letter B on my dinner-card denoted the section to which the holder was assigned; so when the ushers invited Section B, I followed a number up to the banquet-hall, where five hundred Britons, in dress coats and white cravats, were taking their seats at the long tables. The dinner committee, composed of Wilkie Collins, Fechter, and other personal friends of Dickens, were so business-like in their arrangements that the throng fell into their places with the greatest ease and order. While awaiting the arrival of the guest, I had leisure to observe the apartment and the people about me. In each panel on the walls was inscribed in gold letters the title of one of Mr. Dickens' most famous works. It was pleasant to watch the countenances of his countrymen as they read with new ardor these titles-to see them lighten with interest or broaden into smiles as the immortal names of Nicholas, The Christmas Carol, David and Pickwick met their eyes. It is not hard to detect a stranger; so my table companion, assuring himself of my case, politely offered to point out any lions that might be in sight, either couchant or prowling about. Men were passing quickly from one table to the other, talking in high good - humor. “Do you see that stout man who has just left his seat?" The man described stopped near us, and, leaning over, gan to tell something with immense glee to a listening group seated at tablestout of body and big of head, with uncommon spirit and animation. "That's Mark Lemon," my friend said as he turned from them shaking with laughter. be How well his name fits his office! I thought, as I saw for the first and last time the editor of Punch, in the not inappropriate function of being the spirit of mirth at a banquet. At this moment something like an announcement was heard at the door : a stir was in the room, and the whole assemblage rose and broke into applause. Mr. Dickens entered, accompanied by Lord Lytton, and followed by a score of gentlemen. Very serious was his expression as he walked by the ranks of men clapping their hands ve hemently. He seemed to be striving to keep down the emotion caused by this warm reception, and looked neither to right nor left as he traversed the long room. Bulwer walked close at his elbow, and while the applause deepened looked about him as if in a picture-gallery, stroked his beard, and threw his glances indifferently around, now on the people, now up at the inscriptions, as though he would say, "I am determined not to appear to accept one grain of this applause for myself." A minute, and they had passed, the group of eminent men crowding after so quickly that only a few could be named for me: "The lord chief-justice, who is sure to speak. The somewhat spare man, carrying his head bent, is Sir Charles Lyell, the geologist. That large man, nearly seven feet high, is 'Jacob Omnium' of the Times, one of Thackeray's friends. And there is Sir Edwin Landseer." Amazing! I thought, as I looked upon the old man who half a century ago painted Dandie Dinmont's terriers, Pepper and Mustard. My companion brought me abruptly out of the past by exclaiming, “Look quickly if you would see the handsomest man in England-the man with no beard, just passing! That's Millais, the artist." I looked, and saw one of the noted trio of Pre-Raphaelites. His face is indeed uncommonly handsome, and not of the florid English type. But I thought, as they hurried by, that they all looked somewhat low-spirited-like men who had been waiting longer than usual for dinner. Lord Lytton occupied the chair, with Mr. Dickens on his right and the lord chief-justice on his left. Behind the chair was the royal standard crossed with the stars and stripes, above which was a wreath encircling the monogram of the guest; while surmounting these, and almost directly over the head of the author, were the glittering letters that form the magic name of "Pickwick." And now the clink of soup-plates peals a welcome alarum, and the Army, the Navy, the Bench and the Bar, princes, potentates and warriors, fell to with great alacrity. Oh the clatter, the murmur, the hum of a great dinner! What a sight is that of five hundred men feeding at table! How pleasant to observe the measureless content that rests upon each countenance ! "Stick to the claret, for the sherry at these public dinners is always risky," said my neighbor. I obeyed him, and with the aid of certain glees and madrigals that were sung at intervals, made the time pass till the main business was reached. This was entered on by ceremoniously getting through the usual loyal toasts and offering congratulations to the royal family. There is one wholesome practice which prevails in England that must always startle an American when he witnesses it for the first time. It is that of coughing down a speaker who is becoming prosy. Accustomed to our own social timidity, that compels us patiently to endure the droning of some diffusive bore through a long hour, one is astounded when a whole audience is taken with a violent catarrhal trouble, that makes such a clamor as to drown the speaker and force him to capitulate. On this occasion, after the British flag had been waved long enough, and over barbarous Abyssinia in particular, a certain Captain Somebody of the Navy kept on carrying it round the world, with a running talk on ships and naval reforms generally. A shot or two having no effect, he received a broadside which sunk him at once, and silence for a moment settled over him. same fate awaited Mr. Tom Taylor, the dramatic writer. Having been for some years actively interested in the organization and drill of volunteer rifle companies, it fell to his lot to return thanks for the toast to the volunteers. Hearty cheers awarded his earlier remarks, which were pertinent and telling, but instead of wisely stopping, he diffused his critical observations over such a wide surface that he had to be admonished by a scathing fire. Heedless of this, he went on, all reason having apparently fled, and fatuously strove to VOL. VII.-14 The withstand the tremendous volley which now assailed him. He staggered for an instant, and then dropped into his seat. Arriving now at the chief toast of the evening, the chairman arose and began to address the eager company. At first we could hear no more than some vocal sounds, but presently could distinguish some inflections of voice. Lord Lytton was manifestly speaking, for he was making gestures and uttering sounds, and everybody was trying to hear his words, but without success. There sat several hundred men with their faces aslant, intently and respectfully listening to an inarticulate gurgle. His voice was not weak, and he used it with some force and deliberation, but he seemed to be engaged in swallowing his words as fast as they were formed. Now and then his arms would move and his slender body swing forward and backward with the energy of his thought. If a word was caught, the meaning of a sentence was conjectured, and applause would follow. Then drawing himself erect, as if he thought all his eloquent remarks were distinctly heard, he would lift high his narrow shoulders, as though gathering for a fresh burst. And when it came my attentive ear was obliged to turn away baffled. Upon pointedly addressing a gentleman who sat near him at table, it was obvious to some that he was making a direct appeal to Matthew Arnold in support of some proposition that never had an audible existence. But it required the morning journals afterward to tell us that Bulwer addressed him as "one distinguished for the manner in which he has brought together all that is most modern in sentiment with all that is most scholastic in thought and language." We furthermore had it verified that his oration was a glowing panegyric on Dickens, to whom he turned on closing and looked down upon him. Aided by this action, we could gather that he proposed "a prosperous voyage, health and long life to our illustrious guest and countryman, Charles Dickens." Mr. Dickens was on his feet in an instant, and in that voice now so well known, with the least touch of huskiness in it, confessed that the composure which he was used to command before an audience was so completely shaken that he could only hope they might see in him now some traces of an eloquence more expressive than the richest words." It was not alone owing to the deep stillness and the close attention of the audience that every word he spoke was so readily heard. His voice was not sonorous, nor did he employ what commonly passes for elocution, but by a distinct and forcible enunciation, and putting a slight stress upon a suggestive word, often at the close of a sentence, he would drive it home to the hearer, laden with all the meaning he intended, and sometimes perhaps more than the printed text would suggest. In a bold figure, while referring to the emotions which his reception by this great assemblage aroused, he said: "The wound in my breast, dealt to me by the hands of my friends, is deeper than the soundless sea and wider than the whole catholic Church!" The intense energy and dramatic fervor with which this was uttered sent a thrill through the entire company. Yet considerable laughter immediately followed, showing that the sentiment was extravagant enough to be regarded as a bon mot. He told them of "the great pressure of American invitations, and of the hearty and homely expressions of personal affection for him which it would be dull insensibility in him not to prize.' Further, he promised to use his best endeavors "to lay down a third cable of intercommunication between the Old World and the New." As this was a company of Englishmen, it was no doubt in excellent taste for the speaker to say the following words of the nation he was about to visit: "I know full well that whatever little motes my beamy eyes may have descried in theirs, they are a kind, largehearted, generous and great people." But somehow I was a little uncomfortable under this, and, though quite unwarrantably, felt as if I were a representative, a sort of accidental ambassa dor, with imputed national sensibilities. The very folds of our flag that hung there seemed to become sentient, and indeed capable of hearing what was said. But this little conceit speedily gave place to a pang of regret as the address was now about to end. With the quotation from that wise little atomy, Tiny Tim, of "God bless us every one!" Mr. Dickens resumed his seat. There was a moment of stillness before any applause, and the company maintained their listening attitude, reluctant to part with him. Mr. Trollope, soon following, sensibly limited himself to few words, and those were in denunciation of a certain prophet of our day, whose bitter lamentations were unnecessary and disagreeable. Mr. Trollope was sufficiently lucid for everybody to know that he meant Thomas Carlyle. It was in this eccentric mode he returned thanks for the toast to Literature. The closing address by the lord chiefjustice, looked to with interest, was a fulsome panegyric on the chairman. Lord Lytton was lolling his fatigued frame in an arm-chair, with his head on one side as if asleep. The orator talked to him and at him. Standing close at his side, he seemed, even by the gestures of his hands, to be baling out eulogy and deluging Bulwer with it. But the statesman-novelist never once moved his tired head. If, as is said, Bulwer is so deaf that he could not hear a word of it, the situation becomes ludicrous. The banquet was over, and the scene shifted to London streets. Early on the following Saturday morning I went on board a little ferry-boat at the Liverpool wharf, and deposited my hat-box at the foot of a huge, pyramidal pile of luggage that stood on the centre of the deck. The things had been hastily heaped together, and the pile was crowned by another hat-box, which was rendered unsteady by the motion of the boat. Presently it toppled, and after making one or two ill-considered movements, rolled steadily to the bottom, where it was arrested by my own hat-box, against which it leaned trust ingly. On its lid was painted in large black letters the name "Charles Dickens." This little incident informed us of the precious freight the Cuba was to carry, and was read as a happy augury of a pleasant ocean voyage. "That's him now, a-coming down the plank," said a rough-looking man to a knot of others. Approaching the tug at a fast walk was a man of medium height, with weatherbeaten, ruddy face and light blue eyes. He was dressed in a heavy, double-breasted pea-jacket, and wore a Derby hat. It is the first mate hastening aboard, I should have said had I not seen him before. This apparently seafaring man was the only passenger to whom anxious farewells were said; and as a rosy young girl clung tearfully about his neck in daughterly fashion, the rigging became suddenly interesting to me, and my notebook was closed. say something to him. And what could be more natural than that the restraint, which was self-imposed out of consideration for his comfort, should give way on the least provocation? There, walking back and forth daily among them, went the man who had probably given them more pleasure and delight than any other living-had cheered them in calamity, had heightened their joys, had cleared their vision to see the beauty and goodness that may lie in common surroundings, and created a gratitude in their hearts that cannot be measured. So in the course of three or four days all had a speaking acquaintance with him, and whoever joined him found him easy of approach and not averse to talk. "I have knocked about the Channel a good deal, and have learned in that way," he explained to one who marveled at his knowledge of sailor-craft. Whenever the heavy tramp of the gang was heard as the men reeled in the wet log-line, there stood Mr. Dickens watch When fairly on our way it was apparent that Mr. Dickens' known pedestrian habits were invincible by wind or wave. To and fro, between the wheel-ing it as it was pulled tight and dripping house and the smoke-stack, he paced the deck for hours every day. These walks were mostly alone, for the reserve with which he obviously sheltered himself was respected from beginning to end. It was only in those accidental encounters or inevitable juxtapositions arising on shipboard that he was addressed by his fellow-passengers. But he rarely spoke first, save in the morning salutation on deck. He never once joined the shivering group that clustered about the smoke-stack for warmth, but paced and paced, engaged apparently in serious thought. "I wish he would begin to lay the cable now," thought I, "according to his promise at the banquet; it would be such an excellent chance while he has us here so handy on shipboard." But night fell and day rose-mists drove and the sun shone, and the steamer went booming along, and the passengers chatted and walked and ate and drank, and still the great envoy made no sign of laying the cable. It was the most natural thing in the world for everybody aboard to want to along the deck. Among the first to know what run the ship had made, few could ever carry him the news, spite of the uncertain hours at which the log was heaved. How distinctly I recall his figure as he climbed up the ladder to the deck! First his low-crowned round hat appeared; then his ruddy face lit with his marvelously blue eyes; then his double-breasted seaman's coat. On sunny days he would carry up in his hand a huge book bound in blue. On the cover was stamped a gilt picture of an elephant with uplifted trunk chasing a boy. It was a book on India. He would place this big volume on a bulkhead or bench, and sit down by it as if he contemplated reading. But he never read a page of it while on deck. His quick glance was up at the sails, the mystery of ropes, the clouds, the way of the wind, and everywhere but on the book. On a day when the ship rolls heavily men's faces are often portentously long at dinner in the saloon. "If I could only keep my feet till the bell rings, I should get safely through," I observed one day. "Take hot negus for lunch: it will keep you up much better than the ale," Mr. Dickens replied. Then, pursuing the subject, he said: "My worst time is in the morning when I get up: how do you manage then ?" "Watch the towels, and the moment they stop swinging make a dive for the lounge, seize my flask and take one spoonful of brandy.” "But only one; for if you take more," he said, curving one eyebrow and smiling, "you are defeated. That's my plan also, and it works very well." Of course I prized hints from this source, especially as they had a smack of the "Markis o' Granby" and the "Maypole." The chat turned on travel, on winter climates, went back to Europe, trundled down to Italy and his long residence at Genoa, and the beauty of the Riviera. The lovely features of the Cornice were tossed from hand to hand, as though we were capping verses. "How picturesque those villages!" said he. "And what a balmy air!" exclaimed another. "And that blue sea in front!" pursued Dickens. "And the shining orange groves!" "Yes, and backed with those rich hills!" he added with almost lyric fervor. At this moment a new-comer broke in with some odious remark about the number of "knots she's running." He flung his great cobble-stone into the smooth flow of talk, and there was an end of it. One evening I was sitting alone on deck while teapots and lighted candles were being placed in the saloon below. Some one was climbing up the ladder, and I perceived the outlines of Mr. Dickens' hat and coat. He took a camp-stool and sat near me. After a word or two we traveled ahead of the ship to America. "How far is it from New York to Philadelphia? or, rather, how long is it? for it's absurd in these days to ask how far." After the comforting assurance that it was only three hours and a half, I asked him whether he remembered a certain venerable lady of Phil adelphia whom he had met when here before. He said, "Perfectly well indeed I never forget anything !" and repeated with some emphasis that he had a great memory. He knew the capacity of the operahouses in the Eastern cities, and remarked that he preferred a small or medium-sized hall to read in-"a room in which everybody can see my face," he said, "for so much depends on the face and the lighter shades of voice." "What do you mean by a good audience?" he asked. "Good refers to size rather than quality, and mostly means a full house." At this moment a lady, wrapped in water-proof and hood, came up and sat down on the deck by us. And then arose questions about Miss Adelaide Procter and other writers. "Did you know Mrs. Browning?" asked the lady passenger. "Oh yes, indeed!" "Do tell me something about her!" "Well, she was one of the smallest women you ever saw, and was ill a good deal. It was very funny to see the way Browning used to carry her about all over Europe." The talk fell on Browning's plays, Colombe's Birthday and The Blot in the 'Scutcheon"that remarkable thing in literature, a tragedy without a crime!" somebody said. Mr. Dickens warmly assented to the praise given to the dramatic frag ment. "Notwithstanding its beauty, I suppose Browning never intended it to be acted?" asked one. "Oh yes," he replied: "Browning requested me once to fit it for the stage, and I did so. It was not the fault of the play that it was not successful: it was because the audiences were not up to it." However skeptical I may have felt about this criticism, I said nothing, and Mr. Dickens expressed still further his admiration of Browning. He asked me if I had read the poem "Rabbi Ben Ezra." I had not, whereupon he commended it warmly, and advised me to read it. |