Journeys Through Bookland Volume Vi Part 27

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHARLES d.i.c.kENS

"To begin my life with the beginning of my life," d.i.c.kens makes one of his heroes say, "I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night." d.i.c.kens was born on a Friday, the date the 7th of February, 1812, the place Landport in Portsea, England. The house was a comfortable one, and during Charles's early childhood his surroundings were prosperous; for his father, John d.i.c.kens, a clerk in the navy pay-office, was temporarily in easy circ.u.mstances. When Charles was but two, the family moved to London, taking lodgings for a time in Norfolk Street, Bloomsbury, and finally settling in Chatham. Here they lived in comfort, and here Charles gained more than the rudiments of an education, his earliest teacher being his mother, who instructed him not only in English, but in Latin also. Later he became the pupil of Mr. Giles, who seems to have taken in him an extraordinary interest.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CHARLES d.i.c.kENS

1812-1870]

Indeed, he was a child in whom it was difficult not to take an extraordinary interest. Small for his years, and attacked occasionally by a sort of spasm which was exceedingly painful, he was not fitted for much active exercise; but the _aliveness_ which was apparent in him all his life distinguished him now. He was very fond of reading, and in _David Copperfield_ he put into the mouth of his hero a description of his own delight in certain books. "My father had left a small collection of books in a little room upstairs, to which I had access (for it adjoined my own), and which n.o.body else in our house ever troubled. From that blessed little room, _Roderick Random_, _Peregrine Pickle_, _Humphrey Clinker_, _Tom Jones_, _The Vicar of Wakefield_, _Don Quixote_, _Gil Blas_ and _Robinson Crusoe_ came out, a glorious host, to keep me company. They kept alive my fancy, ... they, and the _Arabian Nights_ and the _Tales of the Genii_--and did me no harm; for whatever harm was in some of them was not there for me; I knew nothing of it....

I have been Tom Jones (a child's Tom Jones, a harmless creature) for a week together. I have sustained my own idea of Roderick Random for a month at a stretch, I verily believe. I had a greedy relish for a few volumes of Voyages and Travels--I forget what, now--that were on those shelves; and for days and days I can remember to have gone about my region of our house, armed with the center piece out of an old set of boot-trees--the perfect realization of Captain Somebody, of the Royal British Navy, in danger of being beset by savages, and resolved to sell his life at a great price."

Not only did the little Charles read all he could lay hands upon; he made up stories, too, which he told to his small playmates, winning thereby their wondering admiration. Some of these tales he wrote down, and thus he became an author in a small way while he was yet a very small boy. His making believe to be the characters out of books shows another trait which clung to him all his life--his fondness for "play-acting." It was, in fact, often said of the mature d.i.c.kens that he would have made as good an actor as he was a novelist, and d.i.c.kens's father seems to have recognized in his little son decided traces of ability; for often, when there was company at the house, little Charles, with his face flushed and his eyes s.h.i.+ning, would be placed on a table to sing a comic song, amid the applause of all present.

His early days were thus very happy; but when he was about eleven years old, money difficulties beset the family, and they were obliged to move to a poor part of London. Mrs. d.i.c.kens made persistent efforts to open a school for young ladies, but no one ever showed the slightest intention of coming. Matters went from bad to worse, and finally Mr. d.i.c.kens was arrested for debt and taken to the Marshalsea prison. The time that followed was a most painful one to the sensitive boy--far more painful, it would seem, than to the "Prodigal Father," as d.i.c.kens later called him. This father, whom d.i.c.kens long afterward described, in _David Copperfield_, as Mr. Micawber, was, as his son was always most willing to testify, a kind, generous man; but he was improvident to the last degree; and when in difficulties which would have made melancholy any other man, he was able, by the mere force of his rhetoric, to lift himself above circ.u.mstances or to make himself happy in them.

At length all the family except the oldest sister, who was at school, and Charles, went to live in the prison; and Charles was given work in a blacking-warehouse of which a relative of his mother's was manager. The sufferings which the boy endured at this time were intense. It was not only that the work was sordid, monotonous, uncongenial; it was not only that his pride was outraged; what hurt him most of all was that he should have been "so easily cast away at such an age," and that "no one made any sign." He had always yearned for an education; he had always felt that he must grow up to be worth something. And to see himself condemned, as he felt with the hopelessness of childhood, for life, to the society of such boys as he found in the blacking-warehouse, was almost more than he could endure. During his later life, prosperous and happy, he could scarcely bear to speak, even to his dearest friends, of this period of his life.

Though this period of his life seemed to him long, it was not really so, for he was not yet thirteen when he was taken from the warehouse and sent to school. Once given a chance, he learned rapidly and easily, although in all probability the schools to which he went were not of the best. After a year or two at school he again began work, but this time under more hopeful circ.u.mstances. He was, to be sure, but an under-clerk--little more than an office-boy in a solicitor's office; but at least the surroundings were less sordid and the companions more congenial. However, he had no intention of remaining an under-clerk, and he set to work to make himself a reporter.

Of his difficulties in mastering shorthand he has written feelingly in that novel which contains so much autobiographical material--_David Copperfield_. "I bought an approved scheme of the n.o.ble art and mystery of stenography ... and plunged into a sea of perplexity that brought me, in a few weeks, to the confines of distraction. The changes that were rung upon dots, which in such a position meant such a thing, and in such another position something else, entirely different; the wonderful vagaries that were played by circles; the unaccountable consequences that resulted from marks like flies' legs, the tremendous effect of a curve in the wrong place; not only troubled my waking hours, but reappeared before me in my sleep."

When d.i.c.kens once made up his mind to do a thing, however, he always went through with it, and before so very long he had perfected himself in his "art and mystery," and was one of the most rapid and accurate reporters in London.

At nineteen he became a reporter of the speeches in Parliament. Before taking up his newspaper work, he made an attempt to go upon the stage; but it was not long before he found his true vocation, and abandoned all thought of the stage as a means of livelihood. In 1833 he published a sketch in the _Old Monthly Magazine_, and this was the first of those _Sketches by Boz_ which were published at intervals for the next two years.

The year 1836 was a noteworthy one for d.i.c.kens, for in that year he married Catherine Hogarth, the daughter of an a.s.sociate on the _Chronicle_; and in that year began the publication of _The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club_. The publication of the first few numbers wakened no great enthusiasm, but with the appearance of the fifth number, in which Sam Weller is introduced, began that popularity which did not decline until d.i.c.kens's death. In fact, as one writer has said, "In dealing with d.i.c.kens, we are dealing with a man whose public success was a marvel and almost a monstrosity." Every one, old and young, serious and flippant, talked of _Pickwick_, and it was actually reported, by no less an authority than Thomas Carlyle, that a solemn clergyman, being told that he had not long to live, exclaimed, "Well, thank G.o.d, _Pickwick_ will be out in ten days anyway!"

_Oliver Twist_ followed, and then _Nicholas Nickleby_; and by this time d.i.c.kens began to get, what he did not receive from his first work, something like his fair share of the enormous profits, so that his growing family lived in comfort, if not in luxury. When the _Old Curiosity Shop_, and, later, _Barnaby Rudge_, appeared, the number of purchasers of the serials rose as high as seventy thousand.

Early in 1842 d.i.c.kens and his wife made a journey to America, leaving their children in the care of a friend. Shortly after arriving in the United States he wrote to a friend, "I can give you no conception of my welcome here. There was never a king or emperor upon the earth so cheered and followed by crowds, and entertained in public at splendid b.a.l.l.s and dinners, and waited on by public bodies and deputations of all kinds;" and again, "In every town where we stay, though it be only for a day, we hold a regular levee or drawing-room, where I shake hands on an average with five or six hundred people."

d.i.c.kens had come prepared to like America and Americans--and in many ways he did like them. But in other ways he was disappointed. He ventured to object, in various speeches, to the pirating, in America, of English literature, and fierce were the denunciations which this course drew upon him. Having fancied that in the republic of America he might have at least free speech on a matter which so closely concerned him, d.i.c.kens resented this treatment, and the Americans resented his resentment. However, it was with the kindliest feelings toward the many friends he had made in the United States, and with the most out-spoken admiration for many American inst.i.tutions that he left for England. The publication of his _American Notes_ and of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ did not tend to reconcile Americans to d.i.c.kens; but there seems to have been no falling off in the sale of his books in this country.

d.i.c.kens's life, like the lives of most literary men, was not particularly eventful. It was, however, a constantly busy life. Book followed book in rapid succession, and still their popularity grew.

Sometimes in London, sometimes in Italy or Rome or Switzerland, he created those wonderful characters of his which will live as long as the English language. The first of the Christmas books, _A Christmas Carol_, appeared in 1843, and henceforward one of the things to which people looked forward at Yuletide was the publication of a new d.i.c.kens Christmas story.

One diversion--if diversion it can be called--d.i.c.kens allowed himself not infrequently, and enjoyed most thoroughly. This was the production, sometimes before a selected audience, sometimes in public, of plays, in which d.i.c.kens himself usually took the chief part. Often these plays were given not only in London, but in various parts of the country, as benefits for poor authors or actors, or for the widows and families of such; and always they were astonis.h.i.+ngly successful. It is reported that an old stage prompter or property man said one time to d.i.c.kens "Lor, Mr. d.i.c.kens! If it hadn't been for them books, what an actor you would have made."

Naturally, a man of d.i.c.kens's eminence had as his friends and acquaintances many of the foremost men of his time, and a most affectionate and delightful friend he was. His letters fall no whit below the best of his writing in his novels in their power of observation, their brightness, their humorous manner of expression.

In 1849 was begun the publication of _David Copperfield_, d.i.c.kens's own favorite among his novels. It contains, as has already been said, much that is autobiographical, and one of the most interesting facts in connection with this phase of it is that there really was, in d.i.c.kens's young days, a "Dora" whom he wors.h.i.+ped. Years later he met her again, and what his feelings on that occasion must have been may be imagined when we know that this Dora-grown-older was the original of "Flora" in _Little Dorrit_.

The things that d.i.c.kens, writing constantly and copiously, found time to do are wonderful. One of the matters in which he took great interest and an active part was the children's theatricals. These were held each year during the Christmas holiday season at d.i.c.kens's home, and while his children and their friends were the princ.i.p.al actors, d.i.c.kens superintended the whole, introduced three-quarters of the fun, and played grown-up parts, adopting as his stage t.i.tle the "Modern Garrick."

Though the story of these crowded years is quickly told, the years were far from being uneventful in their pa.s.sing. Occasional sojourns, either with his family or with friends, in France and in Italy always made d.i.c.kens but the more glad to be in his beloved London, where he seemed most in his element and where his genius had freest play. This does not mean that he did not enjoy France and Italy, or appreciate their beauties, but simply that he was always an Englishman--a city Englishman. His observations, however, on what he saw in traveling were always most acute and entertaining.

His account of his well-nigh unsuccessful attempt to find the house of Mr. Lowther, English charge d'affaires at Naples, with whom he had been invited to dine, may be quoted here to show his power of humorous description:

"We had an exceedingly pleasant dinner of eight, preparatory to which I was near having the ridiculous adventure of not being able to find the house and coming back dinnerless. I went in an open carriage from the hotel in all state, and the coachman, to my surprise, pulled up at the end of the Chiaja.

"'Behold the house' says he, 'of Signor Larthoor!'--at the same time pointing with his whip into the seventh heaven, where the early stars were s.h.i.+ning.

"'But the Signor Larthoor,' returns the Inimitable darling, 'lives at Pausilippo.'

"'It is true,' says the coachman (still pointing to the evening star), 'but he lives high up the Salita Sant' Antonio, where no carriage ever yet ascended, and that is the house' (evening star as aforesaid), 'and one must go on foot. Behold the Salita Sant' Antonio!'

"I went up it, a mile and a half I should think. I got into the strangest places, among the wildest Neapolitans--kitchens, was.h.i.+ng-places, archways, stables, vineyards--was baited by dogs, answered in profoundly unintelligible Neapolitan, from behind lonely locked doors, in cracked female voices, quaking with fear; could hear of no such Englishman or any Englishman. By-and-by I came upon a Polenta-shop in the clouds, where an old Frenchman, with an umbrella like a faded tropical leaf (it had not rained for six weeks) was staring at nothing at all, with a snuff-box in his hand. To him I appealed concerning the Signor Larthoor.

"'Sir,' said he, with the sweetest politeness, 'can you speak French?'

"'Sir,' said I, 'a little.'

"'Sir,' said he, 'I presume the Signor Lootheere'--you will observe that he changed the name according to the custom of his country--'is an Englishman.'

"I admitted that he was the victim of circ.u.mstances and had that misfortune.

"'Sir,' said he, 'one word more. _Has_ he a servant with a wooden leg?'

"'Great Heaven, sir,' said I, 'how do I know? I should think not, but it is possible.'

"'It is always,' said the Frenchman, 'possible. Almost all the things of the world are always possible.'

"'Sir,' said I--you may imagine my condition and dismal sense of my own absurdity by this time--'that is true.'

"He then took an immense pinch of snuff, wiped the dust off his umbrella, led me to an arch commanding a wonderful view of the Bay of Naples, and pointed deep into the earth from which I had mounted.

"'Below there, near the lamp, one finds an Englishman, with a servant with a wooden leg. It is always possible that he is the Signor Lootheere.'

"I had been asked at six, and it was now getting on for seven. I went down again in a state of perspiration and misery not to be described, and without the faintest hope of finding the place. But as I was going down to the lamp, I saw the strangest staircase up a dark corner, with a man in a white waistcoat (evidently hired) standing on the top of it fuming. I dashed in at a venture, found it was the place, made the most of the whole story, and was indescribably popular."

"Indescribably popular" d.i.c.kens was almost every place he went. And in 1858 there came to him increased popularity by reason of a new venture.

In this year he began his public readings from his own works, which brought him in immense sums of money. Through England, Scotland, Ireland and the United States he journeyed, reading, as only he could read, scenes humorous and pathetic from his great novels, and everywhere the effect was the same.

Descriptive of an evening at Edinburgh, he wrote: "Such a pouring of hundreds into a place already full to the throat, such indescribable confusion, such a rending and tearing of dresses, and yet such a scene of good humor on the whole!... I read with the platform crammed with people. I got them to lie down upon it, and it was like some impossible tableau or gigantic picnic; one pretty girl in full dress hang on her side all night, holding on to one of the legs of my table. And yet from the moment I began to the moment of my leaving off, they never missed a point, and they ended with a burst of cheers."

Meanwhile d.i.c.kens's domestic life had not been happy. He and his wife were not entirely congenial in temper, and the incompatibility increased with the years, until in 1858 they agreed to live apart. Most of the children remained with their father, although they were given perfect freedom to visit their mother.

Among d.i.c.kens's later novels are the _Tale of Two Cities_, _Great Expectations_, which is one of his very best books, and _Our Mutual Friend_, which, while as a story it has many faults, yet abounds with the humor and fancy which are characteristic of d.i.c.kens. In October, 1869, was begun _Edwin Drood_, which was published like most of its predecessors, as a serial. Six numbers appeared, and there the story closed; for on June 9, 1870, Charles d.i.c.kens died, after an illness of but one day, during all of which he was unconscious.

His family desired to have him buried near his home, the Gad's Hill which he had admired from his childhood and had purchased in his manhood; but the general wish was that he should be laid in Westminster Abbey, and to this wish his family felt that it would be wrong to object. For days there were crowds of mourners about the grave, shedding tears, scattering flowers, testifying to the depth of affection they had felt for the man who had given them so many happy hours.