By Percy Fitzgerald.

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 gaîté de cœur, 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.

There were many little Household Words traditions. The “chief” himself always wrote with blue ink on blue paper. His was a singularly neat and regular hand, really artistic in its conception, legible yet not very legible to those unfamiliar with it. Here, as in everything else, was to be noted the perfect finish, as it might be styled, of his letter-writing the disposition of the paragraphs, even the stopping, the use of capitals, all showing artistic knowledge, and conveying excellent and valuable lessons. His “copy” for the printers, written as it is in very small hand, much crowded, is trying enough to the eyes, but the printers never found any difficulties. It was much and carefully corrected, and wherever there was erasure, it was done in thorough fashion, so that what was effaced could not be read. Nearly all the band followed his example in writing in blue ink and on blue paper, and this for many years; but not without inconvenience. For, like the boy and his button, described by Sir Walter Scott, the absence of paper or ink of the necessary colour affected the ideas, and one worked under serious disabilities, strangeness, etc. Another idiosyncrasy of his was writing the day of the month in full, as “January twenty-sixth.”

It is in his relations with writers in his periodical, and, indeed, in all connections with his “literary brethren,” as he modestly called them, that this amiable and engaging man appears to the most extraordinary advantage. As I read over his many letters on those points, I am amazed at the good-natured allowance, the untiring good humour, the wish to please and make pleasant, the almost deference, the modesty in one of his great position as head, perhaps, of all living writers to say nothing of his position as director of the periodical which he kindled with his own perpetual inspirations. There was ever the same uniform good nature and ardour, the eagerness to welcome and second any plan, a reluctance to dismiss it, and this done with apologies; all, too, in the strangest contrast to the summary and plain-spoken fashion of the ordinary editor. I fancy this view has scarcely been sufficiently brought out in all the numerous estimates of this most charming of men. And, at the risk of some intrusion of my own concerns, I shall be enabled to show him in even a more engaging and attractive light. The various accounts have scarcely been concerned with this side of his character.

This patient interest should, in these editorial matters, be considered more wonderful when it is remembered that his position as head of an important periodical made him a marked figure for importunity. Many of his friends were tempted to become “literary.” They even had their friends who desired to become literary, and under pressure would introduce to this great writer immature and unprofitable efforts, which he had to put aside with what excuses he could. Then there were his “literary brethren,” each with his “novel” or short paper, which it would occur to him some morning “he would send off to Dickens.” These had to be considered, and his good nature or courtesy drawn upon. As for the general herd of scribblers, the postman on “this beat” could give due account of the packages of manuscript that daily arrived. It was no wonder that he had to compose a sort of special circular answer, which was duly lithographed and returned with their productions to the various candidates. I believe every composition was seriously glanced at, and some estimate made and many an obscure clever girl was surprised to find her efforts appreciated. The usual rejection form was as follows:

SIR,

I am requested by Mr. Charles Dickens to express his regret that he cannot accept the contribution you have had the goodness to offer him for insertion in this periodical. So many manuscripts are forwarded to this office, that Mr. Dickens trusts it is only necessary to suggest to you the impossibility of its business being transacted if a special letter of explanation were addressed to every correspondent whose proffered aid is declined. But he wishes me to convey to you the assurance, firstly, that your favour has been honestly read, and secondly, that it is always less a pleasure to him than it is his interest to avail himself of any contributions that are, in his judgement, suited to the requirements of Household Words.

THE BAND OF WRITERS he assembled round him and inspired was certainly remarkable. There was Hollingshead, incisive, wonderful in collecting facts where abuses were concerned, and in putting his facts into vigorous, downright English. His strokes always told, and a little paper of his conceived in this spirit, entitled “The City of Unlimited Paper,” simple subject, was copied at length into the Times, and from the Times into other papers. There was Moy Thomas, now the pleasant writer of the Monday “Causeries ” in the Daily News. There was Walter Thornbury, with his extraordinary knowledge of London antiquities and curious “out-of-the-way ” reading, an explorer of old “wynds” and alleys, from “Booksellers’ Row ” to Red Lion Square; very dainty in his taste, as his quaint bookplate, designed for him by Mr. Marks, shows. He had great antiquarian knowledge, and yet, odd to say, a facile dramatic and unantiquarian style. There was also the amiable Charles Collins – our “Conductor’s” son-in-law – a man of a quiet pleasant humour with a flavour of its own, and who was heartily liked by his friends. He had a remarkably sweet disposition, though sorely tried by perpetual ill health. His humour was stimulated by the companionship of his father-in-law, and took somewhat the same cast. For instance when he was appointed, during one of the great exhibitions, to the odd function – but that era of exhibitions engendered all sorts of fantastic things – of making a collection of all the existing newspapers of the kingdom, the oddities that cropped up during this duty tickled his fancy and that of his friends hugely. He noted that the smaller and more obscure the place, the grander and more commanding was the title of its organ – witness The Skibbereen Eagle, a name that gave him much delight. Writing he delighted in, but, by a cruel fate, it was a labour, if of love, yet accompanied by something like torture. Every idea or sentence was wrung from him, as he said, like drops of blood. Neither ideas nor words would flow. His “Cruise upon Wheels,” a record of a journey along the French roads in a gig, is a most charming travel-book, in which his quaint humour is well shown. The late Andrew Halliday was another useful writer that could be depended on to gather hard facts, and set them out when gathered in vivacious style. He enjoyed a fixed substantial salary – think of that, ye occasional “contributors” and I have seen him arrive in his hansom with his formal list of “subjects” for treatment, which were carefully gone through, debated, and selected. He afterwards made play-writing his regular vocation, but was cut off in his prime, like many a writer. There was Parkinson, and there was Professor Morley; above all, there was the always brilliant George Augustus Sala, perhaps the only writer in periodicals who writes a distinctly original style, with personality and unflagging vivacity. I have not space to dwell on his merits here, but I may at least confess to looking with a sort of wistful envy at his exquisite penmanship, that seems never to depart from one steady standard of excellence. The surprising neatness and clear picturesqueness of his calligraphy is the delight of compositors, as with humiliation I have to confess that mine is their despair. Indeed, I may make a clean breast of it and further own that on one journal of enormous circulation the men demanded, and obtained, extra pay “for setting Mr. Fitzgerald’s copy!” The old Household Words – a title infinitely superior to All the Year Round – has lately been revived by the old editor’s son, a capable, energetic, and clever man, who has pushed his way with success. One of the old guild thus writes of the new venture in the Daily News:

One function of the original Household Words, as of its legitimate successor All the Year Round, has proved to be that of ushering in new claimants to a place in the world of literature and journalism. The great position enjoyed by Dickens in the literary world, his early and intimate connection with newspaper work as a man ‘in the gallery,” and his genial and helpful nature, attracted a crowd of aspirants around him. He was immeasurably more infested than ever was Pope by “frantic poetess” and “rhyming peer” and the “parson much bemused with beer” was assuredly not wanting. Out of this crowd of claimants he chose his “young men” with the skill of a born leader, and helped them on by tongue and pen, by shrewd counsel, and fierce “cutting” of their articles. If he had any fault, it was the good nature which prevented him from crushing unhappy creatures, doubtless well fitted for every pursuit but that of letters, who were induced persevere by his mistaken kindness, to their own ultimate sorrow and discomfiture. Some had written much or little before they came to him, but the fact remains that it was under his leadership that they achieved reputation. Beneath the banner upheld by Charles Dickens and his faithful friend, the late Mr. W. H. Wills, marched a brilliant array of writers, if not quite of the Titanic proportions of the early contributors to Frasers Magazine, yet noteworthy by their brilliant success in the new periodical. Mr. Wilkie Collins had previously written fiction, but his most famous work, “The Woman in White,” appeared in Household Words. The late Mr. Charles Collins was actually egged on by “the chief” into writing his remarkable “Eye-Witness” and other papers. Mr. Sala’s “Key of the Street” unlocked for him the avenue to his successful career; and Mr. Grenville Murray spread his wings as “The Roving Englishman” and made his mark by a fierce attack on the late Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, whom he satirized as “Sir Hector Stubble.” Mr. Edmund Yates’s best novel, “Black Sheep,” and scores of his best articles, appeared in the journal “conducted by Charles Dickens,” as did Lord Lytton’s “Strange Story;” as well as “Hard Times,” “Great Expectations,” the “Uncommercial Traveller” and a regiment of Christmas stories by the hand of the Master himself. Among the writers of poems and stories, short and long, essays and descriptions, are the well-known names of Harriet Martineau, Mrs. Gaskell, Peter Cunningham, Miss Jewsbury, John Forster, Albert Smith, James Hannay, and Mark Lemon.

THE TIME WHEN “the Christmas Number” had to be got ready was always one of pleasant expectancy and alacrity. It was an object for all to have a seat in “a vehicle” which travelled every road and reached the houses of a quarter of a million persons. With his usual conscientious feeling of duty to the public, he laboured hard, first, to secure a good and telling idea; and second, to work it out on the small but effective scale with which he had latterly grown unfamiliar, owing to his habit of dealing with large canvases. Hence the labour was in proportion, and at last became so irksome that he gave the place up altogether, though it must have been a serious loss of profit. Frappez vite et frappez fort, was the system. I remember his saying, when complaining of this tax, “I have really put as much into Mrs. Lirriper as would almost make a novel.” He himself generally supplied a framework and a couple of short stories, and the rest was filled in by “other hands.” I have myself furnished two in a single number.

As the time drew near, a pleasantly welcome circular went forth to a few of the writers of the journal; the paragraphs of which, as they exhibit his lighter touches, will be welcome. They show, too, the matter-of-fact, business-like style in which the matter was conceived and carried out.

In inviting you to contribute to our Christmas Number, I beg to send you Mr. Dickens’s memorandum of the range that may be taken this year. You will see that it is a wide one.

The slight leading notion of the Number being devised with a view to placing as little restriction as possible on the fancies of my fellow-writers in it, there is again no limitation as to scene or first person or third person; nor is any reference to the season of the year essential.

It is to be observed that the tales are not supposed to be narrated to any audience, but are supposed to be in writing. How they come to be in writing requires no accounting for whatever. Nothing to which they refer can have happened within seven years. If any contribution should be of a kind that would derive any force or playfulness, or suggestiveness of any sort, from the pretence that it is incomplete – that the beginning is not there, or the end, or the middle, or any other portion – the pretence will be quite consistent with the general idea of the Number.

On another anniversary the circular ran:–

Your tale may be narrated either in the first or in the third person – may be serious or droll – may be told by an individual of either sex, and of any station. It is not essential to lay the scene of action in England (though the tale is told in England), and no reference whatever to Christmas is desired.

The tale is supposed to be related by word of mouth to a man who has retired from the world and shut himself up moodily, gloomily, and dirtily. Generally it should have some latent bearing by implication on the absurdity of such a proceeding – on the dependence of mankind on one another – and on the wholesome influences of the gregarious habits of humanity.

A third was to this effect:–

The tales may be in the first person or in the third, and may relate to any season or period. They may be supposed to be told to an audience or to the reader, or to be penned by the writer without knowing how they will come to light. How they come to be told at all does not require to be accounted for. If they could express some new resolution formed, some departure from an old idea or course that was not quite wholesome, it might be better for the general purpose. Yet even this is not indispensable.

The following was more elaborate:–

An English trading-ship (with passengers on board), bound for California, is supposed to have got foul of an iceberg, and becomes a wreck. The crew and passengers, not being very many in number, and the captain being a cool man with his wits about him, one of the boats was hoisted out, and some stores were got over the side into her before the ship went down. Then all hands, with few exceptions, were got into the boat – an open one – and they got clear of the wreck, and put their trust in God.

The captain set the course and steered, and the rest rowed by spells when the sea was smooth enough for the use of the oars. They had a sail besides. At sea in the open boat for many days and nights, with the prospect before them of being swamped by any great wave, or perishing with hunger, the people in the boat began, after a while, to be horribly dispirited. The captain, remembering that the narration of stories had been attended with great success on former occasions in similar disasters, in preventing the shipwrecked persons’ minds from dwelling on the horrors of their condition, proposed that such as could tell anything to the rest should tell it. So the stories are introduced.

The adventures narrated need not of necessity have happened in all cases to the people in the boat themselves. Neither does it matter whether they are told in the first or in the third person. The whole narrative of the wreck will be given by the captain to the reader in introducing the stories, also the final deliverance of the people. There are persons of both sexes in the boat. The writer of any story may suppose any sort of person – or none, if that be all – as the captain will identify him if need be. But among the wrecked there might naturally be the mate, the cook, the carpenter, the armourer (or worker in iron), the boy, the bride passenger, the bridegroom passenger, the sister passenger, the brother passenger, the mother or father passenger, or son or daughter passenger, the runaway passenger, the child passenger, the old seaman, the toughest of the crew, etc., etc.

This was the skeleton or ribs of “The Wreck of the Golden Mary” which had extraordinary success, though some critics were merry on the idea of the suffering passengers having to listen to such long narratives – one adding that he wondered that it did not precipitate the catastrophe.

Another was more general:–

Mr. Dickens is desirous that each article in the new year’s Number of Household Words shall have reference to something new, and I beg to ask you to assist us in producing a paper expressive of that always desirable quality.

I can give you no better hint of the idea than the roughest notion of what one or two of the titles of the papers might be: A New Country; A New Discovery (in science, art, or social life); A New Lover; A New Play, or Actor, or Actress; A New Boy.

Your own imagination will doubtless suggest a topic or a story which would harmonize with the plan.

Yet one more:–

In order that you may be laid under as little constraint as possible, Mr. Dickens wishes to present the requirements of the Number, in the following general way:–

A story of adventure – that is to say, involving some adventurous kind of interest – would be best adapted to the design. It may be a story of travel, or battle, or imprisonment, or escape, or shipwreck, or peril of any kind – peril from storm, or from being benighted or lost; or peril from fire or water. It may relate to sea or land. It may be incidental to the life of a soldier, sailor, fisherman, miner, grave-digger, engineer, explorer, pedlar, merchant, servant of either sex, or any sort of watcher from a man in a lighthouse, or a coastguardsman, to an ordinary night nurse. There is no necessary limitation as to the scene, whether abroad or at home; nor as to the time, within a hundred years. Nor is it important whether the story be narrated in the first person or in the third. Nor is there any objection to its being founded on some expedition.

In connection with this matter, I may say that nothing was more delightful than the unrestrained way in which he confided his plans about his own stories, or discussed others connected with mine, imparting quite a dramatic interest and colour to what might, as mere business details, have been left to his deputy.

ONCE, IN A LITTLE town in Wales, I had seen a quaint local museum, formed by an old ship captain who had collected odds and ends of his profession, mostly worthless, much like what is described in “Little Pedlington.” The oddest feature was the garden, in which he had planted various figure-heads of vessels, Dukes of York, Queen Charlottes, and others, who gazed on the visitors with an extraordinary stare, half ghastly, half grotesque. This seemed to furnish a hint for the machinery of one of the Christmas stories, and was suggested to him.

That notion of the shipbreaker’s garden (he wrote, November, 1865) takes my fancy strongly. If I had not been already at work upon the Christmas Number when you suggested it, I think I must have tried my hand upon it. As it is, I often revert to it, and go about and about it, and pat it into new forms, much as the buttermen in the shops (who have something of a literary air at their wooden desks) pat the butter. I have been vexed at not being able to get your story into “Doctor Marigold.” I tried it again and again, but could not adapt its length to the other requirements of the Number. Once I cut it, but was not easy afterwards, and thought it best to restore the excision and leave the whole for a regular Number. The difficulty of fitting and adapting this annual job is hardly to be imagined without trying it. For the rest, I hope you will like the Doctor – and know him at once – as he speaks for himself in the first paper and the last. Also I commend to your perusal a certain short story, headed “To be taken with a grain of salt.”

I hope you are in force and spirits with your new story, and hope you noticed in the Times the other day that our friend ____ is married.

How amazing this modesty, and these excuses for not using what another would have simply said he found “unsuited to the magazine.”

AS I LOOK OVER the records of his interest in my undeserving scribblings, there comes, mingled with pain and regret for this genial, never-flagging friend, something of a little pride in having gained the interest of so true and genuine a nature. It will be seen how he encouraged – how even grateful he appeared to be for anything he thought good or successful, and how patient and apologetic he was under circumstances where his good will and good nature were tried. It was so for a long period of years; he was the same from beginning to end; no caprice; steady, firm, treu und fest. Carlyle, in a single line, gave the truest estimate of him.

Another trait in him was his unfailing pleasure in communicating some little composition with which he was particularly pleased; or he would tell of some remarkable story that he had been sent, or would send one of his own which he fancied hugely. It was a source, too, of pleasant, welcome surprise to find how he retained in his memory, and would quote, various and sundry of one’s own humbler efforts – those that had passed into his 0wn stock associations. These generally referred some experience or humorous adventure, or it might be some account of a dog. After two or three years of industrious practice short stories and essays, I had fancied I could succeed in novel-writing with a first attempt, and timidly suggested that I might “try my hand” in his weekly journal. He at once agreed, and good-naturedly had about half a volume “set up,” so as to give the production every chance in the reading. But the attempt was immature; the waxen wings melted, and he was obliged to decline it. By-and-by I got a new pair, and, making more formal attempt in two volumes, was lucky enough to make a success.

W. H. Wills.

The history of this little transaction will be found interesting, not, of course, from my own share, but as illustrating that charm of hearty good will which marked every act of his where his friends were concerned. Here also enters on the scene his faithful coadjutor and assistant, W. H. Wills; a sterling character, practical, business-like, and yet never letting his naturally friendly temper be overcome by the stern necessities of his office. He had a vast amount of business, as may be conceived; yet his letters, of which I have some hundreds before me now, were always playful, amusing, clever, and written in a flowing lengthy style – even to “crossing.” His sagacity was heartily appreciated by his chief. He ever appeared a most favourable specimen of the successful literary man.

AT THE RISK OF becoming more personal, I may enter a little at length on the subject of what Lamb calls the “kindly engendure” of this story – which, in truth, has some flavour of the romance of authorship. I had sent my successful two-volume venture to my friend:–

My DEAR FITZGERALD,

Do not condemn me unheard (I know you are putting on the black cap). I have been silent, but only on paper; for a fortnight after you last heard from me I was roaring with pain. The first use of my convalescence was to read your story like a steam-engine. My impression is that it is the best novel I have read for years; why I think so I need not tell you. I posted off with it to Dickens, whose impression of it results in this: that we should like you to write a novel for All the Year Round. If you respond to that wish, it will afford me very great pleasure.

In that case, it would be very necessary for you to begin at once; for should you make a hit with your plot, we would require to publish the first instalment in September next. The modus operandi I propose is this: let us have a rough sketch of your plot and characters; Dickens would consider it, offer you suggestions for improvement if he saw fit, or condemn it, or accept it as you present it if he saw no ground for remark. In case of a negative you would not mind, perhaps, trying another programme. I need not tell you how great an advantage it would be for you to work under so great a master of the art which your novel shows you to know the difficulties of, and your artistic sympathies will, I know, prompt you to take full advantage of hints which he would give you, not only in the construction and conduct of your story, but in details, as you proceed with it in weekly portions.

Experience has shown us that the pre-appearance of a novel in our pages, instead of occupying the field for after-publication in volumes, gives an enormous stimulus to the issue in a complete form. We can therefore insure you for your work, if it will fill three volumes, five hundred pounds (£500), part of which we would pay for our use of your manuscript, and part the publisher of the volumes would pay; but we would, in case of acceptance, guarantee you £500, whatever the republication may fetch.

Think this over, and when your thoughts are matured, let me have them in your next letter.

This was almost thrilling to read. Every word was as inspiring as the blast of a trumpet. It will be noted how pleased the writer is at the very communication of his intelligence. And then the “pécune”! Five hundred pounds! The diligent magazine-writer might exclaim with one of Jerrold’s characters, “Is there so much money in the world!” It was really liberal and generous.

No time was lost in setting to work. I had blocked out a plan – what dramatists call a scenario – and had, about as soon, set to work and written a good many chapters and sent them in.

IT WILL NOW BE characteristic to see what pains were taken – how heads were laid together to improve and make good – all under the master’s directions and inspirations, who, as he said often, always gave to the public his best labour and best work. This constancy always seemed to me wonderful. He never grew fagged or careless, or allowed his work to be distasteful to him. This is a most natural feeling, and comes with success; and there is a tendency to “scamp” work when the necessity for work is less. Mr. Thackeray confessed to this sense – in the days when he became recherche – and found a sort of distaste to his work almost impossible to surmount.

The first questions started on this great business came from my old friend the sub-editor, the master’s excellent auxiliary. It will be seen how staunch he was, and true to both interests – that of his journal and that of the writer:–

I am nearly as anxious as you are about your story. I may tell you that my judgement is in favour of it, so far as it has gone ; but Dickens, while never wholly losing sight of the main end, object, and purpose of the story, often condemns one because its details are ill done. He takes such infinite pains with the smallest touches of his own word-pictures, that he gets impatient and disgusted with repetitions of bad writing and carelessness (often showing want of respect for, as well as ignorance of, the commonest principles of art). I, perhaps, sin too much on the other side. I say that the general public whom we address in our large circulation are rather insensible than other- wise to literary grace and correctness; that they are often intensely excited by incidents conveyed to their minds in the worst grammar.

Mind, I only make these remarks for your guidance. My advice to you is, write for all your proofs, go over them very carefully. Take out as many Carlyleisms as you can see (your writing abounds with them), make clear that which is here and there obscure without a reader’s consideration and retracing of the text – a labour which novel- readers especially hate; in short, put as high a polish on your details as you can, and I may almost promise you success. Dickens is vagabondizing at present, and won’t be back for ten days; get all ready by that time.

It is not impossible that we may have to call upon you suddenly to let us commence the story in a week or two ; but it may be deferred for a year. At all events, I can promise you a decision on all points when C. D. shows up.

I find a fault in your other novel which is creeping into Miss ____’s: a want of earnestness; a Thackerayish pretence of indifference, which you do not feel, to the stronger emotions and statements of your characters. If you excite the emotions of your readers, and convey the idea that you feel a lofty contempt for emotion in general, they feel sold, and will hate your want of taking them in.

I don’t say a word in praise of your new venture, though I think a great deal. I want you and your writing to make a hit, not only with C. D. but with the public; and what I have said (which will make you detest me, at least till after church-time on Sunday) may be a small contribution towards that object, which I do most earnestly desire. About Monday, when your heart is open to forgiveness of sins like mine (or before it prove less obdurate), let me hear from you.

One other thing. You see Sala’s story lies chiefly in Paris. Could you not adopt my suggestion of giving your story its natural progression, and postponing chapter the first to its natural place in the story? My conviction is that you would make an improvement thereby in all respects.

After many debates, it was at last determined attempt the venture:–

Next let me convey to you the intelligence (wrote our chief), that I resolve to launch it, fully confiding in your conviction of the power of the story. On all business points Wills will communicate with you.

The only suggestion I have to make as to the MS. in hand and type is that Fermor wants relief. It is a disagreeable character, as you mean it to be, and I should be afraid to do so much with him, if the case were mine, without taking the taste of him here and there out of the reader’s mouth. It is remarkable that, if you do not administer a disagreeable character carefully, the public have a decided tendency to think that the story is disagreeable, and not merely the fictitious person.

What do you think of this title, “Never Forgotten”? It is a good one in itself, and would express the eldest sister’s pursuit, and, glanced at now and then in the text, would hold the reader in suspense. Let me know your opinion as to the title. I need not assure you that the greatest care will be taken of you here, and that we shall make you as thoroughly well and widely known as we possibly can.

G. A. Sala.

Now, this was all encouraging and cordial to a degree. Yet, I seem to see the editor here, more or less; and friendly and good-natured as these assurances were, in the case of an acquiescence, it will be seen what a difference there was in his tone as time went on, and he was good enough to have a “liking,” as it is called, for the writer; even the slightly authoritative air that is here disappeared. I frankly confess that, having met innumerable men, and having had dealings with innumerable men, I never met one with an approach to his genuine, unaffected, unchanging kindness, or one that ever found so sunshiny a pleasure in doing one a kindness. I cannot call to mind that any request I ever made to him was ungranted, or left without an attempt to grant it.

The letter just quoted conveys a most precious lesson to the novel-writer whose craft, indeed, requires many lessons. Having written nearly twenty novels myself, I may speak with a little experience, and frankly own that it was not till I had passed my dozenth that I began to learn some few principles of the art; having written, as so many do, “as the spirit moved,” or by fancied inspiration.

The allusion to the “bold advertisement” was, indeed, handsomely carried out. Few would have such advantages of publicity as one writing a novel for All the Year Round in those days. There was e prestige of association with the master, while he condition in which your work was brought before the public was truly effective.

ALL THIS HAPPILY SETTLED, the affair was duly announced. No expense was spared. Vivid yellow posters, six or seven feet long, proclaimed the name of the new story in black brilliant characters “on every blank wall and hoarding in the kingdom”; while smaller and more convenient-sized proclamations, in quarto as it were, told this tale in a more modest way. So that, if there was really any light at all, it was not under a bushel. I had a pride in, and fondness for, these testimonials, and have religiously preserved all that dealt with my own efforts, a kind of literature, as may be conceived, of a bulky sort, and filling great space as they accumulated. When debating effectual titles for these and other writings, I recall his taking me to his room without telling me what he had selected, and, by way of test or surprise, exhibiting one of these gigantic proclamations stretched at full length across the floor of the room. “What do you think?” he would ask. “You must know,” he would add, his eye beginning to twinkle with merriment, “that when Wills corrects the proofs of these things, he has to go on his knees, with a brush and pot of paint beside him?” The cost of this system of advertising was enormous in the year, but everything was done magnificently at “the office.”

A little later I was informed that

The next Number we make up will contain the first part of your story. I like what you have done extremely. But I think the story flags at _____’s “chaff.” There is too much of it. A few pregnant hits at ______ would do all you want better. Again, the C______ party requires, I think, the exciseman up to the quadrille, where the real business of the evening begins. You see, in publishing hebdomadally, any kind of alternation is very dangerous. One must hit, not only hard, but quick.

Please look well to the passage revealing the acceptance of F____ V____, and overthrow of H___, in the bedroom, after the party. This is a strong situation, and, to my mind, is confusedly expressed in fact, can only be vaguely guessed at by the reader.

More criticism! Everything goes on well so far; but I tell you what we all yearn for some show of tenderness from somebody: the little glimpse of B_____, a Number or two ago, with his little touch of humour-feeling, was refreshing in the highest degree. The characters seem to be all playing at chess – uncommonly well, mind you – but they neither do nor say anything sympathetic.

As the story advanced the councils multiplied, as well as the suggestions and improvements. Experiments even were made in particular directions, and an episode was furnished “to see how it would look in print;” sheets being “set up” in this way regardless of cost, and dismissed as unsatisfactory. All this was laborious and troublesome, but, as was said, the experiment was worth making, and few sensible writers but would have welcomed the opportunity of learning their craft under such a teacher. It would be impossible to describe the fertility of his resources, the ingenuity exhibited, the pains and thought he gave to the matter. Under such auspices and it was admitted that I was a willing pupil, with equal readiness to adopt and to carry out all that was suggested – the work benefited, it need hardly be said.

Is it worth your while (wrote my sub-editor) to be bothered with a second scrawl merely to let me say how admirable I think it? Tender, true, and too pathetic even for an old hack waiting for his dinner to read with dry eyes. My first mouthful would have choked me if I had not written this.

THE END GAINED WAS satisfactory to all concerned. The work was successful, passed through several editions, and still sells. The copyright was disposed of for a sum nearly equal to what was allotted to me. Indeed, before it was concluded, the following pleasant communication, as full of sensible advice as it was agreeable, set me to work again. One curious evidence of its success was the fact that a firm of perfumers in Bond Street named a new perfume after the story, which is largely sold this hour.

Io Pæan! I congratulate you on being at last able to flourish the word Finis. I have not yet read a line of your ending, and this omission will give you a better relish for what I am going to say: dictated solely by the “merits” already developed, Dickens’s answer to the wish you express at the end of your letter was a glad and eager “Yes;” in which I heartily and cordially concurred, as you may guess. Let your next novel be for us. We shall want it in from twelve to eighteen months’ time; and, if I may venture some advice, let me urge upon you to employ at least a quarter of it in constructing the skeleton of it from the end of your story, or modifying any little detail in the beginning of it – if you would set yourself the task of at least seeing land before you plunge into your voyage with no chance of veering, or “backing or filling,” or shortening sail.

I am sure you have a great chance before you, if you will only give your powers their full swing; especially if you will let us see a leetle of the good side of human nature.

Ever very faithfully yours,

W. H. W.

I have many proof-sheets by me, corrected by his own hand in the most painstaking and elaborate way. The way he used to scatter his bright touches over the whole, the sparkling word of his own that he would insert here and there, gave a surprising point and light. The finish, too, that he imparted was wonderful; and the “dashes,” stops, shiftings, omissions, were all valuable lessons for writers.

On another occasion, when he did not “see,” as he says, the point of another attempt – and, indeed, there was not much – he excuses himself in this fashion for not using it:–

Don’t hate me more than you can help, when I say I have been reading “Sixpenny Shakespeare” and that I don’t see it. I don’t think this joke is worth the great ingenuity, and I don’t think the public would take it. “Wills and Will-making” most excellent. I have placed it in two parts already. It is capital. Once again, don’t hate me more than you can help, and your Petitioner will ever pray. (I don’t know what Petitioners pray for.)

Ever yours,

C. D.

So also, when an unhappy monkey, trained to ride in a circus, offered a tempting subject for a paper which I had sent to him, he answers in the same spirit:–

I am afraid the monkey is anticipated. It has een exceedingly well done by Buckland in “Land and Water,” and would be the day after the fair. I was going to place him to-day, but in the mean time caught sight of Buckland’s paper, which has been extensively copied both in weekly and country journals.

INDEED, THE PLEASANT ARDOUR with which he followed the course of a story, anticipated its coming, debated its name, and helped its writer over various tiles, and even extricated him from bogs, was all in the same spirit. His aid as to the name and conduct of the story was, it may be conceived, invaluable. Many and earnest were the consultations upon this matter of naming. No one had a nicer ear as to what would “hit” or suit the taste of the town.

I am glad to hear that the story is so far advanced now that you think well of it, for I have no doubt that you are right. I don’t like either of our names, for the reason that they don’t seem to me solidly earnest enough for such a story. But give me a little time to think of another, and I flatter myself that I may suggest a good one.”

And again:–

I think the plan of the story very promising, and suggestive of a remarkably good, new, and strong interest. What do you think of the pursuing relative dying at last of the same disorder as the baronet’s daughter, and under such circumstances as to. make out the case of the clergyman’s daughter and clear up the story? As, for example, suppose her husband himself does almost the same thing in going for help when the man is dying. I think I see a fine story here. As to the name. No, certainly not. “What could she do?” No again. “What will he do with it?” “Can He forgive her?” “Put yourself in his place.” Remember these titles.

And again:–

July, 1863.

“O where! O where! is the rest of “Tom Butler”?A hasty word. I prefer _____ (without the article). I cannot possibly answer the question Mr. _____ does me the honour to propose, without knowing what length of story is meant.

I answer your letter to myself. It is perfectly understood between us that you write the long serial story next after _____. That is a positive engagement. When I told _____ to write to you respecting a shorter story meanwhile, I meant that to be quite apart from, and over and above, the aforesaid long one. May I look at the chapters you speak of on Decoration?

I am in a brilliant condition, thank God. Rest, and a little care immediately, nshook the railway shaking.

I don’t quite understand from your kind note (forwarded here this morning) whether ______ purposes to write these papers or whether he suggests them to you. In either case, I shall be delighted to have them. It is necessary that they should appear under separate headings, each with its own title, as we have already three running titles. Your story is going on famously, and I think will make a hit. I had a letter from Wilkie Collins yesterday, much interested in perceiving your idea, and in following your working of it out. We purpose being in town on Thursday, and going on that afternoon. I hope we shall find you in readiness to go along with us.

1865

Your hint that you are getting on with your story, and liked it, was more than golden intelligence to me in foreign parts. The intensity of the heat in Paris and in the Provinces was such that I found nothing else so refreshing in the course of my rambles.

Make yourself quite easy. There is not the slightest need to hurry, and you can take your own time. I have a story in two parts still to place in Numbers not yet made up. Until Wednesday, and always.

So again :

It strikes me that a quaintly expressive title for such a book would be “The ______.” What do you think of it ?

The “eminent literary personage,” as he called him, had now other ambitions trying his hand at a short dramatic piece. He took charge of it, and sent it to his friend Webster. As it did not suit – others did, in due time – he good-naturedly broke the fall with the following:–

The play goes very glibly, and merrily, and smoothly, but I make so bold as to say you can write a much better one. The most characteristic part in it is much too like Compton in “The Unequal Match.” And the best scene in it, where he urges his wife to go away, is so excessively dangerous, that I think the chances would be very many to one against an audience’s acceptance of it. Because, however drolly the situation is presented, the fact is not to be got over that the lady seriously supposes her husband to be in league with another man.

With some humiliation I must own to trying the tolerance of this most amiable of men with various failures and sad carelessness on many occasions. His printer would grumble at the perfunctory style in which the copy was presented, and even in print it was sometimes difficult to put matters in shape:–

My difficulty (he wrote) about your story has been a report from the Printer that the copy of some part of another story had got mixed with it, and it was impossible to make sense. You were then just gone. I waited until you should have leisure – now that I hear from you, I tell you only I have waited – and ask: Is the story made straight, and is it at the Printer’s? Reply, reply, reply, as Bishop’s duet says. Reply also to this: How long is it?

“Waited until you should have leisure!” There was almost unlimited indulgence in the matter of changing and revising printed pages, condemned at the author’s suggestion – new bits introduced here and there. He had a pleasant joke in this trying behaviour, and vowed that I had introduced a new term in the printing-house “chapel,” a thing unknown for centuries in that most conservative of professions. These introduced columns and half-columns had to be denominated, somehow, to distinguish them from the regular narrative. A number being brought by the foreman one day, and in his asking what this was, he was told that “they were my ‘Randoms‘.” The delight he felt in this seemed to compensate for any annoyance. I see the exuberant twinkle in his bright eye, and his hearty relish. I believe to this hour the term obtains. At last, however, his patience would give way:–

For my sake, if not for Heaven’s (he would write), do, I entreat you, look at this manuscript before I send it to the printer. And again, please keep on abrupt transitions into the present tense your critical eye. Tom Butler, in type, is just brought in. I will write to you of him to-morrow or Sunday.

How gentle was this!

ONCE, HOWEVER, AND ONLY once, he delivered himself with a severity that I own was deserved. Two novels were being actually written by “my facile pen ” at the same moment, much as a barebacked rider, or rider of barebacked steeds, would ride the same number of horses round the circus. At the same time we were preparing for a long serial in his journal. “You make me very uneasy,” he began, “on the subject of your new story here by undertaking such an impossible amount of fiction at one time. As far as I know the art we both pursue, it cannot be reasonably carried on this way. I cannot forebear representing this to you, in the hope that it may induce you to take a little more into account the necessity of care in preparation, and some self-denial in the quantity done. I am quite sure I write as much in your interest as my own.”³

How easily propitiated he was will be seen when, on a mere undertaking to be careful, he writes that – “Your explanation is (as it would be, being yours) manly and honest, and I am both satisfied and hopeful.” Nay, some weeks later, he recurred to the matter in this strain:–

I am very sorry I was not at home. It gives me the greatest pleasure to receive such good tidings of the new story, and I shall enter upon its perusal in proof with the brightest appreciation. Will you send as much of it as you can spare to the office?

♦

Percy Fitzgerald. (Harry Furniss, 1890.)

Percy Hetherington Fitzgerald was an Anglo-Irish writer and artist. Born in County Louth, educated at Trinity College Dublin, and called to the Irish bar, Fitzgerald later moved to London and became known as a prolific biographer, travel writer, theatre critic, and the author of many miscellaneous titles and novels, including Never Forgotten.

This reminiscence originally appeared in Gentleman’s Magazine, No. 250 (June 1881). This transcription for The Fortnightly Review [New Series], on behalf of which rights are asserted, has been compiled from the original published version, with added material (names, etc.) from an edited republication in Fitzgerald’s 1883 memoir, Recreations of a Literary Man, and from a slightly Americanized version in The Library Magazine of American and Foreign Thought, vol. VII (1881). The essay is published in The Fortnightly Review to coincide with the republication of Forster’s Life of Charles Dickens in three volumes by Cambridge University Press in anticipation of the 2012 bicentennial anniversary of Dickens’ birth.

See also: Charles Dickens as Editor, being letters written by him to William Henry Wills, his sub-editor (London, 1912) at archive.org.

You can help sub-edit Dickens! Join the effort at the University of Buckingham’s Dickens Journals Online.

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