Part 2

“It only now remains for the writer of these pages, with that feeling of regret with which we leave almost any pursuit that has for a long time occupied us and engaged our thoughts, and which is naturally augmented in such a case as this, when that pursuit has been surrounded by all that could animate and cheer him on—it only now remains for him, before abandoning his task, to bid his readers farewell.”

This was followed by “Master Humphrey’s Clock,” the publication of which, in weekly numbers, with illustrations by Cattermole and Hablot Browne, was commenced in April, 1840. “Master Humphrey’s Clock” comprised the two novels of “The Old Curiosity Shop” and “Barnaby Rudge,” which are now published in a separate form, stripped of the introductory portion relating to Master Humphrey, and of the intercalary chapters in which Mr. Pickwick and the two Wellers appear again on the scene. It was pleasant to meet once more these familiar humorous creations, and it may be a matter for regret that this portion of the book has been consigned to oblivion. But the author considered that these passages served only to interrupt the continuity of the main story, and they were consequently eliminated.

These three characters (the Wellers and Mr. Pickwick) have all the same raciness and inexhaustible humour in this sequel as in the work in which we were first introduced to them. As the original edition of the work we are alluding to is now somewhat rare, the reader may not be displeased to have a few specimens laid before him. Here is Mr. Weller senior’s opinion of railways:—

“I con-sider,” said Mr. Weller, “that the rail is unconstitootional and an inwaser o’ priwileges, and I should wery much like to know what that ’ere old Carter as once stood up for our liberties and wun ’em too—I should like to know wot he vould say if he wos alive now, to Englishmen being locked up with widders, or with anybody, again their wills. Wot a old Carter would have said, a old Coachman may say, and I as-sert that in that pint o’ view alone, the rail is an inwaser. As to the comfort, vere’s the comfort o’ sittin’ in a harm cheer lookin’ at brick walls or heaps o’ mud, never comin’ to a public house, never seein’ a glass o’ ale, never goin’ through a pike, never meetin’ a change o’ no kind (horses or othervise), but alvays comin’ to a place, ven you come to one at all, the wery picter o’ the last, vith the same p’leesemen standing about, the same blessed old bell a ringin’, the same unfort’nate people standing behind the bars, a waitin’ to be let in; and everythin’ the same except the name, vich is wrote up in the same sized letters as the last name and vith the same colors. As to the honour and dignity o’ travelling vere can that be vithout a coachman; and wot’s the rail to sich coachmen and guards as is sometimes forced to go by it, but a outrage and a insult? As to the pace, wot sort o’ pace do you think I, Tony Veller, could have kept a coach goin’ at, for five hundred thousand pound a mile, paid in adwance afore the coach was on the road? And as to the ingein—a nasty wheezin’, creaking, gasping, puffin, bustin’ monster, alvays out o’ breath, vith a shiny green and gold back, like a unpleasant beetle in that ’ere gas magnifier—as to the ingein as is alvays a pourin’ out red hot coals at night, and black smoke in the day, the sensiblest thing it does in my opinion, is, ven there’s somethin’ in the vay and it sets up that ’ere frightful scream vich seems to say, ‘Now here’s two hundred and forty passengers in the wery greatest extremity o’ danger, and here’s their two hundred and forty screams in vun!’” {15}

While Mr. Pickwick is listening to Master Humphrey’s story above, the Wellers are entertained by the housekeeper in the kitchen, where they find Mr. Slithers, the barber, to whom Sam Weller, drawing extensively we may suppose upon his lively imagination, relates the following anecdote:—

“I never knew,” said Sam, fixing his eyes in a ruminative manner upon the blushing barber, “I never knew but von o’ your trade, but he wos worth a dozen, and wos indeed dewoted to his callin’!”

“Was he in the easy shaving way, sir,” inquired Mr. Slithers; “or in the cutting and curling line?”

“Both,” replied Sam; “easy shavin’ was his natur, and cuttin’ and curlin’ was his pride and glory. His whole delight wos in his trade. He spent all his money in bears and run in debt for ’em besides, and there they wos a growling avay down in the front cellar all day long, and ineffectooally gnashing their teeth, vile the grease o’ their relations and friends wos being re-tailed in gallipots in the shop above, and the first-floor winder wos ornamented vith their heads; not to speak o’ the dreadful aggrawation it must have been to ’em to see a man alvays a walkin’ up and down the pavement outside, vith the portrait of a bear in his last agonies, and underneath in large letters, ‘Another fine animal wos slaughtered yesterday at Jinkinson’s!’ Hows’ever, there they wos, and there Jinkinson wos, till he wos took wery ill with some inn’ard disorder, lost the use of his legs, and wos confined to his bed, vere he laid a wery long time, but sich wos his pride in his profession even then, that wenever he wos worse than usual, the doctor used to go down stairs and say, ‘Jinkinson’s wery low this mornin’; we must give the bears a stir;’ and as sure as ever they stirred ’em up a bit, and made ’em roar, Jinkinson opens his eyes if he wos ever so bad, calls out, ‘There’s the bears!’ and rewives agin. Vun day the doctor happenin’ to say, ‘I shall look in as usual to-morrow mornin’,’ Jinkinson catches hold of his hand and says, ‘Doctor,’ he says, ‘will you grant me one favor?’ ‘I will, Jinkinson,’ says the doctor. ‘Then, doctor,’ says Jinkinson, ‘vill you come un-shaved, and let me shave you?’ ‘I will,’ says the doctor. ‘God bless you,’ says Jinkinson. Next day the doctor came, and arter he’d been shaved all skilful and reg’lar, he says, ‘Jinkinson,’ he says, ‘it’s wery plain this does you good. Now,’ he says, ‘I’ve got a coachman as has got a beard that it ’d warm your heart to work on, and though the footman,’ he says, ‘hasn’t got much of a beard, still he’s a trying it on vith a pair o’ viskers to that extent, that razors is christian charity. If they take it in turns to mind the carriage wen it’s a waitin’ below,’ he says, ‘wot’s to hinder you from operatin’ on both of ’em ev’ry day as well as upon me? you’ve got six children,’ he says, ‘wot’s to hinder you from shavin’ all their heads, and keepin’ ’em shaved? You’ve got two assistants in the shop down-stairs, wot’s to hinder you from cuttin’ and curlin’ them as often as you like? Do this,’ he says, ‘and you’re a man agin.’ Jinkinson squeedged the doctor’s hand, and begun that wery day; he kept his tools upon the bed, and wenever he felt his-self gettin’ worse, he turned to at vun o’ the children, who wos a runnin’ about the house vith heads like clean Dutch cheeses, and shaved him agin. Vun day the lawyer come to make his vill; all the time he wos a takin’ it down, Jinkinson was secretly a clippin’ avay at his hair vith a large pair of scissors. ‘Wot’s that ’ere snippin’ noise?’ says the lawyer every now and then, ‘it’s like a man havin’ his hair cut.’ ‘It is wery like a man havin’ his hair cut,’ says poor Jinkinson, hidin’ the scissors and lookin’ quite innocent. By the time the lawyer found it out, he was wery nearly bald. Jinkinson was kept alive in this vay for a long time, but at last vun day he has in all the children, vun arter another, shaves each on ’em wery clean, and gives him vun kiss on the crown of his head; then he has in the two assistants, and arter cuttin’ and curlin’ of ’em in the first style of elegance, says he should like to hear the woice o’ the greasiest bear, vich rekvest is immedetly complied with; then he says that he feels wery happy in his mind, and vishes to be left alone; and then he dies, prevously cuttin’ his own hair, and makin’ one flat curl in the wery middle of his forehead.” {18a}

There is a great deal more in the same vein, not unworthy of the “Pickwick Papers.” We must leave the curious reader to find it out, however, for himself.

During the progress of this publication, it seems that certain officious persons, mistaking it for a kind of omnium gatherum, by “several hands,” tendered contributions to its pages, and the author was compelled to issue the following advertisement:

MASTER HUMPHREY’S CLOCK.

MR. DICKENS begs to inform all those Ladies and Gentlemen who have tendered him contributions for this work, and all those who may now or at any future time have it in contemplation to do so, that he cannot avail himself of their obliging offers, as it is written solely by himself, and cannot possibly include any productions from other hands.

This announcement will serve for a final answer to all correspondents, and will render any private communications unnecessary.

After “winding up his Clock,” as he termed it, Dickens resolved to make a tour in the United States. Before he went away, however, some of the most distinguished citizens of Edinburgh gave him a farewell banquet. {18b} He was then only twenty-nine years of age, and this was the first great public recognition of his genius, and the first occasion that was afforded him of displaying his powers as a public speaker. Professor Wilson (Christopher North) presided, and spoke of the young author in the following terms:—

“Our friend has dealt with the common feelings and passions of ordinary men in the common and ordinary paths of life. He has not sought—at least he has not yet sought—to deal with those thoughts and passions that are made conspicuous from afar by the elevated stations of those who experience them. He has mingled in the common walks of life; he has made himself familiar with the lower orders of society. He has not been deterred by the aspect of vice and wickedness, and misery and guilt, from seeking a spirit of good in things evil, but has endeavoured by the might of genius to transmute what was base into what is precious as the beaten gold. . . . But I shall be betrayed, if I go on much longer,—which it would be improper for me to do—into something like a critical delineation of the genius of our illustrious guest. I shall not attempt that; but I cannot but express in a few ineffectual words, the delight which every human bosom feels in the benign spirit which pervades all his creations. How kind and good a man he is, I need not say; nor what strength of genius he has acquired by that profound sympathy with his fellow-creatures, whether in prosperity and happiness, or overwhelmed with unfortunate circumstances, but who do not yet sink under their miseries, but trust to their own strength of endurance, to that principle of truth and honour and integrity which is no stranger to the uncultivated bosom, which is found in the lowest abodes in as great strength as in the halls of nobles and the palaces of kings.

“Mr. Dickens is also a satirist. He satirises human life, but he does not satirise it to degrade it. He does not wish to pull down what is high into the neighbourhood of what is low. He does not seek to represent all virtue as a hollow thing, in which no confidence can be placed. He satirises only the selfish, and the hard-hearted, and the cruel; he exposes in a hideous light that principle which, when acted upon, gives a power to men in the lowest grades to carry on a more terrific tyranny than if placed upon thrones. I shall not say—for I do not feel—that our distinguished guest has done full and entire justice to one subject—that he has entirely succeeded where I have no doubt he would be most anxious to succeed—in a full and complete delineation of the female character. But this he has done: he has not endeavoured to represent women as charming merely by the aid of accomplishments, however elegant and graceful. He has not depicted those accomplishments as the essentials of their character, but has spoken of them rather as always inspired by a love of domesticity, by fidelity, by purity, by innocence, by charity, and by hope, which makes them discharge, under the most difficult circumstances, their duties; and which brings over their path in this world some glimpses of the light of heaven. Mr. Dickens may be assured that there is felt for him all over Scotland a sentiment of kindness, affection, admiration and love; and I know for certain that the knowledge of these sentiments must make him happy.”

* * * * *

Dickens left Liverpool, on his voyage across the Atlantic, in the “Britannia” steam-packet, Captain Hewett, on the 3rd of January, 1842. At Boston, Hartford, and New York, he was received with ovations (Washington Irving on one occasion presiding at a banquet held in his honour), until he was obliged to decline any further appearance in public. During this first visit to America, he made three long and eloquent speeches, which are all given in this volume in extenso. In each of these he referred in an earnest way to the great question of International Copyright, urging upon his Transatlantic friends the necessity of doing right and justice in this matter. He returned to England in the month of June, and a few weeks afterwards addressed the following circular letter to all the principal English authors:—

“1, DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, York Gate, Regent’s Park, “7th July, 1842.

“You may perhaps be aware that, during my stay in America, I lost no opportunity of endeavouring to awaken the public mind to a sense of the unjust and iniquitous state of the law in that country, in reference to the wholesale piracy of British works. Having been successful in making the subject one of general discussion in the United States, I carried to Washington, for presentation to Congress by Mr. Clay, a petition from the whole body of American authors, earnestly praying for the enactment of an International Copyright Law. It was signed by Mr. Washington Irving, Mr. Prescott, Mr. Cooper, and every man who has distinguished himself in the literature of America; and has since been referred to a Select Committee of the House of Representatives. To counteract any effect which might be produced by that petition, a meeting was held in Boston—which, you will remember, is the seat and stronghold of Learning and Letters in the United States—at which a memorial against any change in the existing state of things in this respect was agreed to, with but one dissentient voice. This document, which, incredible as it may appear to you, was actually forwarded to Congress and received, deliberately stated that if English authors were invested with any control over the re-publication of their own books, it would be no longer possible for American editors to alter and adapt them (as they do now) to the American taste! This memorial was, without loss of time, replied to by Mr. Prescott, who commented, with the natural indignation of a gentleman, and a man of letters, upon its extraordinary dishonesty. I am satisfied that this brief mention of its tone and spirit is sufficient to impress you with the conviction that it becomes all those who are in any way connected with the literature of England, to take that high stand, to which the nature of their pursuits, and the extent of their sphere of usefulness, justly entitle them, to discourage the upholders of such doctrines by every means in their power, and to hold themselves aloof from the remotest participation in a system, from which the moral sense and honourable feeling of all just men must instinctively recoil.

“For myself, I have resolved that I will never from this time enter into any negotiation with any person for the transmission across the Atlantic of early proofs of anything I may write, and that I will forego all profit derivable from such a source. I do not venture to urge this line of proceeding upon you, but I would beg to suggest, and to lay great stress upon the necessity of observing one other course of action, to which I cannot too emphatically call your attention. The persons who exert themselves to mislead the American public on this question, to put down its discussion, and to suppress and distort the truth in reference to it in every possible way, are (as you may easily suppose) those who have a strong interest in the existing system of piracy and plunder: inasmuch as, so long as it continues, they can gain a very comfortable living out of the brains of other men, while they would find it very difficult to earn bread by the exercise of their own. These are the editors and proprietors of newspapers almost exclusively devoted to the re-publication of popular English works. They are, for the most part, men of very low attainments, and of more than indifferent reputation; and I have frequently seen them, in the same sheet in which they boast of the rapid sale of many thousand copies of an English reprint, coarsely and insolently attacking the author of that very book, and heaping scurrility and slander upon his head. I would therefore entreat you, in the name of the honourable pursuit with which you are so intimately connected, never to hold correspondence with any of these men, and never to negotiate with them for the sale of early proofs of any work over which you have control, but to treat on all occasions with some respectable American publishing house, and with such an establishment only. Our common interest in this subject, and my advocacy of it, single-handed, on every occasion that has presented itself during my absence from Europe, form my excuse for addressing you.

“I am, &c., “CHARLES DICKENS.”

By his “American Notes,” and by some of the scenes in “Martin Chuzzlewit,” Dickens gave for a time great offence to the Americans, though he only satirised some of their foibles (with just a spice of piquante exaggeration), as he had ours at home. Let the reader hear what two candid Americans have recently written on this subject:—

“The ‘American Notes’ are weak, and unworthy of their author; but the American sketches in ‘Martin Chuzzlewit’ are among the cleverest and truest things he has ever written. The satire was richly deserved, well applied, and has done a great deal of good. To claim that it was mere burlesque and exaggeration, is sheer nonsense, and it is highly disingenuous to deny the existence of the absurdities upon which it was founded. Moreover, the popular implication that there is really nothing now in the country justly to provoke a smile—to urge with so much complacency that we have changed all that—argues the continued existence of not a little of the same thin-skinned tetchiness, the same inability ‘to see ourselves as others see us,’ which made us so legitimate a target before.”

“As for certain American portraits painted in Martin Chuzzlewit,” says an American lady, {24} “I should as soon think of objecting to them as I should think of objecting to any other discovery in natural history. To deny the existence of Elijah Pogram, Jefferson Brick, Colonel Diver, Mrs. Hominy, and Miss Codger, is to deny facts somewhat exaggerated, that are patent to any keen observer who has ever travelled through the United States. The character of Elijah Pogram is so well known as to constantly figure in the world of illustration; and we can well afford to laugh at foibles of native growth when Mr. Dickens devotes the greater part of this same novel to the exposition of English vice and selfishness.”

The following letter, referring to Martin Chuzzlewit, which was then in course of publication, was addressed by Mr. Dickens to a friend in January, 1844:—

“Devonshire Terrace, “January 2d, 1844.

MY DEAR SIR,