GAD’S HILL
Many were the summer days I passed under the roof of that little dwelling, many the hours I sat with Georgina Hogarth in the garden, or in one of the glades of a small wood which, in the sweet season, formed a charming resting-place, all hung with garlands of eglantine, with long strings of blue convolvulus, and the sweet-scented honeysuckle. These were the hours during which “Boz” was left to his work, in what I called his “lair,” for few of us would have risked disturbing him, when he had taken up his position for the morning’s labour, in the châlet, which his friend Fechter, the tragedian, had brought him from Paris. In the setting-up of the said châlet, after the manner of a child’s architectural toy, Charles had found the greatest amusement, for he was indeed one of those who find
“A child’s keen delight in little things,”
and the hanging of his pictures, the arranging his furniture, the annexation of a tiny conservatory, and the construction of an underground tunnel, which connected the area round the house with a small plantation of lofty cedars, under the shade of which he had erected his châlet, were all sources to him of intense interest.
In the afternoon he sought relaxation, and then the other inmates of the house came in for their share of his enviable society, and the basket-carriage was brought to the door, drawn by the “sober Newman Noggs,” the harness adorned with musical bells, which his friend Mr Lehmann had brought him from Norway, and we would take long drives all around this picturesque neighbourhood. Sometimes we would alight at a distant point, to return home on foot; sometimes we would wend our way through green hop-gardens on one side, and golden cornfields on the other for a distance of many miles; yet we were never wearied. I remember once Georgina Hogarth and I had accompanied him to a new spot of interest which he had lately discovered. He walked at his usual swinging rate, and we had proudly kept up with him. Only five minutes had been allowed for refreshment, as he called it, otherwise rest, between reaching the goal and arriving at home. How pleased his fellow-pedestrians were to receive the following tribute: “Well done!—ten miles in two hours and a half!” I sit in my armchair now, and look back on that feat as almost miraculous.
Charles Dickens, himself a hero, was a hero-worshipper, and in all of my experience I never knew a man so utterly exempt from the slightest tinge of professional jealousy.
One day I went with his two daughters, Mary and Katie (Mrs Charles Collins, who, with her husband, spent most of the summer under the paternal roof) and their aunt to meet him at the station. Lifting up the hand-bag which he always carried, he exclaimed: “Here, girls, I have a treat for you—Tennyson’s magnificent poem of ‘The Idylls of the King.’ Is it not glorious to think, that after having written for so many years, a man should now bring forth, perhaps, the noblest of his works.” What enchanting hours of summer sunshine were passed in reading for the first time those magical pages, which since that moment have been pored over and conned to my heart’s content.
Among our visitors at Gad’s Hill were Fechter, the distinguished actor, Edmund Yates, Marcus Stone, and many others. I mention these three names in conjunction, for a special reason. Fechter, for whose talent I had an unbounded admiration, rather disappointed me as a companion. He had a limited scope in conversation, but as a mimic, he was unrivalled. It was not only that with the exact tone and inflexion of voice he assumed the gait and gesture, but he actually brought his features into so close a resemblance with the original he intended to copy, that when he walked into the room and advanced to greet me, I never failed to say, “How do you do, Mr Yates?” “I am glad to see you, Marcus,” and so on to others of my acquaintance.
“MICKETTY” AND “VENERABLE”
Charles Dickens, junior, had married early in life, what one might well call a juvenile bride, and their two eldest children, Charles the third, and his sister, who went by the pet name of “Micketty” in the family, often came down for fresh air to their grandfather’s country house. “Micketty” always called him “Venerable,” and one day she made me laugh heartily, when, coming into the little study, she found me busy at the book-shelves.