 Chapter 1 of My Father as I Recall Him. My Father as I Recall Him by Mamie Dickens. The pages of this little book were in type and about to be sent for correction to my sister, who had been for some months in very delicate health, when she suddenly became still more gravely ill. The hand that had traced the words of love and veneration dedicated to our father's memory grew too feeble to hold a pen, and before the proofs of her little volume could be submitted to her for revision, my sister died. Chapter 1 Seeing Gad's Hill as a Child. His domestic side and home-love. His love of children. His neatness of punctuality. At the table and as host. The original of Little Nell. If in these pages written in remembrance of my father I should tell you, my dear friends, nothing new of him, I can at least promise you that what I shall tell would be told faithfully, if simply, and perhaps there may be some things not familiar to you. A great many writers have taken it upon themselves to write lives of my father, to tell anecdotes of him, and to print all manner of things about him. Of all these published books I have read but one, the only genuine, life thus far written of him, the one sanctioned by my father himself, namely the Life of Charles Dickens, by John Forster. But in what I write about my father I shall depend chiefly upon my own memory of him, for I wish no other or dearer remembrance. My love for my father has never been touched or approached by any other love. I hold him in my heart of hearts as a man apart from all other men, as one apart from all other beings. Of my father's childhood it is but natural that I should know very little more than the knowledge possessed by the great public. But I never remember hearing him allude at any time or under any circumstances to those unhappy days in his life, except in the one instance of his childish love and admiration for Gads Hill, which was destined to become so closely associated with his name and works. He had a very strong and faithful attachment for places. Chatham, I think, being his first love in this respect. For it was here, when a child, and a very sickly child, poor little fellow, that he found in an old spare-room a store of books, among which were Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, Tom Jones, The Vicar of Wakefield, Don Hyody, Gil Blass, Robinson Caruso, The Arabian Nights, and other volumes. They were, as Mr. Forster wrote, a host of friends, when he had no single friend. And it was while living at Chatham that he first saw Gads Hill. As a very queer, small boy, he used to walk up to the house. It stood on the summit of a high hill. On holidays, or when his heart ached for a great treat, he would stand and look at it. For as a little fellow he had a wonderful liking and admiration for the house, and it was to him like no other house he had ever seen. He would walk up and down before it with his father, gazing at it with delight, and the latter would tell him that perhaps, if he worked hard, was industrious and grew up to be a good man, he might some day come to live in that very house. His love for this place went through his whole life, and was with him until his death. He takes Mr. Pickwick and his friends from Rochester to Cobham, by the beautiful back road, and I remember one day when we were driving that way, and he showed me the exact spot where Mr. Pickwick called out. Whoa! I have dropped my whip! After his marriage he took his wife or the honeymoon to a village called Chalk, between Gravesend and Rochester. Many years when he was living with his family in a villa near Luzon, he wrote to a friend. The green woods and green shades about here are more like Cobham and Kent than anything we dream of at the foot of the Alpine passes. And again in still later years one of his favorite walks from Gadshill was to a village called Shorn, where there was a quaint old church and graveyard. He often said that he would like to be buried there. The peace and quiet of the homely little place having a tender fascination for him. So we see that his heart was always in Kent. I'll let this single reference to his earlier years suffice, so that I may write of him during those years when I remember him among us and around us in our home. From his earliest childhood, throughout his earliest married life, to the day of his death, his nature was home-loving. He was a home-man in every respect. When he became celebrated at a very early age, as we know, all his joys and sorrows were taken home, and he found their sympathy and the companionship of his own familiar friends. In his letters to these latter, in his letters to my mother, to my aunt, and later on to us, his children, he never forgot anything that he knew would be of interest about his work, his successes, his hopes, or fears. And there was a sweet simplicity in his belief that such news would most certainly be acceptable to all. It is wonderfully touching, and childlike, coming from a man of genius. His care and thoughtfulness about home matters, nothing being deemed too small or trivial to claim his attention and consideration, were really marvelous when we remember his active, eager, restless, working brain. No man was so inclined naturally to derive his happiness from home affairs. He was full of the kind of interest in a house which is commonly confined to women, and his care of and for us we children did most certainly pass the love of women. His was a tender and most affectionate nature. For many consecutive summers we used to be taken to broad stares. This little place became a great favorite with my father. He was always very happy there, and delighted in wondering about the garden of his house, generally accompanied by one or other of his children. In later years, up along, he would often have his youngest boy, the noble Plorn, trotting by his side. These were two constant companions in those days, and after these walks my father would always have some funny anecdote to tell us. And when years later the time came for the boy of his heart to go out into the world, my father, after seeing him off, wrote, Poor Plorn has gone to Australia. It was a hard parting at the last. He seemed to become once more my youngest and favorite little child as the day drew near, and I did not think I could have been so shaken. These are hard, hard things, but they might have to be done without means or influence, and then they would be far harder. God bless him. When my father was arranging and rehearsing his readings from Donby, the death of little Paul caused him such real anguish the reading became so difficult to him, that he told us he could only master his intense emotion by keeping the picture of Plorn well, strong, and hardy steadily before his eyes. We can see by the different child characters in his books what a wonderful knowledge he had of children, and what a wonderful and truly womanly sympathy he had with them in all their childish joys and griefs. I can remember with us, his own children, how kind, considerate, and patient he always was, but we were never afraid to go to him in any trouble, and never had a snub from him or a crossword under any circumstances. He was always glad to give us treats, as he called them, and used to conceive all manners of those treats for us, and if any favor had to be asked, we were always sure of a favorable answer. On these occasions, my sister Katie was generally our messenger, we others waiting outside the study door to hear the verdict. She and I used to have delightful treats in those summer evenings, driving up to Hampstead in the open carriage with him, our mother, and auntie, and getting out for a long walk through the lovely country lanes, picking wild roses and other flowers, or walking hand in hand with him listening to some story. There never existed, I think, in all the world a more thoroughly tidy or methodical creature than was my father. He was tidy in every way. In his mind, in his handsome and graceful person, in his work, in keeping his writing-table drawers, in his large correspondence, in fact, in his whole life. I remember that my sister and I occupied a little garret room in Devonshire Terrace, at the very top of the house. He had taken the greatest pains in care to make the room as pretty and comfortable for his two little daughters as it could be made. He was often dragged up the steep staircase to this room to see some new print or some new ornament which we children had put up, and he always gave us words of praise and approval. He encouraged us in every possible way to make ourselves useful and to adorn and beautify our rooms with our own hands, and to be ever tidy and neat. I remember that the adornment of this garret was decidedly primitive, the unframed prints being fastened to the wall by ordinary black or white pens, whichever we could get. But never mind, if they were put up neatly and tidily, they were always excellent, or quite slap-up, as he used to say. Even in those early days he made a point of visiting every room in the house once each morning, and if a chair was out of place, or a blind not quite straight, or a crumb left on the floor, woe betide the offender! And then his punctuality. It was almost frightful to an unpunctual mind. This again was another phase of his extreme tidiness. It was also the outcome of his excessive thoughtfulness and consideration for others. His sympathy also, with all pain and suffering, made him quite invaluable in a sick room. Quick, active, sensible, bright and cheery, and sympathetic to a degree, he would seize the case at once, knowing exactly what to do and do it. In all our childish ailments his visits were eagerly looked forward to, and our little hearts would beat a shade faster, and our aches and pains become more bearable when the sound of his quick footstep was heard, and the encouraging accents of his voice greeted the invalid. I can remember now, as if it were yesterday, how the touch of his hand he had a most sympathetic touch, was almost too much sometimes, the help and hope in it making my heart full to overflowing. He believed firmly in the power of mesmerism as a remedy in some forms of illness, and was himself a mesmerist of no mean order. I know of many cases my own among the number, in which he used his power in this way with perfect success. And however busy he might be, and even in his hours of relaxation, he was still, if you can understand me, always busy. He would give up any amount of time, and spare himself no fatigue if he could in any way alleviate sickness and pain. In very many of my father's books there are frequent references to delicious meals, wonderful dinners, and more marvelous dishes, steaming bowls of punch, etc., which have led many to believe that he was a man very fond of the table. And yet I think no more obstimous man ever lived. In the Gads Hill days, when the house was full of visitors, he had a peculiar notion of always having the menu for the day's dinner, placed on the sideboard at lunch and time. And then he would discuss every item in his fanciful, humorous way with his guests, much to this effect. Cock-a-leekie, good, decidedly good. Fried souls with shrimp sauce, good again. Croquettes of chicken, weak, very weak. Decided one of imagination here. And so on. And he would apparently be so taken up with the merits or demerits of a menu that one might imagine he lived for nothing but the coming dinner. He had a small but healthy appetite, but was remarkably obstimous both in eating and drinking. He was delightful as a host, caring individually for each guest, and bringing the special qualities of each into full notice and prominence, putting the very shyest at his or her ease, making the best of the most humdrum, and never thrusting himself forward. But when he was most delightful, was alone with us at home and sitting over dessert, and when my sister was with us especially. I am talking now of our grown-up days, for she had great power in drawing him out. At such times, although he might sit down to dinner in a grave or abstracted mood, he would invariably soon throw aside his silence and end by delighting us all with his genial talk, and his quaint fancies about people and things. He was always, as I have said, much interested in mesmerism, and the curious influence exercised by one personality over another. One illustration I remember his using was that meeting someone in the busy London streets. He was on the point of turning back to a cost to the supposed friend. When finding out his mistake in time he walked on again until he actually met the real friend, whose shadow as it were, but a moment ago had come across his path. And then forgetting of a word or a name. Now into what pigeonhole of my brain did that go, and why do I suddenly remember it now? And as these thoughts passed through his mind and were spoken dreamily, so they always appeared in his face. Another instant, perhaps, and his eyes would be full of fun and laughter. At the beginning of his literary career he suffered a great sorrow in the death, a very sudden death, of my mother's sister, Mary Hogarth. She was of a most charming and lovable disposition, as well as being personally very beautiful. Soon after my parents married Aunt Mary was constantly with them. As her nature developed she became my father's ideal of what a young girl should be, and his own words show how this great affection and the influence of the girl's loved memory were with him to the end of his life. The shock of her sudden death so affected and prostrated him that the publication of Pickwick was interrupted for two months. I look back, he wrote, and with unmingled pleasure, to every link which each ensuing week had added to the chain of our attachment. It shall go hard, I hope, ere anything but death impairs the toughness of a bond now so firmly riveted. That beautiful passage you were so kind and considerate as to sin to me has given me the only feeling akin to pleasure, sorrowful pleasure it is, that I have yet had connected with the loss of my dear young friend and companion for whom my love and attachment will never diminish. And by whose side, if it please God, to leave me in possession of sense to signify my wishes, my bones whenever, or wherever I die, will one day be laid. She was buried in Kinsle-Green Cemetery, and her grave bears the following inscription written by my father. Young, beautiful, and good, God in his mercy numbered her among his angels at the early age of seventeen. A year after her death, in writing to my mother from Yorkshire, he says, Is it not extraordinary that the same dreams which have constantly visited me since poor Mary died follow me everywhere? After all the change of scene and fatigue I have dreamt of her ever since I left home, and no doubt shall until I return. I would fain believe, sometimes, that her spirit may have some influence over them, but their perpetual repetition is extraordinary. In the course of years there came changes in our home, inevitable changes, but no changes could ever alter my father's home-loving nature. As he wrote to Mr. Forster, as a young man, so it was with him to the time of his death. We shall soon meet, please God, and be happier than ever we were in all our lives. Oh, home, home, home. End of chapter 1 Chapter 2 Of my father as I recall him. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Anne Boulet. My father as I recall him, by Mamie Dickens. Chapter 2 Buying Christmas presents, in the dance, the merriest of them all, as a conjurer. Christmas at Gads Hill, our Christmas dinners, a New Year's Eve frolic, New Year on the Green, Twelfth Night festivities. Christmas was always a time which, in our home, was looked forward to with eagerness and delight, and to my father it was a time dearer than any other part of the year, I think. He loved Christmas for its deep significance as well as for its joys, and this he demonstrates in every allusion in his writings to the great festival, a day which he considered should be fragrant with the love that we should bear to one another, and with the love and reverence of his Savior and Master. Even in his most merry conceits of Christmas, there are always subtle and tender touches which will bring tears to the eyes, and make even the thoughtless have some special veneration for this most blessed anniversary. In our childish days, my father used to take us, every twenty-fourth day of December, to a toy shop in Holborn, where we were allowed to select our Christmas presents, and also any that we wished to give to our little companions. Although I believe we were often an hour or more in the shop before our several tastes were satisfied, he never showed the least impatience, was always interested, and as desirous as we, that we should choose exactly what we liked best. As we grew older, present giving was confined to our several birthdays, and this annual visit to the Holborn toy shop ceased. When we were only babies, my father determined that we should be taught to dance, so as early as the Genoa days we were given our first lessons. Our oldest boy and his sisters are to be waited upon next week by a professor of the noble art of dancing, he wrote to a friend at this time. And again, in writing to my mother, he says, I hope the dancing lessons will be a success. Don't fail to let me know. Our progress in the graceful art delighted him, and his admiration of our success was evident when we exhibited to him, as we were perfected in them, all the steps, exercises, and dances which formed our lessons. He always encouraged us in our dancing, and praised our grace and aptness, although criticized quite severely in some places for allowing his children to expend so much time and energy upon the training of their feet. When the boys came home for the holidays, there were constant rehearsals for the Christmas and New Year's parties, and more especially for the dance on Twelfth Night, the anniversary of my brother Charlie's birthday. Just before one of these celebrations, my father insisted my sister Katie and I should teach the polka step to Mr. Leach and himself. My father was as much in earnest about learning to take that wonderful step correctly, as though there were nothing of greater importance in the world. Often he would practice gravely in a corner. Not either partner or music, and I remember one cold winter's night, his awakening with the fear that he had forgotten the steps so strong upon him that, jumping out of bed, by the scat illumination of the old fashioned rush light, and to his own whistling, he diligently rehearsed its one, two, three, one, two, three, until he was once more secure in his knowledge. No one can imagine our excitement and nervousness when the evening came on, which we were to dance with our pupils. Katie, who was a very little girl, was to have Mr. Leach, who was over six feet tall for her partner, while my father was to be mine. My heart beat so fast that I could scarcely breathe. I was so fearful for the success of our exhibition, but my fears were groundless, and we were greeted at the finish of our dance with hearty applause, which was more than compensation for the work which had been expended upon its learning. My father was certainly not, what in the ordinary acceptation of the term, would be called a good dancer. I doubt whether he had ever received any instruction in the noble art, other than that which my sister and I gave him. In later years, I remember trying to teach him the shaatish, a dance which he particularly admired and desired to learn. But although he was so fond of dancing, except at family gatherings in his own, or his most intimate friends' homes, I never remember seeing him join in it himself. And I doubt if, even as a young man, he ever went to balls. Graceful in motion, his dancing, such as it was, was natural to him. Dance music was delightful to his cheery, genial spirit. The time and steps of a dance suited his tidy nature, if I may so speak. The action and the exercise seemed to be part of his abundant vitality. While I am writing of my father's fondness for dancing, a characteristic anecdote of him occurs to me. While he was courting my mother, he went one summer evening to call upon her. The Hogarths were living a little way out of London, in a residence which had a drawing room opening with French windows onto a lawn. In this room, my mother and her family were seated quietly after dinner on this particular evening, when suddenly a young sailor jumped through one of the open windows into the apartment, whistled and danced a hornpipe, and before they could recover from their amazement, jumped out again. A few minutes later, my father walked in at the door, as sedately as though quite innocent of the prank, and shook hands with everyone. But the sight of their amazed faces proved too much for his attempted sobriety. His hearty laugh was the signal for the rest of the party to join in his merriment. By judging from his slight ability in later years, I fancy that he must have taken many lessons to secure his perfection in that hornpipe. His dancing was at its best, I think, in the Sir Roger DeCoverly, and in what are known as country dances. In the former, while the end couples are dancing, and the side couples are supposed to be still, my father would insist upon the sides keeping up a kind of jig step, and clapping his hands to add to the fun, and dancing at the backs of those whose enthusiasm he thought needed rousing, was himself never still for a moment until the dance was over. He was very fond of a country dance which he learned at the house of some dear friends at Rockingham Castle, which began with a quite stately minuet to the tune of God Save the Queen, and then dashed suddenly into down the middle and up again. His enthusiasm in this dance, I remember, was so great that one evening after some of our Tavistock House theatricals, when I was thoroughly worn out with fatigue, being selected by him as his partner, I caught the infection of his merriment, and my weariness vanished. As he himself says, in describing dear old Fezzy Wig's Christmas Party, we were people who would dance and had no notion of walking. His enjoyment of all our frolics were equally keen, and he writes to an American friend, apropos, of one of our Christmas merry makings. Forster is out again, and if he don't go in again after the manner in which we have been keeping Christmas, he must be very strong indeed. Such dining, such conjurings, such blind man's buffings, such theater goings, such kissings out of old years, and kissings in of new ones never took place in these parts before, to keep the chussel wit going and to do this little book, the carol. In the odd times between two parts of it was, as you may suppose, pretty tight work. But when it was done, I broke out like a madman, and if you couldn't have seen me at a children's party at McCready's, the other night going down a country dance with Mrs. M., you would have thought I was a country gentleman of independent property, residing on a tip-top farm, with the wind blowing straight in my face every day. At our holiday frolics he used sometimes to conjure for us the equally noble art of the prestigiateator being among his accomplishments. He writes of this, which he included in the list of our twelfth night amusements to another American friend. The actuary of the national debt couldn't calculate the number of children who are coming here on twelfth night in honor of Charlie's birthday, for which occasion I have provided a magic lantern, and diver's other tremendous engines of that nature. But the best of it is that Forster and I have purchased between us the entire stock and trade of a conjurer. The practice and display whereof is entrusted to me, and if you could see me conjuring the company's watches into impossible tea caddies and causing pieces of money to fly, and burning pocket handkerchiefs without burning them, and practicing in my own room without anybody to admire, you would never forget it as long as you live. One of these conjuring tricks comprised the disappearance and reappearance of a tiny doll, which would announce most unexpected pieces of news and messages to the different children in the audience. This doll was a particular favorite, and its arrival eagerly awaited and welcomed. That he loved to emphasize Christmas in every possible way. The following extract from a note which he sent me in December, 1868, will evidence. After speaking of a reading which he was to give on Christmas Eve, he says, it occurs to me that my table at St. James's Hall might be appropriately ornamented with a little holly next Tuesday. If the two front legs were entwined with it, for instance, and a border of it ran round the top of the fringe in front with a little sprig by way of bouquet at each corner, it would present a seasonable appearance. If you think of this and will have the materials ready in a little basket, I will call for you at the office and take you up to the hall where the table will be ready for you. But I think that our Christmas and New Year's tides at Gads Hill were the happiest of all. Our house was always filled with guests, while a cottage in the village was reserved for the use of the bachelor members of our holiday party. My father himself always deserted work for the week, and that was almost our greatest treat. He was the fun and life of those gatherings, the true Christmas spirit of sweetness and hospitality filling his large and generous heart. Long walks with him were daily treats to be remembered. Games passed our evenings merrily. Proverbs, a game of memory, was very popular, and it was one in which either my aunt or myself was apt to prove winner. Father's annoyance at our failure sometimes was very amusing, but quite genuine. Dumb crambo, another favorite, and one in which my father's great imitative ability showed finally. I remember one evening his dumb showing of the word frog was so extremely laughable that the memory of it convulsed Marcus Stone, the clever artist, when he tried some time later to imitate it. One very severe Christmas, when the snow was so deep as to make outdoor amusement or entertainment for our guests impossible. My father suggested that he and the inhabitants of the bachelor's cottage should pass the time in unpacking the French chalet, which had been sent to him by Mr. Fetcher, and which reached Hyam Station in a large number of packing cases. Unpacking these and fitting the pieces together gave them interesting employment and some topics of conversation for our lunch and party. Our Christmas Day dinners at Gads Hill were particularly bright and cheery. Some of our nearest neighbors joining our home party. The Christmas plum pudding had its own special dish of colored repousse china ornamented with holly. The pudding was placed on this with a sprig of real holly in the center, lighted, and in this state placed in front of my father. It's a rival being always the signal for applause. A prudently decorated table was his special pleasure. And from my earliest girlhood, the care of this devolved upon me. When I had everything in readiness, he would come with me to inspect the results of my labors before dressing for dinner, and no word except of praise ever came to my ears. He was a wonderfully neat and rapid carver, and I am happy to say taught me some of his skill in this. I used to help him in our home parties at Gads Hill by carving at a side table. Returning to my seat opposite him as soon as my duty was ended. On Christmas Day, we all had our glasses filled, and then my father, raising his, would say, here's to us all, God bless us. A toast which was rapidly and willingly drunk. His conversation, as may be imagined, was often extremely humorous, and I have seen the servants who were waiting at table convulsed often with laughter at his droll remarks and stories. Now, as I recall these gatherings, my sight grows blurred with the tears that rise to my eyes. But I love to remember them and to see, if only in memory, my father at his own table, surrounded by his own family and friends, a beautiful Christmas spirit. It is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when his mighty founder was a child himself, was his own advice, an advice which he followed both in letter and spirit. One morning, it was the last day of the year, I remember, while we were at breakfast at Gads Hill, my father suggested that we should celebrate the evening by a charade to be acted in pantomime. The suggestion was received with acclamation, and amid shouts and laughing, we were then and there, guests and members of the family, allotted our respective parts. My father went about collecting stage properties, rehearsals were called at least four times during the morning, and in all our excitement, no thought was given to that necessary part of a charade, the audience, whose business it is to guess the pantomime. At luncheon, someone asked suddenly, but what about an audience? Why, bless my soul, said my father, I'd forgotten all about that. Invitations were quickly dispatched to our neighbors, and additional preparations made for supper. In due time, the audience came, and the charade was acted so successfully that the evening stands out in my memory, as one of the merriest and happiest of the many merry and happy evenings in our dear old home. My father was so extremely funny in his part, that the rest of us found it almost impossible to maintain sufficient control over ourselves, to enable the charade to proceed as it was planned to do. It wound up with a country dance, which had been invented that morning and practiced quite a dozen times through the day, and which was concluded at just a few moments before midnight, then leading us all, characters and audience, out into the wide hall, and throwing wide open the door, my father, watch in hand, stood waiting to hear the bells ring in the new year. All was hush in silence after the laughter and merriment. Suddenly the peel of bells sounded, and turning, he said, a happy new year to us all, God bless us. Kisses, good wishes, and shaking of hands, brought us again back to the fun and gaiety of a few moments earlier. Supper was served, the hot, mold wine, the drunken toasts, and the maddest and wildest of Sir Roger DeCoverly's ended our evening and began our new year. One new year's day, my father organized some field sports and a meadow, which was at the back of our house. Foot races for the villagers come off in my field tomorrow, he wrote to a friend, and we have been hard at work all day, building a course, making countless flags, and I don't know what else. Layered, the late Sir Henry Layered, is the chief commissioner of the domestic police. The country police predict an immense crowd. There were between two and three thousand people present at these sports, and by a kind of magical influence, my father seemed to rule every creature present to do his or her best to maintain order. The likelihood of things going wrong was anticipated, and despite the general prejudice of the neighbors against the undertaking, my father's belief and trust in his guests was not disappointed, but you shall have his own account of his success. We had made a very pretty course, he wrote, and taken great pains. Encouraged by the cricket match's experience, I allowed the landlord of the false staff to have a drinking booth on the ground, not to seem to dictate or distrust. I gave all the prizes and money. The great mass of the crowd were laboring men of all kinds, soldiers, sailors, and navies. They did not between half past ten, when we began, and sunset, displace a rope or a stake, and they left every barrier and flag as neat as they found it. There was not a dispute, and there was no drunkenness whatever. I made them a little speech from the lawn at the end of the game, saying that, please God, we would do it again next year. They cheered most lustily and dispersed. The road between this and Chatham was like a fair all day, and surely it is a fine thing to get such perfect behavior out of a reckless seaport town. He was the last to realize, I'm sure, that it was his own sympathetic nature which gave him the love and honor of all classes, and that helped to make the day sport such a great success. My father was again in his element at the twelfth night parties to which I have before alluded. For many consecutive years, Miss Coutts, now the baroness Burden Coutts, was in the habit of sending my brother on this his birthday anniversary, the most gorgeous of twelfth cakes, with an accompanying box of bonbons and twelfth night characters. The cake was cut and the favors and bonbons distributed at the birthday supper, and it was then that my father's kindly, genial nature overflowed in merriment. He would have something droll to say to everyone, and under his attentions, the shyest child would brighten and become merry. No one was overlooked or forgotten by him. Like the young Cratchits, he was ubiquitous. Supper was followed by songs and recitations from the various members of the company, my father acting always as master of ceremonies, and calling upon first one child, then another for his or her contribution to the festivity. I can see now the anxious faces turned toward the beaming, laughing eyes of their host, how attentively he would listen, with his head thrown slightly back and a little to one side, a happy smile on his lips. Oh, those merry happy times never to be forgotten by any of his own children or by any of their guests. Those merry happy times, and in writing thus of these dear old holidays, when we were all so happy in our home and when my father was with us, let me add this little post script and greet you on this Christmas of 1896 with my father's own words. Reflect upon your present blessings of which every man has many, not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some. Fill your glass again with a merry face and contented heart, our life on it, but your Christmas shall be merry and your new year a happy one. So may the new year be a happy one to you, happy to many more whose happiness depends on you. So may each year be happier than the last, and not the meanest of our brethren or sisterhood, debar their rightful share in what our great creator formed them to enjoy. End of chapter 2 Chapter 3 of My Father As I Recall Him This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. My Father As I Recall Him by Mimi Dickens. Chapter 3 My Father At His Work Rooms in which he wrote, love for his child characters, genius for character drawing, Nicholas Nickelby, his writing hours, his only emmanuensis, Pickwick and Boz, death of Mr. Thackery. When at work, my father was almost always alone, so that with rare exceptions, save as we could see the effect of the adventures of his characters upon him in his daily moods, we knew but little of his manner of work. Absolute quiet under these circumstances was essential. The slightest sound, making an interruption fatal to the success of his labours. Although, oddly enough, in his leisure hours, the bustle and noise of a great city seemed necessary to him. He writes, after an enforced idleness of two years spent in a quiet place, the difficulty of going at what I call a rapid pace is prodigious, indeed it is almost an impossibility. I suppose this is partly the effect of two years' ease and partly the absence of streets and numbers of figures. I cannot express how much I want these. It seems as if they supplied something to my brain, which when busy it cannot bear to lose. For a week or fortnight I can write prodigiously in a retired place, a day in London setting and starting me up again. But the toil and labour of writing day after day without that magic lantern is immense. As I have said, he was usually alone when at work, though there were, of course, some occasional exceptions, and I myself constituted such an exception. During our life at Tavistock House I had a long and serious illness with an almost equally long convalescence. During the latter, my father suggested that I should be carried every day into his study to remain with him. And although I was fearful of disturbing him, he assured me that he desired to have me with him. On one of these mornings, I was lying on the sofa, endeavoring to keep perfectly quiet, while my father wrote busily and rapidly at his desk, when he suddenly jumped from his chair and rushed to a mirror which hung near and in which I could see the reflection of some extraordinary facial contortions which he was making. He returned rapidly to his desk, wrote furiously for a few moments, and then went again to the mirror. The facial pantomime was resumed and then turning toward, but evidently not seeing me, he began talking rapidly in a low voice. Ceasing this soon, however, he returned once more to his desk where he remained silently writing until lunch and time. It was the most curious experience for me and one of which I did not until later years fully appreciate the purport. Then I knew that with his natural intensity, he had thrown himself completely into the character that he was creating and that for the time being, he had not only lost sight of his surroundings but had actually become in action as an imagination, the creature of his pen. His studies were always cheery, pleasant rooms, and always, like himself, the personification of neatness and tidiness. On the shelf of his writing table were many dainty and useful ornaments, gifts from his friends or members of his family, and always a vase of bright and fresh flowers. The first study that I remember is the one in our Devonshire terrace home, a pretty room with steps leading directly into the garden from it and with an extra vase door to keep out all the sounds and noise. The study at Tavistock House was more elaborate, a fine large room, opening into the drawing room by means of sliding doors. When the rooms were thrown together, they gave my father a promenade of considerable length for the constant indoor walking which formed a favorite recreation for him after a hard day's writing. At Gad's Hill, he first made a study from one of the large spare sleeping rooms of the house as the windows there overlooked a beautiful and favorite view of his. His writing table was always placed near a window looking out into the open world, which he loved so keenly. Afterwards, he occupied for years a smaller room overlooking the back garden and a pretty meadow. But this, he eventually turned into a miniature billiard room and then established himself finally in the room on the right side of the entrance hall, facing the front garden. It is this room, which Mr. Luke Fields, the great artist and our own esteemed friend, made famous in his picture the empty chair, which he sketched for the graphic after my father's death. The writing table, the ornaments, the huge waste paper basket, which the master had made for his own use, are all there and, alas, the empty chair. That he was always in earnest, that he lived with his creations that their joys and sorrows were his joys and sorrows. But at times his anguish, both of body and spirit, was poignant and heartbreaking. I know. His interest in and love for his characters were intense as his nature and is shown nowhere more strongly than in his sufferings during his portrayal of the short life of Little Nell. Like a father he mourned for his little girl, the child of his brain. And he writes, I am for the time nearly dead with work and grief for the loss of my child. Again he writes of her, you can't imagine, gravely I write and speak how exhausted I am today with yesterday's labors. I went to bed last night utterly dispirited and done up. All night I had been pursued by the child and this morning I am unrefreshed and miserable. I do not know what to do with myself. His love and care for this little one are shown most pathetically in the suggestions which he gave to Mr. George Cattermole for his illustrations of the old Curiosity Shop. Kit, the single gentleman and Mr. Garland go down to the place where the child is and arrive there at night. There has been a fall of snow. Kit, leaving them behind, runs to the old house and with a lantern in one hand and the bird in its cage in the other steps for a moment at a little distance with a natural hesitation before he goes up to make his presence known. In a window, supposed to be that of the child's little room, a light is burning and in that room the child, unknown of course to her visitors who are full of hope, lies dead. Again, the child lying dead in that little sleeping room behind the open screen. It is winter time so there are no flowers but upon her breast and pillow there may be strips of holly and berries and such green things. A window overgrown with ivy. The little boy who had that talk with her about the angels may be by the bedside if you like it so. But I think it will be quieter and more peaceful if she is quite alone. I want the scene to express the most beautiful repose and tranquility and to have something of a happy look if death can do this. Another, the child has been buried within the church and the old man who cannot be made to understand that she is dead, repairs to the grave and sits there all day long waiting for her arrival to begin another journey. His staff and knapsack, her little bonnet and basket lie beside him. She'll come tomorrow, he says, when it gets dark and then goes sorrowfully home. I think an hourglass running out would keep up the notion perhaps her little things upon his knee or in his hand. I am breaking my heart over this story and cannot bear to finish it. In acknowledging the receipt of a letter concerning this book from Mr. John Tomlin, an American, he wrote, I thank you cordially and heartily for your letter and for its kind and courteous terms to think that I have awakened among the vast solitudes in which you dwell a fellow feeling and sympathy with the creatures of many thoughtful hours is the source of the purest delight and pride to me. And believe me that your expressions of affectionate remembrance and approval sounding from the green forest of the Mississippi and deeper into my heart and gratify it more than all the honorary distinctions that all the courts of Europe could confer. It is such things as these that make one hope one does not live in vain and that are the highest rewards of an author's life. His genius for character sketching needs no proof. His characters live to vouch for themselves for their reality. It is ever amazing to me that the hand which drew the pathetic and beautiful creations, the kindly-humored men, the lovely women, the unfortunate little ones, could portray also with such marvelous accuracy the villainy and craftiness of such characters as Bumble, Bill Sykes, Pexniff, Iriah Heap, and Squeers. Undoubtedly from his earliest childhood he had possessed the quick perception, the instinct which could read in people's characters their tendencies toward good and evil. And throughout his life he valued this ability above literary skill and finish. Mr. Forrester makes a point of this in his biography speaking of the noticeable traits in him. What I had most indeed to notice in him at the very outset of his career was his indifference to any praise of his performances on their merely literary merit compared with the higher recognition of them as bits of actual life with the meaning and purpose on their part and the responsibility on his, of realities rather than creatures of fancy. But he was always pleased with praise and always modest and grateful in returning it. How can I thank you? He writes to a friend who was expressing his pleasure at Oliver Twist. Can I do better than by saying that the sense of poor Oliver's reality which I know you have had from the first has been the highest of all praise to me. None that has been lavished upon me have I felt have so much as that appreciation of my intent and meaning. Your notices make me very grateful but very proud, so have a care. The impressions which were later converted into motives and plots for his stories, he imbibed often in his earliest childhood. The crusade against the Yorkshire schools which is waged in Nicholas Nicolby is the working out of some of these childish impressions. He writes himself of them. I cannot cold to mind how I came to hear about Yorkshire schools when I was not a very robust child sitting in by places near Rochester Castle with a head full of partridge strap tom pipes and sancho panza but I know my first impressions of the schools were picked up at this time. We can imagine how deeply the wrongs must have sunk into the sensitive heart of the child rankling there through many years to bear fruit in the scourging of them and their abuses from the land. While he was at work upon Nicholas Nicolby he sent one of his characteristic letters and replied to a little boy, master Hastings Hughes who wrote to ask him to make some changes in the story. As some of you may not have read this letter and as it is so extremely amusing I shall quote part of it. Doughty Street, London December 12th, 1838. Respected sir, I have given squares one cut on the neck and two on the head at which he appeared much surprised and began to cry which being a cowardly thing is just what I should have expected from him, wouldn't you? I have carefully done what you told me in your letter about the lamb and the two sheeps for the little boys. They have also had some good ale and porter and some wine. I'm sorry you did not say what wine you would like them to have. I gave them some sherry, which they liked very much except one boy who was a little sick and choked a good deal. He was rather greedy and that's the truth and I believe it went the wrong way which I say served him right and I hope you will say so too. Nick has had his roast lamb as you said he was too but he could not eat it all and says if you do not mind his doing so he should like to have the rest hashed tomorrow with some greens, which he's very fond of and so am I. He said he did not like to have his porter hot for he thought it spoils the flavor so I let him have a cold. You should have seen him drink it. I thought he never would have left off. I also gave him three pounds in money, all in six pence to make it seem more. And he said directly that he should give more than half to his mama and sister and divide the rest with poor smike. And I say he is a good fellow for saying so and if anybody says he isn't I'm ready to fight him whenever they like. There. Fanny Squire shall be attended to, depend upon it. Your drawing of her is very like except that I do not think the hair is quite curly enough. The nose is particularly like hers and so are the legs. She is a nasty disagreeable thing and I know it will make her very cross when she sees it and what I say is that I hope it may. You will say the same I know. At least I think you will. The amount of work which he could accomplish varied greatly at certain times. Though in its entirety it was so immense. When he became the man of letters and ceased the irregular un-mythotical life of the reporter his mornings were invariably spent at his desk. The time between breakfast and luncheon with an occasional extension of a couple of hours into the afternoon were given over to his creations. The exceptions were when he was taking a holiday or resting though even when ostensibly employed in the latter cessation from story writing meant the answering of letters and the closer attention to his business matters so that the little of real rest ever came into his later life. While in Italy he gave a fragmentary diary of his daily life in a letter to a friend and the routine was there very much what it was at home. I am in a regular ferocious excitement with the chimes. Get up at seven, have a cold bath before breakfast and blaze away, wrathful and red hot until three o'clock or so when I usually knock off unless it rains for the day. I am fierce to finish in a spirit bearing some affinity to that of truth and mercy and to shame the cruel and the wicked but it is hard work. His entire discomfort under sound interruptions is also shown in the above in his reference to the chimes and the effect which they had upon him. Despite his regularity of working hours as I have said, the amount of work which my father accomplished varied greatly. His manuscripts were usually written upon white slips although sometimes upon blue paper and there were many mornings when it would be impossible for him to fill one of these. He writes on one occasion, I'm sitting at home patiently waiting for Oliver Twist who has not yet arrived. And indeed Oliver gave him considerable trouble in the course of his adventures by his disinclination to be put upon paper easily. The slowness in writing marked more prominently the earlier period of my father's literary career. Though these blank days when his brain refused to work were of occasional occurrence to the end. He was very critical of his own labors and would bring nothing but the best of his brain to the art which he so dearly loved, his venerated mistress. But on the other hand, the amount of work which he would accomplish at other times was almost incredible. During a long sojourn at Lausanne, he writes, I have not been idle since I have been here. I had a good deal to write for Lord John about the ragged schools so I set to work and did that. A good deal to Miss Coutts in reference to her charitable projects so I set to work and did that. Half of the children's New Testament to write were pretty nearly. I set to work and did that. Next, I cleared off the greater part of such correspondence as I had rashly pledged myself to and then began Dombie. I know of only one occasion on which he employed an Emanuensis and my aunt is my authority for the following concerning this one time. The book which your father dictated to me was The Child's History of England. The reason for my being used in this capacity of secretary was that Bleak House was being written at the same time and your father would dictate to me while walking about the room as a relief after his long sedentary imprisonment. The history was being written for household words and Bleak House also as a cereal so he had both weekly and monthly work on hand at the same time. The history was dictated to my own dear children whom I hope it will help by and by to read with interest larger and better books upon the same subject. My father wrote always with a quill pen and blue ink and never, I think, used a lead pencil. His handwriting was considered extremely difficult to read by many people, but I never found it so. In his manuscripts, there were so many erasures and such frequent interdelineations that a special staff of compositors was used for his work, but this was not on account of any illegibility in his handwriting. The manuscripts are most of them exhibited at the South Kensington Museum in the Forster Collection and they all show, I think, the extreme care and fastidiousness of the writer and his ever-constant desire to improve upon and simplify his original sentence. His objection to the use of a lead pencil was so great that even his personal memoranda such as his lists of guests for dinner parties, the arrangement of tables and menus were always written in ink. For his personal correspondence, he used blue note paper and signed his name in the left-hand corner of the envelope. After a morning's close work, he was sometimes quite preoccupied when he came into luncheon. Often when we were only our home party at Gad's Hill, he would come in, take something to eat in a mechanical way. He never ate but a small luncheon and would return to his study to finish the work he had left, scarcely having spoken a word in all this time. Again, he would come in having finished his work but looking very tired and worn. Our talking at these times did not seem to disturb him though any sudden sound as the dropping of a spoon or the clinking of a glass would send a spasm of pain across his face. The sudden almost instantaneous popularity of Pickwick was known to the world long before it was realized by its anxious young author. All the business transactions concerning its publication were modest to a degree and the preparations for such a success as came to it were none. As to its popularity, Mr. Forrester writes, judges on the bench and boys in the streets, gravity and folly, the young and the old, those who were entering life and those who were quitting it alike found it irresistible. Carl Isle wrote, an archdeacon repeated to me with his own venerable lips the other evening, a strange profane story of a solemn clergyman who had been summoned to administer consolation to a very ill man. As he left the room, he heard the sick man ejaculate. Well, thank God Pickwick will be out in 10 days anyway. No young author ever sprang in a more sudden and brilliant fame than Baz and none could have remained more thoroughly unspoiled or so devout of egotism under success. His own opinion of his fame and his estimate of its value may be quoted here. To be numbered amongst the household gods of one's distant countrymen and associated with their homes and quiet pleasures, to be told that in each nook and corner of the world's great mass there lives one well-wisher who holds communion with one in the spirit is a worthy fame indeed. That I may be happy enough to cheer some of your leisure hours for a long time to come and to hold a place in your pleasant thoughts is the earnest wish of Baz. On the Christmas Eve of 1863, my father was greatly shocked and distressed to hear of the sudden death of Mr. Thackeray. Our guests naturally were full of the sad news and there was a gloom cast over everything. We all thought of the sorrow of his two daughters who were so devoted to him and whom his sudden taking away would lead so desolate. In the Cornhill magazine of the February following, my father wrote, I saw Mr. Thackeray for the first time nearly 28 years ago when he proposed to become the illustrator of my earliest book. I saw him last, shortly before Christmas, at the Athenium Club, when he told me he had been in bed three days and that he had in his mind a triadnum remedy, which he laughingly described. He was cheerful and looked very bright. In the night of that day week he died, no one could be sureer than I of the greatness and goodness of his heart. In no place should I take it upon myself at this time to discourse of his books, of his refined knowledge of character, of his subtle acquaintance with the weakness of human nature, of his delightful playfulness as an essayist, of his quaint and touching balance, of his mastery over the English language. But before me lies all that he had written of his latest story and the pain I have felt in perusing it has not been deeper than the conviction that he was in the healthiest region of his powers when he worked on this last labor. The last words he corrected in print were, and my heart throbbed with an exquisite bliss. God grant that on that Christmas Eve when he laid his head back on his pillow and threw up his arms as he had been want to do when very weary, some consciousness of duty done and of Christian hope throughout life humbly cherished may have caused his own heart so to throb when he passed away to his rest. End of chapter three. Chapter four of my father essay recall him. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Ellie May 2009. My father essay recall him by Mamie Dickens, chapter four. Fundness for athletic sports. His love of basing, his study of the raven, calling the doctor in, my father with our dogs, the cats of Gates Hill, Bumble and Mrs. Bouncer, a strange friendship. As a child, my father was prevented from any active participation in the sports and amusements of his boyish companions by his extreme delicacy and frequent illnesses. So that until his manhood, his knowledge of games was gained merely from long hours of watching others relying upon the grass. Miss Manhood, however, came the strength and activity which enabled him to take part in all kinds of outdoor exercise in sports. And it seemed that in his passionate enjoyment and participation in those later years, he was recompensed for the very childhood years of suffering and inability. Athletic sports were a passion with him in his manhood. As I've said, in 1839, he rented a cottage at Petersham, not far from London, where, to quote from Mr. Forster, the extensive garden grounds admitted of much athletic competition in which Dickens, for the most part, held his own against even such accomplished athletes as McLeese and Mr. Beard. Bar leaping, boiling, and quotes were among the games carried on with the greatest adore and in which sustained energy Dickens certainly distanced every competitor. Even the lighter recreations of battle door and baggadale were pursued with relentless activity. At such amusement as the Petersham races in those days rather celebrated in which he visited daily while they lasted, he worked much harder than the running horses did. Riding was a favorite recreation at all times with my father. And he was constantly inviting one or another of his friends to be a company on these excursions. Always fond in his leisure hours of companions, he seemed to find his rides and walks quite incomplete if made alone. He rides on one occasion, what's in queue for 15 mile ride out. Did to in, and the lunch on the road with a wind up of six o'clock dinner in Doughty Street. And again, not knowing whether my head was off or on, it became so adultless work. I have gone riding over the old road and shall be truly delighted to meet you or be overtaken by you. As a young man, he was extremely fond of riding. But as I never remember seeing him on horseback, I think he must have deprived himself of this pastime soon after his marriage. What walking was, perhaps his chief's pleasure and the country lanes and city streets alike found him a close observer of their beauties and interests. He was a rapid walker, his usual pace being four miles an hour and to keep step with him required energy and activity similar to his own. In many of his letters he speaks with most evident enjoyment of his pastime. In one he rides, what a brilliant morning for a country walk. I start precisely, precisely, mind a tough past one. Come, come, come and walk in the green lanes. Again, you don't feel disposed to you? To muffle yourself up and start off with me for a good, brisk walk over hamster teeth? Outdoor games of the simpler kinds delighted him. Battledore and shuttlecock was played constantly in the garden at Devonshire Terrace. So I do not remember my father ever playing it elsewhere. The American game of bowls pleased him and rounders found him more than expert. Crockett he disliked, but cricket he enjoyed intensely, a spectator always keeping one of the scores during the matches it gets him. He was a firm believer in the hygiene of basing and cold baths, sea baths and shower baths were among his most constant practices. In those days, scientific evolution was not very generally practiced. And I'm sure that in many places during his travels my father was looked upon as an amiable maniac with a penchant for washing. During his first visit to America while he was making some journey in a rather rough and uncomfortable kennel boat he rode, I'm considered very hard in the morning for a run up bare-necked and plunge my head into the half-rosin water by half past five o'clock. I'm respected for my activity. Inasmuch as I jump from the boat to the towing path and walk five or six miles before breakfast, keeping up with the horses all the time. And from broad stairs, in a bay window sits, from nine o'clock to one, a gentleman with rather long hair and no neck gloss, who rides and grins as if he thought he were very funny, indeed, at one o'clock he disappears. Presently emerges from a basing machine and may be seen a kind of salmon-colored poeple splashing about the ocean. After that, he may be viewed in another bay window on the ground floor, eating a good lunch and after that, walking a dozen miles or so, or lying on his back on the sand reading. Nobody bothers him, unless they know he is disposed to be talked to. And I'm told he is very comfortable indeed. During the hottest summer months of our years residence in Italy, we lifted a little seaport of the Mediterranean called Albaro. The basing there was the most primitive kind. One division of the clear, dark blue pools among the rocks being reserved for women, the other for men and as with children where as much at home in the water as any known variety of fish, we used to look with wonder at the so-called basing of the Italian woman. They would come in swarms, beautifully dressed and with the most elaborately arranged heads of hair, but the slightest of wettings with them was the equivalent of a bath. In the open bay at Albaro, the current was very strong and the basing was most dangerous to even an experienced swimmer. I remember one morning the terrible fright that we were given by an uncle of ours. He swam out into the bay, was caught by a current of an appetite and born out of reach before our eyes. The fishing boat picked him up still alive, so greatly exhausted. It was a world of horror and anguish crowded into four or five minutes of dreadful agitation through my father. And to complete the terror of it, the entire family including the children were on the rock in full view of it all, crying like mad creatures. He loved animals, flowers and birds. His fondness for the letter being shown nowhere more strongly than his devotion to his ravens at Devenshire Terrace. He writes characteristically of the death of Crippe, the first raven. He will be greatly shocked and grieved to hear that the raven is no more. He expired today at the few minutes after 12 o'clock at noon. He had been ailing for a few days, but we anticipated no serious result, conjecturing that the portion of the white paint he swallowed last summer might be lingering in its vitals. Yesterday afternoon, he was taken so much worse that they sent an express for the medical gentleman who promptly attended and administered a powerful dose of castor oil. Under the influence of this medicine, he recovered so far as to pay able at eight o'clock PM to buy a topping, the coachman. This night was peaceful. This morning at daybreak, he appeared better and partook plentiful of some warm cruel, the flavor of which he appeared to relish. Toward 11 o'clock, he was so much worse that it was found necessary to muffle the stable knocker. At half past or day abouts, he was her talking to himself about the horse and toppings family and to add some incoherent expressions which are supposed to have been either a foreboding of his approaching dissolution or some wishes relative to the disposal of his little property. Consisting chiefly of a half-pence which he had buried in different parts of the garden. On the clock-striking 12, he appeared slightly agitated, but he soon recovered, walked twice or thrice along the coach house, stopped to bark, staggered and exclaimed, Hello, old girl, his favorite expression, and died. He behaved throughout with decent fortitude, equanimity, and self-possession. I deeply regretted being in ignorance of his danger. I did not intend to receive his last instructions. Something remarkable about his eyes occasion-topping to run for the doctor at 12. When they returned together, our friend was gone. It was the medical gentleman who informed me of his disease. He did it with caution and delicacy, preparing me by the remark that a jolly queer start had taken place. I am not wholly free from suspicion of poison. A malicious butcher has been heard to say that he would do for him. His plea was that he would not be molested in taking orders down the muse for any bird that wore a tail. Were the ravens who took manor to somebody in the wilderness? At times I hoped they were, and at others I feared they were not, or they would certainly have stolen it by the way. Kate is as well as can be expected. The children seem rather glad of it, bit the anchors, but it was in place. As my father was writing, Banna birach, at this time, and wished to continue his study of raven nature, an other in the larger crypt took the place of our friend. But it was he whose talking tricks and comical ways gave my father the idea of making a raven, one of the characteristics in his book. My father's fondness for crypt was, however, never transferred to any other raven, and none of us ever forgave the butcher, whom we all held in some way responsible for his untimely taking off. But I think his strongest laugh among animals was for dogs. I find the delightful anecdote told by him of a dog belonging to a lady whom he knew well of, an immense, black, good-humored, newfoundland dog. He came from Oxford and had lived all his life in a brewery. Instructions were given with him that if he were let out every morning alone, he would immediately find out the river, regularly take a swim and come gravely home again. This he did with the greatest punctuality, but after a little while he was observed to smell of beer. His owner was so sure that he smelled of beer that she resolved to watch him. He was seen to come back from his swim around the usual corner and to go up a flight of steps into a beer shop. Being instantly followed, the beer shopkeeper is seen to take down a pot, butapot, and is heard to say, "'Well, old chap, come for your beer as usual, have you." Upon which he draws a pint and puts it down and the dog drinks it. Being required to explain how this comes to pass the man says, "'Yes, ma'am, I know he's your dog, ma'am. But I didn't when he first came. He looked in, ma'am, as a brickmaker might, and then he came in as a brickmaker might, and he waked his tail at the pots, and he gave a smile round and conveyed to me as he was used to beer. So I dropped him a drop and he drank it up. Next morning he came again by the clock and I dropped him a pint, and ever since he has taken his pint regular. On account of our birds, cats were not allowed in the house. But from a friend in London, I received the present of a white kitten, Wilhelmina, and she and her numerous offspring had the happy home at Getzill. She became a favorite with all of the household and showed particular devotion to my father. I remember on one occasion when she had presented us with a family of kittens, she selected the corner of father's study for their home. She brought them one by one from the kitchen and deposited them in a chosen corner. My father called to me to remove them, saying that he could not allow the kittens to remain in his room. I did so. But Wilhelmina brought them back again one by one. Again, they were removed. The third time, instead of putting them in the corner, she placed them all and herself beside them at my father's feet and gave him such an imploring glance that he could resist no longer. They were allowed to remain. As the kittens grow older, they became more and more frolicsome, swarming up the curtains, playing about the writing table and scampering behind the bookshelves. But they were never complained of and lived happily in the study until the time came for finding them other homes. One of the kittens was kept. Who, as he was quite deaf, was left unnamed and became known by the servants as the master's cat because of his devotion to my father. He was always with him and used to follow him about the garden like a dog and sit with him while he rode. One evening we were all except father going to a ball and when we started, left the master and his cat in the drawing home together. The master was reading at the small table on which a lighted candle was placed. Suddenly the candle went out. My father, who was much interested in his book, relighted the candle, stroked the cat, who was looking at him pathetically he noticed and continued his reading. A few minutes later as the light became dim, he looked up just in time to see Puss deliberately put out the candle with his ball and then looked appealingly toward him. His second and unmistakable hint was not disregarded and Puss was given the petting he craved. Father was full of his anecdote when we met at breakfast the next morning. Among our dogs were Turk and Linda, the former a beautiful must-have and the latter a soft-eyed gentle good tempered St. Bernard. Miss Bouncer, a Pomeranian came next, a tiny ball of white fluffy fur who came as a special gift to me and speedily won her way by her grace and thankness into the affections of every member of the household. My father became her special slave and had a peculiar voice for her as he had for us the newer children, to which she would respond at once by running to him from any part of the house when she heard his call. He delighted to see her with the large dogs with whom she gave herself great airs because, as he said, she looked so preposterously small. A few years later came done a newfound land and then bumble his son. We named after Oliver Twist's beetle. Because of a peculiarly pompous and overbearing manner, he had of a peering-to-mount guard over the yard when he was an absolute infant. Lastly, Kim Salton, an Irish bloodhound who had a bitter experience with his life at Gets Hill. One evening, having broken his chain, he fell upon a little girl who was passing and bit her so severely that my father considered it necessary to have him shot. Also, this decision cost him a great deal of sorrow. For a short time, I had the care of a mongrel called Gypsy. She was not allowed to enter any of the family rooms and used to spend her time lying contentedly on a rack outside the drawing home. One afternoon, a friend came from Jetham, bringing with him a wonderful poodle who had been specially invited to perform all his tricks from her father's enjoyment. On his arrival, Mrs. Bouncer became furious and when he began his tricks, she went deliberately into the hall and escorted Gypsy into the drawing home. As much as to say, I can't stand this. If strange dogs are to be made much of, surely the dogs in the house may be at last permitted to enter the room. She would not look at Frosco, the poodle, but said throughout his performance, he said back toward him the picture of offended dignity. Just as soon, however, as he was fairly out of the house and not until then, she escorted Gypsy back to her rack. My father was intensely amused by this behavior of Bouncer's and delighted in telling this story about her. Mrs. Bouncer was honored by many messages from her master during his absences from home. Here is one written as I was convalescing from a serious illness. In my mind's eye, I behold Mrs. Bouncer, still with some traces of anxiety on her face full countenance, balancing herself a little unequally on her forelegs, pricking up her ears with her head on one side and slightly opening her intellectual nostrils. I send my loving and respectful duty to her. Again, I think of my dreaming of Mrs. Bouncer each night. My father's love for dogs led him into a strange friendship during our stay at Polandje. There lived in a cottage on the street which led from our house to the town, a cobbler. We used to see that his window working all day with his dog, a Pomeranian on the table beside him. The cobbler in whom my father became very interested because of the intelligence of his Pomeranian companion was taken ill, and for many months was unable to work. My father writes, the cobbler has been ill these many months, the little dog sits at the door so unhappy and anxious to help that I every day expect to see him beginning a pair of top boots. Another time, father writes in telling the history of this little animal, a cobbler at Polandje, who had the nicest of little dogs that always sat in his sunny window watching him at his work, asked me if I would bring the dog home as he couldn't afford to pay the tax for him. The cobbler and the dog being both my particular friends I complied. The cobbler parted with the dog heart probe. When the dog got home here, my man, like an idiot as he is, tied him up and then untied him. The moment the gate was opened the dog on the very day after his arrival ran out. Next day Georgie and I saw him lying all covered with mud dead outside the neighbouring church. How am I ever to tell the cobbler he is too poor to come to England so I feel that I must lie to him for life and say that the dog is fat and happy. Of horses and ponies we possessed but few during our childhood and these were not the very choice breed. I remember however one pretty pony which was our delight and dear old Dobby the good sturdy horse which for many years used it gets her. My father however was very fond of horses and I recall hearing him comment on the strange fact that an animal so noble in its qualities should be the cause of so much villainy. Two mysticons, Pomeranian, Mrs. Bouncer. Very lazy, warm and bright peeing from her fringe of fight she blinks and sleeps both day and night a happy spitz. She need not fear the cruel stick nor has she learned the single trick that sustains her mistress hand to lick as she knits. She eats and drinks and eats again is never out on wind or rain takes many a journey in the drain and her admits. She has her own coquettish charms knows no sorrows no alarms and thus is in her mistress arms a sleepy spitz. How small pecanth are her feet when eln sister had as need she looks so saucy one could beat her into fits. Quite ravishing when neat and clean her grass seemed lined with grinoline she rules the house a horticrin, a saucy spitz. Just tolerates the frequent hug snoozing all day upon the rug complacent philosophic snag her paws like mitts. A thinner a that placent beaver touch her paw beneath the table she bite her foot where she but able a naughty spitz. To find her mistress how she flew faithful the coming step she knew let others be as brave and true lords of wits. When sultan turk and linda fleet the lost-loved master rush to meet his kindly voice would always greet a little spitz. A less so furry warm and white from this cold world she took her flight no more on rug by fire side bright the abouncer sits percie fits Gerald. End of chapter four, recording by Ellie May 2009. Chapter five of My Father as I Recall Him. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Marianne Spiegel, Chicago, Illinois. My Father as I Recall Him by Mamie Dickens. Chapter five. Interest in London Birds. Our pet bird Dick. Devotion of his dogs. Decision to visit America. His arrival in New York. Comments on American courtesies. Farewell public appearances. The warm affection which was so characteristic of My Father toward people was also directed as I have already told toward animals and birds. A few further anecdotes occur to me and I have ventured to give them here before proceeding to tell of his visit to America, his readings and the, to me, sad story of his last public appearance. My Father's quick and amusing observation of London Birds and their habits and of their fondness for low company is full of charm and quaint oddity. He writes That anything born of an egg and invested with wings should have got to the past that it hops contentedly down a ladder into the cellar and calls that going home is a circumstance so amazing as to leave one nothing more in this connection to wonder at. I know a low fellow, originally of a good family from Dorking, who takes his whole establishment of wives in single file in at the door of the jug department of a disorderly tavern near the hay market, maneuvers them among the company's legs and emerges with them at the bottle entrance, sell them in the season going to bed before two in the morning and thus he passes his life. But the family I am best acquainted with resides in the densest part of Bethnal Green, their abstraction from the objects in which they live or rather their conviction that these objects have all come into existence and express subservience to fowls has so enchanted me that I have made them the subject of many journeys at diverse hours. After careful observation of the two lords and of the 10 ladies of whom this family consists, I have come to the conclusion that their opinions are represented by the leading lord and leading lady, the latter, as I judge, an aged personage afflicted with opacity of feather and visibility of quill that gives her the appearance of a bundle of office pens. They look upon old shoes, wrecks of kettles, sauce pens and fragments of bonnets as a kind of meteoric discharge for fowls to peck at. Gaslight comes quite as natural to them as any other light and I have more than a suspicion that in the minds of the two lords, the early public house at the corner has superseded the sun. They always begin to crow when the public house shutters begin to be taken down and they salute the pop boy the instant he appears to perform that duty as if he were Phoebus in person. During one of his walks through the slums, my father was so fascinated by the intelligence of a busy gold bench drying water for himself in his cage. He had other accomplishments as well that he went in and bought it. But not a thing would the little bird do, not a trick would he perform when he got to his new home in Daughty Street and would only draw up water in the dark or when he thought no one was looking. After an interval of futile and at length hopeless expectation, my father writes, the merchant who had educated him was appealed to. The merchant was a bow-legged character with a flat and cushiony nose like the last new strawberry. He wore a fur cap and shorts and was of the velveteen race, velvettini. He sent word that he would look round. He looked round, appeared in the doorway of the room and slightly cocked up his evil eye at the gold bench. Instantly a raging thirst beset the bird and when it was appeased he still drew several unnecessary buckets of water leaping about the perch and sharpening his bill with irrepressible satisfaction. While at broad stairs one summer, our bathing woman who reared birds gave a canary to my sister and myself. Dick, who was only a few weeks old when he came to us, grew to be a very king of birds and became in time a most important member of the household. There was a fierce war waged against cats during his lifetime and writing from Bologna, my father very funnily describes our troubles with the feline race. War is raging against two particularly tigerish and fearful cats, from the mill I suppose, which are always glaring in dark corners after our wonderful little dick. Keeping the house open at all points it is impossible to shut them out and they hide themselves in the most terrific manner, hanging themselves up behind draperies like bats and tumbling out in the dead of night with frightful catterwallings. Here upon French, the footman, borrows a gun, loads it to the muzzle, discharges it twice in vain and throws himself over with the recoil exactly like a clown. But at last while I was in town he aims at the more amiable cat of the two and shoots that animal dead. In sufferably elated by this victory he is now engaged from morning to night in hiding behind bushes to get aim at the other. He does nothing else whatever. All the boys encourage him and watch for the enemy on whose appearance they give an alarm which immediately serves as a warning to the creature who runs away. They, the boys, are at this moment ready dressed for church all lying on their stomachs in various parts of the garden. I'm afraid to go out lest I should be shot. Mr. Pornish says his prayers at night in a whisper lest the cat should overhear him and take offence. The tradesmen cry out as they come up the avenue. Me voici, c'est moi, pour la gueule, mettre pas, monsieur French. It is like living in a state of siege and the wonderful manner in which the cat preserves the character of being the only person not much put out by the intensity of this monomania is most ridiculous. The finest thing is that immediately after I have heard the noble sportsman blazing away at her in the garden in front, I look out of my room door into the drawing room and I'm pretty sure to see her coming in after the bird in the calmest manner possible by the back window. But no harm ever came to our wonderful little dick who lived to a ripe old age, 16 years, and was buried under the rose tree at Gad's Hill. On his return from his last visit to America, he wrote a charming account of his welcome home by the dogs at Gad's Hill. As you ask me about the dogs, I begin with them. When I came down first, I came to Gravesend five miles off. The two Newfoundland dogs coming to meet me with the usual carriage and the usual driver, and beholding me coming in my usual dress out at the usual door, it struck me that their recollection of my having been absent for any unusual time was at once canceled. They behaved, they're both young dogs, exactly in their usual manner, coming behind the basket-payton as we trot along and lifting their heads to have their ears pulled, a special attention which they receive from no one else. But when I drove into the stable yard, Linda was greatly excited, weeping profusely and throwing herself on her back that she might caress my foot with her great for paws. Mamie's little dog too, Mrs. Bouncer, barked in the greatest agitation on being called down and asked who is this tore around me like the dog in the Faust outlines. My father brought with him on his return from his first visit to America, a small, shaggy, Havana spaniel, which had been given to him and which he had named Timberdoodle. He wrote of him, little doggy improves rapidly and now jumps over my stick at the word of command. Timber traveled with us in all our foreign wanderings, and while at Albaro, the poor little fellow had a most unfortunate experience, an encounter of some duration with a plague of fleas, father writes. Timber has had every hair upon his body cut off because of the fleas and he looks like the ghost of a drowned dog come out of the pond after a week or so. It is very awful to see him settle into a room. He knows the change upon him and is always turning round and round to look for himself. I think he'll die of grief. It is to be hoped that the hair will grow again. For many years, my father's public readings were an important part of his life and into their performance and preparation, he threw the best energy of his heart and soul, practicing and rehearsing at all times and places. The meadow near our home was a favorite place and people passing through the lane, not knowing who he was or what doing must have thought him a madman from his reciting and gesticulation. The great success of these readings led to many tempting offers from the United States, which, as time went on, we realized how much the fatigue of the readings together with his other work were sapping his strength, we earnestly opposed his even considering. However, after much discussion and deliberation, he wrote to me on September 28th, 1867. As I telegraphed after I saw you, I am off to consult with Mr. Forster and Dolby together. You shall hear, either on Monday or by Monday's post from London, how I decide finally. Three days later. You will have had my telegram that I go to America. After a long discussion with Forster and consideration of what is to be said on both sides, I have decided to go through with it and have telegraphed, yes, to Boston. There was it for some talk of my accompanying him, but when the program of the tour was admitted to my father and he saw how much time must be devoted to business and how little, indeed, almost no time could be given to sightseeing, this idea was given up. A farewell banquet was given him in London on the 2nd of November and on the 9th he sailed. A large party of us went to Liverpool to see him sail and with heavy hearts to bid him farewell. In those days, a journey to America was a serious matter and we felt in our hearts that he was about to tax his health and strength too cruelly and so he did. Soon after reaching the United States, my father contracted a severe cold which never left him during his visit and which caused him the greatest annoyance. I will give you a few quotations from his letters to show how pluckly he fought against his ailment and under what a strain he continued his work. On his arrival at New York, on Christmas Day, in response to a letter of mine which awaited him there, he wrote, He adds to this letter a day or two later. Again he writes, Again. And apparently voiceless. Turn to Dolby and said, Surely, Mr. Dolby, it is impossible that he can read to-night. Says Dolby. Sir, I have told Mr. Dickens so four times today and I have been very anxious. But you have no idea how he will change when he gets to the little table. After five minutes of the little table I was not, for the time, even horse. The frequent experience of this return of force when it is wanted saves me much anxiety. But I am not at times without the nervous dread that I may someday sink altogether. But as a reward for his unstinted self-giving came the wonderful success of his tour, the pride and delight which he felt in the enthusiasm which greeted him everywhere, the personal affection lavished upon him and the many dear friends he made. He writes from Boston, apropos of these rewards. When we reached here last Saturday night we found that Mrs. Fields had not only garnished the room with flowers but also with holly, with real red berries and festoons of moss dependent from the looking glasses and picture frames. The homely Christmas look of the place quite affected us. Later from Washington. I couldn't help laughing at myself on my birthday here. It was observed as much as though I were a little boy. Flowers and garlands of the most exquisite kind arranged in all manner of green baskets bloomed over the room. Letters radiant with good wishes poured in. Also by hands unknown the hall at night was decorated and after boots at the holly tree in, the audience rose, great people and all, standing and cheering until I went back to the table and made them a little speech. He wrote home constantly giving frequent commissions for improvements at Gad's Hill to be made before his return. He was much impressed on his second visit as on his first, I remember, with the beauty of the American women. The ladies are remarkably handsome, he wrote. In the autumn of 1869 he began a series of farewell readings which were another heavy tax upon his health and strength. During his tour at this time he writes to Mr. Forster after some rather alarming symptoms had developed. I told Beard a year after the staple first accident that I was certain that my heart had been fluttered and wanted a little helping. This, the Cethloscope, confirmed and considering the immense exertion I am undergoing and the constant jarring of express trains, the case seems to me quite intelligible. Don't say anything in the Gad's direction about my being a little out of sorts. I've broached the matter, of course, but very lightly. But even such warning as this failed to make him realize how much less was his strength and with indomitable courage and spirit he continued his tour. The trouble in his feet increased and his sufferings from this cause were very great. It became necessary at one time for him to have a physician in attendance upon him at every reading. But in spite of his perseverance, he became so ill that the readings had to be stopped. End of chapter five, read by Marianne Spiegel, Chicago, Illinois.