bruised, was neither broken nor embittered.” His temperament was certainly affectionate—if not absolutely amatory: he certainly never missed an opportunity where a kiss was practicable.
But stay! has anyone noted that on the wall of his room at Dulwich, there hangs the portrait of a lady—just over this might seem to mean something. But on looking close, we see it is the dear filial old fellow’s mother. A striking likeness, and she has spectacles like her celebrated son.
As all papers connected with the Pickwick era are scarce and meagre—for the reason that no one was then thinking of “Boz”; any that have come down to us are specially interesting. Here are a few “pieces,” which will be welcomed by all Pickwickians. The first is a letter of our author to his publishers.
“Furnival’s Inn,
“Friday Morning.“Dear Sir,—I am very glad to find I shall have the pleasure of celebrating Mr. Pickwick’s success with you on Sunday. When you have sufficiently recovered from the fatigues of publication, will you just let me know from your books how we stand. Drawing £10 one day, and £20 another, and so forth, I have become rather mystified, and jumbled up our accounts in my brain, in a very incomprehensible state.
“Faithfully yours,
“Charles Dickens.”
This must have been written at the conclusion of the story in 1837, and is in a very modest tone considering how triumphant had been the success. Connected with this is a paper of yet more interest, a receipt for payment for one of the early numbers.
For this Pickwickian Banquet, he had reluctantly to give up one at the home of his new friend Forster. In an unpublished letter, he writes to him as “Dear Sir”—the beginning of a four-and-thirty years’ friendship—“I have been so much engaged in the pleasing occupation of moving.” He was unable to go to his new friend to dinner
because he had been “long engaged to the Pickwick publishers to a dinner in honour of that hero, which comes off to-morrow.”
In an interesting letter of Dickens’—Pickwickian ones are rare—sold at Hodgson’s rooms, July, 1895, he writes: “Mr. Seymour shot himself before the second number of the Pickwick papers, not the third as you would have it, was published. While he lay dead, it was necessary the search should be made in his working room for the plates to the second number, the day for publication of which was drawing near. The plates were found unfinished, with their faces turned to the wall.” This scrap brought £12 10s. Apropos of prices, who that was present will forget the scene at Christie’s when the six “Pickwick Ladles” were sold? These were quaint things, like enlarged Apostle Spoons, and the figures well modelled. They had been made specially, and presented to “Boz” on the conclusion of his story, by his publishers. The Pickwick
Ladle brought £69. Jingle, £30. Winkle, £23. Sam, £64. Old Weller, £51; and the Fat Boy, £35 14s., or over £280 in all. Nay, the leather case was put up, and brought three guineas. We recall Andrew Halliday displaying one to us, with a sort of triumph. Charles Dickens, the younger, got two, I think; Messrs. Agnew the others.