48 DOUGHTY STREET. ([Page 54].)
The residence of Charles Dickens, 1837-1839. His only London residence which remains unchanged. Part of “Pickwick,” “Oliver Twist,” and the greater part of “Nickleby” were written here.
The associations of the novelist with No. 48, Doughty Street are perpetuated not only in the name “Dickens House” recently bestowed upon it, but by the tablet affixed thereon by the London County Council in December last—truly, a long-delayed tribute, and especially deserving in this case owing to the fact that it is the only London home of Charles Dickens which survives intact structurally. It was here that in September, 1838, Forster lunched with him, and then to sit, read, or work, “or do something” (as the author expressed it in his note of invitation), “while I write the last chapter of ‘Oliver,’ which will be arter a lamb chop.” “How well I remember that evening!” observes his friend, “and our talk of what should be the fate of Charley Bates, on behalf of whom (as, indeed, for the Dodger, too) Talfourd[31] had pleaded as earnestly in mitigation of judgment as ever at the bar for any client he had most respected.”
Writing to his friend Macready, the actor, in November, 1839, Dickens said: “You must come and see my new house when we have it to rights.” He had just completed the last number of “Nicholas Nickleby,” when he decided to leave Doughty Street for a more commodious residence in a more exclusive neighbourhood, namely, No. 1, Devonshire Terrace, York Gate—“a house of great promise (and great premium), undeniable situation, and excessive splendour,” to quote his own concise description; it had a large garden, and was shut out from the New Road (now the Marylebone Road) by a high brick wall facing the York Gate into Regent’s Park. In “The Uncommercial Traveller,” Dickens refers to “having taken the lease of a house in a certain distinguished Metropolitan parish—a house which then appeared to me to be a frightfully first-class Family Mansion, involving awful responsibilities.”[32]
JACK STRAW’S CASTLE, HAMPSTEAD, CIRCA 1835. ([Page 56].)
From a print in the collection of Councillor Newton, Hampstead.
A contemporary drawing of the house by Daniel Maclise, R.A., represents it as detached and standing in its own grounds, with a wrought-iron entrance-gate surmounted by a lamp-bracket; the building consisted of a basement, two stories, and an attic. There are only three houses in the Terrace, and immediately beyond is the burial-ground of St. Marylebone Church.[33] No. 1, Devonshire Terrace is now semi-detached, having a line of taller residential structures on the southern side, while a portion of the high brick wall on the Terrace side has been replaced by an iron railing. The house itself has been structurally changed since Dickens’s days, and has undergone enlargement, a new story being inserted between the ground-floor and the upper story, thus considerably altering its original proportions without actually removing its principal features. Mr. Hughes, who in 1888 examined the house prior to these “improvements,” states that it then contained thirteen rooms. “The polished mahogany doors in the hall, and the chaste Italian marble mantelpieces in the principal rooms, are said to have been put up by the novelist. On the ground-floor the smaller room to the eastward of the house, with windows facing north and looking into the pleasant garden, where the plane-trees and turf are beautifully green, is pointed out as having been his study.”[34] Concerning Dickens’s studies, his eldest daughter tells us that they “were always cheery, pleasant rooms, and always, like himself, the personification of neatness and tidiness. On the shelf of his writing-table were many dainty and useful ornaments—gifts from his friends or members of his family—and always a vase of bright and fresh flowers.” Referring to the sanctum at Devonshire Terrace, Miss Dickens observes that it (the first she could remember) was “a pretty room, with steps leading directly into the garden from it, and with an extra baize door to keep out all sounds and noise.” The garden here constituted a great attraction to Dickens, for it enabled him, with his children and friends, to indulge in such simple games as battledore and shuttlecock and bowls, which not only delighted him, but conveniently afforded means of obtaining necessary exercise and recreation at intervals during his literary labours.
In a stable on the south side of the garden were kept the two ravens that inspired the conception of Grip in “Barnaby Rudge,” of which famous bird they were the “great originals.” Longfellow, after visiting the novelist here in 1841, said in a letter to a friend: “I write this from Dickens’s study, the focus from which so many luminous things have radiated. The raven croaks in the garden, and the ceaseless roar of London fills my ears.” The first raven died in 1841 from the effects (it was believed) of a meal of white paint; he was quickly succeeded by an older and a larger raven (“comparatively of weak intellect”), whose decease in 1845 was similarly premature, probably owing to “the same illicit taste for putty and paint which had been fatal to his predecessor.” “Voracity killed him,” said Dickens, “as it did Scott’s; he died unexpectedly by the kitchen fire. He kept his eye to the last upon the meat as it roasted, and suddenly turned over on his back with a sepulchral cry of ‘Cuckoo.’” The novelist occupied No. 1, Devonshire Terrace (the scene of many of his literary triumphs) for a period of about twelve years—the happiest period of his life—and there wrote some of the best of his stories, including “The Old Curiosity Shop,” “Barnaby Rudge,” “Martin Chuzzlewit,” “Dombey and Son,” and “David Copperfield,” the latter the most delightful of all his books, and his own favourite. Here also he composed those ever-popular Yule-tide annuals, “A Christmas Carol,” “The Cricket on the Hearth,” and “The Haunted Man.”
The friends which the fame of the young author attracted thither included some of the most distinguished men of the day, such as Macready, Talfourd, Proctor (“Barry Cornwall”), Clarkson Stanfield, R.A., Sir David Wilkie, R.A., Sir Edwin Landseer, R.A., Samuel Rogers, Sydney Smith, and many others of equal note, for which reason, among others, he always cherished fond recollections of this London home, and writing to Forster from Genoa in 1844, he could not refrain from expressing how strangely he felt in the midst of such unfamiliar environment. “I seem,” he said, “as if I had plucked myself out of my proper soil when I left Devonshire Terrace, and would take root no more until I return to it.... Did I tell you how many fountains we have here? No matter. If they played nectar they wouldn’t please me half so well as the West Middlesex Waterworks at Devonshire Terrace.” As in the case of 48, Doughty Street, this house bears a commemorative tablet, placed by the London County Council. It is interesting to add that within a stone’s-throw stands the old parish church of St. Marylebone, the scene of the burial of little Paul Dombey and his mother, and of Mr. Dombey’s second marriage.
At Devonshire Terrace four sons were born to him, viz., Walter Landor, Francis Jeffrey, Alfred Tennyson, Henry Fielding, and one daughter, Dora Annie, who survived only a few months.
On particular occasions, owing to a prolonged absence from England, he let this house firstly to General Sir John Wilson in 1842 (when he first visited America); secondly, to a widow lady, who agreed to occupy it during his stay in Italy in 1844; and, thirdly, in 1846, to Sir James Duke. The widow lady took possession a week or two before he started for the Continent, thus compelling him to seek temporary quarters elsewhere. He found the necessary accommodation near at hand, namely, at No. 9, Osnaburgh Terrace, New Road (now Euston Road), which he rented for the interval. Here occurred an amusing contretemps. Before entering upon this brief tenancy, he had invited a number of valued friends to a farewell dinner prior to his departure for Italy, and suddenly discovered that, owing to the small dimensions of the rooms, he would be obliged to abandon or postpone the function, the house having no convenience “for the production of any other banquet than a cold collation of plate and linen, the only comforts we have not left behind us.” Additional help being obtained, however, the dinner went off satisfactorily.