"My Dear Forster,—I have received the blocks and will make the design of the apple-tree and the girls dancing—so keep that subject sacred to me. B[radbury] and E[vans] have sent the block as large as the last, but as I do not approve the look of the design without margin, I intend to keep this one within bounds. They have sent me a smaller one for title-page. Now I propose, and I know it will improve the appearance of the little book, not to cram in another design there with the title—a printed title in type has always still been necessary—but if you like I will make another design for the body of the book. That one, perhaps, the lover of Marion's interview with her—and Clemency. I hope very much you will see no good objection to this proposition—or will you propose a second subject?—Ever yours truly

D. M."

Again, a few days later:—

"My Dear Forster,— ... I write to say that you will find me at the Athenæum to-morrow at five o'clock. Do not be later. I hope then to bring with me the drawing on the block for the frontispiece—the girls dancing; for the other, I will do what you like, the girls and the Doctor, Marion reading, &c., or the lover of Marion's interview with her, and Clemency outside the door, &c. We will agree to-morrow.—Very truly yours,

D. Maclise.

"I hope there may be time enough then not to hurry it."

The following letter probably refers to the allegorical design on the title-page, depicting the triumph of Virtue over Vice, in which the figures (with one exception) are nude: although, from an allusion to "that tree," it might be suggested that it was the frontispiece:—

"My Dear Forster,—I suppose the stern moralist, Thackeray, would have described the last design I made lecherous, libidinous, lustful, lewd, and loose; but I meant it to be pure and 'mi-ld as the moo-n-beams.'

"... I only write to tell you, if you can exercise any control over its fate, that it may be placed in the hands of as good a wood-man as possible, and that he be recommended to spare that tree-e-.

"I fear that my character is gone abroad, and that I am a dog with a bad name....—Ever yours,

Daniel Maclise."

Both the frontispiece and title-page were excellently rendered on wood by John Thompson, one of the foremost engravers of the day. Maclise, however, had hoped the work would have been entrusted to others, for he observed to Forster: "I am annoyed that neither Williams nor Dalziel are to do that little design. Some one called here and took it away on Monday, and he said that there was not time (the old excuse) to do it justice." Judging from the following trenchant remarks, the artist was anything but gratified by the engraved reproductions of these drawings when they appeared in print:—

"My Dear F.,—I can never hope to get you to understand how I am mortified and humiliated by the effect of these damnable cuts. It really is too much to be called upon to submit to, to be shown up in these little dirty scratches and to have one's name blazoned as if one was proud of them. I wish to Heaven you would have my name cut out from the corners, that at least I might have the benefit of the doubt as to which of the blots is mine. I would give anything that I had kept to my original notion and had nothing to do with the thing.... I wish you had left me that last one; I would have tried to beguile myself with a belief that it might be improved. My curses light upon the miserable dog that produced it—I don't mean myself.—Ever yours,

D. Maclise.

"And what is the good of employing Thom[p]son—if the demon printers are to ruin them with their diabolic press?"

Maclise, like other draughtsmen on wood, doubtless often experienced a sense of disappointment when their delicately-pencilled drawings were hurriedly engraved and submitted to the arbitrary treatment of printer's ink. In this way those subtle touches upon which the artist prided himself were lost for ever, so that the designs appear coarse and crude. Such was obviously the case with regard to the illustrations now under consideration, notwithstanding the fact that they bear the signatures of thoroughly experienced engravers. It is a fact worth recording here that Maclise did not draw from life the figures in his designs for the Christmas Books. Indeed, it was a matter of astonishment to his brother artists that, even when working upon his more important canvases, he very rarely resorted to the use of the living model, his singular facility in composition leading him, perhaps, too often to dispense with the study of the human form; yet his works, although possessing a mannered look, are distinctively marked by characteristics of individual as well as general nature.

As already intimated, the friendship subsisting between Dickens and Maclise was of a kind the most sincere, and it was naturally coupled with a true admiration which each entertained for the genius of the other. Dickens never tired of praising the talent of the artist, whom he thought "a tremendous creature, who might do anything," and recalled with delight those halcyon days when Maclise accompanied Clarkson Stanfield, Forster, and himself on that memorable Cornish trip in 1842, one result of which was a charming painting (now in the Forster Collection at South Kensington) of the Waterfall at St. Nighton's Keive, near Tintagel, into which the artist introduced as the principal feature a young girl carrying a pitcher, the model for whom was Dickens's sister-in-law, Miss Georgina Hogarth. It should be remembered that one of the finest of the early portraits of Dickens himself was painted by Maclise in 1839, at the instigation of Chapman & Hall, with a view to an engraving for "Nicholas Nickleby," the reproduction duly appearing as the frontispiece. The original picture was presented to Dickens by his publishers, and at the sale of the novelist's effects in 1870 this very interesting canvas was purchased for £693 by the Rev. Sir E. R. Jodrell, by whom it was bequeathed to the National Gallery, where it may now be seen. Maclise is responsible also for another excellent portrait of the novelist at the same youthful period—a slight pencil-drawing (executed in 1843) representing him with his wife and her sister.

The premature death of Dickens's raven, immortalised in "Barnaby Rudge," was formally notified to Maclise by the novelist in the form of a letter narrating the details of that domestic calamity. The artist forwarded the missive to Forster, together with a sketch purporting to represent "Grip's" apotheosis, while to Dickens himself he dispatched (March 13, 1841) the following letter, which does not appear in the published collection, and is one of a very few letters extant that were addressed by him to the novelist:[42]—