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Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, March 1885
Corneille was a voluminous writer. He wrote nearly as many plays as Shakespeare, but his later ones are not equal to those of his best days. And he wrote a translation in verse of the Imitatione Christi. This was a pecuniary success. The book was bought and eagerly read, though now it is rarely taken down from the shelf. But his prose, unlike Racine's, which charms by its grace, is insignificant. And, unlike Racine, his speech when he was received into the French Academy was dull, and disappointed everybody. An Academical reception is one of the occasions in which Frenchmen have always expected that the recipient of honor should distinguish himself. But it was not in Corneille's power to please his audience by making a speech. We need not be too heavy upon him because his glory was not universal. As he said of himself, he was none the less Pierre Corneille. Readers have generally extolled Corneille too highly, or have not given him his due praise. This is partly from the fact that after his great success he wrote much that was unworthy of his former self; and partly, we believe at least, that even in his best plays he is too spasmodic. His fine lines come out too much by starts, amidst much that is uninteresting. The famous “Qu'il mourût” (Horace, Act III., sc. 6) is very grand, and the next line, though not English in sentiment, is fine. But the four succeeding lines are washy, and take away from the dignity of what has just gone before. Instinctively Corneille was a dramatist, and had it not been for the laws of the unities which bound him down to conventional and unwise rules, he would in all probability have risen higher in the world's esteem. He was also a poet, having the gift of poetical expression more at his command than the larger measure of composition in prose. His lines are often sweet and very stirring, for he was moved towards his subject with a true feeling of poetic chivalry. None of his lines is more quoted than one in which he proudly spoke of himself: —
Je ne dois qu'à moi seul toute ma renommée.– Gentleman's Magazine.CHARLES DICKENS AT HOME. With Especial Reference to His Relations with Children
BY HIS ELDEST DAUGHTERCharles Dickens was a very little and very sickly boy, but he had always the belief that this circumstance had brought to him the inestimable advantage of having greatly inclined him to reading.
When money troubles came upon his parents, the poor little fellow was taken away from school and kept for some time at an occupation most distasteful to him, with every surrounding that could jar on sensitive and refined feelings. But the great hardship, and the one which he felt most acutely, was the want of the companionship of boys of his own age. A few years later on we read in “Mr. Forster's Life” a schoolfellow's description of Charles Dickens: “A healthy-looking boy, small, but well-built, with a more than usual flow of spirits, inclining to harmless fun, seldom, if never, I think, to mischief. He usually held his head more erect than lads ordinarily do, and there was a general smartness about him.” This is also a very good personal description of the man.
I have never heard him refer in any way to his own childish days, excepting in one instance, when he would tell the story of how, when he lived at Chatham he and his father often passed Gad's Hill in their walks, and what an admiration he had for the red-brick house with its beautiful old cedar trees, and how it seemed to him to be larger and finer than any other house; and how his father would tell him that if he were to be very persevering and were to work hard he might perhaps some day come to live in it. I have heard him tell this story over and over again, when he had become the possessor of the very place which had taken such a hold upon his childish affections. Beyond this, I cannot recall a single instance of any allusion being made by him to his own early childhood.
He believed the power of observation in very young children to be close and accurate, and he thought that the recollection of most of us could go further back than we supposed. I do not know how far my own memory may carry me back, but I have no remembrance of my childhood which is not immediately associated with him.
He had a wonderful attraction for children and a quick perception of their character and disposition; a most winning and easy way with them, full of fun, but also of a graver sympathy with their many small troubles and perplexities, which made them recognise a friend in him at once.
I have often seen mere babies, who would look at no other stranger present, put out their tiny arms to him with unbounded confidence, or place a small hand in his and trot away with him, quite proud and contented at having found such a companion; and although with his own children he had sometimes a sterner manner than he had with others, there was not one of them who feared to go to him for help and advice, knowing well that there was no trouble too trivial to claim his attention, and that in him they would always find unvarying justice and love. When any treat had to be asked for, the second little daughter, always a pet of her father's, was pushed into his study by the other children, and always returned triumphant. He wrote special prayers for us as soon as we could speak, interested himself in our lessons, would give prizes for industry, for punctuality, for neat and unblotted copy-books. A word of commendation from him was indeed most highly cherished, and would set our hearts glowing with pride and pleasure.
His study, to us children, was rather a mysterious and awe-inspiring chamber, and while he was at work no one was allowed to enter it. We little ones had to pass the door as quietly as possible, and our little tongues left off chattering. But at no time through his busy life was he too busy to think of us, to amuse us, or to interest himself in all that concerned us. Ever since I can remember anything I remember him as the good genius of the house, and as its happy, bright, and funny genius. He had a peculiar tone of voice and way of speaking for each of his children, who could tell, without being called by name which was the one addressed. He had funny songs which he used to sing to them before they went to bed. One in particular, about an old man who caught cold and rheumatism while sitting in an omnibus, was a great favorite, and as it was accompanied by sneezes, coughs, and gesticulations, it had to be sung over and over again before the small audience was satisfied.
I can see him now, through the mist of years, with a child nearly always on his knee at this time of the evening, his bright and beautiful eyes full of life and fun. I can hear his clear sweet voice as he sang to those children as if he had no other occupation in the world but to amuse them; and when they grew older, and were able to act little plays, it was their father himself, who was teacher, manager, and prompter to the infant amateurs. These theatricals were undertaken as earnestly and seriously as were those of the grown up people. He would teach the children their parts separately; what to do and how to do it, acting himself for their edification. At one moment he would be the dragon in “Fortunio,” at the next one of the seven servants, then a jockey – played by the youngest child, whose little legs had much difficulty to get into the tiny top-boots – until he had taken every part in the play.
As with his grown-up company of actors, so with his juvenile company, did his own earnestness and activity work upon them and affect each personally. The shyest and most awkward child would come out quite brilliantly under his patient and always encouraging training.
At the juvenile parties he was always the ruling spirit. He had acquired by degrees an excellent collection of conjuring tricks, and on Twelfth Night – his eldest son's birthday – he would very often, dressed as a magician, give a conjuring entertainment, when a little figure which appeared from a wonderful and mysterious bag, and which was supposed to be a personal friend of the conjuror, would greatly delight the audience by his funny stories, his eccentric voice and way of speaking, and by his miraculous appearances and disappearances. Of course a plum pudding was made in a hat, and was always one of the great successes of the evening. I have seen many such puddings, but no other conjurer has been able to put into a pudding all the love, sympathy, fun, and thorough enjoyment which seemed to come from the hands of this great magician. Then, when supper time came, he would be everywhere at once, serving, cutting up the great twelfth cake, dispensing the bonbons, proposing toasts, and calling upon first one child and then another for a song or recitation. How eager the little faces looked for each turn to come round, and how they would blush and brighten up when the magician's eyes looked their way!
One year, before a Twelfth Night dance, when his two daughters were quite tiny girls, he took it into his head that they must teach him and his friend John Leech the polka. The lessons were begun as soon as thought of, and continued for some time. It must have been rather a funny sight to see the two small children teaching those two men – Mr. Leech was over six feet – to dance, all four as solemn and staid as possible.
As in everything he undertook, so in this instance, did Charles Dickens throw his whole heart into the dance. No one could have taken more pains than he did, or have been more eager and anxious, or more conscientious about steps and time than he was. And often, after the lesson was over, he would jump up and have a practice by himself. When the night of the party came both the small dancing mistresses felt anxious and nervous. I know that the heart of one beat very fast when the moment for starting off arrived. But both pupils acquitted themselves perfectly, and were the admiration of all beholders.
Sir Roger de Coverley was always the finale to those dances, and was a special favorite of Charles Dickens, who kept it up as long as possible, and was as unflagging in his dancing enthusiasm as was his own “Fizziwig” in his.
There can be but little doubt that the children who came to those parties, and who have lived to grow up to be men and women, remember them as something bright and sunny in their young lives, and must always retain a loving feeling for their kind and genial host.
In those early days when he was living in Devonshire Terrace, his children were quite babies. And when he paid his first visit to America – accompanied by Mrs. Dickens – they were left under the care of some relations and friends. Anyone reading “The Letters of Charles Dickens” must be touched by his frequent allusions to these children, and by the love and tenderness expressed in his longings to see them again.
I can recall but very little of those days. I can remember our being obliged to spend much of the time at the house of a dear and good friend, but where the children of the house were very severely and sternly brought up. And I can remember how my little sister used to cry whenever she had to go there. I have also a vague remembrance of the return of the travellers, and of being lifted up to a gate and kissing my father through the bars. I do not know how the gate came to be shut, but imagine that he, in his impatience and eagerness to see us again, must have jumped out of the carriage before there was time for the gate to be opened.
I cannot at all recall his appearance at this time, but know from old portraits that his face was beautiful. I think he was fond of dress, and must have been rather a dandy in his way. Carrying my memory further on, I can remember him as very handsome. He had a most beautiful mouth, sensitive, strong, and full of character. This was, unfortunately, hidden when he took to wearing – some years afterwards – a beard and mustache. But this is the only alteration I can remember in him, as to me his face never seemed to change at all. He had always an active, young, and boyish-looking figure, and a way of holding his head a little thrown back, which was very characteristic. This carriage of the head, and his manner altogether, are exactly inherited by one of his sons.
Charles Dickens was always a great walker, but in these days he rode and drove more than he did in later years. He was fond of the game of battledore and shuttlecock, and used constantly to play with friends on summer evenings. There is a little drawing by the late Daniel Maclise, where a shuttlecock is to be seen in the air. This is suggestive of many and many a pleasant evening in the garden, which was shut in all round by a high wall, and where, in summer time, a tent was always put up, and where, after dinner the family would adjourn for “dessert,” This was always considered by us a special treat.
As the children grew older, there were evenings when they would be allowed to drive out into the country, and then get out of the carriage and walk with “Papa.” It seems now as if the wild flowers which used to be gathered on those evenings in the country lanes were sweeter and more beautiful than any which grow nowadays! The very lanes have all disappeared and grown into houses. But the memory of the one who originated those treats, and who was the good spirit of the time, can never be blotted out.
Charles Dickens brought a little white Havannah spaniel with him from America, and from that time there were always various pets about the house. In particular there was an eagle and a raven. The eagle had a sort of grotto made for him in the garden, to which he was chained, and being chained he was not quite such an object of terror to the children as the raven was. This raven, with its mischievous nature, delighted in frightening them. One of the little daughters had very chubby, rosy legs, and the raven used to run after and peck at them, until poor “Tatie's leds” became a constant subject for commiseration. Yet the raven was a great source of amusement to the family, and there were countless funny stories about him. He was especially wicked to the eagle; as soon as his food was brought to him, the raven would swoop down upon it, take it just beyond the eagle's reach, mount guard over it, dancing round it, and chuckling. When he considered he had tantalised the poor bird enough, he would eat the food as deliberately and slowly as possible, and then hop away perfectly contented with himself. He was not the celebrated Grip of “Barnaby Rudge,” but was given after the death of that bird.
In bringing up his children, Charles Dickens was always most anxious to impress upon them that as long as they were honest and truthful, so would they always be sure of having justice done to them. To show how strongly he felt about this, and what a horror he had of their being frightened, or in any way unnecessarily intimidated, his own words shall be quoted: —
“In the little world in which children have their existence, whosoever brings them up, there is nothing so finely perceived and so finely felt as injustice. It may only be small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is small, and its rocking-horse stands as many hands high, according to scale, as a big-boned Irish hunter.” And again: – “It would be difficult to overstate the intensity and accuracy of an intelligent child's observation. At that impressible time of life, it must sometimes produce a fixed impression. If the fixed impression be of an object terrible to the child, it will be (for want of reasoning upon) inseparable from great fear. Force the child at such a time, be Spartan with it, send it into the dark against its will, and you had better murder it.”
He was always tender with us, as I have said, in our small troubles and trials. When the time came for the eldest son to be sent to a boarding-school, there was great grief in the nursery at Devonshire Terrace, and he came unexpectedly upon one of his daughters who was putting away some school-books, and crying bitterly at the time. To him the separation could not have seemed such a terrible one, as the boy was certainly to come home once a month, if not once a week. But he soothed the weeping child, and reasoned with her, using much the same arguments as he did years afterwards, when the well-beloved Plorn went to Australia – namely, that these partings were “Hard, hard things, but must be borne,” until at last the sobs ceased, and the poor aching little heart had found consolation in his loving sympathy.
There are so many people, good, kind, and affectionate, but who can not remember that they once were children themselves, and looked out upon the world with a child's eyes only!
A third daughter was born in Devonshire Terrace, but only lived to be nine months old. Her death was very sudden, and happened while Charles Dickens was presiding at a public dinner. He had been playing with the baby before starting for the dinner, and the little thing was then as well and as bright as possible.
An evening or two after her death, some beautiful flowers were sent and were brought into the study, and the father was about to take them upstairs and place them on the little dead baby, when he suddenly gave away completely. It is always very terrible to see a man weep; but to see your own father weep, and to see this for the first time as a child, fills you with a curious awe.
When the grave where the little Dora was buried was opened, a few years ago, and the tiny coffin was seen lying at the bottom of it, the remembrance of that evening in the study at Devonshire Terrace was fresh in the minds of some of those who were standing at the grave.
It was always a great honor and delight to any of the children to have any special present from “Papa,” and on the occasion of a daughter's birthday a watch had been promised, and the day was eagerly looked forward to by the whole of the family. When the morning arrived, Charles Dickens was not well, and was unable to get up to breakfast, but the little girl was sent for, and went up to his bedside in a state of trembling and anxious expectation. He put his arms round her and kissed her, wishing her “Many happy returns of the day,” and took a case from under his pillow and opened it. But when she saw first a gold watch, and then when he turned it and showed an enamelled back, with her initials also in enamel, it was many seconds before the joyful Oh! could be gasped out; but when it did come, and she met her father's eyes, I don't think they were freer from a certain sort of moisture than were those of the happy and delighted child.
When the move was made from Devonshire Terrace to Tavistock House – a far larger and handsomer house than the old home – Charles Dickens promised his daughters a better bedroom than they ever had before, and told them that he should choose “the brightest of papers” for it, but that they were not to see “the gorgeous apartment” until it was ready for their use. But when the time came for the move, and the two girls were shown their room, it surpassed even their expectations. They found it full of love and thoughtful care, and as pretty and as fresh as their hearts could desire, and with not a single thing in it which had not been expressly chosen for them, or planned by their father. The wall-paper was covered with wild-flowers, the two little iron bedsteads were hung with a flowery chintz. There were two toilet-tables, two writing-tables, two easy chairs, etc., etc., all so pretty and elegant, and this in the days when bedrooms were not, as a rule, so luxurious as they are now.
Notwithstanding his constant and arduous work, he was never too busy to be unmindful of the comfort and welfare of those about him, and there was not a corner in any of his homes, from kitchen to garret, which was not constantly inspected by him, and which did not boast of some of his neat and orderly contrivances. We used to laugh at him sometimes and say we believed that he was personally acquainted with every nail in the house.
It was in this home, some few years later, that the first grown-up theatricals were given. And these theatricals were very remarkable, in that nearly every part was filled by some celebrated man in either literature or art.
Besides being a really great actor, Charles Dickens as a manager was quite incomparable. His “company” was as well trained as any first-class professional company, and although always kind and pleasant, he was feared and looked up to by every member of his company. The rehearsals meant business and hard work, and sometimes even tears to a few, when all did not go quite satisfactorily. Each one knew that there could be no trifling, no playing at work. As in the children's performances so in these later ones did he know every part, and enter heart and soul into each character. If any new idea came into his head, he would at once propound it to the actor or actress, who, looking upon that earnest face and active figure, would do his or her very best to gain a managerial smile of approval.
He had a temporary theatre built out into the garden, and the scenes were painted by some of the greatest scene-painters of the day. A drop-scene, representing Eddystone lighthouse, by the late Clarkson Stanfield, R.A., was afterwards framed and covered with glass, and hung in the entrance hall of Gad's Hill.
In the play called “The Lighthouse,” written by Mr. Wilkie Collins, the great effect at the end of an act was to come from a storm, and the rehearsing of this storm was a very serious matter indeed. There was a long wooden box with peas in it, to be moved slowly up and down to represent rain – a wheel to be turned for wind – a piece of oilcloth to be dashed upon oilcloth and slowly dragged away, for the waves coming up and then receding, carrying the pebbles along with them – a heavy weight rolled about upon the floor above the stage, for thunder, etc., etc.
At the time of the storm the manager's part kept him on the stage, but during rehearsal he somehow or other managed to be in the hall where the storm was worked, as well as on the stage, for he sometimes appeared with the rain, sometimes with the wind, sometimes with the thunder, until he had seen each separate part made perfect. This storm was pronounced by the audience a most wonderful success. I know there was such a noise “behind the scenes” that we could not hear ourselves speak, and it was most amusing to watch all the actors in their sailor dresses and their various “make-ups,” gravely and solemnly pounding away at these raw materials.
Then the suppers after these evenings were so delightful! Many and many of the company, besides the dear manager, have passed away, but many still remain to remember them.
Until he came into possession of Gad's Hill, Charles Dickens was in the habit of removing his whole household to some seaside place every summer. For many years Broadstairs was the favorite spot, and for some seasons he rented a house there, called Fort House. It stood on a hill surrounded by a nice garden, a little out of the town, and close to the cliff, and was a home of which he was very fond. Since those days the name of it has been changed to Bleak House. During these seaside visits he would take long walks, in all weathers – and always accompanied by one faithful friend and companion – and would get as brown and as weather-beaten as any of the sailors about, of whom he was the special favorite. I think he had some of the sailor element in himself. One always hears of sailors being so neat, handy, and tidy, and he possessed all these qualities to a wonderful extent. When a sea captain retires, his garden is always the trimmest about, the gates are painted a bright green, and of course he puts up a flag-staff. The garden at Gad's Hill was the trimmest and the neatest, green paint was on every place where it could possibly be put, and the flag staff had an endless supply of flags.
There was one year spent in Italy, when the children were still very young, and another year in Switzerland, at Lausanne; but after Broadstairs, Boulogne became the favorite watering-place. It was here, in a charming villa, quite out of the town, that he and his youngest son, “The Plorn,” would wander about the garden together admiring the flowers, the little fellow being taught to show his admiration by holding up his tiny arms. It was a pretty sight to watch them down the long avenue, the baby looking so sweet in its white frock and blue ribbons, either carried in his father's arms, or toddling by his side with his little hand in his, and a most perfect understanding between them! There were always anecdotes to be told of the Plorn after these walks, when his father invariably wound up with the assertion that he was “a noble boy.” Being the youngest of the family, he was made a great pet of, especially by his father, and was kept longer at home than any of his brothers had been.
