CORRESPONDENCE.
The following letters were addressed by the artist-humorist to his son, Mr. Walter Gr. Browne:—
Blenheim Crescent, Sept., Saturday, 3 o'clk. p.m., a.d. 1867.
My Dear Dr.,
I have nearly bursted my heart out, and proved, that my soul or soles (I have two) is'nt—or an't—immortal,—by wearing on 'em out running to and fro after yr. Balmorals—Bootless errands! The wretched slave (of awl) has but just brought them! I bristle with wrath! and could welt him!—but—no—I won't—he may want his calf's skin whole, to mend his own Bad-morals!!
I rush! I fly! to the Gt. W. R. Station!—--!!!!
I sink—breathless into the arms of the astounded clerk—point to the boots——
My-mouth faintly whispers "Wey-mouth in his pen-adorned Ear!!" and—and—"Bless me! where am I?"—and, and—I wish—you may get 'em!
If you visit Portland again, make a note of any peculiarities of spot—convict dress, &c.—as I have a touching bit of horse-y sentiment (!) connected therewith, which will do for Spg. Gazette.—I should think you ought to find painty bits—within walking distance—say—right or left ten miles?
Yrs. affecty.,
Dad.
Sunday.
Really, my dear Walter, I thought you did know better than to disturb my devotional frame of mind on this blessed Sabbath morn by forwarding me such a thoroughly worldly and evil-thought-producing thing as a wretched milliner's bill!!!—The wretch must wait—he gorged £5 not long before I left home.—The greediness of some men!!
The Pic. Gall. circular I return—as you may like to enquire about it—the doz. others, "cheap bacon"—"patent teeth and everlasting gums," &c., &c., &c., &c., &c. I shall manure the grounds of Colyton with ——.
I think you might get some background material for coast scenes down here.
Yr. affec. Dad,
H. K. B.
69, Blenheim Crescent, Notting-Hill, Saturday.
My dear Doctor,
I send the Tenpounder, may it reach you in safety!
The Commander has returned. I sent you a paper containing the important news, which, however, may not have reached you, although I don't think it contained any remarks upon the "Hemperors personal appearance," &c., &c., &c.
Tom is in the bosom of the family for a few days.—His Pipe is tuned differently now to what it used to was, for he now declareth that St. John's is "a jolly school!" He seems to get on very well indeed, and has brought home what Dr. Lowe calls a "well-earned prize."
He laments daily over the supposed loss of 4d invested in a letter to you—from school—as it was directed, he says,—21, Rue Mussel wine—I express doubts of its having reached you—and he groans aloud over the Bull's eyes it would have bought!——
I am (at present) on a Sporting Paper—supported by some high and mighty Turf Nobs, but, I fear, like everything I have to do with, now-a-days, it will collapse—for—some of the Proprietors of the Paper are also Shareholders, &c., &c., in the Graphotype Co., so they want to work the two together.—I hate the process—it takes quite four times as long as wood—and I cannot draw and express myself with a nasty little finiking brush, and the result when printed seems to alternate between something all as black as my hat—or as hazy and faint as a worn-out plate.—If on wood, I should like it well enough—as it is—it spoils 4 days a week—leaving little time for anything else. O! I'm a'weary, I'm a'weary! of this illustration business.——
Tom is just off to the R.A., as it is not likely I shall go much before it's close. I will get him to write you a critical description of all the wonderful works in Turps, Varnish, and "Hile."
Yr. affectionate Dad,
H. K. B.
Monday Morning, 25 m. 40 s. p. 11 a.m.
My Dear Walter,
There is a man playing "Home, sweet home" upon the key bugle—it is too much for me—my heart yearneth—I feel I must write just a line or two—especially as it is raining hard—and I don't exactly know what to be at.
Splendid effects yesterday evening—sun-set, twilight, crescent moon—stormy clouds,—tide out—reflections—dark fishing-craft—very good—quite the thing for you.
There are no people here at present—decidedly nothing Belgravian—chiefly masculines—from the Saturday to the Monday sort—it striketh me—a few I think have strayed here from Southend—I saw this sort of thing [see page 29] on the Grand Promenade—which looks like it.——
There was a great wind yesterday—Boreas had been taking concentrated essence of ginger—It fairly took me off my legs once as I was walking along the cliffs to Broadstairs, luckily for me it blew off the sea—and I was brought up short by some railings in this wise—[see page 22] otherwise I should (no doubt) have been carried across a 5 acre field of Cloveria Trifolia Browniensis.—I am glad to say I was also of service to humanity yesterday—I heard the shrill shrieks of a child and a woman's cry for help behind me—I turned—and saw there was not a moment to lose, the wind had caught a poor child—'s hat (and woman's too) and bore it rapidly to the edge of the cliff—with my usual agility I bounded over the rails fencing the cliff—and saved—yes, saved the child—'s—'at!—another puff and it would have been in the deep, deep sea—the blue, the fresh, &c.—Stout mama thanked me politely, and turning to her husband (who, of course, had come up too late to be of any use—those husbands always do)—she remarked "That the vind had blown both her and her child's 'at hoff and if she'd know'd it—she wouldn't have brought the young-un hout."
I dare say humanity is amusing here when the place is full—there seems a good deal of "os" exercise—and basket-carriage driving on Sundays—which is good to behold—this gentleman [see page 25] was driving with supreme self-content—having one rein all snug and tight under his pony's tail—luckily the beast did not seem to have any kick in him—so perhaps he got safe back to Margate.
Yr. affec. Dad,
H. K. B.
29th Sept. 1868.
My Dear Doctor,
I have sent you a couple of canvasses—if you put little Clara's head on one of them, you will immortalize her and yourself too.
Also therewith you will find a Surplice, and if you will only "hold forth," next Sunday, in the Grande Place of Colyton—I will guarantee to say that the simplicity of yr. vestment and the flowing eloquence of yr. tongue will draw out—(as irresistibly as the Piper did the children) the congregations of the "High" Church and the Conventicles which will—one and all—rush forth for to see and to hear, and admiringly surround you!—If windy, you might take this for yr. text—"What went ye forth for to see?—" A reed shaken by the wind? &c., &c.
There must have been a splendid Sea on at Sea-ton, these last few days,—tons of sea, eh? As "I took my walk abroad" this morning—I saw the Serpentine in all its grandeur—and observed several vessels in distress—some clipper yachts on their beam ends—the waves were prodigious—great rollers—two especially—one a six horse fellow—t'other a steamer—crunching and grinding—levelling and sweeping all before them!
Have you seen the Doge of Colyton yet? or any of the Dog-es?
By all means cultivate the acquaintance of the Doge's kinswoman. Miss P—— (pray give my love to her)—fac-similed on the stage or in a novel, she would be a "tremendous hit."
I hope you are not belying the good character I have given of you to the boys—and are doing Elephant, Tiger, and Rhinoceros[I] to their perfect satisfaction—though, considering yr. predecessor—it will test your utmost powers, not to be a wretched failure, possibly—much the same sort of thing—as your attempting to sing a comic song immediately after the Great Vance!!! Good Night,
Yr. affectionate Dad,
H. K. B.
The following notes have been selected from the unpublished correspondence of "Phiz" with Charles Dickens:—
My Dear Dickens,
I have just got one boot on, intending to come round to you, but you have done me out of a capital excuse to myself for idling away this fine morning.—I quite forgot to answer your note, and Mr. Macrone's book has not been very vividly present to my memory for some time past. I think by the beginning of next (week) or the middle (certain) I shall have done the plates, but in the scraps of copy that I have I can see but one good subject, so if you know of another pray send it me. I should like "Malcolm" again, if you can spare him.
Believe me,
Yours very truly,
Hablot K. Browne.
Charles Dickens, Esq.
Sunday, Sept.
My Dear Dickens,
Can you conveniently send me the subject or subjects for next week by Thursday or Friday? as I wish, if practicable, to start for Brussels by the Sunday's boat—a word in reply will oblige,
Yours truly,
Hablot K. Browne.
Charles Dickens, Esq.
P.S.—Upon second thoughts I send you the enclosed epistle—(if you read it, you will find out why)—the writer thereof is "Harry Lorrequer," alias "Charles O'Malley"—to whose house I am going.
H. K. B.
P.S. Second—A fortnight's furlough would suit me better than a week, if it could be managed, as I should like to return by Holland.
My Dear Dickens,
I am sorry I cannot have a touch at battledore with you to-day, being already booked for this evening—but I will give you a call to-morrow after church, and take my chance of finding you at home.
Yours very sincerely,
Hablot K. Browne.
Charles Dickens, Esq.
33, Howland Street.
My Dear Dickens,
I shall be most happy to remember not to forget the 10th April, and, let me express a disinterested wish, that having completed and established one "Shop"[J] in an "extensive line of business," you will go on increasing and multiplying such like establishments in number and prosperity till you become a Dick Whittington of a merchant, with pockets distended to most Brobdignag dimensions.
Believe me,
Yours very truly,
Hablot K. Browne.
Charles Dickens, Esq.
I return you the Riots with many thanks.
Sunday Morning.
My Dear Dickens,
Will you give me some notion of the sort of design you wish for the frontispiece to second vol. of Clock?[K] Cattermole being put hors de combat—Chapman with a careworn face (if you can picture that) brings me the block at the eleventh hour, and requires it finished by Wednesday. Now as I have two others to complete in the meantime—something nice and light would be best adapted to my palette, and prevent an excess of perspiration in the relays of wood-cutters. You shall have the others to criticise on Tuesday.
Yours very truly,
Hablot K. Browne.
Charles Dickens, Esq.
How are Mrs. Dickens and the "Infant?"