Charles Dickens in the editor’s chair

THE FIGURE OF THE amiable, accomplished, and ever-to-be-regretted Charles Dickens has been lately brought before us “even in his habit as he lived,” with abundance of detail and colour. Mr. Forster’s complete and admirable biography1, done with the taste and workmanlike finish of a true “man of letters,” will be more and more esteemed as the time from his death lengthens. Objection was indeed taken to the biographer accompanying his hero about as closely as Boswell did Johnson; but this really brought before the world much that would otherwise have been lost or unseen; and in the last volume, where the author seems to have accepted this criticism and to have become historical, there is a sensible loss of dramatic vividness.

Lately the world has received the closing collection of his Letters, edited by Miss Hogarth and Miss Dickens2, and set off with a graphic and most pleasing commentary whose only fault is that of being too short. Here his gat de cur, his unflagging spirit, wit, and genial temper, are revealed in the most striking way.

THERE IS, HOWEVER, ONE view of him which has scarcely been sufficiently dealt with, namely, his relations with his literary brethren and friends, as editor and otherwise. These exhibit him in a most engaging light, and will perhaps be a surprise even to those abundantly familiar with his amiable and gracious ways.

In the old Household Words days, the “place of business” was at a charming miniature office in Wellington Street close to the stage door of the Gaiety Theatre. It seemed all bow window; at least, its two stories it had only two were thus bowed. The drawing-room floor seemed a sunshiny, cheerful place to work in. This is now the workshop of another magazine, the Army and Navy. But I always pass it with respect and affection. I never came away from it without taking with me something pleasing.

Often, about eleven o’clock, he was to be seen tramping briskly along the Strand, coming from Charing Cross Station, fresh from his pleasant country place in Kent, keen and ready for the day’s work, and carrying his little black bag full of proofs and manuscripts. That daily journey from Higham station, with the drive to it in his little carriage or Irish car, took full an hour each way, and was a serious slice out of his time. It has, deed, seemed always a problem to me why business men, to whom moments are precious, should thus prodigal in time devoted to travelling coming from Brighton and returning at headlong speed. At Bedford Street, by the bootmaker’s shop, he would turn out of the Strand those in the shops he passed would know his figure well, d told me, after his death, how they missed this familiar apparition would then post along in the same brisk stride through Maiden Lane, past “Rule’s,” where he often had his oyster, through Tavistock Street, till he emerged in Wellington Street, the last house he passed before crossing being “Major Pitt’s,” the hatter’s. This mention of “Major Pitt” suggests that it was always pleasant to see what pride tradesmen took in having him for a customer, and what alacrity they showed in serving him or in obliging him in any way. This I believe was really owing to his charming hearty manner, ever courteous, cordial, and zealous; his cheery fashion of joking or jest, which was irresistible. The average tradesman has small sympathy or intelligence for the regular literary man. He is sometimes caviare indeed to him.

OUR WRITER, HOWEVER, was a serious personality of living flesh and blood, and would have made his way in life under any condition. His extraordinary charm of manner, never capriciously changed, the smile and laugh always ready that sympathy, too, which rises before me, and was really unique I can call no one to mind that possessed it or possesses it now in the same degree. Literary men, as a rule, have a chilliness as regards their brethren; every one is more or less working for his own hand. Yet, few men have had more anxious responsibilities or troubles to disturb them, or so much depending upon them, as he had in many ways. I believe the number of people who were always wanting “something done for them,” either in the shape of actual money advance, or advice, or productions “to be taken,” or to be seen, or to have their letters answered, or who desired letters from him in their interests, was perfectly incredible. Many a man takes refuge in a complete ignoring of these worries, which would require a life to attend to. An eminent and highly popular man of our own day, who is thus persecuted, has adopted this latter mode, and rarely takes notice of a letter from a friend or stranger, unless he is minded so to do. He is strictly in his right. You are no more bound to reply to persons that do not know you, than you are to acknowledge the attentions of an organ-grinder who plays for an hour before your window.