, too, for her own sake, as who will not agree in saying, if merely out of a remembrance of the"trembling lip" put up towards her face, speaking of which the goodmotherly old soul exclaims, "and I dearly kissed it;" or, bearing inmind, another while, her preposterous reminiscence of the "impertinentlittle cock-sparrow of a monkey whistling with dirty shoes on the cleansteps, and playing the harp on the area railings with a hoop-stick. "Actually given or only meditated, the whole of these twentyReadings--meaning the entire collection of the identical marked copiesused by the Novelist himself on both sides of the Atlantic--have, forthe verification of this retrospect, been placed for the time being inthe writer's possession. Selecting from among them those merely whichare familiar to the public, from their having been actually produced, he here proposes cursorily to glance one by one through the well-knownseries of Sixteen. 

THE CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

It can hardly be any matter for wonder that the "Christmas Carol" was, among all the Readings, the author's own especial favourite! That itwas so, he showed from first to last unmistakeably. He began with it in1853, and ended with it in 1870, upon the latter occasion appending tothe long since abbreviated narrative, that other incomparable evidenceof his powers as a humorist, "The Trial from Pickwick. " Whoever went forthe first time to see and hear Charles Dickens read one or other of hiswritings, did well in selecting a night when he was going to relate hisimmortal ghost story of Christmas. In compliance with the well-knownwish of the Novelist, the audience, as a rule, contrived to assembleand to have actually taken their places several minutes before the timefixed for the Reader's appearance upon the platform. Occasionallyit happened, nevertheless, that a stray couple or so would be stilldrifting in, here and there, among the serried ranks of the stalls, when, book in hand, with a light step, a smile on his face, and a flowerin his button-hole, the author had already rapidly advanced andtaken his place before his quaintly constructed but graceful littlereading-desk. Then it was, perhaps, at those very times, that astranger to the whole scene regarded himself almost as under a personalobligation to these vexatious stragglers. For, until every one ofthem had quietly settled down, there stood the Novelist, cheerfully, patiently, glancing to the right and to the left, taking the bearings ofhis night's company, as one might say, with an air of the most perfectease and self-possession. Whosoever, consequently, was in attendancethere for the first time, had an opportunity, during any such momentarypause, of familiarising himself with the appearance of the famouswriter, with whose books he had probably been intimately acquainted foryears upon years previously, but whom until then he had never had thechance of beholding face to face. 

Everyone, even to the illiterate wayfarers in the public streets, had, to a certain extent, long since come to know what manner of man CharlesDickens was by means of his widely-scattered photographs. But, there, better than any photograph, was the man himself, --the master of allEnglish humorists, the most popular author during his own lifetime thatever existed; one whose stories for thirty years together had been readwith tears and with laughter, and whose books had won for him personalaffection, as well as fame and fortune. Anyone seeing him at thosemoments for the first time, would unquestionably think--How like hewas to a very few indeed, how utterly unlike the vast majority of hiscountless cartes-de-visites! To the last there was the bright, animated, alert carriage of the head--phrenologically a noblehead--physiognomically a noble countenance. Encountering him withina very few weeks of his death, Mr. Arthur Locker has said, "I wasespecially struck with the brilliancy and vivacity of his eyes:" adding, "there seemed as much life and animation in them as in twenty ordinarypairs of eyes. " Another keen observer, Mr. Arthur Helps, has in thesame spirit exclaimed, "What portrait can do justice to the frankness, kindness, and power of his eyes?" None certainly that ever was paintedby the pencil of the sunbeam, or by the brush of a Royal Academician. Fully to realise the capacity for indicating emotion latent in them, and informing his whole frame--his hands for example, in their everymovement, being wonderfully expressive--those who attended theseReadings soon came to know, that you had but to listen to his variableand profoundly sympathetic voice, and to watch the play of his handsomefeatures. 

The different original characters introduced in his stories, when heread them, he did not simply describe, he impersonated: otherwise toput it, for whomsoever he spoke, he spoke in character. Thus, wheneverything was quiet in the crowded assembly, and when the ringingapplause that always welcomed his appearance, but which he never by anychance acknowledged, had subsided--when he began: "A Christmas Carol, infour staves. Stave one, Marley's Ghost. Marley was dead to begin with. "Having remarked, yet further, that "there was no doubt whatever aboutthat, " the register of his burial being signed by this functionary, thatand the other--when he added, "_Scrooge_ signed it; and Scrooge's namewas good upon 'Change for anything he chose to put his hand to"--Scroogein the flesh was, through the very manner of the utterance of his name, brought vividly and upon the instant before the observant listener. "Oh!but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, was Scrooge!" _That_we knew instinctively, without there being any need whatever for ourhearing one syllable of the description of him, admirably given in thebook, but suppressed in the Reading, judiciously suppressed enough, because, for that matter, we saw and heard it without any necessity forits being explained. As one might say--quoting here a single morsel fromthe animated description of Scrooge, that was actually illustratedby Scrooge's impersonator--it all "spoke out shrewdly in his gratingvoice!" And it was thus, not merely with regard to the leadingpersonages of the little acted drama, as, turn by turn, they wereintroduced; precisely the same artistic care was applied by theimpersonating realist to the very least among the minor characters, filling in, so to speak, little incidental gaps in the background. Agreat fat man with a monstrous chin, for example, was introduced justmomentarily in the briefest street-dialogue, towards the close ofthis very Reading, who had only to open his lips once or twice foran instant, yet whose individuality was in that instant or two sothoroughly realised, that he lives ever since then in the hearers'remembrance. When, in reply to some one's inquiry, as to what wasthe cause of Scrooge's (presumed) death?--this great fat man with themonstrous chin answered, with a yawn, in two words, "God knows!"--he wasbefore us there, as real as life, as selfish, and as substantial. So wasit also with the grey-haired rascal, Joe, of the rag-and-bottle shop;with Topper, when he pronounced himself, as a bachelor, to be "awretched outcast;" with the Schoolmaster, when he "glared on MasterScrooge with ferocious condescension, and threw him into a dreadfulstate of mind by shaking hands with him, " all of whom were indicated bythe merest touch or two, and yet each of whom was a living and breathingand speaking verisimilitude. 

There was produced, to begin with, however, a sense of exhilaration inthe very manner with which Dickens commenced the Reading of one of hisstories, and which was always especially noticeable in the instanceof this particular ghost story of his about Christmas. The openingsentences were always given in those cheery, comfortable tones, indicative of a double relish on the part of a narrator--to wit, his ownenjoyment of the tale he is going to relate, and his anticipation ofthe enjoyment of it by those who are giving him their attention. Occasionally, at any rate during the last few years, his voice was huskyjust at the commencement, but as he warmed to his work, with him atall times a genuine labour of love, everything of that kind disappearedalmost at the first turn of the leaf. The genial inflections of thevoice, curiously rising, in those first moments of the Reading, at theend of every sentence, there was simply no resisting. Had there been awedding guest present, he would hardly have repined in not being able toobey the summons of the loud bassoon. The narrator had his will with oneand all. However large and however miscellaneous the audience, from thefront of the stalls to the back of the gallery, every one listened tothe familiar words that fell from his lips, from the beginning to theend, with unflagging attention. There could be small room for marvel atthis, however, in the instance of the "Carol, " on first readingwhich, Thackeray spoke of its author as that "delightful genius!" The_Edinburgh_ editor, Lord Jeffrey, at the very same time, namely, towards the close of 1843, on the morrow of the little book's originalpublication, avowing, in no less glowing terms, that he had been nothingless than charmed by the exquisite apologue: "chiefly, " as he declared, "for the genuine goodness which breathes all through it, and is the trueinspiring angel by which its genius has been awakened. " Never since hehad first--and that but a very few years previously--taken pen in handas a story-teller, had this "delightful genius" sat down in a happiervein for writing anything, than when he did so for the purposeof recounting how Scrooge was converted, by a series of ghostlyapparitions, from the error of his utterly selfish way in life, untilthen, as a tough-skinned, ingrained curmudgeon. 

Characters and incidents, brought before us anew in the Reading, wereall so cordially welcomed, --the former being such old friends, thelatter so familiarly within our knowledge! Insomuch that many passageswere, almost word for word, remembered by those who, nevertheless, listened as if curious to learn what might follow, yet who couldreadily, any one of them, have prompted the Reader, that is the Authorhimself, supposing by some rare chance he had happened, just for onemoment, to be at fault. It is curious to observe, on turning overthe leaves of the marked copy of this Reading, the sententious littlemarginal notes for his own guidance, jotted down by the hand of thiswonderful master of elocutionary effect. "Narrative" is written on theside of p. 5 where Scrooge's office, on Christmas Eve, is described, just before mention is made of the Clerk's dismal little cell seeming tobe "a sort of tank, " and of his fire being so small that it looked like"one coal, " and of his trying at last to warm himself by the candle, "inwhich effort, not being a man of strong imagination, he failed. " Again, "Cheerful" is penned on the side of p. 6, where Scrooge's Nephew comesin at a burst with "A Merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!"

After Scrooge's inhuman retort of "Bah! humbug!" not a word was added ofthe descriptive sentence immediately following. Admirable though everyword of it is, however, one could hardly regret its suppression. Is itasked why? Well then, for this simple reason--the force of which willbe admitted by anyone who ever had the happiness of grasping CharlesDickens's hand in friendship--that his description of Scrooge's Nephewwas, quite unconsciously but most accurately, in every word of it, aliteral description of himself, just as he looked upon any day in theblithest of all seasons, after a brisk walk in the wintry streets or onthe snowy high road. "He had so heated himself with rapid walking in thefog and frost, this Nephew of Scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; hisface was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smokedagain. " The Novelist himself was depicted there to a nicety. No need, therefore, was there for even one syllable of this in the Reading. Scrooge's Nephew was visibly before us, without a word being uttered. 

To our thinking, it has always seemed as if the one chink through whichScrooge's sympathies are got at and his heart-strings are eventuallytouched, is discernable in his keen sense of humour from the veryoutset. It is precisely through this that there seems hope, from thevery beginning, of his proving to be made of "penetrable stuff. " When, after his monstrous "Out upon merry Christmas!" he goes on to say, "IfI had my will every idiot who goes about with 'merry Christmas' on hislips should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake ofholly in his heart: he should!" one almost feels as if he were laughingin his sleeve from the very commencement. Instance, as yet morestrikingly to the point in respect to what we are here maintaining, thewonderfully comic effect of the bantering remarks addressed by him tothe Ghost of Jacob Marley all through their confabulation, even when thespectre's voice, as we are told, was disturbing the very marrow inhis bones. True, it is there stated that, all through that portentousdialogue, he was only trying to be smart "as a means of distracting hisown attention. " But the jests themselves are too delicious, one wouldsay, for mere make-believes. Besides which, hear his laugh at the end ofthe book! Hardly that of one really so long out of practice--"a splendidlaugh, a most illustrious laugh, the father of a long, long line ofbrilliant laughs!" A laugh, one might suppose, as contagious as that ofhis own Nephew when he was "so inexpressibly tickled that he was obligedto get up off the sofa and stamp!" Speaking of which our author writesso delectably, "If you should happen by any unlikely chance to know aman more blest in a laugh than Scrooge's Nephew, all I can say is, Ishould like to know him too. Introduce him to me, and I'll cultivatehis acquaintance. " At which challenge one might almost have been temptedanticipatively to say at a venture--Scrooge! Good-humoured argumentapart, however, what creatures were those who, one by one--sometimes, italmost seemed, two or three of them together--appeared and disappearedupon the platform, at the Reader's own good-will and pleasure!

After Scrooge's "Good afternoon!"--delivered with irresistibly ludicrousiteration--we caught something more than a distant glimpse of the Clerkin the tank, when--on Scrooge's surly interrogation, if he will wantall day to-morrow?--the Reader replied in the thinnest and meekest offrightened voices, "If quite convenient, sir!" It brought into fullview instantaneously, and for the first time, the little Clerk whom onefollowed in imagination with interest a minute afterwards on his "goingdown a slide at the end of a lane of boys twenty times in honour ofChristmas, and then, with the long ends of his white comforter danglingbelow his waist (for he boasted no greatcoat) running home as hard ashe could pelt to play at blind man's buff. " Instantly, upon the heelsof this, we find noted on the margin, p. 18, "Tone to mystery. " Thespectral illusion of the knocker on Scrooge's house-door, looking forall the world not like a knocker, but like Marley's face, "with a dismallight about it like a bad lobster in a dark cellar, " prepared theway marvellously for what followed. Numberless little tid-bits ofdescription that anybody else would have struck out with reluctance, as, for instance, that of Scrooge looking cautiously behind the street doorwhen he entered, "as if he half expected to be terrified with the sightof Marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall, " were unhesitatinglyerased by the Reader, as, from his point of view, not necessarily tothe purpose. Then, after the goblin incident of the disused bell slowlyoscillating until it and all the other bells in the house rang loudlyfor a while--afterwards becoming in turn just as suddenly hushed--we gotto the clanking approach, from the sub-basement of the old building, of the noise that at length came on through the heavy door of Scrooge'sapartment! "And"--as the Reader said with startling effect, whilehis voice rose to a hurried outcry as he uttered the closingexclamation--"upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as thoughit cried, '_I know him! Marley's Ghost!_'" The apparition, althoughthe description of it was nearly stenographically abbreviated in theReading, appeared to be, in a very few words, no less startlinglyrealised. "Same face, usual waistcoat, tights, boots, " even to thespectral illusion being so transparent that Scrooge (his own marrow, then, we may presume, becoming sensitized) looking through hiswaistcoat "could see the two back buttons on the coat behind"--withthe incorrigible old joker's cynical reflection to himself that "he hadoften heard Marley spoken of as having no bowels, but had never believedit until then. " The grotesque humour of his interview with the spectreseemed scarcely to have been realised, in fact, until their colloquy wasactually listened to in the Reading. 

Scrooge's entreaty addressed to the Ghost, when the latter demanded ahearing, "Don't be flowery, Jacob, pray!" was only less laughable, forexample, than the expression of the old dreamer's visage when Marleyinformed him that he had often sat beside him invisibly! Promised achance and hope in the fixture--a chance and hope of his dead partner'sprocuring--Scrooge's "Thank 'ee!"--full of doubt--was a fitting preludeto his acknowledgment of the favour when explained. "You will behaunted, " quoth the Ghost, "by three Spirits. " The other faltering, "I--I think I'd rather not:" and then quietly hinting afterwards, "Couldn't I take 'em all at once, and have it over, Jacob?"

As for the revelations made to Ebenezer Scrooge by those three memorableSpirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Future, who can ever hope torelate them and impersonate them as they were related and impersonatedby the Author himself of this peerless ghost-story! Fezziwig, forexample, with his calves shining like moons, who, after goingthrough all the intricacies of the country dance, bow, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place, cut--"cut so deftlythat he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet againwithout a stagger!" The very Fiddler, who "went up to the lofty deskand made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches!" MasterPeter Cratchit, again, arrayed in his father's shirt collars, who, rejoicing to find himself so gallantly attired, at one moment "yearnedto show his linen in the fashionable parks, " and at another, hearing hissister Martha talk of some lord who "was much about as tall as Peter, pulled up his collars so high that you couldn't have seen him if youhad been there. " As for the pathetic portions of the narrative, it isespecially observable in regard to those, that they were anything ratherthan made too much of. There, more particularly, the elisions wereruthless. Looking through the marked copy, it really would appear thatonly a very few indeed of the salient points were left in regard to thelife and death of Tiny Tim. Bob's visit to the death-bed was entirelyunmentioned. Even the words "Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essencewas from God!" were never uttered. Two utterances there _were_, however, the one breathing an exquisite tenderness, the other indicative of along-suppressed but passionate outburst of grief, that thrilled tothe hearts of all who heard them, and still, we doubt not, haunt theirrecollection. The one--where the mother, laying her mourning needleworkupon the table, put her hand up to her face. "'The colour hurts myeyes, ' she said. The colour? Ah! poor Tiny Tim!" The other, where thefather, while describing the little creature's grave, breaks down in asudden agony of tears. "It would have done you good to see how green aplace it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walkthere on a Sunday--_My little, little child! My little child!_" It was atouch of nature that made the Reader and his world of hearers, upon theinstant, kin. The tearful outcry brimmed to the eyes of those presenta thousand visible echoes. "He broke down all at once. He couldn't helpit, " said the Reader, adding in subdued accents the simple words, "Ifhe could have helped it, he and his child would have been further apartperhaps than they were. " With that ended all reference to the home-griefat Bob Cratchit's. Everything else in relation to the loss of Tiny Timwas foregone unhesitatingly. 

The descriptive passages were cut out by wholesale. While the Christmasdinner at Scrooge's Clerk's, and the Christmas party at Scrooge'sNephew's, were left in almost in their entirety, the street-scenes andshop-window displays were obliterated altogether. Nothing at all wassaid about the "great round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shapedlike the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen lolling at the doors andtumbling into the streets in their apoplectic opulence. " Nothing aboutthe ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish onions, shining in thefatness of their growth like Spanish friars, and "winking from theirshelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanceddemurely at the hung-up mistletoe. " Nothing about the canisters of teaand coffee "rattled up and down like juggling tricks, " or about thecandied fruits, "so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make thecoldest lookers-on feel faint, and subsequently bilious. "

Nay, we were denied even a momentary glimpse, on the snow-crustedpavement at nightfall, of that group of handsome girls, all hooded andfur-booted, and all chattering at once, tripping lightly off to somenear neighbour's house, "where, woe upon the single man who saw thementer--artful witches, well they knew it--in a glow!" Topper was there, however, and the plump sister in the lace tucker, and the game ofYes-and-No, the solution to which was, "It's your uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge!"Happiest of all these non-omissions, as one may call them, therewas that charming picture of Scrooge's niece by marriage, which--asbrightly, exquisitely articulated by the lips of her imaginer--waslike the loveliest girl-portrait ever painted by Greuze. "She was verypretty, exceedingly pretty. With a dimpled, surprised-looking, capitalface; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made to be kissed--as no doubt itwas; all kinds of good little dots about her chin, that melted into oneanother when she laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever sawin any little creature's head. Altogether she was what you wouldhave called provoking, you know; but satisfactory, too. Oh, perfectlysatisfactory. " The grave face and twinkling eyes with which thiscordial acquiescence in the conclusion arrived at was expressed wereirresistibly exhilarating. Just in the same way there was a sort ofparenthetical smack of the lips in the self-communing of Scrooge when, at the very close of the story, after hesitating awhile at his Nephew'sdoor as to whether he should knock, he made a dash and did it. "Is yourmaster at home, my dear?" said Scrooge. "_Nice girl! very. _" Then, as tothe cordiality of his reception by his Nephew, what could by possibilityhave expressed it better than the look, voice, manner of the Reader. "'Will you let me in, Fred?' _Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shakehis arm off. _" The turkey that "never could have stood upon its legs, that bird, " but must have "snapped 'em short off in a minute, likesticks of sealing-wax!"--the remarkable boy who was just about itssize, and who, when told to go and buy it, cried out "Walk-ER!"--BobCratchit's trying to overtake nine o'clock with his pen on his arrivingnearly twenty minutes afterwards; his trembling and getting a littlenearer the ruler when regenerated Scrooge talks about raising hissalary, prior to calling him Bob, and, with a clap on the back, wishinghim a merry Christmas!--brought, hilariously, the whole radiant Readingof this wonderful story to its conclusion. It was a feast of humourand a flow of fun, better than all the yule-tide fare that ever wasprovided--fuller of good things than any Christmas pudding of plums andcandied fruit-peel--more warming to the cockles of one's heart, whatever those may be, than the mellowest wassail-bowl ever brimmed toover-flowing. No wonder those two friends of Thackeray, who have beenalready mentioned, and who were both of them women, said of the Authorof the "Carol, " by way of criticism, "God bless him!" This beingexclaimed by them, as will be remembered, simply after reading it tothemselves. If only they had heard him read it!

THE TRIAL FROM PICKWICK. 

Reader and audience about equally, one may say, revelled in the "Trialfrom Pickwick. " Every well-known person in the comic drama was lookedfor eagerly, and when at last Serjeant Buzfuz, as we were told, "rosewith more importance than he had yet exhibited, if that were possible, and said, 'Call Samuel Weller, '" a round of applause invariably greetedthe announcement of perhaps the greatest of all Dickens's purelyhumorous characters. The Reading copy of this abbreviated report ofthe great case of _Bardell v. Pickwick_ has, among the complete set ofReadings, one very striking peculiarity. Half-bound in scarlet moroccolike all the other thin octavos in the collection, its leaves thoughyellow and worn with constant turning like the rest, are wholly _un_likethose of the others in this, that the text is untouched by pen orpencil. Beyond the first condensation of that memorable 34th chapterof Pickwick, there is introduced not one single alteration by way ofafter-thought. Struck off at a heat, as it was, that first humorousreport of the action for breach of promise of marriage brought by MarthaBardell against Samuel Pickwick admitted in truth in no way whatever ofimprovement. Anything like a textual change would have been resented bythe hearers--every one of them Pickwickian, as the case might be, toa man, woman, or child--as in the estimation of the literary court, nothing less than a high crime and misdemeanour. Once epitomised forthe Reading, the printed version, at least of the report, was leftaltogether intact. Nevertheless, strange to say, there was perhaps noReading out of the whole series of sixteen, in the delivery of whichthe Author more readily indulged himself with an occasional gag. Everyinterpolation of this kind, however, was so obviously introduced onthe spur of the moment, so refreshingly spontaneous and so ludicrously_apropos_, that it was always cheered to the very echo, or, to putthe fact not conventionally but literally, was received with peals oflaughter. Thus it was in one instance, as we very well remember, inregard to Mr. Justice Stareleigh--upon every occasion that we sawhim, one of the Reader's most whimsical impersonations. The littlejudge--described in the book as "all face and waistcoat"--was presentedto view upon the platform as evidently with no neck at all (to speakof), and as blinking with owl-like stolidity whenever he talked, whichhe always did under his voice, and with apparently a severe cold in thehead. On the night more particularly referred to, Sam Weller, beingat the moment in the witness-box, had just replied to the counsel'ssuggestion, that what he (Sam) meant by calling Mr. Pickwick's "a verygood service" was "little to do and plenty to get. "--"Oh, quite enoughto get, sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered him three hundred andfifty lashes. " Thereupon--glowering angrily at Sam, and blinking hiseyes more than ever--Mr. Justice Stareleigh remarked, with a heaviercold in the head than hitherto, in a severe monotone, and with thegreatest deliberation, "You must not tell us what the soldier saysunless the soldier is in court, unless that soldier comes here inuniform, and is examined in the usual way--it's not evidence. " Anotherevening, again, we recall quite as clearly to mind, when the Reader wasrevelling more even than was his wont, in the fun of this representationof the trial-scene, he suddenly seemed to open up the revelation of anentirely new phase in Mr. Winkle's idiosyncrasy. Under the badgering ofMr. Skimpin's irritating examination, as to whether he was or was nota particular friend of Mr. Pickwick the defendant, the usually placablePickwickian's patience upon this occasion appeared gradually and at lastutterly to forsake him. "I have known Mr. Pickwick now, as well as I canrecollect at this moment, nearly----"

"Pray, Mr. Winkle, do not evade the question. Are you or are you nota particular friend of the defendant's?" "I was just about to say----""Will you, or will you not, answer my question, sir?" "Why, God bless mysoul, I was just about to say that------" Whereupon the Court, otherwiseMr. Justice Stareleigh, blinking faster than ever, blurted out severely, "If you don't answer the question you'll be committed to prison, sir!"And then, but not till then, Mr. Winkle was sufficiently restored toequanimity to admit at last, meekly, "Yes, he was!"

In the Reading of the Trial the first droll touch was thewell-remembered reference to the gentlemen in wigs, in the barristers'seats, presenting as a body "all that pleasing variety of nose andwhisker for which the bar of England is so justly celebrated. " Even theallusion to those among their number who carried a brief "scratchingtheir noses with it to impress the fact more strongly on the observationof the spectators, " and the other allusion to those who hadn't a brief, carrying instead red-labelled octavos with "that under-done-pie-crustcover, technically known as law calf, " was each, in turn, welcomed witha flutter of amusement. Every point, however minute, told, and toldeifectively. More eifectively than if each was heard for the firsttime, because all were thoroughly known, and, therefore, thoroughly wellappreciated. The opening address of Serjeant Buzfuz every one naturallyenough regarded as one of the most mirth-moving portions of the wholerepresentation. In the very exordium of it there was something eminentlyabsurd in the Serjeant's extraordinarily precise, almost mincingpronunciation. As where he said, that "never in the whole course of hisprofessional experience--never from the first moment of his applyinghimself to the study and practice of the law--had he approached a casewith such a heavy sense of respon-see-bee-lee-ty imposed upon him--arespon-see-bee-lee-ty he could never have supported were he not, " and soforth. Again, a wonderfully ridiculous effect was imparted by the Readerto his mere contrasts of manner when, at one moment, in the bland andmelancholy accents of Serjeant Buzfuz, he referred to the late Mr. Bardell as having "glided almost imperceptibly from the world to seekelsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can neverafford, " adding, the next instant in his own voice, and with the mostcruelly matter-of-fact precision, "This was a pathetic description ofthe decease of Mr. Bardell, who had been knocked on the head witha quart-pot in a public-house cellar. " The gravity of the Reader'scountenance at these moments, with, now and then, but very rarely, alurking twinkle in the eye, was of itself irresistibly provocative oflaughter. Even upon the Serjeant's mention of the written placard hungup in the parlour window of Goswell Street, bearing this inscription, "Apartments furnished for single gentlemen: inquire within, " thesustained seriousness with which he added, that there the forensicorator paused while several gentlemen of the jury "took a note of thedocument, " one of that intelligent body inquiring, "There is no date tothat, is there, sir?" made fresh ripples of laughter spread from it asinevitably as the concentric circles on water from the dropping of apebble. The crowning extravagances of this most Gargantuan of comicorations were always of course the most eagerly welcomed, such, forexample, as the learned Serjeant's final allusion to Pickwick'scoming before the court that day with "his heartless tomato-sauce andwarming-pans, " and the sonorous close of the impassioned perorationwith the plaintiff's appeal to "an enlightened, a high-minded, aright-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathising, acontemplative jury of her civilised countrymen. " It was after this, however, that the true fun of the Reading began with the examinationand cross-examination of the different witnesses. These, as a matter ofcourse, were acted, not described. 

Mrs. Cluppins first entered the box, with her feelings, so far as theycould be judged from her voice, evidently all but too many for her. Herfluttered reply showed this at the very commencement, in answer to aninquiry as to whether she remembered one particular morning in Julylast, when Mrs. Bar-dell was dusting Pickwick's apartment. "Yes, my lordand jury, I do. " "Was that sitting-room the first-floor front?" "Yes, itwere, sir"--something in the manner of Mrs. Crupp when at her faintest. The suspicious inquiry of the red-faced little Judge, "What wereyou doing in the back-room, ma'am?" followed--on her replyinglackadaisically, "My lord and jury, I will not deceive you"--by hisblinking at her more fiercely, "You had better not, ma'am, " were onlyexceeded in comicality by Justice Stare-leigh's bewilderment a momentafterwards, upon her saying that she "see Mrs. Bardell's street-door onthe jar. "

Judge (in immense astonishment). --"On the what?"

Counsel. --"Partly open, my lord. "

Judge (with more owl-like stolidity than ever). --"She said on the jar. "

Counsel. --"It's all the same, my lord. "

Then--blinking more quickly than before, with a furtive glance atwitness, and a doubtful look of abstraction into space--the little Judgemade a note of it. 

As in Mrs. Cluppins' faintness there was a recognizable touch of Mrs. Crupp, when the spasms were engendering in the nankeen bosom of thatexemplary female, so also in the maternal confidences volunteered by thesame witness, there was an appreciable reminder of another lady whowill be remembered as having been introduced at the Coroner's Inquestin Bleak House as "Anastasia Piper, gentlemen. " Regarding that as afavourable opportunity for informing the court of her own domesticaffairs, through the medium of a brief dissertation, Mrs. Cluppins wasinterrupted by the irascible Judge at the most interesting point in herrevelations, when, having mentioned that she was already the mother ofeight children, she added, that "she entertained confidentexpectations of presenting Mr. Cluppins with a ninth about that daysix months"--whereupon the worthy lady was summarily hustled out of thewitness-box. 

Nathaniel Winkle, however, consoled us immediately. Don't we rememberhow, even before he could open his lips, he was completely disconcerted?Namely, when, bowing very respectfully to the little Judge, he had thatcomplimentary proceeding acknowledged snappishly with, "Don't look atme, sir; look at the jury----" Mr. Winkle, in obedience to the mandate, meekly looking "at the place where he thought that the jury mightbe. " Don't we remember also perfectly well how the worst possibleconstruction was cast by implication beforehand upon his probable replyto the very first question put to him, namely, by the mere manner inwhich that first question was put? "Now, sir, have the goodness tolet his lordship and the jury know what your name is, will you?" Mr. Skimpin, in propounding this inquiry, inclining his head on one side andlistening with great sharpness for the answer, "as if to imply that herather thought Mr. Winkle's natural taste for perjury would induce himto give some name which did not belong to him. " Giving in, absurdly, hissurname only; and being asked immediately afterwards, if possible stillmore absurdly, by the Judge, "Have you any Christian name, sir?" thewitness, in the Reading, more naturally and yet more confusedly evenit seemed than in the book, got that eminent functionary into a greatbewilderment as to whether he (Mr. Winkle) were called Nathaniel Daniel, or Daniel Nathaniel. Bewildered himself, in his turn, and thattoo almost hopelessly, came Mr. Winkle's reply, "No, my lord; onlyNathaniel--not Daniel at all. " Irascibly, the Judge's, "What did youtell me it was Daniel for, then, sir?" Shamefaced and yet irritably, "I didn't, my lord. " "You did, sir!"--with great indignation, topped bythis cogent reasoning, --"How could I have got Daniel on my notes, unlessyou told me so, sir?" Nothing at all was said about it in the Reading;but, again and again, Mr. Winkle, as there impersonated, whileendeavouring to feign an easiness of manner, was made to assume, in histhen state of confusion, "rather the air of a disconcerted pickpocket. "

Better almost than Mr. Winkle himself, however, as an impersonation, was, in look, voice, manner, Mr. Skimpin, the junior barrister, underwhose cheerful but ruthless interrogations that unfortunate gentlemanwas stretched upon the rack of examination. His (Mr. Skimpin's) cheeryechoing--upon every occasion when it was at last extorted from hisvictim--of the latter's answer (followed instantly by his own taunts andinsinuations), remains as vividly as anything at all about this Readingin our recollection. When at length Mr. Winkle, with no reluctance inthe world, but only seemingly with reluctance, answers the inquiry as towhether he is a particular friend of Pickwick, "Yes, I am!"--"Yes, youare!" said Mr. Skimpin (audibly to the court, but as if it were only tohimself). "And why couldn't you say that at once, sir? Perhaps you knowthe plaintiff, too--eh, Mr. Winkle?" "I don't know her; I've seen her!""Oh, _you don't know her, but you've seen her!_ Now have the goodness totell the gentlemen of the jury what you mean by _that_, Mr. Winkle. " Asto how this unfortunate witness, after being driven to the confines ofdesperation, on being at last released, "rushed with delirious haste"to the hotel, "where he was discovered some hours after by the waiter, groaning in a hollow and dismal manner, with his head buried beneath thesofa cushions"--not a word was said in the Reading. 

A flavour of the fun of Mrs. Sanders's evidence was given, but only apassing flavour of it, in reference to Mr. Sanders having, in the courseof their correspondence, often called her duck, but never chops, nor yettomato-sauce--he being particularly fond of ducks--though possibly, ifhe had been equally fond of chops and tomato-sauce, he might have calledher that instead, as a term of affection. 

_The_ evidence of all, however, was that of Sam Weller, no less tothe enjoyment of the Author, it was plain to see, than to that of hishearers. After old Weller's hoarse and guttural cry from the gallery, "Put it down a wee, my lord, " in answer to the inquiry whether theimmortal surname was to be spelt with a V. Or a W. ; Sam's quiet "Irayther suspect it was my father, my lord, " came with irresistibleeffect from the Reader, as also did his recollection of something "werypartickler" having happened on the memorable morning, out of which hadsprung the whole of this trial of Bardell v. Pickwick, namely, that hehimself that day had "a reg'lar new fit out o' clothes. " Beyond all theother Wellerisms, however, was Sam's overwhelmingly conclusive answer tocounsel's inquiry in regard to his not having seen what occurred, thoughhe himself, at the time, was in the passage, "Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller?" "Yes, I _have_ a pair of eyes; and that's just it If theywos a pair o' patent double-million magnifying gas microscopes of hextrapower, p'r'aps I might be able to see through two flights o' stairsand a deal door; but _bein'_ only eyes, you see, my wision's limited. "Better by far, in our estimation, nevertheless, than the smart Cockneyfacetiousness of the inimitable Sam; better than the old coachman'sclosing lamentation, "Vy worn't there a alleybi?" better than Mr. Winkle, or Mrs. Cluppins, or Serjeant Buzfuz, or than all the restof those engaged in any capacity in the trial, put together, was theirascible little Judge, with the blinking eyes and the monotonousvoice--himself, in his very _pose_, obviously, "all face and waistcoat. "Than Mr. Justice Stareleigh there was, in the whole of this mosthumorous of all the Readings, no more highly comic impersonation. 

DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

The sea-beach at Yarmouth formed both the opening and the closing sceneof this Reading, in six chapters, from "David Copperfield. " In itsvaried portraiture of character and in the wonderful descriptivepower marking its conclusion, it was one of the most interesting andimpressive of the whole series in its delivery. Through it, we renewedour acquaintance more vividly than ever with handsome, curry-headed, reckless, heartless Steerforth! With poor, lone, lorn Mrs. Gummidge, not only when everythink about her went contrairy, but when her betternature gushed forth under the great calamity befalling her benefactor. With pretty little Emily, and bewitching little Dora. With Mr. Micawber, his shirt-collar, his eye-glass, the condescending roll in his voice, and his intermittent bursts of confidence. With Mrs. Micawber, who, as the highest praise we can bestow upon her, is quite worthy of herhusband, and who is always, it will be remembered, so impassioned in herdeclaration that, come what may, she never _will_ desert Mr. Micawber!With Traddles, and his irrepressible hair, even a love-lock from whichhad to be kept down by Sophy's preservation of it in a clasped locket!With Mr. Peggotty, in fine, who, in his tender love for his niece, is, according to his own account, "not to-look at, but to think on, " nothingless than a babby in the form of a great sea Porkypine! Remembering theother originals, crowding the pages of the story in its integrity, howone would have liked to have seen even a few more of them impersonatedby the protean Novelist! That "most wonderful woman in the world, " AuntBetsey, for example; or that most laconic of carriers, Mr. Barkis; or, to name yet one other, Uriah Heep, that reddest and most writhing ofrascally attornies. As it was, however, there were abundant realizationswithin the narrow compass of this Reading of the principal personsintroduced in the autobiography of David Copperfield. The most loveable, by the way, of all the young heroes portrayed in the Dickens' Gallerywas there, to begin with, for example--the peculiar loveablenessof David being indicated as plainly as by any means through theextraordinary variety of pet names given to him by one or another in thecourse of the narrative. For, was he not the "Daisy" of Steerforth, the"Doady" of Dora, the "Trotwood" of Aunt Betsy, and the "Mas'r Davy" ofthe Yarmouth boatmen, just as surely as he was the "Mr. Copper-full"of Mrs. Crupp, the "Master Copperfield" of Uriah Heep, and the "DearCopperfield" of Mr. Wilkins Micawber?

That "The Personal History and Experiences of David Copperfieldthe Younger" was, among all its author's works, his own particularfavourite, he himself, in his very last preface to it, in 1867, formallyacknowledged. Several years previously, while sauntering with him toand fro one evening on the grass-plot at Gadshill, we remember receivingfrom him that same admission. "Which of all your books do you thinkI regard as incomparably your best?" "Which?" "David Copperfield. " Amomentary pause ensuing, he added, readily and without the smallestreservation, "You are quite right. " The acknowledgment then made asto this being in fact his own opinion was thus simply but emphaticallyexpressed. Pen in hand, long afterwards, he made the same admission, only with yet greater emphasis, when the Preface to the new edition ofthe story in 1867 was thus closed by Charles Dickens--"Of all my books, I like this the best. It will be easily believed that I am a fond parentto every child of my fancy, and that no one can ever love that family asdearly as I love them. But, like many fond parents, I have in my heartof hearts a favourite child. And his name is 'David Copperfield. '"Having that confession from his own lips and under his own hand, it willbe readily understood that the Novelist always took an especial delightwhen, in the course of his Readings, the turn came for that of "DavidCopperfield. "

One of the keenest sensations of pleasure he ever experienced as aReader--as he himself related to us with the liveliest gratification, evidently, even in the mere recollection of the incident--occurredin connection with this very Reading. Strange to say, moreover, it occurred, not in England or in America, in the presence of anEnglish-speaking audience, but in Paris, and face to face with anaudience more than half of which was composed of Frenchmen. And thehearer who caused him, there, that artistic sense, one might almost callit thrill of satisfaction---was a Frenchman! All that was expressedon the part of this appreciative listener, being uttered by himinstantaneously in a half-whispered, monosyllabic ejaculation. As wehave already explained upon an earlier page, the Readings which tookplace in Paris, and which were in behalf of the British Charitable Fundin that capital, were given there before a densely crowded but veryselect audience at the British Embassy, Lord Cowley being then herMajesty's ambassador. The Reading on the occasion referred to was "DavidCopperfield, " and the Reader became aware in the midst of the hushedsilence, just after he had been saying, in the voice of Steerforth, giving at the same moment a cordial grasp of the hand to the brinyfisherman he was addressing: "Mr. Peggotty, you are a thoroughly goodfellow, and deserve to be as happy as you are to-night. My hand uponit!" when, turning round, he added, still as Steerforth, but speakingin a very different voice and offering a very different hand-grip, asthough already he were thinking to himself what a chuckle-headed fellowthe young shipwright was--"Ham, I give you joy, my boy. My hand uponthat too!" The always keenly observant Novelist became aware of aFrenchman, who was eagerly listening in the front row of the stalls, suddenly exclaiming to himself, under his breath, "Ah--h!"--havinginstantly caught the situation! The sound of that one inarticulatemonosyllable, as he observed, when relating the circumstance, gave theReader, as an artist, a far livelier sense of satisfaction than any thatcould possibly have been imparted by mere acclamations, no matter howspontaneous or enthusiastic. 

As a Reading, it always seemed to us, that "David Copperfield" was cutdown rather distressingly. That, nevertheless, was unavoidable. Turningin off Yarmouth sands, we went straight at once through the "delightfuldoor" cut in its side, into the old black barge or boat, high and drythere on the sea-beach, and which was known to us nearly as familiarlyas to David himself, as the odd dwelling-house inhabited by Mr. Peggotty. All the still-life of that beautifully clean and tidy interiorwe had revealed to us again, as of old: lockers, boxes, table, Dutchclock, chest of drawers--even tea-tray, only that we failed to hearanything said about the painting on the tea-tray, representing "a ladywith a parasol, taking a walk with a military-looking child, who wastrundling a hoop. " The necessities of condensation in the same wayrestricted the definition of Mr. Peggotty's occupation in the Reading, to the simple mention of the fact that he dealt in lobsters, crabs, andcraw-fish, without any explanation at all as to those creatures beingheaped together in a little wooden out-house "in a state of wonderfulconglomeration with one another, and never leaving off pinching whateverthey laid hold of. " Little Emily appeared as a beautiful young woman, and no longer as the prattling lassie who, years before had confidedto her playfellow, David, how, if ever she were a lady, she would giveuncle Dan, meaning Mr. Peggotty, "a sky-blue coat, with diamond buttons, nankeen trousers, a red velvet waistcoat, a cocked hat, a large goldwatch, a silver pipe, and a box of money. " Mrs. Gummidge, as became afaithful widow, was still fretting after the Old 'Un. Ham, something ofMr. Peggotty's own build, as the latter described him, "a good deal o'the sou-wester in him, wery salt, but on the whole, a honest sort ofa chap, too, with his 'art in the right place, " had just made good hisbetrothal to the little creature he had seen grow up there before him, "like a flower, " when, at the very opening of the Reading, into theold Yarmouth boat, walked "Mas'r Davy" and his friend Steerforth. Mr. Peggotty's explanation to his unexpected but heartily welcomed visitorsas to how the engagement between Ham and Emily, had but just then beenbrought about, opened up before the audience in a few words the wholescheme of the tragic little dramatic tale about to be revealed to themthrough a series of vivid impersonations. 

The idiomatic sentences of the bluff fisherman, as in their racyvernacular they were blithely given utterance to by the manly voice ofthe Reader, seemed to supply a fitting introduction to the drama, asthough from the lips of a Yarmouth Chorus. Scarcely had the socialcarouse there in the old boat, on that memorable evening of Steerforth'sintroduction, been recounted, when the whole drift of the story wasclearly foreshadowed in the brief talk which immediately took placebetween him and David as they walked townwards across the sands towardstheir hotel. "Daisy, --for though that's not the name your godfathersand godmothers gave you, you're such a fresh fellow, that it's the nameI best like to call you by--and I wish, I wish, I wish you could give itto me!" That of itself had its-significance. But still more significantwas David's mention of his looking in at Steerforth's bed-room on thefollowing morning, before himself going away alone, and of his therefinding the handsome scapegrace fast asleep, "lying easily, with hishead upon his-arm, " as he had often seen him lie in the old schooldormitory. "Thus in this silent hour I left him, " with mournfultenderness, exclaimed the Reader, in the words and accents of his younghero. "Never more, O God forgive you, Steerforth! to touch that passivehand in love and friendship. Never, never more!" The revelation of histreachery, towards the pretty little betrothed of the young shipwright, followed immediately afterwards, on the occasion of David's next visit, some months later, to the old boat on the flats at Yarmouth. 

The wonder still is to us, now that we are recalling to mind the salientpeculiarities of this Reading, as we do so, turning over leaf by leafthe marked copy of it, from which the Novelist read; the wonder, werepeat, still is to us how, in that exquisite scene, the very words thathave always moved us most in the novel were struck out in the delivery, are rigidly scored through here with blue inkmarks in the reading copy, by the hand of the Reader-Novelist. Those words we mean which occur, where Ham, having on his arrival, made a movement as if Em'ly wereoutside, asked Mas'r Davy to "come out a minute, " only for him, on hisdoing so, to find that Em'ly was not there, and that Ham was deadlypale. "Ham! what's the matter?" was gasped out in the Reading. But--_not_ what follows, immediately on that, in the originalnarrative: "'Mas'r Davy!' Oh, for his broken heart, how dreadfully hewept!" Nor yet the sympathetic exclamations of David, who, in the novel, describes himself as paralysed by the sight of such grief, not knowingwhat he thought or what he dreaded; only able to look at him, --yetcrying out to him the next moment, "Ham! Poor, good fellow! For heaven'ssake tell me what's the matter?" Nothing of this: only--"My love, Mas'rDavy--the pride and hope of my 'art, her that I'd have died for, andwould die for now--she's gone!" "Gone?" "Em'ly's run away!" Ham, _not_then adding in the Reading, "Oh, Mas'r Davy, think _how_ she's run away, when I pray my good and gracious God to kill her (her that is so dearabove all things) sooner than let her come to ruin and disgrace!" Yet, for all that, in spite of these omissions--it can hardly by any chancehave been actually by reason of them--the delivery of the whole scenewas singularly powerful and affecting. Especially in the representationof Mr. Peggotty's profound grief, under what is to him so appalling acalamity. Especially also in the revelation of Mrs. Gummidge's pity forhim, her gratitude to him, and her womanly tender-heartedness. 

In charming relief to the sequel of this tragic incident of thebereavement of the Peggottys, came David's love passages with Dora, andhis social unbendings with Mr. Micawber. Regaling the latter inimitablepersonage, and his equally inimitable wife, together with David's oldschoolfellow, Tradelles, on a banquet of boiled leg of mutton, very redinside and very pale outside, as well as upon a delusive pigeon-pie, the crust of which was like a disappointing phrenological head, "full oflumps and bumps, with nothing particular underneath, " David afforded usthe opportunity of realising, within a very brief interval, somethingat least of the abundant humour associated with Mrs. Micawber's worldlywisdom, and Mr. Micawber's ostentatious impecuniosity. A word, thatlast, it always seems to us--describing poverty, as it does, with suchan air of pomp--especially provided beforehand for Mr. Micawber (out ofa prophetic anticipation or foreknowledge of him) by the dictionary. 

The mere opening of the evening's entertainment at David Copperfield'schambers on this occasion, enabled the Humorist to elicit preliminaryroars of laughter from his audience by his very manner of saying, with adeliciously ridiculous prolongation of the liquid consonant forming theinitial of the last word--"As to Mrs. Micawber, I don't know whether itwas the effect of the cap, or the lavender water, or the phis, or thefire, or the wax-candles, but she came out of my room comparativelyspeaking l-l-lovely!"

As deliciously ridiculous was the whole scene between Dora and David, where the latter, at length, takes courage to make his proposal--"Jipbarking madly all the time "--Dora crying the while and trembling. David's eloquence increasing, the more he raved, the more Jipbarked--each, in his own way, getting more mad every moment! Even whenthey had got married by licence, "the Archbishop of Canterbury invokinga blessing, and doing it as cheap as it could possibly be expected, "their domestic experiences were sources of unbounded merriment. 

As, for example, in connection with their servant girl's cousin in theLife Guards, "with such long legs that he looked like the afternoonshadow of somebody else. " Finally, closing the whole of this ingeniousepitome of the original narrative, came that grand and wonderfullyrealistic description of the stupendous storm upon the beach atYarmouth, upon the extraordinary power of which as a piece ofdeclamation we have already at some length commented. There, in themidst of the dying horrors of that storm--there, on those familiarsands, where Mas'r Davy and Little Em'ly had so often looked for shellswhen they were children, on the very spot where some lighter fragmentsof the old boat, blown down the night before, had been scattered by thetempest, David Copperfield was heard describing, in the last mournfulsentence of the Reading, how he saw _him_ lying with his curly head uponhis arm, as he had often seen him lie when they were at school together. 

THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 

A Fairy Tale of Home was here related, that in its graceful andfantastic freaks of fancy might have been imagined by the Danish poet, Hans Christian Andersen. In its combination of simple pathos and genialdrollery, however, it was a story that no other could by possibilityhave told than the great English Humorist. If there was something reallyakin to the genius of Andersen, in the notion of the Cricket with itsshrill, sharp, piercing voice resounding through the house, and seemingto twinkle in the outer darkness like a star, Dickens, and no othercould, by any chance, have conjured up the forms of either CalebPlummer, or Gruff-and-Tackleton. The cuckoo on the Dutch clock, now likea spectral voice, now hiccoughing on the assembled company, as if hehad got drunk for joy; the little haymaker over the dial mowing downimaginary grass, jerking right and left with his scythe in front of aMoorish palace; the hideous, hairy, red-eyed jacks-in-boxes; the fliesin the Noah's arks, that "an't on that scale neither as compared withelephants;" the giant masks, having a certain furtive leer, "safe todestroy the peace of mind of any young gentlemen between the ages of sixand eleven, for the whole Christmas or Midsummer vacation, " were all ofthem like dreams of the Danish poet, coloured into a semblance of lifeby the grotesque humour of the English Novelist. But dear little Dot, who was rather of the dumpling's shape--"but I don't myself object tothat"--and good, lumbering John Peerybingle, her husband, often so nearto something or another very clever, according to his own account, andBoxer, the carrier's dog, "with that preposterous nothing of a fag-endof a tail of his, describing circles of barks round the horse, makingsavage rushes at his mistress, and facetiously bringing himself tosudden stops, "--all bear upon them unmistakably the sign-manual of Boz. 

As originally recounted in the Christmas story-book, the whole narrativewas comprised within a very few pages, portioned out into three littlechirps. Yet the letter-press was illustrated profusely by pencils aseminent as those of Daniel Maclise, of Clarkson Stanfield, of RichardDoyle, of John Leech, of Sir Edwin Landseer. The charming little fairytale, moreover, was inscribed to Lord Jeffrey. It was a favourite ofhis, as it still is of many another critic north and south of theTweed, light, nay trivial, though the materials out of which the homelyapologue is composed. It can hardly be wondered at, however, rememberinghow less than four years prior to its first publication, a literaryreviewer, no less formidable than Professor Wilson--while abstaining, in his then capacity as chairman of the public banquet given to CharlesDickens at Edinburgh, from attempting, as he said, anything like "acritical delineation of our illustrious guest"--nevertheless, addedemphatically, "I cannot but express in a few ineffectual words thedelight which every human bosom feels in the benign spirit whichpervades all his creations. " Christopher North thus further expressedhis admiration then of the young English Novelist--"How kind and gooda man he is, " the great Critic exclaimed, laying aside for a while thecrutch with which he had so often, in the Ambrosian Nights, brained manyan arrant pretender to the title of genius or of philanthropist, andturning his lion-like eyes, at the moment beaming only with cordiality, on the then youthful face of Dickens, --"How kind and good a man he isI need not say, nor what strength of genius he has acquired by thatprofound sympathy with his fellow-creatures, whether in prosperity andhappiness, or overwhelmed with unfortunate circumstances. " Purely andsimply, in his capacity as an imaginative writer, the Novelist hadalready (then in the June of 1841) impressed thus powerfully the heartand judgment of John Wilson, of Christopher North, of the inexorableRhadamanthus of _Blackwood_ and the "Noctes. " Afterwards, but a verylittle more than two years afterwards, came the "Carol. " The followingwinter rang out the "Chimes. " The Christmas after that was heard thechirping of the "Cricket. "

Four years previously Professor Wilson, on the occasion referred to, hadremarked of him most truly, --"He has not been deterred by the aspect ofvice and wickedness, and misery and guilt, from seeking a spirit of goodin things evil, but has endeavoured by the might of genius to transmutewhat was base into what is precious as the beaten gold;" observing, indeed, yet further--"He has mingled in the common walks of life; hehas made himself familiar with the lower orders of society. " As if insupplementary and conclusive justification of those words, Dickens, within less than five years afterwards, had woven his graceful andpathetic fancies about the homely joys and sorrows of Bob Cratchit, of Toby Veck, and of Caleb Plummer, of a little Clerk, a littleTicket-porter, and a little Toy-maker. His pen at these times was likethe wand of Cinderella's fairy godmother, changing the cucumber into agilded chariot, and the lizards into glittering retainers. 

At the commencement of this Reading but very little indeed was saidabout the Cricket, hardly anything at all about the kettle. Yet, aseverybody knows, "the kettle began it" in the story-book. The same rightof precedence was accorded to the kettle in the author's delivery of hisfairy tale by word of mouth, but otherwise its comfortable purring songwas in a manner hushed. One heard nothing about its first appearance onthe hearth, when "it would lean forward with a drunken air, and dribble, a very idiot of a kettle, " any more than of its final pæan, when, afterits iron body hummed and stirred upon the fire, the lid itself, therecently rebellious lid, performed a sort of jig, and clattered "likea deaf and dumb young cymbal that had never known the use of its twinbrother. " Here, again, in fact, as with so many other of these Readingsfrom his own books by our Novelist, the countless good things scatteredabundantly up and down the original descriptions--inimitable touches ofhumour that had each of them, on the appreciative palate, the effect ofthat verbal bon-bon, the bon-mot--were sacrificed inexorably, apparentlywithout a qualm, and certainly by wholesale. What the Reader looked tothroughout, was the human element in his imaginings when they were to beimpersonated. 

Let but one of these tid-bits be associated directly with the fancifulbeings introduced in the gradual unfolding of the incidents, and itmight remain there untouched, Thus, for example, when the Carrier'sarrival at his home came to be mentioned, and the Reader related howJohn Peerybingle, being much taller, as well as much older than hiswife, little Dot, "had to stoop a long way down to kiss her"--the wordsthat followed thereupon were happily _not_ omitted: "but she was worththe trouble, --six foot six with the lumbago might have done it. " Severalof John's choicest--all-but jokes were also retained. As, where Dotis objecting to be called by that pet diminutive, "'Why, what else areyou?' returned John, looking down upon her with a smile, and giving herwaist as light a squeeze as his huge hand and arm could give, 'A dotand'--here he glanced at the baby--'a dot and carry'--I won't say it, for fear I should spoil it; but I was very near a joke. I don't know asever I was nearer. " Tilly Slowboy and her charge, the baby, were, uponevery mention of them in the Reading, provocative of abundant laughter. The earliest allusion to Miss Slowboy recording these characteristiccircumstances in regard to her costume, that it "was remarkable for thepartial development, on all possible and impossible occasions, of someflannel vestment of a singular structure, also for affording glimpses inthe region of the back of a pair of stays, in colour a dead green. " Onthe introduction of the Mysterious Stranger--apparently all but stonedeaf--from the Carrier's cart, where he had been forgotten, the comicinfluence of the Reading became irresistible. 

Stranger (on noticing Dot) interrogatively to John. --"Your Daughter?"

Carrier, with the voice of a boatswain. --"Wife. "

Stranger, with his hand to his ear, being not quite certain that he hascaught it. --"Niece?"

Carrier, with a roar. --"Wife. "

Satisfied at last upon that point, the stranger asks of John, as a newmatter of curiosity to him, "Baby, yours?" Whereupon the Reader, _as_John, "gave a gigantic nod, equivalent to an answer in the affirmative, delivered through a speaking-trumpet. "

Stranger, still unsatisfied, inquiring, --"Girl?". --"Bo-o-oy!" wasbellowed back by John Peerybingle. It was when Mrs. Peerybingle herselftook up the parable, however, that the merriment excited among theaudience became fairly irrepressible. Scarcely had the nearly stone-deafstranger added, in regard to the "Bo-o-oy, "--"Also very young, eh?"(a comment previously applied by him to Dot) when the Reader, as Mrs. Peerybingle, instantly struck in, at the highest pitch of hisvoice, that is, of her voice (the comic effect of this being simplyindescribable)--"Two months and three da-ays! Vaccinated six weeksago-o! Took very fine-ly! Considered, by the doctor, a remarkablybeautiful chi-ild! Equal to the general run of children at five monthso-old! Takes notice in a way quite won-der-ful! May seem impossible toyou, but feels his feet al-ready!" Directly afterwards, CalebPlummer appeared upon the scene, little imagining that in theMysterious-Stranger would be discovered, later on, under the disguiseof that nearly stone-deaf old gentleman, his (Caleb's) own dear boy, Edward, supposed to have died in the golden South Americas. LittleCaleb's inquiry of Mrs. Peerybingle, --"You couldn't have the goodness tolet me pinch Boxer's tail, Mum, for half a moment, could you?" wasone of the welcome whimsicalities of the Reading. "Why, Caleb! what aquestion!" naturally enough was Dot's instant exclamation. "Oh, nevermind, Mum!" said the little toy-maker, apologetically, "He mightn't likeit perhaps"--adding, by way of explanation--"There's a small order justcome in, for barking dogs; and I should wish to go as close to Natur' asI could, for sixpence!" Caleb's employer, Tackleton, in his largegreen cape and bull-headed looking mahogany tops, was then described asentering pretty much in the manner of what one might suppose to be thatof an ogrish toy-merchant. His character came out best perhaps--meaning, in another sense, that is, at its worst--when the fairy spirit ofJohn's house, the Cricket, was heard chirping; and Tackleton asked, grumpily, --"Why don't you kill that cricket? I would! I always do!I hate their noise!" John exclaiming, in amazement, --"You kill yourcrickets, eh?" "Scrunch 'em, sir!" quoth Tackleton. One of the mostwistfully curious thoughts uttered in the whole of the Reading was theallusion to the original founder of the toy-shop of Gruff and Tackleton, where it was remarked (such a quaint epitome of human life!) that underthat same crazy roof, beneath which Caleb Plummer and Bertha, his blinddaughter, found shelter as their humble home, --"the Gruff before lasthad, in a small way, _made toys for a generation of old boys and girls, who had played with them, and found them out, and broken them, and goneto sleep_. " Another wonderfully comic minor character was introducedlater on in the eminently ridiculous person of old Mrs. Fielding--inregard to in-door gloves, a foreshadowing of Mrs. Wilfer--in the matterof her imaginary losses through the indigo trade, a spectral precursor, or dim prototype, as one might say, of Mrs. Pipchin and the Peruvianmines. Throughout the chief part of the dreamy, dramatic little story, the various characters, it will be remembered, are involved in a mazyentanglement of cross purposes. Mystery sometimes, pathos often, terrorfor one brief interval, rose from the Reading of the "Home Fairy-Tale. "There was a subdued tenderness which there was no resisting in therevelation to the blind girl, Bertha, of the illusions in which she hadbeen lapped for years by her sorcerer of a lather, poor little Caleb, the toy-maker. There was at once a tearful and a laughing earnestnessthat took the Reader's audience captive, not by any means unwillingly, when little Dot was, at the last, represented as "clearing it all up athome" (indirectly, to the great honour of the Cricket's reputation, by the way) to her burly husband--good, stupid, worthy, "clumsy man ingeneral, "--John Peerybingle, the Carrier. The one inconsistent person inthe whole story, it must be admitted, was Tackleton, who turned outat the very end to be rather a good fellow than otherwise. Fittinglyenough, in the Reading as in the book, when the "Fairy Tale of Home"was related to its close, when Dot and all the rest were spoken of asvanished, a broken child's-toy, we were told, yet lay upon the ground, and still upon the hearth was heard the song of the Cricket. 

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

A variety of attractive Readings might readily have been culled fromNicholas Nickleby's Life and Adventures. His comical experiences asa strolling-player in the Company of the immortal Crummleses--hisdesperate encounter with Sir Mulberry Hawk on the footboard of thecabriolet--his exciting rescue of Madeline from an unholy alliancewith Gride, the miser, on the very morning fixed for the revoltingmarriage--his grotesque association for a while with the Kenwigses andtheir uncle Lilliyick--his cordial relations with the Brothers Cheerybleand old Tim Linkinwater--any one of these incidents in the career of themost high spirited of all the young heroes of our Novelist, would havefar more than simply justified its selection as the theme of one ofthese illustrative entertainments. Instead of choosing any one of thoselater episodes in the fictitious history of Nicholas Nickleby, however, the author of that enthralling romance of everyday life, picked out, bypreference, the earliest of all his young hero's experiences--thosein which, at nineteen years of age, he was brought into temporaryentanglement with the domestic economy of Dotheboys Hall, and at thelast into personal conflict with its one-eyed principal, the rascallyYorkshire school-master. 

The Gadshill collection of thin octavos, comprising the whole series ofReadings, includes within it two copies of "Mrs. Gamp" and two copies of"Nicholas Nickleby. " Whereas, on comparing the duplicates of Mrs. Gamp, the two versions appear to be so slightly different that they are allbut identical, a marked contrast is observable at a glance between thetwo Nicklebys. Each Reading is descriptive, it is true, of his sayingsand doings at the Yorkshire school. But, even externally, one of the twocopies is marked "Short Time, "--the love-passages with Miss Squeers bemgentirely struck out, and no mention whatever being made of John Browdie, the corn-factor. The wretched school, the sordid rascal who keepsit, Mrs. Squeers, poor, forlorn Smike, and a few of his scarecrowcompanions--these, in the short-time version, and these alone, constitute the young usher's surroundings. In here recalling torecollection the "Nicholas Nickleby" Reading at all, however, we select, as a matter of course, the completer version, the one for which thegenerality of hearers had an evident preference: the abbreviated versionbeing always regarded as capital, so far as it went; but even at thebest, with all the go and dash of its rapid delivery, insufficient. 

Everything, even, we should imagine, to one un-acquainted with thenovel, was ingeniously explained by the Reader in a sentence or two atstarting. Nicholas Nickleby was described as arriving early one Novembermorning, at the Saracen's Head, to join, in his new capacity (striplingthough he was) as scholastic assistant, Mr. Squeers, "the cheap--theterribly cheap" Yorkshire schoolmaster. The words just given in invertedcommas are those written in blue ink in the Novelist's handwriting onthe margin of his longer Reading copy. As also are the following words, epitomising in a breath the position of the young hero when the storycommences--"Inexperienced, sanguine, and thrown upon the world withno adviser, and his bread to win, " the manuscript interpolation thusintimates: the letterpress then relating in its integrity that Nicholashad engaged himself as tutor at Mr. Wackford Squeers's academy, on thestrength of the memorable advertisement in the London newspapers. The advertisement, that is, comprising within it the long series ofaccomplishments imparted to the students at Dotheboys Hall, including"single-stick" (if required), together with "fortification, and everyother branch of classical literature. " The Reader laying particularstress, among other items in the announcement, upon "No extras, novacations, and diet unparalleled;" and upon the finishing touch (havingespecial reference to the subject in hand), "An able assistant wanted:annual salary, £5! A master of arts would be preferred!" Immediatelyafter this, in the Reading, came the description of Mr. Squeers, severalof the particulars in regard to whose villainous appearance always toldwonderfully: as, where it was said "he had but one eye, and the popularprejudice runs in favour of two;" or, again, where in reference to hisattire--it having been mentioned that his coat-sleeves were a great dealtoo-long and his trousers a great deal too short--it was added that "heappeared ill at ease in his clothes, and as if he were in a perpetualstate of astonishment at finding himself so respectable. " Listening tothe Reader, we were there, in the coffee-room of the Saracen's Head--therascal Squeers in the full enjoyment of his repast of hot toast andcold round of beef, the while five little boys sat opposite hungrily andthirstily expectant of their share in a miserable meal of two-penn'orthof milk and thick bread and butter for three. "Just fill that mug upwith lukewarm water, William, will you?" "To the wery top, sir? Why themilk will be drownded!" "_Serve it right for being so dear!_" Squeersadding with a chuckle, as he pounded away at his own coffee andviands, --"Conquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager afterwittles. " To see the Reader as Squeers, stirring the mug of lukewarmmilk and water, and then smacking his lips with an affected relish aftertasting a spoonful of it, before reverting to his own fare of butteredtoast and beef, was to be there with Nicholas, a spectator on thatwintry morning in the Snow Hill Tavern, watching the guttling pedagogueand the five little famished expectants. Only when Squeers, immediatelybefore the signal for the coach starting, wiped his mouth, with aself-satisfied "Thank God for a good breakfast, " was the mug rapidlypassed from mouth to mouth at once ravenously and tantalizingly. Thelong and bitter journey on the north road, through the snow, was barelyreferred to in the Reading; due mention, however, being made, and alwaystellingly, of Mr. S queers's habit of getting down at nearly everystage--"to stretch his legs, he said, --and as he always came back witha very red nose, and composed himself to sleep directly, the stretchingseemed to answer. " Immediately on the wayfarers' arrival at Dotheboys, Mrs. Squeers, arrayed in a dimity night-jacket, herself a head tallerthan Mr. Squeers, was always introduced with great effect, as seizingher Squeery by the throat and giving him two loud kisses in rapidsuccession, like a postman's knock. The audience then scarcely had timeto laugh over the interchange of questions and answers between the happycouple, as to the condition of the cows and pigs, and, last of all, the boys, ending with Madame's intimation that "young Pitcher's had afever, " followed up by Squeers's characteristic exclamation, "No! damnthat chap, he's always at something of that sort"--when there camethe first glimpse of poor Smike, in a skeleton suit, and large bootsoriginally made for tops, too patched and ragged now for a beggar;around his throat "a tattered child's frill only half concealed by acoarse man's neckerchief. " Anxiously observing Squeers, as he emptiedhis overcoat of letters and papers, the boy did this, we were told, withan air so dispirited and hopeless, that Nicholas could hardly bear towatch him. "Have you--did anybody--has nothing been heard--about me?"were then (in the faintest, frightened voice!) the first stammeredutterances of the wretched drudge. Bullied into silence by the brutalschoolmaster, Smike limped away with a vacant smile, when we heard thefemale scoundrel in the dimity night-jacket saying, --"I'll tell youwhat, Squeers, I think that young chap's turning silly. "

Inducted into the loathsome school-room on the following morning bySqueers himself, Nicholas, first of all, we were informed, witnessedthe manner in which that arrant rogue presided over "the first class inEnglish spelling and philosophy, " practically illustrating his mode oftuition by setting the scholars to clean the w-i-n win, d-e-r-s ders, winders--to weed the garden--to rub down the horse, or get rubbeddown themselves if they didn't do it well. Nicholas assisted in theafternoon, moreover, at the report given by Mr. Squeers on his returnhomewards after his half-yearly visit to the metropolis. Beginning, though this last-mentioned part of the Reading did, with Squeers'sferocious slash on the desk with his cane, and his announcement, in themidst of a death-like silence--

"Let any boy speak a word without leave, and I'll take the skin off thatboy's back!" many of the particulars given immediately afterwards bythe Reader were, in spite of the surrounding misery, irresistiblyprovocative of laughter. Ample justification for this, in truth, isvery readily adduceable. Mr. Squeers having, through his one eye, madea mental abstract of Cobbey's letter, for example, Cobbey and the wholeschool were thus feelingly informed of its contents--"Oh! Cobbey'sgrandmother is dead, and his uncle John has took to drinking. Which isall the news his sister sends, except eighteen-pence--which will justpay for that broken square of glass! Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will youtake the money?" Another while, Graymarsh's maternal aunt, who "thinksMrs. Squeers must be a angel, " and that Mr. Squeers is too good for thisworld, "would have sent the two pairs of stockings, as desired, butis short of money, so forwards a tract instead, " and so on; "Ah-! adelightful letter--very affecting, indeed!" quoth Squeers. "It wasaffecting in one sense!" observed the Reader; "for Graymarsh's maternalaunt was strongly supposed by her more intimate friends to be hismaternal parent!" Perhaps the epistle from Mobbs's mother-in-law was thebest of all, however--the old lady who "took to her bed on hearing thathe wouldn't eat fat;" and who "wishes to know by an early post where heexpects to go to, if he quarrels with his vittles?" adding, "This wastold her in the London newspapers--not by Mr. Squeers, for he is tookind and too good to set anybody against anybody!"

As an interlude, overflowing with fun, came Miss Squeers'stea-drinking--the result of her suddenly falling in love with the newusher, and that chiefly by reason of the straightness of his legs, "thegeneral run of legs at Dotheboys Hall being crooked. " How John Browdie(with his hair damp from washing) appeared upon the occasion in a cleanshirt--"whereof thecollars might have belonged to some giantancestor, "--and greeted the assembled company, including his intended, Tilda Price, "with a grin that even the collars could not conceal, " thecreator of the worthy Yorkshireman went on to describe, with a gustoakin to the relish with which every utterance of John Browdie's wascaught up by the listeners. Whether he spoke in good humour or in illhumour, the burly cornfactor was equally delightful. One while saying, laughingly, to Nicholas, across the bread-and-butter plate which theyhad just been emptying between them, "Ye wean't get bread-and-buttherev'ry neight, I expect, mun. Ecod, they dean't put too much intif 'em. Ye'll be nowt but skeen and boans if you stop here long eneaf. Ho! ho!ho!"--all this to Nicholas's unspeakable indignation. Or, another while, after chafing in jealousy for a long time over the coquetries going onbetween Tilda Price and Nicholas--the Yorkshireman flattening his ownnose with his clenched fist again and again, "as if to keep his hand intill he had an opportunity of exercising it on the nose of some othergentleman, "--until asked merrily by his betrothed to keep his glumsilence no longer, but to say something: "Say summat?" roared JohnBrowdie, with a mighty blow on the table; "Weal, then! what I say 'sthis--Dang my boans and boddy, if I stan' this ony longer! Do ye gangwhoam wi' me; and do yon loight and toight young whipster look sharp outfor a brokken head next time he cums under my hond. Cum whoam, tell'e, cum whoam!" After Smike's running away, and his being brought backagain, had been rapidly recounted, what nearly every individual memberof every audience in attendance at this Reading was eagerly on the watchfor all along, at last, in the fullness of time, arrived, --the execrableSqueers receiving, instead of administering, a frightful beating, in thepresence of the whole school; having carefully provided himselfbeforehand, as all were rejoiced to remember, with "a fearful instrumentof flagellation, strong, supple, wax-ended, and new!"

So real are the characters described by Charles Dickens in his life-likefictions, and so exactly do the incidents he relates as having befallenthem resemble actual occurrences, that we recall to recollection at thismoment the delight with which the late accomplished Lady Napier oncerelated an exact case in point, appealing, as she did so, to herhusband, the author of the "Peninsular War, " to corroborate the-accuracyof her retrospect! Telling how she perfectly well remembered, when thefourth green number of "Nicholas Nickleby" was just out, one of herhome group, who had a moment before caught sight of the picture of theflogging in a shop-window, rushed in with the startling announcement--asthough he were bringing with him the news of some great victory--"Whatdo you think? _Nicholas has thrashed Squeers!_" As the Novelist readthis chapter, or rather the condensation of this chapter, it was for allthe world like assisting in person at that sacred and refreshing rite!

"Is every boy here?"

Yes, every boy was there, and so was every observant listener, in eagerand--knowing what was coming--in delighted expectation. As Squeers wasrepresented as "glaring along the lines, " to assure himself that everyboy really _was_ there, what time "every eye drooped and every headcowered down, " the Reader, instead of uttering one word of what theruffianly schoolmaster ought then to have added: "Each boy keep tohis place. Nickleby! you go to your desk, sir!"--instead of saying onesyllable of this, contented himself with obeying his own manuscriptmarginal direction, in one word--Pointing! The effect of this simplegesture was startling--particularly when, after the momentary hush withwhich it was always accompanied, he observed quietly, --"There was acurious expression in the usher's face, but he took his seat withoutopening his lips in reply. " Then, when the schoolmaster had dragged inthe wretched Smike by the collar, "or rather by that fragment of hisjacket which was nearest the place where his collar ought to have been, "there was a horrible relish in his saying, over his shoulder for amoment, "Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; _I'vehardly got room enough!_" The instant one cruel blow had fallen--"Stop!"was cried in a voice that made the rafters ring--even the lofty raftersof St. James's Hall. 

Squeers, with the glare and snarl of a wild beast. --"Who cried stop?"

Nicholas. --"I did! This must not go on!"

Squeers, again, with a frightful look. --"Must not go on?"

Nicholas. --"Must not! Shall not! I will prevent it!"

Then came Nicholas Nickleby's manly denunciation of the scoundrel, interrupted one while for an instant by Squeers screaming out, "Sitdown, you--beggar!" and followed at its close by the last and crowningoutrage, consequent on a violent outbreak of wrath on the part ofSqueers, who spat at him and struck him a blow across the face with hisinstrument of torture: when Nicholas, springing upon him, wrested theweapon from his hand, and pinning him by the throat--don't we all exultin the remembrance of it?--"beat the ruffian till he roared for mercy. "

After that climax has been attained, two other particulars are aloneworthy of being recalled to recollection in regard to this Reading. First, the indescribable heartiness of John Browdie's cordialshake-of-the-hand with Nicholas Nickleby on their encountering eachother by accident upon the high road. "Shake honds? Ah! that I weel!"coupled with his ecstatic shout (so ecstatic that his horse shyed atit), "Beatten schoolmeasther! Ho! ho! ho! Beatten schoolmeasther!Who ever heard o' the loike o' that, noo? Give us thee hond agean, yoongster! Beatten schoolmeasther! Dang it, I loove thee for 't!"Finally, and as the perfecting touch of tenderness between the twocousins, then unknown to each other as such, in the early morning lightat Boroughbridge, we caught a glimpse of Nicholas and Smike passing, hand in hand, out of the old barn together. 

MR. BOB SAWYER'S PARTY. 

Quite as exhilarating in its way as the all-but dramatised report of thegreat breach of promise case tried before Mr. Justice Stareleigh, wasthat other condensation of a chapter from "Pickwick, " descriptive ofMr. Bob Sawyer's Party. It was a Reading, in the delivery of whichthe Reader himself had evidently the keenest sense of enjoyment. Asa humorous description, it was effervescent with fun, being writtenthroughout in the happiest, earliest style of the youthful genius ofBoz, when the green numbers were first shaking the sides of lettered andunlettered Englishmen alike with Homeric laughter. Besides this, whengiven by him as a Reading, it comprised within it one of his verydrollest impersonations. If only as the means of introducing us to JackHopkins, it would have been most acceptable. But, inimitable though Jackwas, he was, at the least, thoroughly well companioned. 

As a relish of what was coming, there was that preliminary account ofthe locality in which the festivities were held, to wit, Lant Street, inthe borough of Southwark, the prevailing repose of which, we weretold, "sheds a gentle melancholy upon the soul"--fully justifying itsselection as a haven of rest by any one who wished "to abstract himselffrom the world, to remove himself from the reach of temptation, to placehimself beyond the possibility of any inducement to look out ofwindow!" As specimens of animated nature, familiarly met with in theneighbourhood, "the pot-boy, the muffin youth, and the baked potatoman, " had about them a perennial freshness. Whenever we were reminded, again, in regard to the principal characteristics of the population thatit was migratory, "usually disappearing on the verge of quarter-day, andgenerally by night, " her Majesty's revenues being seldom collected inthat happy valley, its rents being pronounced dubious, and its watercommunication described as "frequently cut off, " we found in respect tothe whole picture thus lightly-sketched in, that age did not wither norcustom stale its infinite comicality. 

It was when the familiar personages of the story were, one afteranother, introduced upon the scene, however, that the broad Pickwickianhumour of it all began in earnest to be realised. After we had listenedwith chuckling enjoyment to the ludicrously minute account given of theelaborate preparations made for the reception of the visitors, even inthe approaches to Mr. Bob Sawyer's apartment, down to the mention of thekitchen candle with a long snuff, that "burnt cheerfully on the ledge ofthe staircase window, " we had graphically rendered the memorable scenebetween poor, dejected Bob and his little spitfire of a landlady, Mrs. Raddle. _So_ dejected and generally suppressed was Bob in the Reading, however, that we should hardly have recognised that very archetypeof the whole _genus_ of rollicking Medical Students, as originallydescribed in the pages of Pickwick, where he is depicted as attiredin "a coarse blue coat, which, without being either a great-coat or asurtout, partook of the nature and qualities of both, " having about himthat sort of slovenly smartness and swaggering gait peculiar to younggentlemen who smoke in the streets by day, and shout and scream in thesame by night, calling waiters by their Christian names, and altogetherbearing a resemblance upon the whole to something like a dissipatedRobinson Crusoe. Habited, Bob still doubtless was, in the plaid trousersand the large, rough coat and double-breasted waistcoat, but as for the"swaggering gait" just mentioned not a vestige of it remained. Nor couldthat be wondered at, indeed, for an instant, beholding and hearing, aswe did, the shrill ferocity with which Mrs. Raddle had it out with himabout the rent immediately before the arrival of his guests. 

It is one of the distinctive peculiarities of Charles Dickens as ahumorous Novelist, that the cream or quintessence of a jest is veryoften given by him quite casually in a parenthesis. It was equallydistinctive of his peculiarities as a Reader, that the especial charmof his drollery was often conveyed by the merest aside. Thus it was withhim in reference to Mrs. Raddle's "confounded little bill, " when--inbetween Ben Allen's inquiry, "How long has it been running?" and BobSawyer's reply, "Only about a quarter and a month or so"--the Readerparenthetically remarked, with a philosophic air, "A bill, by the way, is the most extraordinary locomotive engine that the genius of man everproduced: it would keep on running during the longest lifetime withoutever once stopping of its own accord. " Thus also was it, when he addedmeditatively to Bob's hesitating explanation to Mrs. Raddle, "the factis that I have been disappointed in the City to-day"--"Extraordinaryplace that City: astonishing number of men always _are_ gettingdisappointed there. " Hereupon it was that that fiercest of little women, Mrs. Raddle, who had entered "in a tremble with passion and pale withrage, " fairly let out at her lodger. Her incidental bout with Mr. BenAllen, when he soothingly(!) interpolated, "My good soul, " was, inthe Reading, in two senses, a memorable diversion. Beginning with asarcastic quivering in her voice, "I am not _aweer_, sir, that you haveany right to address your conversation to _me_. I don't think I letthese apartments to _you_, sir--" Mrs. Raddle's anger rose through anindignant _crescendo_, on Ben Allen's remonstrating, "But you are suchan unreasonable woman"--to the sharp and biting interrogation, "I begyour parding, young man, but will you have the goodness to call me thatagain, sir?"

Ben Allen, meekly and somewhat uneasy on his own account, --"I didn'tmake use of the word in any invidious sense, ma'am. "

Landlady, louder and more imperatively, --"I beg your parding, young man, but _who_ do you call a woman? Did you make that remark to me, sir?"

"_Why, bless my heart!_"

"Did you apply that name to me, I ask of you, sir?"

On his answering, Well, of course he did!--then, as she retreatedtowards the open room-door, came the last outburst of her invectives, high-pitched in their voluble utterance, against him, against themboth, against everybody, including Mr. Raddle in the kitchen--"a base, faint-hearted, timorous wretch, that's afraid to come upstairs and facethe ruffinly creaturs--that's _afraid_ to come--that's afraid!"Ending with her screaming descent of the stairs in the midst of a louddouble-knock, upon the arrival just then of the Pickwickians, when, "inan uncontrollable burst of mental agony, " Mrs. Raddle threw down allthe umbrellas in the passage, disappearing into the back parlour with anawful crash. In answer to the cheerful inquiry from Mr. Pickwick, --"DoesMr. Sawyer live here?" came the lugubrious and monotonously intonedresponse, all on one note, of the aboriginal young person, the galBetsey (one of the minor characters in the original chapter, and yet, as already remarked, a superlatively good impersonation in theReading)--"Yes; first-floor. It's the door straight afore you when youget's to the top of the stairs"--with which the dirty slipshod inblack cotton stockings disappeared with the candle down the kitchenstair-case, leaving the unfortunate arrivals to grope their way up asthey best could. Welcomed rather dejectedly by Bob on the first-floorlanding, where Mr. Pickwick put, not, as in the original work, his hat, but, in the Reading, "his foot" in the tray of glasses, they were verysoon followed, one after another, by the remainder of the visitors. Notably by a sentimental young gentleman with a nice sense of honour, and, most notably of all (with a heavy footstep, very welcome indeedwhenever heard) by Jack Hopkins. Jack was at once the Hamlet and theYorick of the whole entertainment--all-essential to it--whose very look(with his chin rather stiff in the stock), whose very words (short, sharp, and decisive) had about them a drily and all-but indescribablyhumorous effect. As spoken by the Novelist himself, Jack Hopkins'severy syllable told to perfection. His opening report immediately onhis arrival, of "rather a good accident" just brought into the casualtyward--only, it was true, a man fallen out of a four-pair-of-stairswindow; but a very fair case, _very_ fair case indeed!--was of itselfa dexterous forefinger between the small ribs to begin with. Would thepatient recover? Well, no--with an air of supreme indifference--no, heshould rather say he wouldn't. But there must be a splendid operation, though, on the morrow--magnificent sight if Slasher did it! Did heconsider Mr. Slasher a good operator? "Best alive: took a boy's legout of the socket last week--boy ate five apples and a gingerbread cakeexactly two minutes after it was all over;--boy said he wouldn't liethere to be made game of; and he'd tell his mother if they didn'tbegin. " To hear Dickens say this in the short, sharp utterances of JackHopkins, to see his manner in recounting it, stiff-necked, and with aglance under the drooping eyelids in the direction of Mr. Pickwick'slistening face, was only the next best thing to hearing him and seeinghim, still in the person of Jack Hopkins, relate the memorable anecdoteabout the child swallowing the necklace--pronounced in Jack Hopkins'sabbreviated articulation of it, _neck-luss_--a word repeated by hima round dozen times at the least within a few seconds in the readingversion of that same anecdote. How characteristically and comically theabbreviations were multiplied for the delivery of it, by the very voiceand in the very person, as it were, of Jack Hopkins, who shall say! As, for example--"Sister, industrious girl, seldom treated herself to bitof finery, cried eyes out, at loss of--neck-luss; looked high and lowfor--neck-luss. Few days afterwards, family at dinner--baked, shoulderof mutton and potatoes, child wasn't hungry, playing about the room, when family suddenly heard devil of a noise like small hail-storm. "How abbreviated passages like these look, as compared with theoriginal--could only be rendered comprehensible upon the instant, bygiving in this place a facsimile of one of the pages relating to JackHopkins's immortal story about the--neck-luss, exactly as it appearsin the marked copy of the Reading of "Mr. Bob Sawyer's Party, " a pagecovered all over, as will be observed, with minute touches in theNovelist's own handwriting. 

Nothing at all in the later version of this Reading was said about theprim person in cloth boots, who unsuccessfully attempted all through theevening to make a joke. Of him the readers of "Pickwick" will very wellremember it to have been related that he commenced a long story abouta great public character, whose name he had forgotten, making aparticularly happy reply to another illustrious individual whom he hadnever been able to identify, and, after enlarging with great minutenessupon divers collateral circumstances distantly connected with theanecdote, could not for the life of him recollect at that precisemoment what the anecdote was--although he had been in the habit, for thelast ten years, of telling the story with great applause! While disposedto regret the omission of this preposterously natural incident from therevised version of the Reading, and especially Bob Sawyer's concludingremark in regard to it, that he should very much like to hear the end ofit, for, _so far as it went_, it was, without exception, the very beststory he had ever heard--we were more than compensated by anotherrevisive touch, by which Mr. Hopkins, instead of Mr. Gunter, in the pinkshirt, was represented as one of the two interlocutors in the famousquarrel-scene: the other being Mr. Noddy, the scorbutic youth, with thenice sense of honour. Through this modification the ludicrous effect ofthe squabble was wonderfully enhanced, as where Mr. Noddy, having beenthreatened with being "pitched out o' window" by Mr. Jack Hopkins, said to the latter, "I should like to see you do it, sir, " Jack Hopkinscurtly retaliating--"You shall _feel_ me do it, sir, in half a minute. "The reconciliation of the two attained its climax of absurdity inthe Reading, when Mr. Noddy, having gradually allowed his feelings tooverpower him, professed that he had ever entertained a devoted personalattachment to Mr. Hopkins. Consequent upon this, Mr. Hopkins, we weretold, replied, that, "on the whole, he rather preferred Mr. Noddy tohis own _mother_"--the word standing, of course, as "brother" in theoriginal. Summing it all up, the Reader would then add, with a rise andfall of the voice at almost every other word in the sentence, the meresound of which was inexpressibly ludicrous--"Everybody said the wholedispute had been conducted in a manner" (here he would sometimes gag)"that did equal credit to the head and heart of both parties concerned. "

Another gag, of which there is no sign in the marked copy, those whoattended any later delivery of this Reading will well remember he wasfond of introducing. This was immediately after Mrs. Raddle had put anend to the evening's enjoyment in the very middle of Jack Hopkins' song(with a chorus) of "The King, God bless him, " carolled forth by Jackto a novel air compounded of the "Bay of Biscay" and "A Frog he woulda-wooing go"--when poor, discomfited Bob (after turning pale at thevoice of his dreaded landlady, shrilly calling out, "Mr. Saw-yer! Mr. Saw-yer!") turned reproachfully on the over-boisterous Jack Hopkins, with, "I _thought_ you were making too much noise, Jack. You're sucha fellow for chorusing! You're always at it. You came into the worldchorusing; and I believe you'll go out of it chorusing. " Through theirappreciation of which--more even than through their remembrance ofMrs. Raddle's withdrawal of her nightcap, with a scream, from over thestaircase banisters, on catching sight of Mr. Pickwick, saying, "Getalong with you, you old wretch! Old enough to be his grandfather, youwillin! You're worse than any of 'em!"--the hearers paid to the Readerof Bob Sawyer's Party their last tribute of laughter. 

THE CHIMES. 

As poetical in its conception, and also, intermittently, in itstreatment, as anything he ever wrote, this Goblin Story of Some Bellsthat Rang an Old Year Out and a New Year In, was, in those purelygoblin, or more intensely imaginative portions of it, one of the mosteffective of our Author's Readings. Hence its selection by him for hisvery first Reading on his own account in St. Martin's Hall, Long Acre. Listening, as we did, then and afterwards, to the tale, as it was toldby his own sympathetic lips, much of the incongruity, otherwise nodoubt apparent in the narrative, seemed at those times to disappearaltogether. The incongruity, we mean, observable between the queerlittle ticket-porter and the elfin phantoms of the belfry; betweenTrotty Veck, in his "breezy, goose-skinned, blue-nosed, red-eyed, stony-toed, tooth-chattering" stand-point by the old church-door, andthe Goblin Sight beheld by him when he had clambered up, up, up amongthe roof-beams of the great church-tower. As the story was related inits original form, it was rung out befittingly from the Chimes in fourquarters. As a Reading it was subdivided simply into three parts. 

Nothing whatever was preserved (by an error as it always seemed tous) of the admirable introduction. The story-teller piqued no one intoattention by saying--to begin with--"There are not many people whowould care to sleep in a church. " Adding immediately, with delightfulparticularity, "I don't mean at sermon time in warm weather (when thething has actually been done once or twice), but in the night, andalone. " Not a word was uttered in the exordium of the Reading aboutthe dismal trick the night-wind has in those ghostly hours of wanderinground and round a building of that sort, and moaning as it goes; of itstrying with a secret hand the windows and the doors, fumbling for somecrevice by which to enter, and, having got in, "as one not finding whatit seeks, whatever that may be, " of its wailing and howling to issueforth again; of its stalking through the aisles and gliding round andround the pillars, and "tempting the deep organ;" of its soaring up tothe roof, and after striving vainly to rend the rafters, flinging itselfdespairingly upon the stones below, and passing mutteringly into thevaults! Anon, coming up stealthily--the Christmas book goes on tosay--"It has a ghostly sound, lingering within the Altar, where itseems to chant in its wild way of Wrong and Murder done, and false Godsworshipped, in defiance of the Tables of the Law, which look so fair andsmooth, but are so flawed and broken. Ugh! Heaven preserve us, sittingsnugly round the fire!--it has an awful voice that Wind at Midnight, singing in a church!" Of all this and of yet more to the like purpose, not one syllable was there in the Reading, which, on the contrary, beganat once point-blank: "High up in the steeple of an old church, farabove the town, and far below the clouds, dwelt the 'Chimes' I tellof. " Directly after which the Reader, having casually mentioned thecircumstance of their just then striking twelve at noon, gave utteranceto Trotty Yeck's ejaculatory reflection: "Dinner-time, eh? Ah! There'snothing more regular in its coming round than dinner-time, and there'snothing less regular in its coming round than dinner. " Followed by hisinnocently complacent exclamation: "I wonder whether it would be worthany gentleman's while, now, to buy that observation for the Papers, orthe Parliament!" The Reader adding upon the instant, with an explanatoryaside, that "Trotty was only joking, " striving to console himselfdoubtless for the exceeding probability there was before him, at themoment, of his going, not for the first time, dinnerless. 

In the thick of his meditations Trotty was startled--those who everattended this Reading will remember how pleasantly--by the unlooked-forappearance of his pretty daughter Meg. "And not alone!" as she told himcheerily. "Why you don't mean to say, " was the wondering reply of theold ticket-porter, looking curiously the while at a covered basketcarried in Margaret's hand, "that you have brought------"

Hadn't she! It was burning hot--scalding! He must guess from thesteaming flavour what it was! Thereupon came the by-play of theHumorist--after the fashion of Munden, who, according to Charles Lamb, "understood a leg of mutton in its quiddity. " It was thus with theReader when he syllabled, with watering lips, guess after guess at thehalf-opened basket. "It ain't--I suppose it ain't polonies? [sniffing]. No. It's--it's mellower than polonies. It's too decided for trotters. Liver? No. There's a mildness about it that don't answer to liver. Pettitoes? No. It ain't faint enough for pettitoes. It wants thestringiness of cock's heads. And I know it ain't sausages. I'll tell youwhat it is. No, it isn't, neither. Why, what am I thinking of! I shallforget my own name next. It's tripe!" Forthwith, to reward him forhaving thus hit it off at last so cleverly, Meg, as she expressed it, with a flourish, laid the cloth, meaning the pocket-handkerchief inwhich the basin of tripe had been tied up, and actually offered thesybarite who was going to enjoy the unexpected banquet, a choice ofdining-places! "Where will you dine, father? On the post, or on thesteps? How grand we are: two places to choose from!" The weather beingdry, and the steps therefore chosen, those being rheumatic only in thedamp, Trotty Veck was not merely represented by the Reader as feastingupon the tripe, but as listening meanwhile to Meg's account of how ithad all been arranged that she and her lover Eichard should, upon thevery next day, that is, upon New Year's Day, be married. 

In the midst of this agreeable confabulation--Richard himself having inthe interim become one of the party--the little old ticket-porter, the pretty daughter, and the sturdy young blacksmith, were suddenlyscattered. The Reader went on to relate how this happened, withludicrous accuracy, upon the abrupt opening of the door, around thesteps of which they were gathered--a flunkey nearly putting his foot inthe tripe, with this indignant apostrophe, "Out of the vays, here, willyou? You must always go and be a settin' on our steps, must you? Youcan't go and give a turn to none of the neighbours never, can't you?"Adding, even, a moment afterwards, with an aggrieved air of almostaffecting expostulation, "You're always a being begged and prayed uponyour bended knees, you are, to let our door-steps be? Can't you let'em be?" Nothing more was seen or heard of that footman, and yet in theutterance of those few words of his the individuality of the man somehowwas thoroughly realised. Observing him, listening to him, as he stoodthere palpably before us, one seemed to understand better than everThackeray's declaration in regard to those same menials in plushbreeches, that a certain delightful "quivering swagger" of thecalves about them, had for him always, as he expressed it, "a franticfascination!" Immediately afterwards, however, as the Reader turneda new leaf, in place of the momentary apparition of that particularflunkey, three very different persons appeared to step across thethreshold on to the platform. Low-spirited, Mr. Filer, with his hands inhis trousers-pockets. The red-faced gentleman who was always vaunting, under the title of the "good old times, " some undiscoverable past whichhe perpetually lamented as his deceased Millennium. And finally--aslarge as life, and as real--Alderman Cute. As in the original Christmasbook, so also in the Reading, the one flagrant improbability was theconsumption by Alderman Cute of the last lukewarm tid-bit of tripe leftby Trotty Veck down at the bottom of the basin--its consumption, indeed, by any alderman, however prying or gluttonous. Barring that, the wholeof the first scene of the "Chimes" was alive with reality, and with acurious diversity of human character. In the one that followed, and inwhich Trotty conveyed a letter to Sir Joseph Rowley, the impersonationof the obese hall-porter, later on identified as Tugby, was in everyway far beyond that of the pompous humanitarian member of parliament. Ahall-porter this proved to be whose voice, when he had found it--"whichit took him some time to do, for it was a long way off, and hidden undera load of meat"--was, in truth, as the Author's lips expressed it, andas his pen had long before described it in the book, "a fat whisper. "Afterwards when re-introduced, Tugby hardly, as it appeared to us, came up to the original description. When the stout old lady, hissupposititious wife, formerly, or rather really, all through, Mrs. Chickenstalker, says, in answer to his inquiries as to the weather, one especially bitter winter's evening, "Blowing and sleeting hard, andthreatening snow. Dark, and very cold"--Tugby's almost apoplectic replywas delicious, no doubt, in its suffocative delivery. "I'm glad to thinkwe had muffins for tea, my dear. It's a sort of night that's meant formuffins. Likewise crumpets; also Sally Lunns. " But, for all that, we invariably missed the sequel--which, once missed, could hardly beforegone contentedly. We recalled to mind, for example, such descriptiveparticulars in the original story as that, in mentioning each successivekind of eatable, Tugby did so "as if he were musingly summing up hisgood actions, " or that, after this, rubbing his fat legs and jerkingthem at the knees to get the fire upon the yet unroasted parts, helaughed as if somebody had tickled him! We bore distinctly enoughin remembrance, and longed then to have heard from the lips of theReader--in answer to the dream-wife's remark, "You're in spirits, Tugby, my dear!"--Tugby's fat, gasping response, "No, --No. Notparticular. I'm a little elewated. The muffins came so pat!" Though, even if that addition had been vouchsafed, we should still, no doubt, have hungered for the descriptive particulars that followed, relatingnot only how the former hall-porter chuckled until he was black in theface--having so much ado, in fact, to become any other colour, thathis fat legs made the strangest excursions into the air--but that Mrs. Tugby, that is, Chickenstalker, after thumping him violently on theback, and shaking him as if he were a bottle, was constrained to cryout, in great terror, "Good gracious, goodness, lord-a-mercy, blessand save the man! What's he a-doing?" To which all that Mr. Tugby canfaintly reply, as he wipes his eyes, is, that he finds himself a little"elewated!"

Another omission in the Reading was, if possible, yet more surprising, namely, the whole of Will Fern's finest speech: an address full ofrustic eloquence that one can't help feeling sure would have toldwonderfully as Dickens could have delivered it. However, the story, foreshortened though it was, precisely as he related it, was told witha due regard to its artistic completeness. Margaret and Lilian, theold ticket-porter and the young blacksmith, were the principalinterlocutors. Like the melodrama of Victorine, it all turned out, of course, to be no more than "the baseless fabric of a vision, " thecentral incidents of the tale, at any rate, being composed of "suchstuff as dreams are made of. " How it all came to be evolved bythe "Chimes" from the slumbering brain of the queer, little oldticket-porter was related more fully and more picturesquely, no doubt, in the printed narrative, but in the Reading, at the least, it wasdepicted with more dramatic force and passion. The merest glimmering, however, was afforded of the ghostly or elfin spectacle, as seen bythe "mind's eye" of the dreamer, and which in the book itself wasso important an integral portion of the tale, as there unfolded, constituting, as it did, for that matter, the very soul or spirit ofwhat was meant by "The Chimes. "

Speaking of the collective chimes of a great city, Victor Hugo hasremarked in his prose masterpiece that, in an ordinary way, the noiseissuing from a vast capital is the talking of the city, that at night itis the breathing of the city, but that when the bells are ringing itis the singing of the city. Descanting upon this congenial theme, the poet-novelist observes, in continuation, that while at first thevibrations of each bell rise straight, pure, and in a manner separatefrom that of the others, swelling by degrees, they blend, melt, andamalgamate in magnificent concert until they become at length one massof sonorous vibrations, which, issuing incessantly from innumerablesteeples, float, undulate, bound, whirl over the city, expanding at lastfar beyond the horizon the deafening circle of their oscillations. Whathas been said thus superbly, though it may be somewhat extravagantly, byHugo, in regard to "that _tutti_ of steeples, that column of sound, thatcloud or sea of harmony, " as he variously terms it, has been said lessextravagantly, but quite as exquisitely, by Charles Dickens, in regardto the chimes of a single belfry. After this New Year's tale of his wasfirst told, there rang out from the opposite shores of the Atlantic, that most wonderful tintinnabulation in all literature, "The Bells" ofEdgar Poe--which is, among minor poems, in regard to the belfry, whatSouthey's "Lodore" is to the cataract, full, sonorous, and exhaustive. And there it is, in that marvellous little poem of "The Bells, " that theAmerican lyrist, as it has always seemed to us, has caught much of theeltrich force and beauty and poetic significance of "The Chimes" asthey were originally rung forth in the prose-poetry of the Englishnovelist:--

 "And the people--ah, the people-- They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On [or from] the human heart a stone-- They are neither man nor woman-- They are neither brute nor human-- They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A pæan from the hells. "

Charles Dickens, in his beautiful imaginings in regard to the Spiritsof the Bells--something of the grace and goblinry of which, Maclise'spencil shadowed forth in the lovely frontispiece to the little volumein the form in which it was first of all published--has exhausted thevocabulary of wonder in his elvish delineation of the Goblin Sightbeheld in the old church-tower on New Year's Eve by the awe-strickenticket-porter. 

In the Reading one would naturally have liked to have caught someglimpse at least of the swarmmg out to view of the "dwarf-phantoms, spirits, elfin creatures of the Bells;" to have seen them "leaping, flying, dropping, pouring from the Bells, " unceasingly; to have realisedthem anew as a listener, just as the imaginary dreamer beheld them allabout him in his vision--"round him on the ground, above him in the air, clambering from him by the ropes below, looking down upon him from themassive iron-girded beams, peeping in upon him through the chinks andloopholes in the walls, spreading away and away from him in enlargingcircles, as the water-ripples give place to a huge stone that suddenlycomes plashing in among them. " In their coming and in their going, thesight, it will be remembered, was equally marvellous. Whether--as theChimes rang out--we read of the dream-haunted, "He saw them [theseswarming goblins] ugly, handsome, crippled, exquisitely formed. He sawthem young, he saw them old, he saw them kind, he saw them cruel, he sawthem merry, he saw them grim, he saw them dance, he heard them sing, he saw them tear their hair, and heard them howl"--diving, soaring, sailing, perching, violently active in their restlessness--stone, brick, slate, tile, transparent to the dreamer's gaze, and pervious to theirmovements--the bells all the while in an uproar, the great churchtower vibrating from parapet to basement! Or, whether--when the Chimesceased--there came that instantaneous transformation! "The whole swarmfainted; their forms collapsed, their speed deserted them; theysought to fly, but in the act of falling died and melted into air. Onestraggler, " says the book, "leaped down pretty briskly from the surfaceof the Great Bell, and alighted on his feet, but he was dead and gonebefore he could turn round. " After it has been added that some thusgambolling in the tower "remained there, spinning over and over a littlelonger, " becoming fainter, fewer, feebler, and so vanishing--we read, "The last of all was one small hunchback, who had got into an echoingcorner, where he twirled and twirled, and floated by himself a longtime; showing such perseverance, that at last he dwindled to a leg, andeven to a foot, before he finally retired; but he vanished in the end, and then the tower was silent. " Nothing of this, however, was given inthe Reading, the interest of which was almost entirely restricted to thefancied fluctuation of fortunes among the human characters. All ofthe pathetic and most of the comic portions of the tale werehappily preserved. When, in the persons of the Tugbys, "fat company, rosy-cheeked company, comfortable company, " came to be introduced, therewas an instant sense of exhilaration among the audience. 

A roar invariably greeted the remark, "They were but two, but theywere red enough for ten. " Similarly pronounced was the reception of thecasual announcement of the "stone pitcher of terrific size, " in whichthe good wife brought her contribution of "a little flip" to the finalmerry-making. "Mrs. Chicken-stalker's notion of a little flip did honourto her character, " elicited a burst of laughter that was instantlyrenewed when the Reader added, that "the pitcher reeked like avolcano, " and that "the man who carried it was faint. " The Drum, bythe way--braced tight enough, as any one might admit in the originalnarrative--seemed rather slackened, and was certainly less effective, in the Reading. One listened in vain for the well-remembered parenthesisindicative of its being the man himself, and not the instrument. "TheDrum (who was a private friend of Trotty's) then stepped forward, and" offered--evidently with a hiccough or two--his greeting of goodfellowship, "which, " as we learn from the book, "was received witha general shout. " The Humorist added thereupon, in his character asStoryteller, not in his capacity as Reader, "The Drum was rather drunk, by-the-bye; but never mind. " A band of music, with marrow-bonesand cleavers and a set of hand-bells--clearly all of them under thedirection of the Drum--then struck up the dance at Meg's wedding. But, after due mention had been made of how Trotty danced with Mrs. Chickenstalker "in a step unknown before or since, founded on his ownpeculiar trot, " the story closed in the book, and closed also in theReading, with words that, in their gentle and harmonious flow, seemedto come from the neighbouring church-tower as final echoes from "TheChimes" themselves. 

THE STORY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. 

[Illustration: Little-Dombey. Jpg]

The hushed silence with which the concluding passages of this Readingwere always listened to, spoke more eloquently than any applause couldpossibly have done, of the sincerity of the emotions it awakened. Acursory glance at the audience confirmed the impression produced bythat earlier evidence of their rapt and breathless attention. It isthe simplest truth to say that at those times many a face illustratedinvoluntarily the loveliest line in the noblest ode in the language, where Dryden has sung even of a warrior--

 "And now and then a sigh he heaved, And tears began to flow. "

The subdued voice of the Reader, moreover, accorded tenderly with one'sremembrance of his own acknowledgment ten years after his completion ofthe book from which this story was extracted, that with a heavy heart hehad walked the streets of Paris alone during the whole of one winter'snight, while he and his little friend parted company for ever! CharlesYoung's son, the vicar of Ilminster, has, recently, in his own Diaryappended to his memoir of his father, the tragedian, related a curiousanecdote, illustrative, in a very striking way, of the grief--theprofound and overwhelming grief--excited in a mind and heart likethose of Lord Jeffrey, by the imaginary death of another of thesedream-children of Charles Dickens. The editor of the _Edinburgh Review_, we there read, was surprised by Mrs. Henry Siddons, seated in hislibrary, with his head on the table, crying. "Delicately retiring, " weare then told, "in the hope that her entrance had been unnoticed, " Mrs. Siddons observed that Jeffrey raised his head and was kindly beckoningher back. The Diary goes on: "Perceiving that his cheek was flushedand his eyes suffused with tears, she apologised for her intrusion, and begged permission to withdraw. When he found that she was seriouslyintending to leave him, he rose from his chair, took her by both hands, and led her to a seat. " Then came the acknowledgment prefaced by LordJeffrey's remark that he was "a great goose to have given way so. "Little Nell was dead! The newly published number of "Master Humphrey'sClock" (No. 44) was lying before him, in which he had just been readingof the general bereavement!

Referring to another of these little creatures' deaths, that of TinyTim, Thackeray wrote in the July number of _Fraser_, for 1844, thatthere was one passage regarding it about which a man would hardlyventure to speak in print or in public "any more than he would of anyother affections of his private heart. "

It has been related, even of the burly demagogue, O'Connell, thaton first reading of Nell's death in the Old Curiosity Shop, heexclaimed--his eyes running over with tears while he flung the leavesindignantly out of the window--"he should not have killed her--he shouldnot have killed her: she was too good!"

Finally, another Scotch critic and judge, Lord Cockburn, writing to theNovelist on the very morrow of reading the memorable fifth number of"Dombey and Son, " in which the death of Little Paul is so exquisitelydepicted--offering his grateful acknowledgments to the Author for thepoignant grief he had caused him--added, "I have felt my heart purifiedby those tears, and blessed and loved you for making me shed them. "

Hardly can it be matter for wonder, therefore, remarking how the printedpages would draw such tokens of sympathy from men like Cockburn, andJeffrey, and Thackeray, and O'Connell, that a mixed audience showedtraces of emotion when the profoundly sympathetic voice of Dickenshimself related this story of the Life and Death of Little Dombey. Yetthe pathetic beauty of the tale, for all that, was only dimly hinted atthroughout, --the real pathos of it, indeed, being only fully indicatedalmost immediately before its conclusion. Earlier in the Reading, infact, the drollery of the comic characters introduced--of themselvesirresistible--would have been simply paramount, but for the incidentalmention of the mother's death, when clinging to that frail spar withinher arms, her little daughter, "she drifted out upon the dark andunknown sea that rolls round all the world. " Paul's little wistful facelooked out every now and then, it is true, from among the fantasticforms and features grouped around him, with a growing sense upon thehearer of what was really meant by the child being so "old-fashioned. "But the ludicrous effect of those surrounding characters was nothingless than all-mastering in its predominance. 

There was Mrs. Pipchin, for example, that grim old lady with a mottledface like bad marble, who acquired an immense reputation as a managerof children, by the simple device of giving them everything they didn'tlike and nothing that they did! Whose constitution required mutton chopshot and hot, and buttered toast in similar relays! And with whom one ofLittle Dombey's earliest dialogues in the Reading awakened invariablysuch bursts of hearty laughter! Seated in his tall, spindle-leggedarm-chair by the fire, staring steadily at the exemplary Pipchin, LittlePaul, we were told, was asked [in the most snappish voice possible], bythat austere female, What he was thinking about?

"You, " [in the gentlest childlike voice] said Paul, without the leastreserve. 

"And what are you thinking about me?"

"I'm--thinking--how old--you must be. "

"You mustn't say such things as that, young gentleman. That'll neverdo. "

"Why not [slowly and wonderingly]?"

"Never you mind, sir [shorter and sharper than ever]. Remember thestory of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for askingquestions. "

"If the bull [in a high falsetto voice and with greater deliberationthan ever] was mad, how did he know that the boy asked questions? Nobodycan go and whisper secrets to a mad bull. I don't believe that story. "

Little Dombey's fellow-sufferers at Mrs. Pipchin's were hardly lessludicrous in their way than that bitter old victim of the Peruvian minesin her perennial weeds of black bombazeen. Miss Pankey, for instance, the mild little blue-eyed morsel of a child who was instructed by theOgress that "nobody who sniffed before visitors ever went to heaven!"And her associate in misery, one Master Bitherstone, from India, whoobjected so much to the Pipchinian system, that before Little Dombey hadbeen in the house five minutes, he privately consulted that gentlemanif he could afford him any idea of the way back to Bengal! What thePipchinian system was precisely, the Reader indicated perhaps the mosthappily by his way of saying, that instead of its encouraging a child'smind to develop itself, like a flower, it strove to open it by force, like an oyster. Fading slowly away while he is yet under Mrs. Pipchin'smanagement, poor little Paul, as the audience well knew, was removed onto Doctor Blimber's Academy for Young Gentlemen. There the humorouscompany gathered around Paul immediately increased. But, before hisgoing amongst them, the Reader enabled us more vividly to realise, by anadditional touch or two, the significance of the peculiarity of being"old fashioned, " for which the fading child appeared in everybody's eyesso remarkable. 

Wheeled down to the beach in a little invalid-carriage, he would clingfondly to his sister Florence. He would say to any chance child whomight come to bear him company [in a soft, drawling, half-querulousvoice, and with the gravest look], "Go away, if you please. Thank you, but I don't want you. " He would wonder to himself and to Floy what thewaves were always saying--always saying! At about the middle of the 47thpage of the Reading copy of this book about Little Dombey, the copyfrom which Dickens Read, both in England and America, there is, inhis handwriting, the word--"Pause. " It occurs just in between LittleDombey's confiding to his sister, that if she were in India he shoulddie of being so sorry and so lonely! and the incident of his suddenlywaking up at another time from a long sleep in his little carriage onthe shingles, to ask her, not only "What the rolling waves are saying soconstantly, but What place is over there?--far away!--looking eagerly, as he inquires, towards some invisible region beyond the horizon!" Thatmomentary pause will be very well remembered by everyone who attendedthis Reading. 

One single omission we are still disposed to regret in the puttingtogether of the materials for this particular Reading from the originalnarrative. In approaching Dr. Blimber's establishment for the firsttime, we would gladly have witnessed the sparring-match, as one may say, on the very threshold, between Mrs. Pipchin the Ogress in bombazeen andthe weak-eyed young man-servant who opens the door! The latter ofwhom, having "the first faint streaks or early dawn of a grin on hiscountenance--(it was mere imbecility)" as the Author himself explainsparenthetically--Mrs. Pipchin at once takes it into her head, isinspired by impudence, and snaps at accordingly. Of this we saw nothing, however, in the Reading. We heard nothing of Mrs. Pipchin's explosive, "How dare you laugh behind the gentleman's back?" or of the weak-eyedyoung man's answering in consternation, "I ain't a laughing at nobody, ma'am. " Any more than of the Ogress saying a while later, "You'relaughing again, sir!" or of the young man, grievously oppressed, repudiating the charge with, "I _ain't_. I never see such a thingas this!" The old lady as she passed on with, "Oh! he was a preciousfellow, " leaving him, who was in fact all meekness and incapacity, "affected even to tears by the incident. " If we saw nothing, however, ofthat retainer of Dr. Blimber, we were introduced to another, meaning theblue-coated, bright-buttoned butler, "who gave quite a winey flavourto the table-beer--he poured it out so superbly!" We had Dr. Blimberhimself, besides, with his learned legs, like a clerical pianoforte--abald head, highly polished, and a chin so double, it was a wonder howhe ever managed to shave into the creases. We had Miss Blimber, inspectacles, like a ghoul, "dry and sandy with working in the gravesof deceased languages. " We had Mrs. Blimber, not learned herself, butpretending to be so, which did quite as well, languidly exclaiming atevening parties, that if she could have known Cicero, she thought shecould have died contented. We had Mr. Feeder, clipped to the stubble, grinding out his classic stops like a barrel-organ of erudition. Aboveall, we had Toots, the head boy, or rather "the head and shoulderboy, " he was so much taller than the rest! Of whom in that intellectualforcing-house (where he had "gone through" everything so completely, that one day he "suddenly left off blowing, and remained in theestablishment a mere stalk") people had come at last to say, "that theDoctor had rather overdone it with young Toots, and that when he beganto have whiskers he left off having brains. " From the moment when YoungToots's voice was first heard, in tones so deep, and in a mannerso sheepish, that "if a lamb had roared it couldn't have been moresurprising, " saying to Little Dombey with startling suddenness, "Howare you?"--every time the Reader opened his lips, as speaking in thatcharacter, there was a burst of merriment. His boastful accountalways called forth laughter--that his tailor was Burgess and Co. , "fash'nable, but very dear. " As also did his constantly reiteratedinquiries of Paul--always as an entirely new idea--"I say--it's notof the slightest consequence, you know, but I should wish to mentionit--how are you, you know?" Hardly less provocative of mirth wasBriggs's confiding one evening to Little Dombey, that his head achedready to split, and "that he should wish himself dead if it wasn't forhis mother and a blackbird he had at home. "

Wonderful fun used to be made by the Beader of the various incidents atthe entertainment given upon the eve of the vacations by Doctor and Mrs. Blimber to the Young Gentlemen and their Friends, when "the hour washalf-past seven o'clock, and the object was quadrilles. " The Doctorpacing up and down in the drawing-room, full dressed, before anybody hadarrived, "with a dignified and unconcerned demeanour, as if he thoughtit barely possible that one or two people might drop in by-and-by!" Hisexclaiming, when Mr. Toots and Mr. Feeder were announced by the butler, and as if he were extremely surprised to see them, "Aye, aye, aye!God bless my soul!" Mr. Toots, one blaze of jewellery and buttons, soundecided, "on a calm revision of all the circumstances, " whether itwere better to have his waistcoat fastened or unfastened both at top andbottom, as the arrivals thickened, so influencing him by the force ofexample, that at the last he was "continually fingering that article ofdress as if he were performing on some instrument!" Thoroughly enjoyablethough the whole scene was in its throng of ludicrous particulars, itmerely led the way up appreciably and none the less tenderly, for allthe innocent laughter, to the last and supremely pathetic incidents ofthe story as related thenceforth (save only for one startling instant)_sotto voce_, by the Reader. 

The exceptional moment here alluded to, when his voice was suddenlyraised, to be hushed again the instant afterwards, came at the veryopening of the final scene by Little Dombey's death-bed, where thesunbeams, towards evening, struck through the rustling blinds andquivered on the opposite wall like golden water. Overwhelmed, as littlePaul was occasionally, with "his only trouble, " a sense of the swift andrapid river, "he felt forced, " the Reader went on to say, "to try andstop it--to stem it with his childish hands, or choke its way withsand--and when he saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out!" Droppinghis voice from that abrupt outcry instantly afterwards, to the gentlesttones, as he added, "But a word from Florence, who was always at hisside, restored him to himself"--the Reader continued in those subduedand tender accents to the end. 

The child's pity for his father's sorrowing, was surpassed only, asall who witnessed this Reading will readily recollect, by the yet moreaffecting scene with his old nurse. Waking upon a sudden, on the lastof the many evenings, when the golden water danced in shining ripples onthe wall, waking mind and body, sitting upright in his bed--

"And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" asked the child, regarding witha radiant smile a figure coming in. 

"Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight ofhim, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blightedchild. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed and taken uphis wasted hand and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had someright to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybodythere but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. "

The child's words coming then so lovingly: "Floy! this is a kind goodface! I am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here!Good bye!" prepared one exquisitely for the rest. "Not goodbye?" "Ah, yes! good-bye!"

Then the end! The child having been laid down again with his armsclasped round his sister's neck, telling her that the stream was lullinghim to rest, that now the boat was out at sea and that there was shorebefore him, and--Who stood upon the bank! Putting his hands together "ashe had been used to do at his prayers "--not removing his arms to do it, but folding them so behind his sister's neck--"Mamma is like you, Floy!"he cried; "I know her by the face! But tell them that the picture onthe stairs at school is not Divine enough. The light about the head isshining on me as I go!"

Then came two noble passages, nobly delivered. 

First--when there were no eyes unmoistened among the listeners--

"The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirredin the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with ourfirst garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run itscourse, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, oldfashion--Death!"

And lastly--with a tearful voice--

"Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet ofImmortality! And look upon us, Angels of young children, with regardsnot quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!"

Remembering which exquisite words as he himself delivered them, havingthe very tones of his voice still ringing tenderly in our recollection, the truth of that beautiful remark of Dean Stanley's comes back anewas though it were now only for the first time realised, where, inhis funeral sermon of the 19th June, 1870, he said that it was theinculcation of the lesson derived from precisely such a scene as thiswhich will always make the grave of Charles Dickens seem "as though itwere the very grave of those little innocents whom he created for ourcompanionship, for our instruction, for our delight and solace. " Thelittle workhouse-boy, the little orphan girl, the little cripple, who "not only blessed his father's needy home, but softened the rudestranger's hardened conscience, " were severally referred to by thepreacher when he gave this charming thought its affecting application. But, foremost among these bewitching children of the Novelist'simagination, might surely be placed the child-hero of a story closinghardly so much with his death as with his apotheosis. 

MR CHOPS, THE DWARF. 

It remains still a matter of surprise how so much was made out of thisslight sketch by the simple force of its humorous delivery. "Mr. Chops, the Dwarf, " as, indeed, was only befitting, was the smallest of all theReadings. The simple little air that so caught the dreamer's fancy, whenplayed upon the harp by Scrooge's niece by marriage, is described afterall, as may be remembered by the readers of the Carol, to to have beenintrinsically "a mere nothing; you might learn to whistle it intwo minutes. " Say that in twenty minutes, or, at the outside, inhalf-an-hour, any ordinarily glib talker might have rattled throughthese comic recollections of Mr. Magsman, yet, when rattled through byDickens, the laughter awakened seems now in the retrospect to have beenaltogether out of proportion. In itself the subject was anythingbut attractive, relating, as it did, merely to the escapade of amonstrosity. The surroundings are ignoble, the language is illiterate, the narrative from first to last is characterised by its grotesqueextravagance. Yet the whole is presented to view in so utterly ludicrousan aspect, that one needs must laugh just as surely as one listened. Turning over the leaves now, and recalling to mind the hilarity theyused to excite even among the least impressionable audience wheneverthey were fluttered (there are not a dozen of them altogether) onthe familiar reading-desk, one marvels over the success of such anexceedingly small oddity as over the remembrance, let us say, of thebrilliant performance of a fantasia on the jew's-harp by Rubenstein. 

Nevertheless, slight though it is, the limning all through has touchesof the most comic suggestiveness. Magsman's account of the show-houseduring his occupancy is sufficiently absurd to begin with--"the picterof the giant who was himself the heighth of the house, " being run upwith a line and pulley to a pole on the roof till "his 'ed was coevalwith the parapet;" the picter of the child of the British Planterseized by two Boa Constrictors, "not that we never had no child, norno Constrictors either;" similarly, the picter of the Wild Ass of thePrairies, "not that _we_ never had no wild asses, nor wouldn't have had'em at a gift. " And to crown all, the picter of the Dwarf--who was "auncommon small man, he really was. Certainly not so small as he was madeout to be; but where _is_ your Dwarf as is?" A picter "like him, tooconsidering, with George the Fourth, in such a state of astonishmentat him as his Majesty couldn't with his utmost politeness and stoutnessexpress. " Wrote up the Dwarf was, we are told by Mr. Magsman, as MajorTpschoffski--"nobody couldn't pronounce the name, " he adds, "and itnever was intended anybody should. " Corrupted into Chopski by thepublic, he gets called in the line Chops, partly for that reason, "partly because his real name, if he ever had any real name (which wasdubious), was Stakes. " Wearing a diamond ring "(or quite as good tolook at)" on his forefinger, having the run of his teeth, "and he wasa Woodpecker to eat--but all dwarfs are, " receiving a good salary, andgathering besides as his perquisites the ha'pence collected by him in aChaney sarser at the end of every entertainment, the Dwarf never hasany money somehow. Nevertheless, having what his admiring proprietorconsiders "a fine mind, a poetic mind, " Mr. Chops indulges himself inthe pleasing delusion that one of these days he is to Come Into hisProperty, his ideas respecting which are never realised by him sopowerfully as when he sits upon a barrel-organ and has the handleturned! "Arter the wibration has run through him a little time, "says Mr. Magsman, "he screeches out, 'Toby, I feel my propertya-coming--gr-r-rind away! I feel the Mint a-jingling in me. I'ma-swelling out into the Bank of England!' Such, " reflectively observeshis proprietor, "is the influence of music on a poetic mind!" Adding, however, immediately afterwards, "Not that he was partial to any othermusic but a barrel-organ; on the contrairy, hated it. " Indulging inday-dreams about Coming Into his Property and Going Into Society, forwhich he feels himself formed, and to aspire towards which is his avowedambition, the mystery, as to where the Dwarf's salary and ha'penceall go, is one day cleared up by his winning a prize in the Lottery, ahalf-ticket for the twenty-five thousand pounder. 

Mr. Chops Comes Into his Property--twelve thousand odd hundred. Furtherthan that, he Goes Into Society "in a chay and four greys with silkjackets. " It was at this turning-point in the career of his large-headedbut diminutive hero that the grotesque humour of the Reader would playupon the risible nerves of his hearers, as, according to Mr. Disraeli'sphrase, Sir Robert Peel used to play upon the House of Commons, "likean old fiddle. " Determined to Go Into Society in style, with his twelvethousand odd hundred, Mr. Chops, we are told, "sent for a young manhe knowed, as had a very genteel appearance, and was a Bonnet at agaming-booth. Most respectable brought up, " adds Mr. Magsman--"fatherhaving been imminent in the livery-stable line, but unfortunate in acommercial crisis through painting a old grey ginger-bay, and sellin'him with a pedigree. " In intimate companionship with this Bonnet, "whosaid his name was Normandy, which it warn't, " Mr. Magsman, on invitationby note a little while afterwards, visits Mr. Chops at his lodgings inPall Mall, London, where he is found carousing not only with the Bonnetbut with a third party, of whom we were then told with unconscionablegravity, "When last met, he had on a white Roman shirt, and a bishop'smitre covered with leopard-skin, and played the clarionet all wrong ina band at a Wild Beast Show. " How the reverential Magsman, finding thethree of them blazing away, blazes away in his turn while remaining intheir company, who, that once heard it, has forgotten? "I made the roundof the bottles, " he says--evidently proud of his achievement--"firstseparate (to say I had done it), and then mixed 'em altogether (to sayI had done it), and then tried two of 'em as half-and-half, and thent'other two; altogether, " he adds, "passin' a pleasin' evenin' witha tendency to feel muddled. " How all Mr. Chop's blazing away is toterminate everybody but himself perceives clearly enough from thecommencement. 

Normandy having bolted with the plate, and "him as formerly wore thebishop's mitre" with the jewels, the Dwarf gets out of society by being, as he significantly expresses it, "sold out, " and in this plightreturns penitently one evening to the show-house of his still-admiringproprietor. Mr. Magsman happens at the moment to be having a dull_tête-à-tête_ with a young man without arms, who gets his living bywriting with his toes, "which, " says the low-spirited narrator, "I hadtaken on for a month--though he never drawed--except on paper. " Hearinga kicking at the street-door, "'Halloa!' I says to the young man, 'what's up?' He rubs his eyebrows with his toes, and he says, 'I can'timagine, Mr. Magsman'--which that young man [with an air of disgust]never _could_ imagine nothin', and was monotonous company. " Mr. Chops--"I never dropped the 'Mr. ' with him, " says his again proprietor;"the world might do it, but not me"--eventually dies. Having sat uponthe barrel-organ over night, and had the handle turned through all thechanges, for the first and only time after his fall, Mr. Chops is foundon the following morning, as the disconsolate Magsman expresses it, "gone into much better society than either mine or Pall Mall's. " Outof such unpromising materials as these could the alembic of a geniusall-embracing in its sympathies extract such an abundance of innocentmirth--an illiterate showman talking to us all the while about suchpeople as the Bonnet of a gaming-booth, or a set of monstrosities hehimself has, for a few coppers, on exhibition. Yet, as Mr. Magsmanhimself remarks rather proudly when commenting on his own establishment, "as for respectability, --if threepence ain't respectable, what is?"

THE POOR TRAVELLER. 

Apart altogether from the Readings of Charles Dickens, has the reader ofthis book any remembrance of the original story of "The Poor Traveller"?If he has, he will recognise upon the instant the truth of the words inwhich we would here speak of it, as of one of those, it may be, slightbut exquisite sketches, which are sometimes, in a happy moment, thrown off by the hand of a great master. Comparatively trivialin itself--carelessly dashed off, apparently hap-hazard--having nopretension about it in the least, it is anything, in short, but afinished masterpiece. Yet, for all that, it is marked, here and there, by touches so felicitous and inimitable in their way, that we hardlyfind the like in the artist's more highly elaborated and ambitiousproductions. Not that one would speak of it, however, as of a drawingupon toned paper in neutral tint, or as of a picture pencilled in sepiaor with crayons; one would rather liken it to a radiant water-colour, chequered with mingled storm and sunshine, sparkling with lifelikeeffects, and glowing with brilliancy. And yet the little work is one, when you come to look into it, that is but the product of a seeminglyartless _abandon_, in which without an effort the most charming resultshave been arrived at, obviously upon the instant, and quite unerringly. 

Trudging down to Chatham, footsore and without a farthing in his pocket, it is in this humble guise first of all that he comes before us, thisPoor Traveller. Christian name, Eichard, better known as Dick, his ownsurname dropped upon the road, he assumes that of Doubledick--beingthenceforth spoken of all through the tale, even to the very end of it, by his new name, as Eichard Doubledick. A scapegrace, a ne'er-do-well, an incorrigible, hopeless of himself, despaired of by others, he has"gone wrong and run wild. " His heart, still in the right place, has beensealed up. "Betrothed to a good and beautiful girl whom he had lovedbetter than she--or perhaps even he--believed, " he had given her cause, in an evil hour, to tell him solemnly that she would never marry anyother man; that she would live single for his sake, but that her lips, "that Mary Marshall's lips, " would never address another word to himon earth, bidding him in the end--Go! and Heaven forgive him! Hence, in point of fact, this journey of his on foot down to Chatham, for thepurpose of enlisting, if possible, in a cavalry regiment, his objectbeing to get shot, though he himself thinks in his devil-may-careindifference, that "he might as well ride to death as be at the troubleof walking. " Premising simply that his hero's age is at this timetwenty-two, and his height five foot ten, and that, there being nocavalry at the moment in Chatham, he enlists into a regiment of theline, where he is glad to get drunk and forget all about it, the Authorreadily made the path clear for the opening up of his narrative. 

Whenever Charles Dickens introduced this tale among his Readings, howbeautifully he related it! After recounting how Private Doubledick wasclearly going to the dogs, associating himself with the dregs of everyregiment, seldom being sober and constantly under punishment, untilit became plain at last to the whole barracks that very soon indeedhe would come to be flogged, when the Reader came at this point to thewords--"Now the captain of Doubledick's company was a young gentlemannot above five years his senior, whose eyes had an expression in themwhich affected Private Doubledick in a very remarkable way"--the effectwas singularly striking. Out of the Reader's own eyes would look theeyes of that Captain, as the Author himself describes them: "They werebright, handsome, dark eyes, what are called laughing eyes generally, and, when serious, rather steady than severe. " But, he immediately wenton to say, they were the only eyes then left in his narrowed worldthat could not be met without a sense of shame by Private Doubledick. Insomuch that if he observed Captain Taunton coming towards him, evenwhen he himself was most callous and unabashed, "he would rather turnback and go any distance out of the way, than encounter those twohandsome, dark, bright eyes. " Here it was that came, what many willstill vividly remember, as one of the most exquisitely portrayedincidents in the whole of this Reading--the interview between CaptainTaunton and Private Doubledick!

The latter, having passed forty-eight hours in the Black Hole, has beenjust summoned, to his great dismay, to the Captain's quarters. Havingabout him all the squalor of his incarceration, he shrinks from makinghis appearance before one whose silent gaze even was a reproach. However, not being so mad yet as to disobey orders, he goes up to theofficers' quarters immediately upon his release from the Black Hole, twisting and breaking in his hands as he goes along a bit of the strawthat had formed its decorative furniture. 

"'Come in!'

"Private Doubledick pulled off his cap, took a stride forward and stoodin the light of the dark bright eyes. "

From that moment until the end of the interview, the two men alternatelywere standing there distinctly before the audience upon the platform. 

"Doubledick! do you know where you are going to?"

"To the devil, sir!"

"Yes, and very fast. "

Thereupon one did not hear the words simply, one saw it done preciselyas it is described in the original narrative: "Private RichardDoubledick turned the straw of the Black Hole in his mouth and made a_miserable_ salute of acquiescence. " Captain Taunton then remonstrateswith him thus earnestly: "Doubledick, since I entered his Majesty'sservice, a boy of seventeen, I have been pained to see many men ofpromise going that road; but I have never been _so_ pained to see a mandetermined to make the shameful journey, as I have been, ever since youjoined the regiment, to see _you_. " At this point in the printed story, as it was originally penned, one reads that "Private Richard Doubledickbegan to find a film stealing over the floor at which he looked; also tofind the legs of the Captain's breakfast-table turning crooked as if hesaw them through water. " Although those words are erased in the readingcopy, and were not uttered, pretty nearly the effect of them was visiblewhen, after a momentary pause, the disheartened utterance was falteredout--

"I am only a common soldier, sir. It signifies very little what such apoor brute comes to. "

In answer to the next remonstrance from his officer, Doubledick's wordsare blurted out yet more despairingly--

"I hope to get shot soon, sir, and then the regiment, and the worldtogether, will be rid of me!"

What are the descriptive words immediately following this in the printednarrative? They also were visibly expressed upon the platform. "Lookingup he met the eyes that had so strong an influence over him. He put hishand before his own eyes, and the breast of his disgrace-jacket swelledas if it would fly asunder. " His observant adviser thereupon quietlybut very earnestly remarks, that he "would rather see this in him(Doubledick) than he would see five thousand guineas counted out uponthe table between them for a gift to his (the Captain's) good mother, "adding suddenly, "Have you a mother?" Doubledick is thankful to say sheis dead. Reminded by the Captain that if his praises were sounded frommouth to mouth through the whole regiment, through the whole army, through the whole country, he would wish she had lived to say with prideand joy, "He is my son!" Doubledick cries out, "Spare me, sir! She wouldnever have heard any good of me. She would never have had any pride orjoy in owning herself my mother. Love and compassion she might have had, and would always have had, I know; but not--spare me, sir! I am a brokenwretch quite at your mercy. " By this time, according to the words of thewriting, according only to the eloquent action of the Reading, "He hadturned his face to the wall and stretched out his _imploring_ hand. "How eloquently that "imploring hand" spoke in the agonised, dumbsupplication of its movement, coupled as it was with the shaken frameand the averted countenance, those who witnessed this Reading willreadily recall to their recollection. As also the emotion expressed inthe next broken utterances exchanged by the interlocutors:--

"My friend------"

"God bless you, sir!"

Captain Taunton, interrupted for the moment, adding--

"You are at the crisis of your fate, my friend. Hold your courseunchanged a little longer, and you know what must happen, _I_ knowbetter than ever you can imagine, that after that has happened you are alost man. No man who could shed such tears could bear such marks. "

Doubledick, replying in a low shivering voice, "I fully believe it, sir, " the young Captain adds--

"But a man in any station can do his duty, and in doing it can earn hisown respect, even if his case should be so very unfortunate and so veryrare, that he can earn no other man's. A common soldier, poor brutethough you called him just now, has this advantage in the stormy timeswe live in, that he always does his duty before a host of sympathisingwitnesses. Do you doubt that he may so do it as to be extolled througha whole regiment, through a whole army, through a whole country? Turnwhile you may yet retrieve the past and try. "

With a nearly bursting heart Richard cries out, "I will! I ask but onewitness, sir!" The reply is instant and significant, "I understand you. I will be a watchful and a faithful one. " It is a compact between them, a compact sealed and ratified. "I have heard from Private Doubledick'sown lips, " said the narrator, and in tones how manly and yet how tenderin their vibration, "that he dropped down upon his knee, kissed thatofficer's hand, arose, and went out of the light of the dark brighteyes, an altered man. " From the date to them both of this memorableinterview he followed the two hither and thither among the battle-fieldsof the great war between England in coalition with the other nations ofEurope and Napoleon. 

Wherever Captain Taunton led, there, "close to him, ever at his side, firm as a rock, true as the sun, brave as Mars, " would for certain befound that famous soldier Sergeant Doubledick. As Sergeant-Major thelatter is shown, later on, upon one desperate occasion cutting hisway single-handed through a mass of men, recovering the colours of hisregiment, and rescuing his wounded Captain from the very jaws of death"in a jungle of horses' hoofs and sabres"--for which deed of gallantryand all but desperation, he is forthwith raised from the ranks, appearing no longer as a non-commissioned officer, but as EnsignDoubledick. At last, one fatal day in the trenches, during the siege ofBadajos, Major Taunton and Ensign Doubledick find themselves hurryingforward against a party of French infantry. At this juncture, at thevery moment when Doubledick sees the officer at the head of theenemy's soldiery--"a courageous, handsome, gallant officer offive-and-thirty"--waving his sword, and with an eager and excitedcry rallying his men, they fire, and Major Taunton has dropped. Theencounter closing within ten minutes afterwards on the arrival ofassistance to the two Englishmen, "the best friend man ever had" is laidupon a coat spread out upon the wet clay by the heart-riven subaltern, whom years before his generous counsel had rescued from ignominiousdestruction. Three little spots of blood are visible on the shirt ofMajor Taunton as he lies there with the breast of his uniform opened. 

"Dear Doubledick, --I am dying. "

"For the love of Heaven, no! Taunton! My preserver, my guardian angel, my witness! Dearest, truest, kindest of human beings! Taunton! For God'ssake!"

To listen to that agonised entreaty as it started from the tremblingand one could almost have fancied whitened lips of the Reader, was tobe with him there upon the instant on the far-off battle-field. Tauntondies "with his hand upon the breast in which he had revived a soul. "Doubledick, prostrated and inconsolable in his bereavement, has but twocares seemingly for the rest of his existence--one to preserve a packetof hair to be given to the mother of the friend lost to him; the other, to encounter that French officer who had rallied the men under whosefire that friend had fallen. "A new legend, " quoth the narrator, "nowbegan to incubate among our troops; and it was, that when he and theFrench officer came face to face once more, there would be weeping inFrance. " Failing to meet him, however, through all the closing scenesof the great war, Doubledick, by this time promoted to his lieutenancy, follows the old regimental colours, ragged, scarred, and riddled withshot, through the fierce conflicts of Quatre Bras and Ligny, falling atlast desperately wounded--all but dead--upon the field of Waterloo. 

How, having been tenderly nursed during the total eclipse of anappallingly lengthened period of unconsciousness, he wakes up at last inBrussels to find that during a little more than momentary and at firstan utterly forgotten interval of his stupor, he has been married to thegentle-handed nurse who has been all the while in attendance upon him, and who is no other, of coarse, than his faithful first love, MaryMarshall! How, returning homewards, an invalided hero, CaptainDoubledick becomes, in a manner, soon afterwards, the adopted son ofMajor Taunton's mother! How the latter, having gone, some time later, ona visit to a French family near Aix, is followed by her other son, herother self, he has almost come to be, "now a hardy, handsome man inthe full vigour of life, " on his receiving from the head of the housea gracious and courtly invitation for "the honour of the company of cethomme si justement célèbre, Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Double-dick!"These were among the incidents in due sequence immediately afterwardsrecounted!

Arriving at the old chateau upon a fête-day, when the household arescattered abroad in the gardens and shrubberies at their rejoicings, Captain Double-dick passes through the open porch into the loftystone hall. There, being a total stranger, he is almost scared by theintrusive clanking of his boots. Suddenly he starts back, feeling hisface turn white! For, in the gallery looking down at him, is the Frenchofficer whose picture he has carried in his mind so long and so far. The latter, disappearing in another instant for the staircase, entersdirectly afterwards with a bright sudden look upon his countenance, "Such a look as it had worn in that fatal moment, " so well and soterribly remembered! All this was portrayed with startling vividnessby the Author of the little sketch in his capacity as the sympatheticrealizer of the dreams of his own imagination. 

Exquisite was the last glimpse of the delineation, when theCaptain--after many internal revulsions of feeling, while he gazesthrough the window of the bed-chamber allotted to him in the oldchâteau, "whence he could see the smiling prospect and the peacefulvineyards "--thinks musingly to himself, "Spirit of my departed friend, is it through thee these better thoughts are rising in my mind! Is itthou who hast shown me, all the way I have been drawn to meet this man, the blessings of the altered time! Is it thou who hast sent thy strickenmother to me, to stay my angry hand! Is it from thee the whisper comes, that this man only did his duty as thou didst--and as I did through thyguidance, which saved me, here on earth--and that he did no more!"Then it was, we were told, there came to him the second and crowningresolution of his life: "That neither to the French officer, nor to themother of his departed friend, nor to any soul while either of the twowas living, would he breathe what only _he_ knew. " Then it was thatthe author perfected his Reading by the simple utterance of its closingwords--"And when he touched that French officer's glass with his ownthat day at dinner, he secretly forgave him--forgave him in the name ofthe Divine Forgiver. " With a moral no less noble and affecting, noless grand and elevating than this, the lovely idyll closed. The finalglimpse of the scene at the old Aix château was like the view of asequestered orchard through the ivied porchway of a village church. The concluding words of the prelection were like the sound of the organvoluntary at twilight, when the worshippers are dispersing. 

MRS. GAMP. 

A whimsical and delightful recollection comes back to the writer ofthese pages at the moment of inscribing as the title of this Readingthe name of the preposterous old lady who is the real heroine of "MartinChuzzlewit. " It is the remembrance of Charles Dickens's hilariousenjoyment of a casual jest thrown out, upon his having incidentallymentioned--as conspicuous among the shortcomings of the first actingversion of that story upon the boards of the Lyceum--the certainlysurprising fact that Mrs. Gamp's part, as originally set down forKeeley, had not a single "which" in it. "Why, it ought actually tohave begun with one!" was the natural exclamation of the person he wasaddressing, who added instantly, with affected indignation, "Not one?Why, next they'll be playing Macbeth without the Witches!" The joyouslaugh with which this ludicrous conceit was greeted by the Humorist, still rings freshly and musically in our remembrance. And therecollection of it is doubtless all the more vivid because of themirthful retrospect having relation to one of the most recent ofDickens's blithe home dinners in his last town residence immediatelybefore his hurried return to Gad's Hill in the summer of 1870. Althoughwe were happily with him afterwards, immediately before the time camewhen we could commune with him no more, the occasion referred to is onein which we recall him to mind as he was when we saw him last at hisvery gayest, radiant with that sense of enjoyment which it washis especial delight to diffuse around him throughout his life soabundantly. 

Among all his humorous creations, Mrs. Gamp is perhaps the mostintensely original and the most thoroughly individualised. She is notonly a creation of character, she is in herself a creator of character. To the Novelist we are indebted for Mrs. Gamp, but to Mrs. Gamp herselfwe are indebted for Mrs. Harris. That most mythical of all imaginarybeings is certainly quite unique; she is strictly, as one may say, _suigeneris_ in the whole world of fiction. A figment born from a figment;one fancy evolved from another; the shadow of a shadow. If only inremembrance of that one daring adumbration from Mrs. Gamp'sinnerconsciousness, that purely supposititious entity "which her name, I'll not deceive you, is Harris, " one would say that Mr. Mould, theundertaker, has full reason for exclaiming, in regard to Mrs. Gamp, "I'll tell you what, that's a woman whose intellect is immenselysuperior to her station in life. That's a woman who observes andreflects in a wonderful manner. " Mr. Mould becomes so strongly impressedat last with a sense of her exceptional merits, that in a deliciouslyludicrous outburst of professional generosity he caps the climax of hiseulogium by observing, "She's the sort of woman, now, that one wouldalmost feel disposed to bury for nothing--and do it neatly, too!"Thoroughly akin, by the way, to which exceedingly questionableexpression of goodwill on the part of Mr. Mould, is Mrs. Gamp's equallyconfiding outburst of philanthropy from _her_ point of view, where sheremarks--of course to her familiar, as Socrates when communing with hisDaemon--"'Mrs. Harris, ' I says to her, 'don't name the charge, for if Icould afford to lay my fellow-creeturs out for nothink, I would gladlydo it, sich is the love I bears 'em. '"

A benevolent unbosoming, or self-revelation, that last, on the part ofMrs. Gamp, so astoundingly outspoken of its kind, that it forces uponone, in regard to her whole character, the almost inevitablereflection that her grotesque and inexhaustible humour, like Falstaff'sirrepressible and exhilarating wit, redeems what would be otherwisein itself utterly irredeemable. For, as commentators have remarked, inregard to Shakspere's Fat Knight, that Sir John is an unwieldy massof every conceivable bad quality, being, among other things, a liar, a coward, a drunkard, a braggart, a cheat, and a debauchee, one mightbring, if not an equally formidable, certainly an equally lengthened, indictment against the whole character of Mrs. Gamp, justifying thevalidity of each disreputable charge upon the testimony of her ownevidence. 

In its way, the impersonation of Mrs. Gamp by her creator was nearlyas surprising as his original delineation of her in his capacity asNovelist. Happily, to bring out the finer touches of the humorous in herportraiture, there were repeated asides in the Reading, added to whichother contrasting characters were here and there momentarily introduced. Mr. Pecksniff--hardly recognisable, by the way, _as_ Mr. Pecksniff--tookpart, but a very subordinate part, in the conversation, as did Mr. Mould also, and as, towards the close of it, likewise did Mrs. Prig ofBartlemy's. But, monopolist though Mrs. Gamp showed herself to be in hermanner of holding forth, her talk never degenerated into a monologue. 

Mr. Pecksniff setting forth in a hackney cabriolet to-arrange, on behalfof Jonas Chuzzlewit, for the funeral of the latter's father, in regardto which he is enjoined to spare no expense, arrives, in due course, inKings-gate-street, High Holborn, in quest of the female functionary--"anurse and watcher, and performer of nameless offices about the dead, whom the undertaker had recommended. " His destination is reached whenhe stands face to face with the lady's lodging over the bird-fancier's, "next door but one to the celebrated mutton-pie shop, and directlyopposite to the original cats'-meat warehouse. " Here Mr. Pecksniff'sperformance upon the knocker naturally arouses the whole neighbourhood, it, the knocker, being so ingeniously constructed as to wake the streetwith ease, without making the smallest impression upon the premises towhich it was addressed. Everybody is at once under the impression that, as a matter of course, he is "upon an errand touching not the close oflife, but the other end"--the married ladies, especially, crying outwith uncommon interest, "Knock at the winder, sir, knock at the winder!Lord bless you, don't lose no more time than you can help, --knock at thewinder!" Mrs. Gamp herself, when roused, is under the same embarrassingmisapprehension. Immediately, however, Mr. Pecksniff has explained theobject of his mission, Mrs. Gamp, who has a face for all occasions, thereupon putting on her mourning countenance, the surrounding matrons, while rating her visitor roundly, signify that they would be glad toknow what he means by terrifying delicate females with "his corpses!"The unoffending gentleman eventually, after hustling Mrs. Gamp into thecabriolet, drives off "overwhelmed with popular execration. "

Here it is that Mrs. Gamp's distinctive characteristics begin toassert themselves conspicuously. Her labouring under the most erroneousimpressions as to the conveyance in which she is travelling, evidentlyconfounding it with mail-coaches, insomuch that, in regard to herluggage, she clamours to the driver to "put it in the boot, " herabsorbing anxiety about the pattens, "with which she plays innumerablegames of quoits upon Mr. Pecksniff's legs, " her evolutions in thatconfined space with her most prominently visible chattel, "a speciesof gig umbrella, " prepare the way for her still more characteristicconfidences. Then in earnest--she had spoken twice before that fromher window over the bird-fancier's--but then in earnest, on theirapproaching the house of mourning, her voice, in the Reading, becamerecognisable. A voice snuffy, husky, unctuous, the voice of a fat oldwoman, one so fat that she is described in the book as having had adifficulty in looking over herself--a voice, as we read elsewhere in thenovel, having borne upon the breeze about it a peculiar fragrance, "as if a passing fairy had hiccoughed, and had previously been to awine-vaults. "

"'And so the gentleman's dead, sir! Ah! the more's the pity!'--(_Shedidn't even know his name_. )--'But it's as certain as being born, exceptthat we can't make our calc'lations as exact. Ah, dear!'"

Simply to hear those words uttered by the Reader--especially theinterjected words above italicised--was to have a relish of anticipationat once for all that followed. Mrs. Gamp's pathetic allusion, immediately afterwards, to her recollection of the time "when Gampwas summonsed to his long home, " and when she "see him a-laying in thehospital with a penny-piece on each eye, and his wooden leg under hisleft arm, " not only confirmed the delighted impression of the hearersas to their having her there before them in her identity, but was thesignal for the roars of laughter that, rising and falling in volume allthrough the Reading, terminated only some time after its completion. 

Immediately after came the first introduction by her of the name of Mrs. Harris. "At this point, " observed the narrator, "she was fain to stopfor breath. And, " he went on directly to remark, with a combination ofcandour and seriousness that were in themselves irresistibly ludicrous, "advantage may be taken of the circumstance to state that a fearfulmystery surrounded this lady of the name of Harris, whom no one in thecircle of Mrs. Gamp's acquaintance had ever seen; neither did any humanbeing know her place of residence--the prevalent opinion being that shewas a phantom of Mrs. Gamp's brain, created for the purpose of holdingcomplimentary dialogues with her on all manner of subjects. " Eminentlyseasonable, as a preliminary flourish in this way, is the tribute paidby her to Mrs. Gamp's abstemiousness, on the understanding that is, that the latter's one golden rule of life, is complied with--"'Leave thebottle on the chimbley-piece, and don't ast me to take none, but let meput my lips to it when I am so dispoged, and then, Mrs. Harris, I says, I will do what I am engaged to, according to the best of my ability. ''Mrs. Gamp' she says, in answer, 'if ever there was a sober creetur tobe got at eighteen-pence a day for working people, and three-and-sixfor gentlefolks, --night-watching being a extra charge, --you are thatinwallable person. Never did I think, till I know'd you, as any womancould sick-nurse and monthly likeways, on the little that you takes todrink. ' 'Mrs. Harris, ma'am, ' I says to her, 'none on us knows what wecan do till we tries; and wunst _I_ thought so too. But now, ' I says, 'my half a pint of porter fully satisfies; perwisin', Mrs. Harris, thatit's brought reg'lar, and draw'd mild. '" Not but occasionally even thatmodest "sip of liquor" she finds so far "settling heavy on the chest"as to necessitate, every now and then, a casual dram by way of extraquencher. 

It was so arranged in the Reading that, immediately upon the completionof Mrs. Gamp's affecting narrative of the confidential opinions ofher sobriety entertained by Mrs. Harris, Mr. Mould, the undertaker, opportunely presented to the audience his well-rememberedcountenance--"a face in which a queer attempt at melancholy was at oddswith a smirk of satisfaction. " The impersonation, here, was conveyed insomething better than the unsatisfactory hint by which that attemptedin regard to Mr. Pecksniff was alone to be expressed. Speaking of OldChuzzlewit's funeral, as ordered by his bereaved son, Mr. Jonas, with"no limitation, positively no limitation in point of expense, "the undertaker observes to Mr. Pecksniff, "This is one of the mostimpressive cases, sir, that I have seen in the whole course of myprofessional experience. Anything so filial as this--anything sohonourable to human nature, anything _so_ expensive, anything socalculated to reconcile all of us to the world we live in--never yetcame under my observation. It only proves, sir, what was so forciblyexpressed by the lamented poet, --buried at Stratford, --that thereis good in everything. " Even the very manner of his departure wasdelicious: "Mr. Mould was going away with a brisk smile, when heremembered the occasion, " we read in the narrative and saw on theplatform. "Quickly becoming depressed again, he sighed; looked into thecrown of his hat, as if for comfort; put it on without finding any; andslowly departed. "

The spirit and substance of the whole Reading, however, were, as amatter of course, Mrs. Gamp and her grotesque remembrances, drawn, these latter from the inexhaustible fund of her own personal andmostly domestic experiences. "Although the blessing of a daughter, " sheobserved, in one of her confiding retrospects, "was deniged me, which, if we had had one, Gamp would certainly have drunk its little shoesright off its feet, as with one precious boy he did, and arterwards sentthe child a errand to sell his wooden leg for any liquor it would fetchas matches in the rough; which was truly done beyond his years, forev'ry individgie penny that child lost at tossing for kidney pies, andcome home arterwards quite bold, to break the news, and offering todrown'd himself if such would be a satisfaction to his parents. " Atanother moment, when descanting upon all her children collectivelyin one of her faithfully reported addresses to her familiar: "'My ownfamily, ' I says, 'has fallen out of three-pair backs, and had dampdoorsteps settled on their lungs, and one was turned up smilin' ina bedstead unbeknown. And as to husbands, there's a wooden leg gonelikeways home to its account, which in its constancy of walking intopublic-'ouses, and never coming out again till fetched by force, wasquite as weak as flesh, if not weaker. "

Somehow, when those who were assisting at this Reading, as the phraseis, had related to them the manner in which Mrs. Gamp entered on herofficial duties in the sick chamber, they appeared to be assisting alsoat her toilette: as, for example, when "she put on a yellow nightcapof prodigious size, in shape resembling a cabbage, having previouslydivested herself of a row of bald old curls, which could scarcelybe called false they were so innocent of anything approaching todeception. " One missed sadly at this point in the later version of thisReading what was included in her first conversation on the doormat asto her requirements for supper enumerated after this fashion, "in tonesexpressive of faintness, " to the housemaid: "I think, young woman, as Icould peck a little bit of pickled salmon, with a little sprig of fenneland a sprinkling o' white pepper. I takes new bread, my dear, with jesta little pat o' fredge butter and a mossel o' cheese. With respect toale, if they draws the Brighton Tipper at any 'ouse nigh here, Itakes that ale at night, my love; not as I cares for it myself, but onaccounts of its being considered wakeful by the doctors; and whateveryou do, young woman, don't bring me more than a shilling's worth ofgin-and-water, warm, when I rings the bell a second time; for that isalways my allowange, and I never takes a drop beyond. In case thereshould be sich a thing as a cowcumber in the 'ouse, I'm rather partialto 'em, though I am but a poor woman. " Winding all up, --with one ofthose amazing confusions of a Scriptural recollection which promptsher at another time in the novel to exclaim, in regard to the Ankworkspackage, "'I wish it was in Jonadge's belly, I do, ' appearing to confoundthe prophet with the whale in that mysterious aspiration, "--by observingat this point, "Rich folks may ride on camels, but it ain't so easy for'em to see out of a needle's eye. That is my comfort, and I hope I knowsit. " One whole chapter of "Martin Chuzzlewit, " with the exception of themerest fragment of it--_the_ chapter pre-eminently in relation to Mrs. Gamp--we always regretted as having been either overlooked or purposelyset aside in the compilation both of the earlier and the later versionof this Reading, the chapter, that is, in which Mrs. Gamp and Mrs. Prigconverse together in the former's sleeping apartment. 

The mere description of the interior of that chamber, related by theAuthor's lips, would have been so irresistibly ridiculous--the tentbedstead ornamented with pippins carved in timber, that tumbled downon the slightest provocation like a wooden shower-bath--the chest ofdrawers, from which the handles had long been pulled off, so that itscontents could only be got at either by tilting the whole structureuntil all the drawers fell out together, or by opening each of themsingly with knives like oysters--the miscellaneous salad bought fortwopence by Betsey Prig on condition that the vendor could get it allinto her pocket (including among other items a green vegetable of anexpansive nature, of such magnificent proportions that before it couldbe got either in or out it had to be shut up like an umbrella), whichwas happily accomplished in High Holborn, to the breathless interest ofa hackney-coach stand. 

One inestimable portion, however, of this memorable occasion offestivity between those frequend pardners, Betsey Prig and Sairey Gamp, was, by a most ingenious dovetailing together of two disjointed parts, incorporated with the adroitly compacted materials of a Reading thatwas as brief as the laughter provoked by it was boisterous andinextinguishable. As to the manner of the dovetailing, it will bereadily recalled to recollection. Immediately upon Mrs. Gamp's awakingat the close of her night watch, we were told that Mrs. Prig relievedpunctually, but that she relieved in an ill temper. "The best among ushave their failings, and it must be conceded of Mrs. Prig, " observed theReader with a hardly endurable gravity of explanation, "that if therewere a blemish in the goodness of her disposition, it was a habit shehad of not bestowing all its sharp and acid properties upon her patients(as a thoroughly amiable woman would have done), but of keepinga considerable remainder for the service of her friends. " Lookingoffensively at Mrs. Gamp, and winking her eye, as Mrs. Prig doesimmediately upon her entrance, it is felt by the former to be necessarythat Betsey should at once be made sensible of her exact station insociety; wherefore Mrs. Gamp prefaced a remonstrance with--

"Mrs. Harris, Betsey------"

"Bother Mrs. Harris!"

Then it was that the Reader added:--

"Mrs. Gamp looked at Betsey with amazement, incredulity, andindignation. Mrs. Prig, winking her eye tighter, folded her arms anduttered these tremendous words:--

"'I don't believe there's no sich a person!'

"With these expressions, she snapped her fingers, once, twice, thrice, each time nearer to Mrs. Gamp, and then turned away as one who feltthat there was now a gulf between them that nothing could ever bridgeacross. "

The most comic of all the Readings closed thus abruptly with a roar. 

BOOTS AT THE HOLLY TREE INN. 

Even the immortal Boots at the White Hart, Borough, who was firstrevealed to us in a coarse striped waistcoat with black calico sleevesand blue glass buttons, drab breeches and gaiters, and who answered tothe name of Sam, would not, we are certain, have disdained to have beenput in friendly relations with Cobbs, as one in every way worthy ofhis companionship. The Boots at the Holly Tree Inn, though more lightlysketched, was quite as much of an original creation in his way as thatother Christmas friend of ours, the warm-hearted and loquacious CheapJack, Doctor Marigold. And each of those worthies, it should be added, had really about him an equal claim to be regarded, as an originalcreation, as written, or as impersonated by the Author. As a characterorally portrayed, Cobbs was fully on a par with Doctor Marigold. Directly the Reader opened his lips, whether as the Boots or as theCheap Jack, the Novelist seemed to disappear, and there instead, talkingglibly to us from first to last just as the case might happen to be, waseither the patterer on the cart footboard or honest Cobbs touchinghis hair with a bootjack. His very first words not only lead up tohis confidences, but in the same breath struck the key-note of hischaracter. "Where had he been? Lord, everywhere! What had he been? Blessyou, everything a'most. Seen a good deal? Why, of course he had. Wouldbe easier for him to tell what he hadn't seen than what he had. Ah! Adeal, it would. What was the curiosest thing he'd seen? Well! He didn'tknow--couldn't name it momently--unless it was a Unicorn, and he see_him_ over at a Fair. But"--and here came the golden retrospect, a fairytale of love told by a tavern Boots, and told all through, moreover, asnone but a Boots could tell it--"Supposing a young gentleman not eightyear'old, was to run away with a fine young woman of seven, might Ithink _that_ a queer start? Certainly! Then, that was a start as hehimself had had his blessed eyes on--and he'd cleaned the shoes theyrun away in--and they was so little he couldn't get his hand into 'em. "Whereupon, following up the thread of his discourse, Boots would takehis crowd of hearers, quite willingly on their part, into the heart ofthe charming labyrinth. 

The descriptive powers of Cobbs, it will be admitted, were for one thingvery remarkable. Master Harry Walmers' father, for instance, he hits offto a nicety in a phrase or two. "He was a gentleman of spirit, and goodlooking, and held his head up when he walked, and had what you may callFire about him:" adding, that he wrote poetry, rode, ran, cricketed, danced and acted, and "done it all equally beautiful. " Another anda very significant touch, by the way, was imparted to that sameportraiture later on, just, in point of fact before the close of Cobbs'sreminiscence, and one so lightly given that it was conveyed through amere passing parenthesis--namely, where the young father was describedby Boots as standing beside Master Harry Walmers' bed, in the Holly TreeInn, looking down at the little sleeping face, "looking wonderfullylike it, " says Cobbs, who adds, "(they do say as he ran away with Mrs. Walmers). " Although Boots described Master Harry's father from thefirst as "uncommon proud of him, as his only child, you see, " the worthyfellow took especial care at once to add, that "he didn't spoil himneither. " Having a will of his own, and a eye of his own, and being onethat would be minded, while he never tired of hearing the fine brightboy "sing his songs about Young May Moons is beaming, love, and When hewho adores thee has left but the name, and that: still, " said Boots, "hekept the command over the child, and the child _was_ a child, andit's very much to be wished more of 'em was. " At the particularperiod referred to in this portion of his narrative, Boots informed uspleasantly, that he came to know all about it by reason of his being inhis then capacity as Mr. Wahners' under-gardener, always about in thesummer time, near the windows, on the lawn "a-mowing and sweeping, andweeding and pruning, and this and that"--with his eyes and ears open, of course, we may presume, in a manner befitting his intelligence. 

Perhaps, there was after all nothing better in the delivery of the wholeof this Reading, than the utterance of the two words italicised belowin the first dialogue, reported by Boots as having taken place betweenhimself and Master Harry Walmers, junior, when "that mite, " as Bootscalls him, stops one day, along with the fine young woman of sevenalready mentioned, where Boots (then under-gardener, remember) washoeing weeds in the gravel:--

"'Cobbs, ' he says, 'I like _you. _' 'Do you, sir? I'm proud to hear it. ''Yes, I do, Cobbs. Why do I like you, do you think, Cobbs?' 'Don't know, Master Harry, I'm sure. ' 'Because Norah likes you, Cobbs. ' 'Indeed, sir?That's very gratifying. ' 'Gratifying, Cobbs? It is better than millionsof the brightest diamonds, to be liked by Norah?' '_Certainly_, sir. '"

Confirmed naturally enough in his good opinion of Cobbs by this thoroughcommunity of sentiment, Master Harry, who has been given to understandfrom the latter that he is going to leave, and, further than that, oninquiring, that he wouldn't object to another situation "if it wasa good 'un, " observes, while tucking that other mite in her littlesky-blue mantle under his arm, "Then, Cobbs, you shall be our headgardener when we are married. " Boots, thereupon, in the person of theReader, went on to describe how "the babies with their long brightcurling hair, their sparkling eyes, and their beautiful light tread, rambled about the garden deep in love, " sometimes here, sometimes there, always under his own sympathetic and admiring observation, until oneday, down by the pond, he heard Master Harry say, "Adorable Norah, kissme and say you love me to distraction. " Altogether Cobbs seemed exactly, and with delicious humour, to define the entire situation when hedeclared, that "on the whole the contemplation of them two babies had atendency to make him feel as if he was in love himself--only he didn'tknow who with!"

The delightful gravity of countenance (with a covert sparkle in the eyewhere the daintiest indications of fun were given by the Reader) lent acharm of its own to the merest nothing, comparatively, in the whimsicaldialogues he was reporting. Master Harry, for example, having confidedto Cobbs one evening, when the latter was watering the flowers, that hewas going on a visit to his grandmama at York--"'Are you indeed, sir? Ihope you'll have a pleasant time. I'm going into Yorkshire myself, whenI leave here. ' 'Are you going to your grandmama's, Cobbs?' 'No, sir. I haven't got such a thing. ' 'Not as a grandmama, Cobbs?' 'No, sir. '"Immediately after which, on the boy observing to his humble confidant, that he shall be so glad to go because "Norah's going, " Cobbs, naturallyenough, as it seemed, took occasion to remark, "You'll be all rightthen, sir, with your beautiful sweetheart by your side. " Whereupon werealised more clearly than ever the delicate whimsicality of the wholedelineation, when we saw, as well as heard, the boy return a-flushing, "Cobbs, I never let anybody joke about that when I can prevent them, "Cobbs immediately explaining in all humility, "It wasn't a joke, sir--wasn't so meant. " No wonder, Boots had exclaimed previously: "Andthe courage of that boy! Bless you, he'd have throwed off his littlehat and tucked up his little sleeves and gone in at a lion, he would--ifthey'd happened to meet one, and she [Norah] had been frightened. " Atthe close of Boots's record of this last-quoted conversation with MasterHarry, came one of the drollest touches in the Reading--"'Cobbs, ' saysthat boy, 'I'll tell you a secret. At Norah's house, they have beenjoking her about me, and [with a wondering look] pretending to laugh atour being engaged! Pretending to make game of it, Cobbs!' 'Such, sir, ' Isays, 'is the depravity of human natur. '" A glance during the utteranceof which words, either at the Reader himself or at his audience, wassomething enjoyable. 

Hardly less inspiriting in its way was the incidental mention, directlyafter this by Cobbs, of the manner in which he gave Mr. Walmers notice, not that he'd anything to complain of--"'Thanking you, sir, I findmyself as well sitiwated here as I could hope to be anywheres. The truthis, sir, that I'm a going to seek my fortun. ' 'O, indeed, Cobbs?' hesays, 'I hope you may find it. '" Boots hereupon giving his audiencethe assurance, with the characteristic touch of the bootjack to hisforehead, that "he hadn't found it yet!"

Then came the delectable account of the elopement--full, true, andparticular--from the veracious lips of Cobbs himself, at that time, andagain some years afterwards, when he came to call up his recollections, Boots at the Holly Tree Inn. Passages here and there in his descriptionof the incident were irrisistibly laughable. Master Harry's going downto the old lady's in York, for example, "which old lady were so wrapt upin that child as she would have give that child the teeth in her head(if she had had any). " The arrival of "them two children, " again at theHolly Tree Inn, he, as bold as brass, tucking her in her little sky-bluemantle under his arm, with the memorable dinner order, "Chops and cherrypudding for two!" Their luggage, even, when gravely enumerated--the ladyhaving "a parasol, a smelling bottle, a round and a half of coldbuttered toast, eight peppermint drops, and a doll's hair-brush;" thegentleman having "about half a dozen yards of string, a knife, three orfour sheets of writing paper folded up surprisingly small, a orange, anda chaney mug with his name on it. " Several of the little chance phrases, the merest atoms of exclamation here and there, will still be borne inmind as having had an intense flavour of fun about them, as syllabled inthe Reading. Boots's "Sir, to you, " when his governor, the hotel-keeper, proposes to run over to York to quiet their friends' minds, while Cobbskeeps his eye upon the innocents! Master Harry's replying to Boots'suggestion, that they should wile away the time by a walk downLove-lane--"'Get out with you, Cobbs!'--that was that there boy'sexpression. " The glee of the children was prettily told too on theirfinding "Good Cobbs! Dear Cobbs!" among the strangers around them attheir temporary halting-place. They themselves appearing smaller thanever in his eyes, by reason of his finding them "with their little legsentirely off the ground, of course--and it really is not possible toexpress how small them children looked!--on a e-normous sofa;" immenseat any time, but looking like a Great Bed of Ware then by comparison. 

How, during the governor's absence in search of their friends, Cobbs, feeling himself all the while to be "the meanest rascal for deceiving'em, that ever was born, " gets up a cock and a bull story about a ponyhe's acquainted with, who'll take them on nicely to Gretna Green--butwho was not at liberty the first day, and the next was only "halfclipped, you see, and couldn't be took out in that state for fear itshould strike to his inside"--was related with the zest of one who hadnaturally the keenest relish possible for every humorous particular. Finding the lady in tears one time when Boots goes to see how therunaway couple are getting on, "Mrs. Harry Walmers, junior, fatigued, sir?" asks Cobbs. "Yes, she is tired, Cobbs; but she is not used to beaway from home, and she has been in low spirits again. Cobbs, do youthink you could bring a biffin, please?"--"I ask your pardon, sir, Whatwas it you ------?" "I think a Norfolk biffin would rouse her, Cobbs. "Restoratives of that kind, Boots would seem to have regarded as tooessential to Mrs. Harry Walmers junior's happiness. Hence, when he comesupon the pair over their dinner of "biled fowl and bread-and-butterpudding, " Boots privately owns that "he could have wished to have seenher more sensible to the woice of love, and less abandoning of herselfto the currants in the pudding. " According to Cobbs's own account of thegentleman, however, it should be added that _he_ too could play his partvery effectively at table, for--having mentioned another while, how thetwo of them had ordered overnight sweet milk-and-water and toast andcurrant jelly for breakfast--when Cobbs comes upon them the next morningat their meal, he describes Master Harry as sitting behind his breakfastcup "a tearing away at the jelly as if he had been his own father!"

Remorseful in the thought of betraying them, Boots at one momentdeclared, that rather than combine any longer against them, he would bypreference "have had it out in half-a-dozen rounds with the governor!"And at another time, when the said governor had returned from York, "with Mr. Walmers and a elderly lady, " Boots, while conducting Mr. Walmers upstairs, could not for the life of him help pausing at theroom door, with, "I beg your pardon, sir, I hope you are not angry withMaster Harry. For Master Harry's a fine boy, sir, and will do you creditand honour. " Boots signifying while he related the circumstance, that"if the fine boy's father had contradicted him in the state of mind inwhich he then was, he should have 'fetched him a crack' and took theconsequences. " As for the appreciation of Master Harry by the femaledependents at the Holly Tree, there were two allusions to _that_--onegeneral, as may be said, the other particular--that were always themost telling hits, the two chief successes of the Reading. Who that onceheard it, for example, has forgotten the Author's inimitable mannerof saying, as the Boots--"The way in which the women of thathouse--_without_ exception--_every_ one of 'em--married _and_single--took to that boy when they heard the story, is surprising. Itwas as much as could be done to keep 'em from dashing into the room andkissing him. They climbed up all sorts of places, at the risk of theirlives, to look at him through a pane of glass. _They was seven deep atthe key-hole!_" The climax of fun came naturally at the close, however, when, having described how Mr. Walmers lifted his boy up to kiss thesleeping "little warm face of little Mrs. Harry Walmers, junior, " at themoment of their separation, Boots, that is the Reader, cried out in theshrill voice of one of the chambermaids, "_It's a shame to part 'em!_"

Two reflections indulged in by Boots during the course of his narrative, being among the pleasantest in connection with this most graceful of allthe purely comic Readings, may here, while closing these allusions toit, be recalled to mind not inappropriately. One--where Cobbs "wishedwith all his heart there was any impossible place where them two babiescould have made an impossible marriage, and have lived impossibly happyever afterwards. " The other--where, with genial sarcasm, Boots propoundsthis brace of opinions by way of general summing up--"Firstly, thatthere are not many couples on their way to be married who are half asinnocent as them two children. Secondly, that it would be a jolly goodthing for a great many couples on their way to be married, if they couldonly be stopped in time, and brought back separate. " With which cynicalscattering of sugar-plums in the teeth, of married and single, theblithe Reading was laughingly brought to its conclusion. 

BARBOX BROTHERS. 

Nobody but the writer of this little freak of fancy could possibly haverendered the Reading of it in public worthy even of toleration. Perhapsno Reading that could be selected presents within the same compass somany difficulties to the audience who are listening, and to theReader who is hardy enough to adventure upon its delivery. The closingincidents of the narrative are in themselves so improbable, we had allbut said so impossible! Polly, at once so quaint and so captivating, when her words are perused upon the printed page, is so incapable ofhaving her baby-prattle repeated by anybody else, without the imminentrisk, the all but certainty, of its degenerating into mere childishness. It can scarcely be wondered, therefore, that "Barbox Brothers, " thoughit actually was Read, and Read successfully, was hardly ever repeated. Everybody who has once looked into the story will bear in mind how, quite abruptly, almost haphazard, it comes to be narrated. 

The lumbering, middle-aged, grey-headed hero of it, in obedience tothe whim of a moment, gets out of a night train at the great centraljunction of the whole railway system of England. A drenching rain-stormand a windy platform, darkness and solitude are, to begin with, theagreeable surroundings of this eccentric traveller. He is strandedthere, not high and dry, anything but that--on the contrary, soakedthrough and through, and at very low level indeed--during what the localofficials regard as their deadest time in all the twenty-four hours:what one of them, later on, terms emphatically their deadest andburiedest time. 

Already, even here, before the tale itself is in any way begun, theAuthor of it, in his capacity as Reader, somehow, by the mere manner ofhis delivery of a descriptive sentence or two, contrived to realiseto his hearers in a wonderfully vivid way the strange incidents ofthe traffic in a scene like this, at those blackest intervals betweenmidnight and daybreak. Now revealing--"Mysterious goods trains, covered with palls, and gliding on like vast weird funerals, conveyingthemselves guiltily away, as if their freight had come to a secret andunlawful end. " Now, again--"Half miles of coal pursuing in a Detectivemanner, following when they led, stopping when they stopped, backingwhen they backed. " One while the spectacle, conjured up by a word or twowas that of--"Unknown languages in the air, conspiring in red, green, and white characters. " Another, with startling effect, it was--"Anearthquake, with thunder and lightning, going up express to London. "Here it is that Barbox Brothers, in the midst of these ghostlyapparitions, is eventually extricated from the melancholy plightin which he finds himself saturated and isolated in the middle of aspiderous web of railroads. 

His extricator is--Lamps! A worthy companion portrait to that ofcinderous Mr. Toodles, the stoker, familiar to the readers of Dombey. Characters, those two, quite as typical, after their fashion, of thelater railway period of Dickens, as even Sam Weller, the boots, and OldWeller, the coachman, were of his earlier coaching period in the days ofPickwick. To see him, in his capacity as Lamps, when excited, take whathe called "a rounder"--that is to say, giving himself, with his oilyhandkerchief rolled up in the form of a ball, "an elaborate smear frombehind the right ear, up the cheek, across the forehead, and down theother cheek, behind his left ear, " after which operation he is describedas having shone exceedingly--was to be with him, again, at once, in hisgreasy little cabin, which was suggestive to the sense of smell of acabin in a whaler. How it came to pass that Lamps sang comic songs, of his own composition, to his bed-ridden daughter Phoebe, by way ofenlivening her solitude, and how Phoebe, while manipulating the threadson her lace-pillow, as though she were playing a musical instrument, taught her little band of children to chant to a pleasant tune themultiplication-table, and so fix it and other useful knowledge indeliblyupon the tablets of their memory, the Author-Reader would then relate, as no other Reader, however gifted, who was not also the Author, wouldhave been allowed to do, supposing this latter had had the hardihood toattempt the relation. 

As the Reading advanced, the difficulties not only increased, theybecame tenfold, immediately upon the introduction of Polly. Dickens, however, conquered them all somehow. But to anybody else, setting forththe story histrionically, impersonating the characters as they appeared, these difficulties would by necessity have been insuperable or simplyoverwhelming. Catching the very little fair-haired girl's Christianname readily enough, when she comes up to him in the street, with thesurprising announcement, "O! if you please, I am lost!" Barbox Brotherscan't for the life of him conjecture what her surname is, --carefullyimitating, though he does, the sound that comes from the childish lips, each time on its repetition. Hazarding "Trivits, " first of all, then "Paddens, " then "Tappi-tarver. " Eventually, when the two arrivehand-in-hand at Barbox Brothers' hotel, nobody there could make outher name as she set it forth, "except one chambermaid, who said it wasConstantinople--which it wasn't. "

No wonder Barbox feels bigger and heavier in person every minute when heis being catechised by Polly! Asked by her if he knows any stories, andcompelled to answer, "No! What a dunce you must be, mustn't you?" saysPolly. Frightened nearly out of his wits at the dinner-table, when theyare feasting together, by her getting on her feet upon her chair toreward him with a kiss, and then toppling forward among the dishes--hehimself crying out in dismay, "Gracious angels! Whew! I thought we werein the fire, Polly!"--"What a coward you are, ain't you?" says Polly, when replaced. 

Upon the next morning, when brought down to breakfast, after acomfortable night's sleep, passed by the child in a bed shared with "theConstantinopolitan chambermaid, " Polly, "by that time a mere heap ofdimples, " poses poor, unwieldy Barbox by asking him, in a wheedlingmanner, "What are we going to do, you dear old thing?" On his suggestingtheir having a sight, at the Circus, of two long-tailed ponies, speckledall over--"No, no, no!" cries Polly, in an ecstasy. When he afterwardsthrows out a proposition that they shall also look in at the toy-shop, and choose a doll--"Not dressed, " ejaculates Polly; "No, no, no--notdressed!" Barbox replying, "Full dressed; together with a house, andall things necessary for housekeeping!" Polly gives a little scream, andseems in danger of falling into a swoon of bliss. "What a darling youare!" she languidly exclaims, leaning back in her chair: "Come andbe hugged. " All this will indicate plainly enough the difficultiesinvesting every sentence of this Reading, capped as they all are by theastounding _denouement_ of the plot--Polly turning out to be (slylittle thing!) the purposely-lost daughter of Barbox Brothers' old love, Beatrice, and of her husband, Tresham, for whom Barbox had not only beenjilted, but by whom Barbox had been simultaneously and rather heavilydefrauded. 

Perhaps the pleasantest recollection of the whole Reading is, notPolly--the small puss turns out to be such a cunningly reticent littleemissary--but her Doll, a "lovely specimen of Circassian descent, possessing as much boldness of beauty as was reconcileable withextreme feebleness of mouth, " and combining a sky-blue pelisse withrose-coloured satin trousers, and a black velvet hat, "the latterseemingly founded on the portraits of the late Duchess of Kent. " One isalmost reconciled to Polly, however, --becoming oblivious for the momentof her connivance in her mother's secret device, and reminiscent onlyof her own unsophisticated mixture of prattle and impertinence--onlearning, immediately after this elaborate description of the gorgeousdoll of her choice, that "the name of this distinguished foreigner was(on Polly's authority) Miss Melluka. "

THE BOY AT MUGBY. 

Several _gamins_ have been contributed to our literature byDickens--quite as typical and quite as truthful in their way, each ofthem, as Hugo's Gavroche. There is Jo the poor crossing-sweeper. Thereis the immortal Dodger. There is his pal the facetious Charley Bates. And there is that delightful boy at the end of "The Carol, " who conveyssuch a world of wonder through his simple reply of "Why, Christmas Day!"The boy who is "as big, " he says himself, as the prize turkey, and whogets off at last quicker than a shot propelled by the steadiest hand ata trigger! Scattered up and down the Boz fictions, there are abundantspecimens of a _genus_ that, in one instance, is actually termed bythe Humorist, "a town-made little boy"--this is in the memorable streetscene where Squeers hooks Smike by the coat-collar with the handle ofhis umbrella. He is always especially great in his delineation of whatone might call the human cock-sparrows of London. Kit, at the outset ofhis career, is another example; and Tom Scott yet another. 

Sloppy carries us away into the suburbs, thereby taking us in a manneroff the stones, and otherwise represents in his own proper person, buttons and all, less one of the dapper urchins we are now moreparticularly referring to, than the shambling hobbledehoy. Even inthe unfinished story with which the Author's voluminous writings wereclosed, there was portrayed an entirely novel specimen, one marked bythe most grotesque extravagance, in the shape of that impish malignant, "the Deputy, " whose pastime at once and whole duty in life seemed to bemaking a sort of vesper cock-shy of Durdles and his dinner-bundle. 

Conspicuous among these comic boys of Dickens may be remembered one who, instead of being introduced in any of the Novelist's larger works, fromthe Pickwick Papers clown to Edwin Drood, interpolates himself, asmay be said, among one of the groups of Christmas stories, throughthe medium of a shrill monologue. "The Boy at Mugby, " to wit, the oneexhilarated and exhilarating appreciate of the whole elaborate system ofRefreshmenting in this Isle of the Brave and Land of the Free, by whichhe means to say Britannia. 

Laconically, "I am the Boy at Mugby, " he announces. "That's about what_I_ am. " His exact location he describes almost with the precision ofone giving latitude and longitude--explaining to a nicety where hisstand is taken. "Up in a corner of the Down Refreshment Room at MugbyJunction, " in the height of twenty-seven draughts [he's counted 'em, he tells us parenthetically, as they brush the First Class, hairtwenty-seven ways], bounded on the nor'-west by the beer, and so on. Hehimself, he frankly informs you--in the event of your ever presentingyourself there before him at the counter, in quest of nourishment of anykind, either liquid or solid--will seem not to hear you, and will appear"in a absent manner to survey the Line through a transparent mediumcomposed of your head and body, " determined evidently not to serve you, that is, as long as you can possibly bear it! "That's me!" cries theBoy at Mugby, exultantly, --adding, with an intense relish for hisoccupation, "what a delightful lark it is!" As for the eatables anddrinkables habitually set forth upon the counter, by what he generallyspeaks of as the Refreshmenters, quoth the Boy at Mugby, in a _naif_confidence, addressed to you in your capacity at once as applicant andvictim, "when you're telegraphed, you should see 'em begin to pitch thestale pastry into the plates, and chuck the sawdust sang-wiches underthe glass covers, and get out the--ha, ha!--the sherry--O, my eye, myeye!--for your refreshment. " Once or twice in a way only, "The Boy atMugby" was introduced among the Readings, and then merely as a slightstop-gap or interlude. Thoroughly enjoying the delivery of it himself, and always provoking shouts of laughter whenever this colloquial morselwas given, the Novelist seemed to be perfectly conscious himself thatit was altogether too slight and trivial of its kind, to be worthy ofanything like artistic consideration; that it was an "airy nothing" inits way, to which it was scarcely deserving that he should give morethan name and local habitation. 

Critically regarded, it had its inconsistencies too, both as a writingand as a Reading. There was altogether too much precocity for a genuineboy, in the nice discrimination with which the Boy at Mugby hit off thecontrasting nationalities. The foreigner, for example, who politely, hat in hand, "beseeched Our Young Ladies, and our Missis, " for a "leetelgloss hoif prarndee, " and who, after being repelled, on trying to helphimself, exclaims, "with hands clasped and shoulders riz: 'Ah! is itpossible this; that these disdaineous females are placed here by theadministration, not only to empoisen the voyagers, but to affront them!Great Heaven! How arrives it? The English people. Or is he then a slave?Or idiot?'" Hardly would a veritable boy, even an urchin so well "to thefore" with his epoch, as the Boy at Mugby, depict so accurately, muchless take off, with a manner so entirely life-like, the astoundedforeigner, any more than he would the thoroughly wide-awake and gailyderisive American. The latter he describes as alternately trying andspitting out first the sawdust and then the--ha, ha!--the sherry, untilfinally, on paying for both and consuming neither, he says, very loud, to Our Missis, and very good tempered, "I tell Yew what 'tis ma'arm. Ila'af. Theer! I la'af, I Dew. I oughter ha' seen most things, for I hailfrom the unlimited side of the Atlantic Ocean, and I haive travelledright slick over the Limited, head on, through Jeerusalem and the East, and likeways France and Italy, Europe, Old World, and I am now upon thetrack to the Chief European Village; but such an Institution as Yew andYewer fixins, solid _and_ liquid, afore the glorious Tarnal I neverdid see yet! And if I hain't found the eighth wonder of MonarchicalCreation, in finding Yew and Yewer fixins, solid and liquid, in acountry where the people air not absolute Loo-naticks, I am ExtraDouble Darned with a nip and frizzle to the innermost grit!Wheerfore--Theer!--I la'af! I Dew, ma'arm. I la'af!" A calotype, orrather, literally, a speaking likeness, so true to the life as that, would be a trifle, we take it, beyond the mimetic powers and the keenlyobservant faculties even of a Boy whose senses had been wakened up bythe twenty-seven cross draughts of the Refreshment Room at Mugby. 

As to the fun made of the bandolining by Our Young Ladies, and of OurMissis's lecture on Foreign Refreshmenting, and of Sniff's corkscrewand his servile disposition, it is intentionally fooling, no doubt, but it is--excellent fooling! As was admirably said in the number of_Macmillan_ for January, 1871, by the anonymous writer of a Reminiscenceof the Amateur Theatricals at Tavistock House, --the remark followingimmediately after Charles Dickens's version of the Ghost's Song in HenryFielding's burlesque of Tom Thumb, --"Nonsense, it may be said, all this;but the nonsense of a great genius has always something of genius init. " Had not Swift his "little language" to Stella, to "Stellakins, " to"roguish, impudent, pretty M. D. ?" Than some of which little language, quoth Thackeray, in commenting upon it, "I know of nothing more manly, more tender, more exquisitely touching. " Again, had not Pope, inconjunction with the Dean, his occasional unbending also as a _farceur_, in the wilder freaks and oddities of Martinus Scriblerus? So was ithere with one who was beyond all doubt, more intensely a Humoristthan either, when he wrote or read such harmless sarcasms and innocentwhimsicalities, as those alternately underlying, and overlaying theboyish fun of this juvenile Refreshmenter at Mugby Junction. 

DOCTOR MARIGOLD. 

Already mention has been made of the extraordinary care lavished, asa general rule, by the Novelist upon the preparation of these Readingsbefore they were, each in turn, submitted for the first time to publicscrutiny. A strikingly illustrative instance of this may be hereparticularised. It occurred upon the occasion of a purely experimentalReading of "Doctor Marigold, " which came off privately, on the eveningof the 18th of March, 1866, in the drawing-room of Charles Dickens'sthen town residence, in Southwick Place, Tyburnia. Including, amongthose present, the members of his own home circle, his entire audiencenumbered no more than ten persons altogether. Four, at any rate, of thatparty may be here identified, each of whom doubtless still bears theoccasion referred to vividly in his remembrance, --Robert Browning thepoet, Charles Fechter the actor, Wilkie Collins the novelist, and JohnForster the historian of the Commonwealth. Even in private, Dickens hadnever Read "Doctor Marigold" until that evening. Often as he Read itafterwards, he never Read it with a more contagious air of exhilaration. He hardly ever, in fact, gave one of his almost wholly comic and butincidentally pathetic Readings _so_ effectively. In every sentence therewas a zest or relish that was irresistible. The volubility of the "poorchap in the sleeved-waistcoat" sped the Reading on with a rapidity quitebeyond anticipation, when the time, which had been carefully marked atthe commencement of the Reading, came to be notified at its conclusion. That the merest first rehearsal should have run off thus glibly seemedjust simply incomprehensible. With the sense of this surprise stillfresh upon us, the tentative Reading being at the time only afew seconds completed, everything was explained, however, by ahalf-whispered remark made, to the present writer, in passing, by theNovelist--made by him half-weariedly, yet half-laughingly--"There! IfI have gone through that already to myself once, I have gone through ittwo--hundred--times!" It was not lightly or carelessly therefore, asmay now be seen, that Charles Dickens, in his later capacity--notpen-in-hand, or through green monthly numbers, but standing at areading-desk upon a public platform--undertook the office of a popularentertainer. 

Resolved throughout his career as a Reader to acquit himself of thosenewly-assumed responsibilities to the utmost of his powers, to thefullest extent of his capabilities, both physical and intellectual, heapplied his energies to the task, with a zeal that, it is impossible notto recognise now, amounted in the end to nothing less than (literally)self-sacrifice. But for the devotion of his energies thus unstintinglyto the laborious task upon which he had adventured--a task involving inits accomplishment an enormous amount of rapid travelling by railway, keeping him for months together, besides, in one ceaseless whirl ofbodily and mental excitement--his splendid constitution, sustained andstrengthened as it was by his wholesome enjoyment of out-of-door life, and his habitual indulgence in bathing and pedes-trianism, gave himevery reasonable hope of reaching the age of an octogenarian. 

Bearing in mind in addition to the wear-and-tear of the Readings inEngland and America, the nervous shock of that terrible railway accidentat Staplehurst, on the 9th of June, 1865, the lamentable catastrophe ofexactly five years afterwards to the very day, that of the 9th of June, 1870, becomes readily comprehensible. Because of his absorption in histask, however, all through, he was unconscious for the most part of thewasting influence of his labours, or, if he was so at all towards theclose of his career, he was so, even then, only fitfully and at therarest intervals. Precisely in the same way, it may be remarked, inregard to those who watched his whole course as a Reader, that so facileand so pleasureable to himself, as well as to them, appeared to be thenovel avocation which had come of late years to be alternated withhis more accustomed toil as an author, that it rendered even the mostobservant amongst them unconscious in their turn of the disastrouslyexhausting influence of this unnatural blending together of twoprofessions. A remorseful sense of this comes back upon us now, when itis all too late, in our remembrance of that remark made by the Novelistimmediately after the Private Reading of "Doctor Marigold, " a remarkthen regarded as simply curious and interesting, but now having about itan almost painful significance. Never was work more thoroughly or moreconscientiously done, from first to last, than in the instance of theseReadings. 

In the minute elaboration of the care with which they were prepared, inthe vivacity with which they were one and all of them delivered, in thepunctuality with which, whirled like a shuttle in a loom, to and fro, hither and thither, through all parts of the United Kingdom and of theUnited States, the Reader kept, link by link, an immensely-lengthenedchain of appointments, until the first link was broken suddenly atPreston--one can recognise at length the full force of those simplewords uttered by him upon the occasion of his Farewell Reading, wherehe spoke of himself as "a faithful servant of the public, always imbuedwith a sense of duty to them, and always striving to do his best. "Among the many radiant illustrations that have been preserved of howthoroughly he did his best, not the least brilliant in its way was thiseminently characteristic Reading of "Doctor Mari-gold. "

All through it, from the very beginning down to the very end ofhis Confidences, the Cheap Jack, in his belcher neckcloth and hissleeved-waistcoat with the mother-o'-pearl buttons, was there talkingto us, as only he could talk to us, from the foot-board of his cart. Heremained thus before us from his first mention of his own father havingalways consistently called himself Willum to the moment when littleSophy--the third little Sophy--comes clambering up the steps, andreveals that she at least is not deaf and dumb by crying out to him, "Grandfather!" As for the patter of Doctor Marigold, it is among thehumorous revelations of imaginative literature. Hear him when he isperhaps the best worth listening to, when he is in his true rostrum, when his bluchers are on his native foot-board, and his name is, moreintensely than ever, Doctor Marigold! Don't we all remember him there, for example, on a Saturday night in the market-place--"Here's a pair ofrazors that'll shave you closer than the board of guardians; here's aflat-iron worth its weight in gold; here's a frying-pan artificiallyflavoured with essence of beefsteaks to that degree that you've only gotfor the rest of your lives to fry bread and dripping in it and thereyou are replete with animal food; here's a genuine chronometer-watch, insuch a solid silver case that you may knock at the door with it when youcome home late from a social meeting, and rouse your wife and familyand save up your knocker for the postman; and here's half a dozendinner-plates that you may play the cymbals with to charm the baby whenit's fractious. Stop! I'll throw you in another article, and I'll giveyou that, and it's a rolling-pin; and if the baby can only get it wellinto it's mouth when its teeth is coming, and rub the gums once withit, they'll come through double in a fit of laughter equal to beingtickled. " And so on, ringing the changes on a thousand wonderfulconceits and whimsicalities that come tumbling out one after another ininexhaustible sequence and with uninterrupted volubility. 

The very Prince of Cheap Jacks, surely, is this Doctor Marigold! And, more than that, one who makes good his claim to the title of wit, humorist, satirist, philanthropist, and philosopher. 

As for his philosophic contentment, what can equal that as implied inhis summing up of his own humble surroundings? "A roomy cart, with thelarge goods hung outside, and the bed slung underneath it when on theroad; an iron-pot and a kettle, a fireplace for the cold weather, achimney for the smoke, a hanging-shelf and a cupboard, a dog and ahorse. What more do you want? You draw off on a bit of turf in a greenlane or by the roadside, you hobble your old horse and turn him grazing, you light your fire upon the ashes of the last visitors, you cook yourstew, and you wouldn't call the Emperor of France your father. "

As for his wit, hear him describe--"What? Why, I'll tell you! It's madeof fine gold, and it's not broke, though there's a hole in the middle ofit, and it's stronger than any fetter that was ever forged. What elseis it? I'll tell you. It's a hoop of solid gold wrapped in asilver curl-paper that I myself took off the shining locks of theever-beautiful old lady in Threadneedle Street, London city. I wouldn'ttell you so, if I hadn't the paper to show, or you mightn't believe iteven of me. Now, what else is it? It's a man-trap, and a hand-cuff, theparish stocks and a leg-lock, all in gold and all in one. Now, what elseis it? It's a wedding-ring!"

As for something far better than any mere taste of his skill as asatirist, see the whole of his delectable take off--in contradistinctionto himself, the itinerant Cheap Jack--of the political Dear Jack in thepublic marketplace. 

As for his philanthropy, it is unobtrusively proclaimed by the driftof his whole narrative, and especially by two or three among the moreremarkable of its closing incidents. 

As for his powers as a humorist, they may be found there _passim_, beingscattered broadcast all through his autobiographic recollections. 

To those recollections are we not indebted for a whole gallery ofinimitable delineations? The Cheap Jack's very dog, for instance, whohad taught himself out of his own head to growl at any person in thecrowd that bid as low as sixpence! Or Pickleson the giant, with alittle head and less in it. Of whom, observes Doctor Marigold, "He wasa languid young man, which I attribute to the distance betwixt hisextremities. " About whom, when a sixpence is given to him by DoctorMarigold, the latter remarks in a preposterous parenthesis, "(for hewas kept as short as he was long!)" As for Dickens's high falsetto, whenspeaking in the person of this same Pickleson, with a voice that, asDoctor Marigold says, seemed to come from his eyebrows, it was only justa shade more excruciatingly ridiculous than his guttural and growlingobjurgations in the character of the giant's proprietor, the fe-rociousMim. 

With all his modest appetite for the simpler pleasures of existence, Doctor Marigold betrays in one instance, by the way, the taste of a_gourmet_. "I knocked up a beefsteak-pudding for one, " he says, "withtwo kidneys, a dozen oysters, and a couple of mushrooms thrown in:"adding, with a fine touch of nature drawn from experience, "It's apudding to put a man in good humour with everything, except the twobottom buttons of his waistcoat. "

Incomparably the finest portion of all this wonderfully original sketchof Doctor Marigold, both in the Writing and in the Reading, was that inwhich the poor Cheap Jack is represented as going through his customarypatter on the foot-board with his poor little Sophy--the first of thethree Sophies, his own by birth, and not simply by adoption--the whileshe is slowly dying on his shoulder. Thackeray was right when he said ofthe humour of Dickens, "It is a mixture of love and wit. " Laughter andtears, with him, lay very near--speaking of him as an author, we may sayby preference--lie very near indeed together. It is in those passagesin which they come in astonishingly rapid alternation, and at momentsalmost simultaneously, that he is invariably at his very best. Theincident here alluded to is one of these more exquisite descriptions, and it was one, that, by voice and look and manner, he himself mostexquisitely delineated. When the poor Cheap Jack, with Sophy holdinground his neck, steps out from the shelter of the cart upon thefoot-board, and the waiting crowd all set up a laugh on seeingthem--"one chuckle-headed Joskin (that I hated for it) making a bid'tuppence for her!'"--Doctor Marigold begins his tragi-comic allocution. It is sown thickly all through with the most whimsical of his conceits, but it is interrupted also here and there with infinitely pathetictouches of tenderness. 

Fragmentary illustrations of either would but dimly shadow forth, instead of clearly elucidating, what is here meant in the recollectionof those who can still recall this Reading of "Doctor Marigold" totheir remembrance. Those who never heard it as it actually fell from theAuthor's lips, by turning to the original sketch, and running throughthat particular portion of it to themselves, may more readily conjecturethan by the aid of mere piecemeal quotation, all that the writer ofthose riant and tearful pages would be capable of accomplishing by itsutterance, bringing to its delivery, as he could, so many of the rarergifts of genius, and so many also of the rarest accomplishments of art. 

SIKES AND NANCY. 

On Saturday, the 14th of November, 1868, there were assembled togetherin front of the great platform in St. James's Hall, Piccadilly, as fitaudience, but few, somewhere about fifty of the critics, artists, andliterary men of London. A card of invitation, stamped with a facsimileof the well-known autograph of Charles Dickens, and countersigned bythe Messrs. Chappell and Company, had, with a witty significance, biddenthem to that rendezvous for a "Private Trial of the Murder in OliverTwist. " The occasion, in point of fact, was a sort of experimentalrehearsal of the last and most daring of all these vividly dramaticReadings by the popular Novelist. 

Conscious himself that there was a certain amount of audacity inhis adventuring thus upon a delineation so really startling in itscharacter, he was not unnaturally desirous of testing its fitness forrepresentation before the public, first of all in the presence ofthose who were probably the best qualified to pronounce a perfectlydispassionate opinion. It certainly appeared somewhat dubious at thefirst, that question as to the suitability for portrayal before mixedassemblages, of one of the most powerfully tragic incidents everdepicted by him in the whole range of his voluminous contributionsto imaginative literature. The passages selected to this end from hisfamous story of Oliver Twist were those relating more particularly tothe Murder of Nancy by Bill Sikes. A ghastlier atrocity than that murdercould hardly be imagined. In the book itself, as will be remembered, thecrime is painted as with a brush dipped in blood rather than pigment. The infamous deed is there described in language worthy of one of thegreatest realists in fictitious narrative. Henri de Balzac, even inhis more sanguinary imaginings, never showed a completer mastery of thehorrible. 

Remembering all this, and feeling perfectly assured at the same time, that the scene then about to be depicted by the Author in person, wouldmost certainly lose nothing of its terror in the representation, theacknowledgment may here be made by the writer of these pages, that, onentering the Hall that evening, he was in considerable doubt as to whatmight be the result of the experiment. Compared with the size of theenormous building, the group of those assembled appeared to be themerest handful of an audience clustered together towards the frontimmediately below the platform of the orchestra. Standing at the backof this group, the writer recalls to mind, in regard to that evening, a circumstance plainly enough indicating how fully his own unexpresseduncertainty was akin to that of the Author-Reader himself. Thecircumstance, namely, that Charles Dickens, immediately on entering thehall, before taking his place at his reading-desk upon the platform, came round, and after exchanging a few words with him, uttered thisearnest Aside, --"I want you to watch this particularly, for I am verydoubtful about it myself!" Before that Experimental Reading was halfover, however, all doubt upon the matter was utterly dissipated. In thepowerful effect of it, the murder-scene immeasurably surpassed anythinghe had ever achieved before as an impersonator of his own creations. Inits climax, it was as splendid a piece of tragic acting as had for manyyears been witnessed. 

What, in effect, was Macready's comment upon it some months afterwards, when, with an especial eye to the great tragedian's opinion, "Sikes andNancy" was given at Cheltenham? It was laconic enough, but it afforded aworld of pleasure to the Author-Actor when his old friend--himself thehero of so many tragic triumphs--summed up his estimate, by saying, characteristically, "Two Macbeths!"

Four of the imaginary beings of the novel were introduced, or, it shouldrather be said, were severally produced before us as actual embodiments. Occasionally, during one of the earlier scenes, it is true that thegentle voice of Rose Maylie was audible, while a few impressive wordswere spoken there also at intervals by Mr. Brownlow. But, otherwise, the interlocutors were four, and four only: to wit--Nancy, Bill Sikes, Morris Bolter, otherwise Noah Claypole, and the Jew Fagin. Than thosesame characters no four perhaps in the whole range of fiction couldbe more widely contrasted. Yet, widely contrasted, utterly dissimilar, though they are, in themselves, the extraordinary histrionic powers oftheir creator, enabled him to present them to view, with a rapidityof sequence or alternation, so astonishing in its mingled facility andprecision, that the characters themselves seemed not only to be beforeus in the flesh, but sometimes one might almost have said were theresimultaneously. Each in turn as portrayed hy him--meaning portrayed hyhim not simply in the hook hut hy himself in person--was in its way afinished masterpiece. 

Looking at the Author as he himself embodied these creations--Fagin, the Jew, was there completely, audibly, visibly before us, by a sortof transformation! Here, in effect--as several years previously in themidst of his impersonation of Wilmot in Lord Lytton's comedy of Notso Bad as we Seem, namely, where, in the garret, the youngpatrician affects for a while to be Edmund Curll the bookseller--theimpersonator's very stature, each time Fagin opened his lips, seemedto be changed instantaneously. Whenever he spoke, there started beforeus--high-shouldered, with contracted chest, with birdlike claws, eagerlyanticipating hy their every movement the passionate words fiercelystruggling for utterance at his lips--that most villainous old tutor ofyoung thieves, receiver of stolen goods, and very devil incarnate: hisfeatures distorted with rage, his penthouse eyebrows (those wonderfuleyebrows!) working like the antennæ of some deadly reptile, his wholeaspect, half-vulpine, half-vulture-like, in its hungry wickedness. 

Whenever _he_ spoke, again, Morris Bolter--quite as instantly, just asvisibly and as audibly--was there upon the platform. Listening to him, though we were all of us perfectly conscious of doing, through theProtean voice, and looking at him through the variable features of theNovelist, we somehow saw, no longer the Novelist, but--each time NoahClay-pole said a word--that chuckle-headed, long-limbed, clownish, sneaking varlet, who is the spy on Nancy, the tool of Fagin, andthe secret evil-genius of Sikes, hounding the latter on, as he does, unwittingly, to the dreadful deed of homicide. 

As for the Author's embodiment of Sikes--the burly ruffian with thews ofiron and voice of Stentor--it was only necessary to hear that infuriatedvoice, and watch the appalling blows dealt by his imaginary bludgeonin the perpetration of the crime, to realise the force, the power, thepassion, informing the creative mind of the Novelist at once inthe original conception of the character, and then, so many yearsafterwards, in its equally astonishing representation. 

It was in the portrayal of Nancy, however, that the genius of theAuthor-Actor found the opportunity, beyond all others, for its mostsignal manifestation. Only that the catastrophe was in itself, bynecessity so utterly revolting, there would have been somethingexquisitely pathetic in many parts of that affecting delineation. Thecharacter was revealed with perfect consistency throughout--from thescene of suppressed emotion upon the steps of London Bridge, when sheis scared with the eltrich horror of her forebodings, down to her lastgasping, shrieking apostrophes, to "Bill, clear Bill, " when she sinks, blinded by blood, under the murderous blows dealt upon her upturned faceby her brutal paramour. 

Then, again, the horror experienced by the assassin afterwards! So faras it went, it was as grand a reprehension of all murderers as handcould well have penned or tongue have uttered. It had about it somethingof the articulation of an avenging voice not against Sikes only, butagainst all who ever outraged, or ever dreamt of outraging, the sanctityof human life. And it was precisely this which tended to sublimate anincident otherwise of the ghastliest horror into a homily of burningeloquence, the recollection of which among those who once saw itrevealed through the lips, the eyes, the whole aspect of Charles Dickenswill not easily be obliterated. The moral drawn from it--and therewas this moral interpenetrating or impregnating the whole--becameappreciable, it might even have been by Sikes himself, from thefirst moment the ruffian realised that the crime had been actuallyaccomplished. It spoke trumpet-tongued from the very instant when herecoiled from "it!" Nancy no more, but thenceforth flesh and blood--"Butsuch flesh, and so much blood!" Nevertheless, in that ExperimentalReading of the 14th of November, 1868, the effect of all this appeared, in the estimation of the present writer, to have been in a great measuremarred by the abruptness with which, almost the instant after the crimehad been committed, the Reading was terminated. Sikes burnt uponthe hearth the blood-stained weapon with which the murder had beenperpetrated---was startled for a moment by the hair upon the end of theclub shrinking to a light cinder and whirling up the chimney--and then, dragging the dog (whose very feet were bloody) after him, and lockingthe door, left the house. There, the Experimental Reading abruptlyterminated. It seemed not only insufficient, but a lost opportunity. Insomuch, that the writer, on the following day, remonstrated with theNovelist as earnestly as possible, urging him to append to the Readingas it then stood some fragmentary portion, at least, of the chapterdescriptive of the flight, so that the remorseful horror of Sikesmight be more fully realised. Of the reasonableness of this objection, however, Dickens himself was so wholly unconvinced, that, in the midstof his arguments against it, he wrote, in a tone of good-humouredindignation, "My dear fellow, believe me that no audience on earth couldbe held for ten minutes after the girl's death. Give them time, and theywould be revengeful for having had such a strain put upon them. Trustme to be right. I stand there, and I know. " Than this nothing could verywell have been more strongly expressed, as indicative of the conclusionat which he had deliberately arrived. 

So frankly open to conviction was he, nevertheless, that, not disdainingto defer to the judgment of another when his own had been convinced, theReading was eventually, after all, lengthened out by a very remarkableaddition. The printed copy of this fragment of Oliver Twist, artistically compacted together as "A Reading, " has, appended to it, in blue ink, three pages of manuscript in the Novelist's familiarhandwriting, in which, with a cunning mastery of all the powers ofcondensation, he has compacted together in a few sentences what healways gave with wonderful effect before the public, the salientincidents of the murderer's flight, ending with his own destruction, andeven his dog's, from the housetop. 

Nothing that could most powerfully realise to the audience the ruffian'ssense of horror and abhorrence has been there overlooked. The ghastlyfigure follows him everywhere. He hears its garments rustling in theleaves. "If _he_ stopped, _it_ stopped. If _he_ ran, _it_ followed. "Turning at times to beat the phantom off, though it should strike himdead, the hair rises on his head, and his blood stands still, for it hasturned with him and is behind him! Throwing himself on his back uponthe road--"At his head it stood, silent, erect, and still: a humangravestone with its epitaph in Blood. "

What is as striking as anything in all this Reading, however--that is, in the Reading copy of it now lying before us as we write--is the massof hints as to byplay in the stage directions for himself, so to speak, scattered up and down the margin. "Fagin raised his right hand, andshook his trembling forefinger in the air, " is there, on p. 101, inprint. Beside it, on the margin in MS. , is the word "Action. " Not a wordof it was said. It was simply _done_. Again, immediately below that onthe same page--Sikes' loquitur--"'Oh! you haven't, haven't you?' passinga pistol into a more convenient pocket ['Action, ' again, in MS. On themargin. ]' That's lucky for one of us--which one that is don't matter. '"Not a word was said about the pistol--the marginal direction was simplyattended to. On the opposite page, in print, "Fagin laid his hand uponthe bundle, and locked it in the cupboard. But he did not take hiseyes off the robber for an instant. " On the margin in MS. , oddly butsignificantly underlined, are the words, "Cupboard Action. " Soagain afterwards, as a rousing self-direction, one sees notified inmanuscript, on p. 107, the grim stage direction, "Murder Coming. "

As certainly as the "Trial from Pickwick" was the most laughter-movingof all the Readings, and as the "Story of Little Dombey, " again, was themost pathetic, "Sikes and Nancy" was in all respects the most powerfullydramatic and, in the grand tragic force of it, in many ways, the mostimpressive and remarkable. 

THE FAREWELL READING. 

In recording the incident of his Farewell Reading, there comes back tous a yet later recollection of the great Novelist; and illustrating, as it does, his passionate love for the dramatic art, it may here bementioned not inappropriately. 

It relates simply to a remark suddenly made by him--and which had beensuggested, so far as we can remember, by nothing we had been talkingabout previously--towards the close of our very last suburban walktogether. Going round by way of Lambeth one afternoon in the earlysummer of 1870, we had skirted the Thames along the Surrey bank, hadcrossed the river higher up, and on our way back were returning atour leisure through Westminster; when, just as we were approaching theshadow of the old Abbey at Poet's Corner, under the roof-beams ofwhich he was so soon to be laid in his grave, with a rain of tears andflowers, he abruptly asked--

"What do you think would be the realisation of one of my most cherishedday-dreams?" Adding, instantly, without waiting for airy answer, "Tosettle down now for the remainder of my life within easy distance ofa great theatre, in the direction of which I should hold supremeauthority. It should be a house, of course, having a skilled and noblecompany, and one in every way magnificently appointed. The pieces actedshould be dealt with according to my pleasure, and touched up here andthere in obedience to my own judgment; the players as well as the playsbeing absolutely under my command. There, " said he, laughingly, and in aglow at the mere fancy, "_that's_ my daydream!"

Dickens's delighted enjoyment, in fact, of everything in any wayconnected with the theatrical profession, was second only to that shownby him in the indulgence of the master-passion of his life, his love ofliterature. 

The way in which he threw himself into his labours, as a Reader, wasonly another indication of his intense affection for the dramatic art. For, as we have already insisted, the Readings were more than simplyReadings, they were in the fullest meaning of the words singularlyingenious and highly elaborated histrionic performances. And hissustained success in them during fifteen years altogether, and, aswe have seen, through as many as five hundred representations, may beaccounted for in the same way as his still more prolonged success, fromthe beginning of his career as a Novelist down to its very close, fromthe Pickwick Papers to Edwin Drood, otherwise, during an interval offour-and-thirty consecutive years, as the most popular author of hisgeneration. 

The secret of his original success, and of the long sustamment of itin each of these two careers--as Writer and as Reader--is in a greatmeasure discoverable in this, that whatever powers he possessed heapplied to their very uttermost. Whether as Author or as Impersonator, he gave himself up to his appointed task, not partially orintermittingly, but thoroughly and indefatigably. 

His rule in life, in this way, he has himself clearly explained in theforty-second chapter of David Copperfield. What he there says aboutDavid's industry and perseverance, applies as directly to himself, aswhat he also relates in regard to his young hero's earlier toils as aparliamentary reporter, and his precocious fame as a writer of fiction. Speaking at once for David and for himself, he there writes for both orfor either, "Whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with allmy heart to do well; whatever I have devoted myself to, I have devotedmyself to completely; in great aims and in small I have always beenthoroughly in earnest. I have never believed it possible that anynatural or improved ability can claim immunity from the companionshipof the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and hope to gain itsend. There is no substitute for thorough-going, ardent, and sincereearnestness. Never to put one hand to anything on which I could throwmy whole self; and never to affect depreciation of my work, whateverit was, I find now to have been my golden rules. " What is there saidapplies far more recognisably to the real Charles Dickens than to theimaginary David Copperfield. 

Attestations of the truth of this were discoverable, at every turn, inregard to his regular system, his constant method, nay, his minutesttricks of habit, so to speak, both as Reader and as Novelist. It wasso when as an Author, for example, note was taken, now of his carefulforecast of a serial tale on as many slips as there were to be greenmonthly numbers; now of his elaborately corrected and recorrectedmanuscripts; now of the proof-sheets lying about, for revision at anyand every spare moment, during the month immediately before publication. Or, when, on the other hand, in his capacity as a Reader, regard was hadto the scrupulous exactitude with which the seemingly trivial minutiaeof what one might call the mere accompaniments, were systematicallycared for or methodised. Announced to read, for instance, for the firsttime in some town he had never before visited for that purpose, or insome building in which his voice had never before been raised, hewould go down to the empty hall long before the hour appointed for theReading, to take the bearings, as he would say, or, in other words, to familiarise himself with the place beforehand. His interest in hisaudience, again, was something delightful. He was hardly less keenlyobservant of them than they of him. Through a hole in the curtain atthe side, or through a chink in the screen upon the platform, he wouldeagerly direct your attention to what never palled upon his own, namely, the effect of the suddenly brightened sea of faces on the turning upof the gas, immediately before the moment of his own appearance at thereading-desk. 

The evening at length came for his very last appearance at that familiarlittle reading-desk, on Tuesday, the 15th of March, 1870, on theplatform of the St. James's Hall, Piccadilly. The largest audience everassembled in that immense building, the largest, as already intimated, that ever can be assembled there for purely Reading purposes, namely, when the orchestra and the upper end of the two side-galleries havenecessarily to be barred or curtained off from the auditorium, werecollected together there under the radiant pendants of the glitteringceiling, every available nook and corner, and all the ordinary gangwaysof the Great Hall being completely occupied. The money value of thehouse that night was £422. Crowds were unable to obtain admittance atthe entrances in the Quadrant and in Piccadilly, long before the hourfixed for the Farewell Reading. Inside the building 2034 persons wereseated there, eagerly awaiting the Novelist's appearance. The enthusiasmof his reception when eight o'clock came, and he advanced to the centreof the platform, of itself told plainly enough, as plainly as theprinted hills announcing the fact in red, back, and yellow, that it washis last appearance. 

The Readings selected were, as the very best that could have beenchosen, his own favourites--"The Christmas Carol, " and the "Trial fromPickwick. " He never read better in his life than he did on that lastevening. Evidently enough, he was nerved to a crowning effort. And bysympathy his audience--his last audience--responded to him throughout bytheir instant and intense appreciation. Not a point was lost. Every goodthing told to the echo, that is, through the echoing laughter. Scrooge, Fezziwig, the Fiddler, Topper, every one of the Cratchits, everybody in"The Carol, " including the Small Boy who is so great at repartee, allwere welcomed in turn, as became them, with better than acclamations. Itwas the same exactly with the "Trial from Pickwick"--Justice Stareleigh, Serjeant Buzfuz, Mr. Winkle, Mrs. Cluppins, Sam Weller, one afteranother appearing for a brief interval, and then disappearing for ever, each of them a delightfully humorous, one of them in particular, theJudge, a simply incomparable impersonation. 

Then came the moment of parting between the great Author and hisaudience--that last audience who were there as the representatives ofhis immense public in both hemispheres. When the resounding applausethat greeted the close of that Final Reading had died out, there was abreathless hush as Charles Dickens, who had for once lingered thereupon the platform, addressed to his hearers, with exquisitely cleararticulation, but with unmistakably profound emotion, these few andsimple words of farewell:--

 "Ladies and Gentlemen, --It would be worse than "idle, for it would be hypocritical and unfeeling, if I "were to disguise that I close this episode in my life "with feelings of very considerable pain. For some "fifteen years in this hall, and in many kindred places, "I have had the honour of presenting my own che- "rished ideas before you for your recognition, and in "closely observing your reception of them have en- "joyed an amount of artistic delight and instruction, "which perhaps it is given to few men to know. In "this task and in every other I have ever undertaken "as a faithful servant of the public, always imbued "with the sense of duty to them, and always striving "to do his best, I have been uniformly cheered by the "readiest response, the most generous sympathy, and "the most stimulating support. Nevertheless, I have "thought it well, at the full flood-tide of your favour, "to retire upon those older associations between us, "which date from much further back than these, "thenceforth to devote myself exclusively to the art "that first brought us together. Ladies and gentle- "men, in two short weeks from this time I hope that "you may enter, in your own homes, on a new series "of readings at which my assistance will be indispen- "sable ; but from these garish lights I vanish now for "evermore, with a heartfelt, grateful, respectful, and "affectionate fare well. "

The manly, cordial voice only faltered once at the very last. Themournful modulation of it in the utterance of the words, "From thesegarish lights I vanish now for evermore" lingers to this moment like ahaunting melody in our remembrance. Within a few weeks afterwards thosevery words were touchingly inscribed on the Funeral Card distributed atthe doors of Westminster Abbey on the day of the Novelist's interment inPoet's Corner. As he moved from the platform after the utterance of thelast words of his address and, with his head drooping in emotion, passedbehind the screen on his way to his retiring-room, a cordial hand wasplaced for one moment with a sympathetic grasp upon his shoulder. Thepopularity won by Charles Dickens, even among the million who never sawhim or spoke with him, amounted to nothing less than personal affection. Among his friends and intimates no great author has ever been moretruly or more tenderly beloved. The prolonged thunder of applause thatfollowed him to his secluded room at the back of the platform, whitherhe had withdrawn alone, recalled him after the lapse of some minutes foranother instant into the presence of his last audience, from whom, witha kiss of his hand, he then indeed parted for evermore. 

THE END. 

BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO. , PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.